To the strong lads they whisper of the wars, Of glory and red coats; or of bright waves Tumbling, a foam of white, over a ship’s dipped nose In some tumultuous, splendid, sun-bathed sea; Or of adventures, where the world is warm And palm-trees stand above a glittering beach Under deep skies; where you may chance to meet Paul and Virginia; or an Arab horde— Slave-traders all, with muskets damascened— Or talk to small brown girls with nothing on.... Again, they tell of Rovers, from Sallee, With pistols in their belts, who cry “Hands Up!” But get a punch on the nose from British boys, Who steal their long feluccas with tall sails, And go adventuring through the burning blue, And meet a flight of porpoises and a dolphin, And make an island (as the daylight fades) Which has a fierce volcano in her midst And a little white port, with clustering white houses, And pirate vessels in her anchorage.... They are brave tales you broider, elfin dreams! Yet when the dawn awakens shining eyes, The same brown trams are surging to the Bridge, The same thin, grimy trees stand looking on; Nothing is changed. But oh, the day would be How dead without you!—in the Walworth Road. _The Country Boy_ Ere Jack went up to London He held his head full high: His step was firm, his shoulders square And bright and bold his eye. And ere he went to London Our maidens pleased him well, As little Rose from Yeovil, And dozens more, can tell. But now the London ladies Have stolen all his thoughts, And wonderful rich presents He gives to those he courts. But O, the smile has left his lips, His eyes are tired and dim, And he’s forgotten lads at home Who’ve not forgotten him. 1908. _The Letter_ “O, the spring is sweet in London, Rose; the sun shines in the Park Very near as warm and happy as it used to shine at home— What’s the use of sitting sighing in my bedroom cold and dark When there’s many a girl will walk with me, if only asked to come? “There’s lots of pretty faces, Dear, in all this jostling throng, There’s the girls I see at lunch-time in the tea-shop or the street, And the lady in the boarding-house, who sings me many a song In the drawing-room after dinner, O, her voice is soft and sweet! “And I haven’t always wandered, all alone, with thoughts of you, And I’ve kissed sometimes (not often) other lips, my Rose, than yours, But I’m not a faithless villain—just a lad whose years are few, And who can’t afford to waste them sitting sorrowful indoors. “Don’t think I have forgotten you, so true and good and kind, It’s only that life’s different now, a harder thing and strange: This London alters everything and makes your soul go blind, And the office work’s so tiring, Lord! you long for any change.