For all the cash they helped to net, In streets where stood their rosy stalls, Went to reduce that endless debt Which is the curse of hospitals; And Chairmen cast dull care away And danced on Alexandra Day! [Illustration] THE END OF THE SEASON How grimy and gritty are streets in the City, How parched is each pavement and park, Where Londoners harried in thoroughfares arid Forgather from dawn until dark! An atmosphere torrid, oppressive and horrid, With leather-like lungs we inhale, While odorous motors (more pungent than bloaters) Our impotent nostrils assail, And whistles and catcalls and horns without number Combine to destroy all our chances of slumber! How weary my heart is of dinners and parties, How sick of each concert and play! All social exertion I view with aversion, Of banquets I dream with dismay. Each moment enhances my hatred of dances, All luncheons with loathing I hail; At ev'ry collation, in sheer detestation, I shrink from each cutlet or quail; For though I enjoy such delights within reason, I gratefully welcome the end of the Season! The holiday feeling is over me stealing, I long to escape from the town, Exchanging its highways for hedges and byways, For moorland and meadow and down. In cobble-paved alleys how verdant the valleys, How fragrant the forests appear, Where fountains are flashing, and rivulets splashing Make melody sweet to the ear; Where Orpheus his musical message delivers, And Pan and his piping are heard by the rivers! [Illustration] THE COCKNEY OF THE NORTH (_With apologies to W. B. Yeats_) I will arise and go now, and go to Inverness, And a small villa rent there, of lath and plaster built; Nine bedrooms will I have there, and I'll don my native dress, And walk about in a d---- loud kilt. And I will have some sport there, when grouse come driven slow, Driven from purple hill-tops to where the loaders quail; While midges bite their ankles, and shots are flying low, And the air is full of the grey-hen's tail. I will arise and go now, for ever, day and night, I hear the taxis bleating and the motor-'buses roar, And over tarred macadam and pavements parched and white I've walked till my feet are sore! For it's oh, to be in Scotland! now that August's nearly there, Where the capercailzie warble on the mountain's rugged brow; There's pleasure and contentment, there's sport and bracing air, In Scotland----now! [Illustration] 'THE TWELFTH' If you're waking, call me early, Call me early, Rob MacDougall, When the skies are pale and pearly And the air is keen and chill; And we'll break our fast together, In a fashion somewhat frugal, And be off across the heather To 'the hill.'