Adventure of A poet

As I was walking down the street
   A week ago,
Near Henderson’s I chanced to meet
   A man I know.

His name is Alexander Bell,
   His home, Dundee;
I do not know him quite so well
   As he knows me.

He gave my hand a hearty shake,
   Discussed the weather,
And then proposed that we should take
   A stroll together.

 Down College Street we took our way,
   And there we met
The beautiful Miss Mary Gray,
   That arch coquette,
Who stole last spring my heart away
   And has it yet.

That smile with which my bow she greets,
   Would it were fonder! 
Or else less fond—­since she its sweets
   On all must squander. 
Thus, when I meet her in the streets,
   I sadly ponder,
And after her, as she retreats,
   My thoughts will wander.

And so I listened with an air
   Of inattention,
While Bell described a folding-chair
   Of his invention.

 And when we reached the Swilcan Burn,
   ‘It looks like rain,’
Said I, ‘and we had better turn.’ 
   ’Twas all in vain,

For Bell was weather-wise, and knew
   The signs aerial;
He bade me note the strip of blue
   Above the Imperial,

Also another patch of sky,
   South-west by south,
Which meant that we might journey dry
   To Eden’s mouth.

He was a man with information
   On many topics: 
He talked about the exploration
   Of Poles and Tropics,

 The scene in Parliament last night,
   Sir William’s letter;
’And do you like the electric light,
   Or gas-lamps better?’

The strike among the dust-heap pickers
   He said was over;
And had I read about the liquors
   Just seized at Dover?

Or the unhappy printer lad
   At Rothesay drowned? 
Or the Italian ironclad
   That ran aground?

He told me stories (lately come)
   Of good society,
Some slightly tinged with truth, and some
   With impropriety.

 He spoke of duelling in France,
   Then lightly glanced at
Mrs. Mackenzie’s monster dance,
   Which he had danced at.

So he ran on, till by-and-by
   A silence came,
For which I greatly fear that I
   Was most to blame.

Then neither of us spoke a word
   For quite a minute,
When presently a thought occurred
   With promise in it.

’How did you like the Shakespeare play
   The students read?’
By this, the Eden like a bay
   Before us spread.

 Near Eden many softer plots
   Of sand there be;
Our feet, like Pharaoh’s chariots,
   Drave heavily.

And ere an answer I could frame,
   He said that Irving
Of his extraordinary fame
   Was undeserving,

And for his part he thought more highly
   Of Ellen Terry;
Although he knew a girl named Riley
   At Broughty Ferry,