We pickle peas, we lock up sound,
   We bottle electricity;
We run our railways underground,
   Our trams above in this city
We fly balloons in calm or breeze,
   And tumble from the car;
I wander down Pall Mall at ease,
   And smoke a mild cigar.

Some strive to get a post or place,
   Or entree to society;
Or after wealth or pleasure race,
   Or any notoriety;
Or snatch at titles or degrees,
   At ribbon, cross, or star: 
I elevate my limbs at ease,
   And smoke a mild cigar.

Some people strive for manhood right
   With riots or orations;
For anti-vaccination fight,
   Or temperance demonstrations: 
I gently smile at things like these,
   And, ’mid the clash and jar,
I sit in my arm-chair at ease,
   And smoke a mild cigar.

They say young ladies all demand
   A smart barouche and pair,
Two flunkies at the door to stand,
   A mansion in May Fair: 
I can’t afford such things as these,
   I hold it safer far
To sip my claret at my ease,
   And smoke a mild cigar.

It may be proper one should take
   One’s place in the creation;
It may be very right to make
   A choice of some vocation;
With such remarks one quite agrees,
   So sensible they are: 
I much prefer to take my ease,
   And smoke a mild cigar.

They say our morals are so so,
   Religion still more hollow;
And where the upper classes go,
   The lower always follow;
That honour lost with grace and ease
   Your fortunes will not mar: 
That’s not so well; but, if you please,
   We’ll light a fresh cigar.

Rank heresy is fresh and green,
   E’en womenkind have caught it;
They say the Bible doesn’t mean
   What people always thought it;
That miracles are what you please,
   Or nature’s order mar: 
I read the last review at ease,
   And smoke a mild cigar.

Some folks who make a fearful fuss,
   In eighteen ninety-seven,
Say, heaven will either come to us,
   Or we shall go to heaven;
They settle it just as they please;
   But, though it mayn’t be far,
At any rate there’s time with ease
   To light a fresh cigar.

It may be there is something true;
   It may be one might find it;
It may be, if one looked life through,
   That something lies behind it;
It may be, p’raps, for aught one sees,
   The things that may be, are: 
I’m growing serious—­if you please
   We’ll light a fresh cigar.

AN OLDE LYRIC.

I.

Oh, saw ye my own true love, I praye,
   My own true love so sweete? 
For the flowers have lightly toss’d awaye
   The prynte of her faery feete. 
Now, how can we telle if she passed us bye? 
   Is she darke or fayre to see? 
Like sloes are her eyes, or blue as the skies? 
   Is’t braided her haire or free?