Her Tour.

        Yes, we've been travelling, my dear,
            Three months, or such a matter,
        And it's a blessing to get clear
            Of all the clash and clatter!
        Ah! when I look the guide-book through,
            And see each queer place in there,
        'Tis hard to make it seem quite true
            That I myself have been there!

        Our voyage? Oh, of course 'twas gay -
            Delightful! splendid! glorious!
        We spurned the shore - we sped away -
            We rode the waves victorious.
        The first mate's mustache was so grand!
            The ocean sweet, though stormy
        (I was so sick I could not stand,
            But papa saw it for me).

        At Queenstown we saw land once more -
            Ground never looked so pretty!
        We took a steam-car near the shore
            For some light-sounding city.
        A very ordinary stone
            We had to kiss at Blarney;
        The beggars wouldn't let us alone
            That half-day at Killarney!

        The Giants' Causeway? 'Tis arranged
            With no regard to science;
        It must somehow of late have changed -
            At least we saw no giants.
        Some little funny scrubs of folks
            Sold pictures, and were merry;
        The men were full of yarns and jokes,
            The women barefoot - very.

        Old Scotland? Yes, all in our power
            We did there to be thorough;
        We stopped in Glasgow one whole hour,
            Then straight to "Edinborough."
        At Abbotsford we made a stay
            Of half an hour precisely.
        (The ruins all along the way
            Were ruined very nicely.)

        We "did" a mountain in the rain,
            And left the others undone,
        Then took the "Flying Scotchman" train.
            And came by night to London.
        Long tunnels somewhere on the line
            Made sound and darkness deeper;
        No; English scenery is not fine,
            Viewed from a Pullman sleeper.

        Oh, Paris! Paris! Paris! 'tis
            No wonder, dear, that you go
        So far into the ecstasies
            About that Victor Hugo!
        He paints the city, high and low,
            With faithful pen and ready
        (I think, my dear, I ought to know -
            We drove there two hours steady).

        Through Switzerland by train. Yes, I
            Enjoyed it, in a measure;
        But still the mountains are too high
            To see with any pleasure.
        Their tops - they made my neck quite stiff,
            Just stretching up to view them;
        And folks are very foolish if
            They clamber clear up to them!

        Rome, Venice, Naples, and the Rhine?
            We did them - do not doubt it;
        This guide-book here is very fine -
            'Twill tell you all about it.
        We've saved up Asia till next year,
            If business gets unravelled;
        What! going? Come again; and, dear,
            I will not seem so travelled.

            *            *            *            *            *


WASHINGTON, November 3, 18 - .

    We're travelling, and we're here! and what a town!
    I own, it picks me up and sets me down!
    I thought I had some idea of the place,
    And what its corporation lines embrace;
    I'd read the county papers every week,
    Which seldom failed "From Washington" to speak;
    I'd travelled through these streets by photograph,
    And, with Imagination for a staff,
    Had wandered round, in little trips disjointed,
    Even where the artist's brass gun has not pointed;
    And so I said, "Though I wouldn't like to miss it,
    'Twill be a good deal like a second visit."

    But 'tisn't an easy perpetrated scheme
    To prophesy how anything will seem.
    This city's new to me - I do not doubt it -
    As if I'd never heard a word about it!
    There's something in these white-clothed buildings' glare,
    And something even in the very air,
    And in the great variety of faces,
    Bearing the ear-marks of a thousand places,
    And in that monument that reaches high -
    The farthest stone has climbed into the sky,
    And in that dome, whose kingly size and height
    Contrive, where'er you are, to keep in sight -
    From these, and several hundred other things
    This nation's lead-horse city at you flings,
    You feel as if you'd stepped, through many a mile,
    Into another planet for a while!

    But men too weary to hold up their heads
    Are apt to bless the man[7] who first made beds;
    Then, having found one, and reclined within it,
    Forget about him in just half a minute.
    So I'll let Morpheus (who is at me winking)
    Do the remainder of this evening's thinking.

        [7]    Or woman - let due praise to her be paid;
                A bed is never made until 'tis made.