I'd wandered, for a week or more,
Through hills, and dells, and doleful green'ry,
Lodging at any carnal door,
Sustaining life on pork, and scenery.
A weary scribe, I'd just let slip
My collar, for a short vacation,
And started on a walking trip,
That cheapest form of dissipation —
And vilest, Oh! confess my pen,
That I, prosaic, rather hate your
“Ode to a Sky-lark” sort of men;
I really am not fond of Nature.
Mad longing for a decent meal
And decent clothing overcame me;
There came a blister on my heel —
I gave it up; and who can blame me?
Then wrote my “Pulse of Nature's Heart,”
Which I procured some little cash on,
And quickly packed me to depart
In search of “gilded haunts” of fashion,
Which I might puff at column rates,
To please my host and meet my reckoning;
“Base is the slave who” — hesitates
When wealth, and pleasure both are beckoning.