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objectionably portly, Not prohibitively plain. Take his gifts, and ask a blessing. Meddle not with minor cares. Trust me, your unprepossessing Dam soon settles those affairs! Then will I, with honeyed suasion, Pinch some thriftless man of bills Of a mark of the occasion For my Lady of the Hills. THE SHORES OF NOTHING There's a little lake that lies In a valley, where the skies Kiss the mountains, as they rise, On the crown; And the heaven-born elite Are accustomed to retreat From the pestilential heat Lower down. Where the Mighty, for a space, Mix with Beauty, Rank, and Grace, (I myself was in the place, At my best!) And the atmosphere's divine, While the deodar and pine Are particularly fine For the chest. And a little month ago, When the sun was lying low, And the water lay aglow Like a pearl, I, remarkably arrayed, Dipped an unobtrusive blade In the lake--and in the shade-- With a girl. O 'twas pleasant thus to glide On the 'softly-flowing tide' (Which it's not!) and, undescried, Take a hand In the sweet, idyllic sports That are known in such resorts, To the sympathetic snorts Of the Band. Till, when o'er the 'still lagoon' Passed the golden afternoon, The preposterous bassoon, Growling deep, Saved the King and knelled the day As the crimson changed to grey And the little valley lay Half asleep. It is finished. She was kind. 'Out of sight is out of mind.' But the taste remains behind, (And the bills,) And I'd give the world to know If there's some one else in tow With my love (a month ago) In the Hills! O ye valleys, tell me, pray, Was she on the lake to-day? Does she foot it in the gay, Social whirl? O ye Mountains of Gilboa, Send a bird, or kindly blow a Breeze to tell me all you know a- bout that girl! THE LAST HOCKEY _After A. T._ So for the last great Hockey of the Hills, --Damsel _v._ Dame--by ruder cynics called The Tournament of the Dead Dignities, We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens, Perused the revels. Here on autumn
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