night, or by day, whether noisy or stilly,
Whatever my mood is—I love Piccadilly.

Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming,
And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming,

And Beauty is whirl’d off to conquest, where shrilly
Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly!

Bright days, when I leisurely pace to and fro,
And meet all the people I do or don’t know.
Here is jolly old Brown, and his fair daughter Lillie;—
No wonder some pilgrims affect Piccadilly!

See yonder pair, fonder ne’er rode at a canter,—
She smiles on her Poet, contented to saunter;
Some envy her spouse, and some covet her filly,
He envies them both—he’s an ass, Piccadilly!

Now were I that gay bride, with a slave at my feet,
I would choose me a house in my favourite street.
Yes or No—I would carry my point, willy, nilly;
If “no,” pick a quarrel, if “yes,” Piccadilly.

Thus the high frolic by—thus the lowly are seen,
As perched on the roof of yon bulky machine,
The Kensington dilly—and Tom Smith or Billy
Smoke doubtful cigars in ill-used Piccadilly.

And there’s the balcony, where, ages ago,
Old Q sat and gazed on the damsels below.
There are plausible wolves even now, seeking silly
Red Riding Hoods small in thy woods, Piccadilly!

And there is a Statesman, the Man of the Day,
A laughing philosopher, gallant and gay;
No darling of Fortune more manfully trod,
Full of years, full of fame, and the world at his nod,
Can the thought reach his heart, and then leave it more chilly,—
“Old P or Old Q I must quit Piccadilly?”

Life is chequer’d, a patchwork of smiles and of frowns;
We valued its ups, let us muse on its downs.
There’s a side that is bright, it will then turn the other,
One turn, if a good one, deserves such another.
These downs are delightful, these ups are not hilly,—
Let us turn one more turn ere we quit Piccadilly!

THE OLD CLERK

We knew an old Clerk, it was “once on time,”
   An era to set sober datists despairing;
Then let them despair!—Darby sat in a chair
   Near a cross that takes name from the village of Charing.

Though silent and lean, Darby was not morose,
   What hair he had left was more silver than sable,
His feet had begun to turn up at the toes,
   From constantly being curled under a table.

His pay and expenditure, quite in accord,
   Were both on the strictest economy founded;
His rulers, in conclave, were known as the Board,
   His rulers were sticks of mahogany rounded.

In his heart he looked down on this dignified knot,—
   For why, the forefather of one of these senators,
A rascal concern’d in the Gunpowder Plot,
   Had been barber-surgeon to Darby’s progenitors.

Poor fool! to resent the caprices of Luck.
   Still, a long thirty years (it was rather degrading)
He’d been writing despatches,—which means he had stuck
   Some heads and some tails to much rhodomontading.

This sounds rather weary and dreary; but, no!
   Though strictly inglorious, his days were quiescent,
And his red-tape was tied in a true-lover’s bow
   Each night when returning to Rosemary Crescent.

There Joan meets him smiling, the young ones are there,
   His coming is bliss to the half-dozen wee things;
Of his advent the dog and the cat are aware,
   And Phyllis, neat handed, is laying the tea-things.

This greeting the silent old Clerk understands.
   Now his friends he can love, had he foes, he could mock them;
So met, so surrounded, his bosom expands,—
   Some tongues have more need of such scenes to unlock them.

And Darby, at least, is resign’d to his lot,
   And Joan (rather proud of the sphere he’s adorning)
Has well-nigh forgotten that Gunpowder Plot,
   And he won’t recall it till ten the next morning.

A time must arrive when, in pitiful case,
   He will drop from his Branch like a fruit more than mellow:
Is he still to be found in his usual place?
   Or is he already forgotten, poor fellow?

If still at his duty, he soon will arrive,—
   He passes this turning, because it is shorter,—
If not within sight as the clock’s striking five,
   We shall see him before it is chiming the quarter.

THE GARTER

The healthy-wealthy-wise, affirm,
That early birds secure the worm,
   And doubtless so they do;
Who scorns his couch should earn, by rights,
A world of pleasant sounds and sights
   That vanish with the dew.

Bright Phosphor, from his watch released,
Now fading from the purple East—
   The morning waxing stronger;
The comely cock that vainly strives
To crow from sleep his drowsy wives,
   Who would be dosing longer.

Uxorious Chanticleer! and hark!
Upraise thine eyes, and find the lark,
   That matutine musician,
Who heavenward soars on rapture’s wings,
Though sought, unseen, who mounts, and sings
   In musical derision.

A daughter hast’ning to prepare
Her father’s humble morning fare—
   The sturdy reaper’s meal.
In russet gown and apron blue,
The daughter sings; like “Lucy,” too,
   She plies her spinning-wheel.

Anon the early reaper hies
To waving fields that clasp the skies,
   Broad sheets of sunlit water.
All these were heard or seen by one
Who stole a march upon that sun,
   And then—upon that Daughter!

This dainty maid, the hamlet’s pride,
A lambkin trotting at her side,
   Then hied her through the park;
A fond and gentle foster-dam—
May be she slumbered with her lamb,
   Thus rising with the lark!

The lambkin frisk’d, the damsel fain
Would wile him back,—she called in vain.
   The truant gamboll’d farther:
One follow’d for the maiden’s sake,
A pilgrim in an Angel’s wake—
   A happy pilgrim, rather.

The maid gave chase, the lambkin ran,
As only woolly vagrant can,
   Who never felt a crook;
But stay’d at length, as ’twere disposed
To drink, where tawny sands disclosed
   The margent of a brook.

His mistress, who had follow’d fast,
Cried, “Little