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.

I sought; I found. Among the swells

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