hopes. The envious moments, even while we speak, have flown; Trusting nothing to the future, seize the day that is our own.

p. 23ADVENTURE OF A POET

p. 23

As I was walking down the street A week ago, Near Henderson’s I chanced to meet A man I know.

His name is Alexander Bell, His home, Dundee; I do not know him quite so well As he knows me.

He gave my hand a hearty shake, Discussed the weather, And then proposed that we should take A stroll together.

p. 24Down College Street we took our way, And there we met The beautiful Miss Mary Gray, That arch coquette, Who stole last spring my heart away And has it yet.

p. 24

That smile with which my bow she greets, Would it were fonder! Or else less fond—since she its sweets On all must squander. Thus, when I meet her in the streets, I sadly ponder, And after her, as she retreats, My thoughts will wander.

And so I listened with an air Of inattention, While Bell described a folding-chair Of his invention.

p. 25And when we reached the Swilcan Burn,  ‘It looks like rain,’ Said I, ‘and we had better turn.’  ’Twas all in vain,

p. 25

For Bell was weather-wise, and knew The signs aerial; He bade me note the strip of blue Above the Imperial,

Also another patch of sky, South-west by south, Which meant that we might journey dry To Eden’s mouth.

He was a man with information On many topics: He talked about the exploration Of Poles and Tropics,

p. 26The scene in Parliament last night, Sir William’s letter; ‘And do you like the electric light, Or gas-lamps better?’

p. 26

The strike among the dust-heap pickers He said was over; And had I read about the liquors Just seized at Dover?

Or the unhappy printer lad At Rothesay drowned? Or the Italian ironclad That ran aground?

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