I sit alone in my garden:
    Around, the moonlight flows:
And the air is faint with the fragrance
    Of the too-sweet tuberose.

By the lilies and dewy myrtles
    The fireflies rise and fall;
And the peerless yucca raises
    Her silver coronal.

Now the night-loving cactus,
    Like a Hebe, holdeth up,
To the dew and showery moonlight,
    Many a milk-white cup.

From under the eaves' deep shadow
    The jasmine-bud, pearl-white, peers;
And on the bent face of the sunflower
    The dew-drops shine like tears.

All nature is lapt in silence,
    Save only yon moonlit sea,—
Whose voice seems but to echo
    The memories that rise in me.

* * * * *

"Just thirty years," I murmur,
    "Just thirty years to-night
They were sitting here in my garden,
    Werder, and Green, and Wright.

In my ears now ring their voices:
    We had each our cheroots alit;
And the swift hours flitted o'er us,
    Winged by laughter and wit.

As now, then glittered the fireflies,
    And gleam'd the moonlit leaf;
And as now, we heard midst our converse
    The roller boom from yon reef.

The same stars in their places
    Shine from the same old sky,—
But I, of those four blithe comrades
    I only remain, even I."

* * * * *

The German, Rheinhold Werder,
    The Englishman, John Wright,
With Thomas Green, the Welshman,
    Were at my house that night:

And these, my jovial comrades,
    Their jokes began to bandy,
Because that I, a Scotchman,
    Had whiskers somewhat sandy.

To whiskerless old Werder
    Thereat I turned, and said,—
"Why don't you try and grow some?
    What odds if they were red?"

Old Werder chuckled grimly,
    And straight replied, "Ah vell!
Since you vould ask de reason,
    I now a tale vill tell.—

"Vonce on a time an Angel,
    Von star-eyed leetle thing,
Some presents to de nations
    Did in von basket bring.

"Dese gifts vere hair and viskars,
    Vich she from heaven brought down,
And dey vere of all colours,
    Some black, some red, some brown.

"She first did go to England,
    Dey chose brown viskars there:
And den de Velshmans gladly,
    Selected de black pair.

"Moustaches fierce and lengthy
    De Frenchmans most did please;
And all de beards called "goaty"
    Vere taken by 'cute Yankees.

"After, de leetle Angel
    Did come to Germanie,
And don, vidin de basket—
    Mein Gott!—vat did ve see!—

"Only von pair of viskars!
    You dirtee—ach!—RED pair!
So said ve to de Angel,—
    'Ve dont vant any hair!'

"Thus de Angel took dese viskars
    Across de German Sea,—
And on de cheeks of Scotchmans
    Dese viskars now ve see!"

We laughed at Werder's story,
    And I the most of all,
Whilst the clouds in the west were rising,
    And the western moon did fall.

Then followed one hour of converse,
    And then came the rushing rain,—
So we four comrades parted,
    Never to meet again!

* * * * *

Thirty long years—just thirty
    Since then have passed away.
Alas! those jovial comrades,
    To-night, ah where are they?

The wild Atlantic billow
    Rolls over Thomas Green;
And in a Dorset Churchyard
    John Wright's name may be seen.—

And brave old Rheinhold Werder
    Dropt to a Chassepôt shot,
Amongst the trees that shadow
    The road past Gravelotte.

And I, I only linger;
    And thinking of them to-night,
Unconsciously pull my whiskers,
    So "sandy" once,—now white.

        Dame Nature, that to flowers
        Gives sunshine, dew, and showers,
To me hath given much billing and much cooing.
        And now my head grows gray,
        I can but sigh and say
That wooing almost always ends in ruing.

        Shrive me, good Reader!—oft
        I've loved. My heart's too soft.
"I love not man the less, but woman more."
        In each new form and face
        I see some special grace:
I've loved too many girls——Confiteor!

        Confiteor!—One sees
        Those little humbugs, bees,
Flit fast from flower to flower, their honey hiving;
        It has been mine to seek
        Rose lip and lily cheek.
Confound it, yes! I need no end of shriving!

        Why, I was scarce fourteen,
        And only once had seen
Sweet Caroline, the pride of Bangalore,
        When straight to her I wrote
        On pink, a gushing note,
In which my love, by all the stars, I swore!

        But very strange to say,
        Upon that self-same day,
I met three sisters, Alice, Clare, and Nelly:
        Nelly had golden hair,
        Alice sang well, and Clare
Was a great hand at making guava jelly!

        Bound by this triple chain,
        I knew not, in my pain,
To which of these fair three to bend my knees:
        When at a ball one night
        Burst on my raptured sight
Star-like, the charms of my serene Louise.

        For, ah! I must confess
        A boundless amorousness
Ingrain'd and rooted in my nature is;
        A girl I cannot see
        But straight there wakes in me
Unutterable longing for a kiss!

        When last, Madras, in thee
        I saw sweet Rosalie,
With eyes so blue, so bright, and O! so merry,—
        I loved her,—till I met
        The coy and pale Annette,
A sweet French rose that blooms in Pondicherry.

        To Trichy next I came,
        And there another flame
Blazed for a little, then was quench'd in tears
        For soon I learnt, enraged,
        That Agnes was engaged
To Major Spooney of the Fusiliers.

        But why should I dilate
        Further upon my fate
Of loving many maids but wedding none?
        How Maud my heart perplext,
        Then Annie, Constance next,—
The last a widow, aged twenty-one?

        Enough for me to say
        That now, though I grow gray,
My heart's as warm and tender as of yore.
        Yet, though my love burns bright
        It sheds a softer light,
A milder radiance, mellowing evermore!

        For now, not one, nor two,
        But every maid I view
I love, with love that widens with my years.
        And when I pass away,
        Reader, weep not, but say,
Chutney is with the cherubs—pretty dears!

THE RUSSIANS IN MADRAS.

McDowell, McDowell,
    Beware of the day
When the Russians come sailing
    Through Bengal Bay;
When they land at Madras
    In countless shoals,
Cossacks, Siberians,
    Laplanders, Poles!
Beware for they come
    As thirsty as bold,
To a very hot climate,
    From regions of cold,
And as soon as they land
    To ransack this town,
They will rush, O! McDowell,
    To thy Godown!
Oh who would not weep
    For thee O Madras!
They'll swig every quart
    Of "Daukes' bottled Bass:"
McDowell, slap into
    Your godowns, pell mell,
They'll burst, and get tight on
    Your "Sparkling Moselle."
Your "Light Wines," and "Rhine Wines"
    They'll certainly drain,
Your "Burgundy," "Hock,"
    "Greek Wines," and "Champagne."
"Hockeimer," thy blood
    In torrents shall flow,
With that choicest of Burgundies,—
    "Clos Vougeot."
Lucid "White Hymet,"
    Crystally clear,
On the lips of Laplanders
    Shall shed many a tear.
Down the throats of Siberians
    Shall freely be pour'd,
"Suisse Extract d'Absinthe,"
    And th' "Old Tom" of "Swaine Board."
Whilst the Cossacks of Don
    Their paunches shall fill
With "Creme de Noyeau"
    And "Creme de Vanille."
McDowell, McDowell,
    Tell me I pray.
Think you, could Russians
    Resist your "Tokai?"
Think you their palates
    Could ever refuse
Your mellow "Oporto"
    Your "Grande Chartreuse?"
"Steinwine, in Box butel"
    "Blue labell'd Schloss,"
With "Chateau Pexoto,"
    They'll certainly toss.
Alas, oh, alas,
    What then will become
Of your "Munro's best Cooper,"
    And "Syrup of Gum?"
Where then will your "Chablis,"
    And "Palatine" go,—
With your "Muscat," your "Cider,"—
    McDowell and Co.?
Oh ghost of Exshaw,
    What bottles they'll burst,
Of your "No. 1 Brandy,"—
    Of brandies the first!
With Gledstane's best vintage
    They'll make them right merry,—
His "oldest choice Cognac,"
    His "pale yellow Sherry."
But what shall we do
    That this may not be,
When the thirsty barbarians
    Come over the sea?—
Let us forestal the Russians!
    At once let us go—
And buy the whole stock of
    MCDOWELL & CO.