THERE'S a tempting bit of greenery—of rustic

scenery—

That's haunted by the London "upper ten

Where, by exercise on horseback, an equestrian may force back

Little fits of tedium vitÆ now and then.

Oh! the times that I have been there, and the types that I have

seen there

Of that gorgeous Cockney animal, the "swell

And the scores of pretty riders (both patricians and outsiders)

Are considerably more than I can tell.

When first the warmer weather brought these people all together.

And the crowds began to thicken through the Row,

I reclined against the railing on a sunny day, inhaling

All the spirits that the breezes could bestow.

And the riders and the walkers and the thinkers and the talkers

Left lonely in the thickest of the throng,

Not a touch upon my shoulder—not a nod from one beholder—

As the stream of Art and Nature went along.

But I brought away one image, from that fashionable scrimmage,

Of a figure and a face—ah, such a face!

Love has photograph'd the features of that loveliest of creatures

On my memory, as Love alone can trace.

Did I hate the little dandy in the whiskers, (they were sandy,)

Whose absurd salute was honour'd by a smile?

Did I marvel at his rudeness in presuming on her goodness,

When she evidently loathed him all the while!

Oh the hours that I have wasted, the regrets that I have tasted,

Since the day (it seems a century ago)

When my heart was won instanter by a lady in a canter,

On a certain sunny day in Rotten Row!