  WITHIN, without, abroad, at home, Though all appears a bilious chrome, With May shall flee dyspeptic throes And life assume a tint of rose— For France, the gay and debonair, Will ask us to her fancy fair, The Exhibition. Then East and West and South and North Will pour their choicest treasures forth, And all the world will hie away Upon a pleasant holiday; While Frenchmen cry, and chink the cash, “We’re glad Boulanger did not smash The Exhibition!” And you, ma mie, of years ago, Who with me wandered to and fro Through all the aisles of wonder set Like gems in some vast coronet— How sweet you were, ma’mselle, to me!— Will you be there this time to see The Exhibition? O’er both our heads the years have rolled, And I am stout and growing old; And you are married, I dare say, And know a mother’s cares to-day. Maybe our chairs—bath-chairs, I mean— May pass some day ere we’ve quite seen The Exhibition. |
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