"HE IS AN ENGLISHMAN."

I 'VE just come over from abroad,

Been there a year, you know,

And now I find America,

I must say, rather slow.

Of course I took in Italy,

And did the Alps and Rhine;

Things every fellow ought to see,

And really deuced fine.

But then that blasted sight-seeing

Soon gets so devilish tame, -

Old pictures, and that sort of thing,

Are all so much the same.

Besides, this tourist business

Is such a horrid bore.

I stopped in Paris near six months;

Was up at London four.

A rattling place that Paris is;

The women, sir, are fine;

And then, by Jove, I never saw

Such cooking and such wine!

But England after all 's the place

For gentlemen, by gad;

Now here a fellow to succeed

Has got to be a cad.

The fellows of good family there

All have some opening;

They give 'em seats in Parliament,

And all that sort of thing.

Our House and Senate over here

Are all made up, you know,

Of such a deuced scrubby lot,

No decent fellow 'll go.

Then cads all dress so badly there,

And gentlemen so well,

One can distinguish which is which,

Now here, a man can't tell.

I rode a goodish bit out there;

They pretty much all do;

I always used to keep a back,

And thoroughbred or two.

This pounding along Beacon Street

Is rather slowish fun

Beside an outing on The Row,

Or a cross-country run.

And then this early dining here, -

A nasty trick I hate;

Now over there they never dine

Before half-after-eight.

Our girls are pretty, I allow;

They 're clever, and all that,

But after Paris women, - well,

They 're just a trifle flat.

One ought to love one's land, they say;

Well - I 'm no patriot;

I always thought that sort of thing

Was poppycock and rot.

I 'm going out again next spring;

Once there, I shall remain;

And then I hope I never 'll see

This blasted hole again.

J. B.