IT rushes home, our own express,
So cheerfully, no one would guess
The weight it carries

Of tired husbands, back from town,
For each of whom, in festal gown,
A fond wife tarries.

For each of whom a better half,
At even, serves the fatted calf,
In strange disguises,

At anxious boards of all degree,
Down to the simple 'egg at tea,'
Which love devises.

For whom all day, disconsolate,
Deserted villas have to wait,
Detached and Semi--

Barred by their own affairs, which are
As hard to pass through as the far
Famed Alpine Gemmi.

Sometimes as I at leisure roam,
Admiring my suburban home,
I wonder sadly

If men will always come and go
In these vast numbers, to and fro,
So fast and madly.

I muse on what the spell can be,
Which causes this activity:
Who of our Sages

The potent charm has meted out
To tall and thin, to short and stout,
Of varying ages.

I think, when other fancy flags,
The magic lies within the bags
Which journey ever

In silent, black mysterious ways,
With punctual owners, all their days
And fail them never.

In some perhaps sweet flowers lie,
Sweet flowers which shape a destiny
To pain or pleasure,

Or lady's glove, or ringlet bright,
Or many another keepsake light,
Which true knights treasure.

May be--may be--Romance is rife,
Despite our busy bustling life,
And rules us gaily,

And shows no sign of weariness,
But in our very own express,
Does travel daily.