If I have held my peace so long Here, in the bosom of the plains Trust me—'t was but because my brains Would yield no echo of a song A peaceful lot is mine to sing; In dullness deep my lines are laid Save when—to please some sporting maid, I tilt (and tumble) at the Ring Three black cheroots the day beguile; Week follows week—the long month goes, And Adlard sends his bill for 'close' Which I receive and promptly—file. No longer flies the fiery steed Ramping (on two rupees per diem, To be refunded if you buy 'em) Across the Annandyllic meads. No longer by the Jhampan's side I frisk along the crowded Mall From half past four till evenfall, Or by Peliti's take my ride. No longer through the stately pines The soft Hill breezes come and go, No longer, in the dusk below The merry 'Rickshaw's lantern shines. For Jakko's woods are far away And, in the place of Combermere, Across the muddy chick I hear The rain that 'raineth every day'. Unharrowed is my tender soul By M-ss O'M-R-A's bold black eye— For, far from any passer by I hear the sullen presses roll The foul chaprassi in his lair Sits silent as a turban'd Sphinx; And all the city's million stinks Float inward on the frowy air, And so I rest a graceful boot Upon the table's inky baize, And think of other—happier days And sob above my cheap cheroot I dream of lotos eating days, Of pleasant rides in pleasant places, Of half a hundred pretty faces, Of Solan beer and Henry Clays. 'A change' like that which Byron wrote, Comes 'o'er the spirit of my dream;' I hear the restless parrot scream And watch the gay thermantidote; Too moved for words, its wings I study,— Wipe well each glass protected eye And, ere I throw the inkstand by Subscribe myself your truly, Ruddy.