* * * * *
AN AN-TEA ANACREONTIC.
[Greek: EIS TO LEIN PINEIN.]
Bards of old have sung the vine
Such a theme shall ne'er be mine;
Weaker strains to me belong,
Paeans sung to thee, Souchong!
What though I may never sip
Rubies from my tea-cup's lip;
Do not milky pearls combine
In this steaming cup of mine?
What though round my youthful brow
I ne'er twine the myrtle's bough?
For such wreaths my soul ne'er grieves.
Whilst I own my Twankay's leaves.
Though for me no altar burns,
Kettles boil and bubble--urns
In each fane, where I adore--
What should mortal ask for more!
I for Pidding, Bacchus fly,
Howqua shall my cup supply;
I'll ne'er ask for amphorae,
Whilst my tea-pot yields me tea.
Then, perchance, above my grave,
Blooming Hyson sprigs may wave;
And some stately sugar-cane,
There may spring to life again:
Bright-eyed maidens then may meet,
To quaff the herb and suck the sweet.
* * * * *
A CONVERSATION BETWEEN TWO HACKNEY-COACH HORSES.
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