Contentment.

After The Manner Of Horace.     Friend, there be they on whom mishap      Or never or so rarely comes,     That, when they think thereof, they snap      Derisive thumbs:     And there be they who lightly lose      Their all, yet feel no aching void;     Should aught annoy them, they refuse      To be annoy'd:     And fain would I be e'en as these!      Life is with such all beer and skittles;     They are not difficult to please      About their victuals:     The trout, the grouse, the early pea,      By such, if there, are freely taken;     If not, they munch with equal glee      Their bit of bacon:     And when they wax a little gay      And chaff the public after luncheon,     If they're confronted with a stray      Policeman's truncheon,     They gaze thereat with outstretch'd necks,      And laughter which no threats can smother,     And tell the horror-stricken X      That he's another.     In snowtime if they cross a spot      Where unsuspected boys have slid,     They fall not down - though they would not      Mind if they did:     When the spring rosebud which they wear      Breaks short and tumbles from its stem,     No thought of being angry e'er      Dawns upon them;     Though 'twas Jemima's hand that placed,      (As well you ween) at evening's hour,     In the loved button-hole that chaste      And cherish'd flower.     And when they travel, if they find      That they have left their pocket-compass     Or Murray or thick boots behind,      They raise no rumpus,     But plod serenely on without:      Knowing it's better to endure     The evil which beyond all doubt      You cannot cure.     When for that early train they're late,      They do not make their woes the text     Of sermons in the Times, but wait      On for the next;     And jump inside, and only grin      Should it appear that that dry wag,     The guard, omitted to put in      Their carpet-bag.