The Palace.

They come, they come, with fife and drum,      And gleaming pikes and glancing banners:     Though the eyes flash, the lips are dumb;      To talk in rank would not be manners.     Onward they stride, as Britons can;     The ladies following in the Van.     Who, who be these that tramp in threes      Through sumptuous Piccadilly, through     The roaring Strand, and stand at ease      At last 'neath shadowy Waterloo?     Some gallant Guild, I ween, are they;     Taking their annual holiday.     To catch the destin'd train - to pay      Their willing fares, and plunge within it -     Is, as in old Romaunt they say,      With them the work of half-a-minute.     Then off they're whirl'd, with songs and shouting,     To cedared Sydenham for their outing.     I mark'd them light, with faces bright      As pansies or a new coin'd florin,     And up the sunless stair take flight,      Close-pack'd as rabbits in a warren.     Honour the Brave, who in that stress     Still trod not upon Beauty's dress!     Kerchief in hand I saw them stand;      In every kerchief lurk'd a lunch;     When they unfurl'd them, it was grand      To watch bronzed men and maidens crunch     The sounding celery-stick, or ram     The knife into the blushing ham.     Dash'd the bold fork through pies of pork;      O'er hard-boil'd eggs the saltspoon shook;     Leapt from its lair the playful cork:      Yet some there were, to whom the brook     Seem'd sweetest beverage, and for meat     They chose the red root of the beet.     Then many a song, some rather long,      Came quivering up from girlish throats;     And one young man he came out strong,      And gave "The Wolf" without his notes.     While they who knew not song or ballad     Still munch'd, approvingly, their salad.     But ah! what bard could sing how hard,      The artless banquet o'er, they ran     Down the soft slope with daisies starr'd      And kingcups! onward, maid with man,     They flew, to scale the breezy swing,     Or court frank kisses in the ring.     Such are the sylvan scenes that thrill      This heart! The lawns, the happy shade,     Where matrons, whom the sunbeams grill,      Stir with slow spoon their lemonade;     And maidens flirt (no extra charge)     In comfort at the fountain's marge!     Others may praise the "grand displays"      Where "fiery arch," "cascade," and "comet,"     Set the whole garden in a "blaze"!      Far, at such times, may I be from it;     Though then the public may be "lost     In wonder" at a trifling cost.     Fann'd by the breeze, to puff at ease      My faithful pipe is all I crave:     And if folks rave about the "trees      Lit up by fireworks," let them rave.     Your monster fetes, I like not these;     Though they bring grist to the lessees.