Fit Rusticus Idem.

(After Horace).

Dear Teddy, though with me you'd face
The blistering Babylonian sun,
Or o'er the North Sea billows chase
The deadly Hun.

I, sick of this unending war,
Would barter all any share of glory
For a snug cottage, not too far
From old Karori.

Be this to my poor luck denied,
The simple life I'd choose to follow
Where Maitai's pleasant wakes glide
By Sleepy Hollow.

My heart goes out to that sweet nook,
Where peach and plum ungather'd lie,
And trout in every prattling brook
Invite the fly.

Spring linger long in that fair spot,
There Winter smiles; and golfers know
That green Tahuna envies not
E'en Westward Ho !

Those happy hills—that perfect sky—
Await us; there, when Death shall come,
You'll lay me, Ted, and say good-bye
To your ancient chum.

H. L. F.