['Mr. Frank Lascelles left London yesterday for Calcutta. As he entered the railway carriage at Victoria, Lady Jane Kenney-Herbert handed him a basket of roses. ' -- The _Times_.]
Each year in vain I take the train To Dinard, Trouville or Le Touquet; No lady fair is ever there To speed me with a bouquet; No maiden on my brow imposes A snood of Gloire de Dijon roses!
No purple phlox adorns the locks Of scanty hair that fringe my cranium; No garlands deck my shapely neck With jasmine or geranium. I travel, like a social pariah, Without a single calceolaria!
Though up and down I 'train' to town, Each day, with fellow-clerk or broker, No female hand has ever planned To trim my third-class 'smoker,' To wreathe the rack with scarlet dahlias, Or drape the seats with pink azaleas!
Let others envy wealthy men -- The Rothschilds, Vanderbilts or Cassels -- I'd much prefer, I must aver, Like lucky Mr. Lascelles, To travel well supplied with posies Of (on the 'Underground') _Tube_-roses!
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