1830.] [ 683 ] 



VEGETATIVE VERSES, 



BY A FELLOW OP THE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY. 

 tSfc*Wfte'Mt*WrTO , '- Vilffifc 



SABINE, father of the fetes, 



Chief of Chiswick, rural seer, 

 Deep in daisies and in dates, 



Prince of bulbs and breakfasts, hear ! 

 Hark the note of sad distress 

 Who would be an F.H.S.? 



Ruin seizes every root; 

 Buried berries daily rot. 



You and I may go and shoot- 

 For the drooping shrubs will not. 



We are in a pretty mess 



Who would be an F.H.S. ? 



Once we sate with otium cum 



Dignitate in our view ; 

 Now we are not worth a plum 



Turnham-green is turning blue. 

 Science is a game at chess- 

 Who would be an F.H.S. ? 



Horticulture hath its bumps : 



Currants are a current joke; 

 Spades are now no longer trumps ; 



Crocuses have made us croak; 

 Mustard's gone, and so is cress 

 Who would be an F.H.S. ? 



Stocks are selling off too cheap ; 



We and heartsease soon must part; 

 O'er a lettuce let us weep ; 



Artichokes have choked the art. 

 Chiswick 's quite a wilderness 

 Who would be an F.H.S.? 



See misfortune's chilling airs 



Sweep our bark from off the beech ; 

 Sorrows ever come in pears ; 



Peaches will our plans impeach ; 

 Cats'-heads kitten less and less 

 Who would be an F.H.S. ? 



Gravel walks with marble slabs, 



Tombstones, we shall shortly show ; 

 Since, though in an age of cabs, 



Cabbages are not the go. 

 Botany has ceased to bless 

 Who would be an F.H.S.? 



Oaks have proved a hoax at last ; 



Young men see the elder die ; 

 Leaves, not sloe-leaves, perish fast; 



We for cypress press a sigh ; 

 Posies pose us to excess 

 Who would be an F.H.S.? 

 482 



