There's roaming in regions where every one's been,
Encounters where no one was ever before,
There's 'Leaves' from the Highlands we owe to the Queen,
There's Holly's and Leo's adventures in Kor:
There's Tanner who dwelt with Pawnees and Chinooks,
You can cover a great deal of country in Books.
There are books, highly thought of, that nobody reads,
There is Geusius' dearly delectable tome
Of the Cannibal--he on his neighbour who feeds -
And in blood-red morocco 'tis bound, by Derome;
There's Montaigne here (a Foppens), there's Roberts (on Flukes),
There's Elzevirs, Aldines, and Gryphius' Books.
There's Bunyan, there's Walton, in early editions,
There's many a quarto uncommonly rare;
There's quaint old Quevedo adream with his visions,
There's Johnson the portly, and Burton the spare;
There's Boston of Ettrick, who preached of the 'Crooks
In the Lots' of us mortals, who bargain for Books.
There's Ruskin to keep one exclaiming 'What next?'
There's Browning to puzzle, and Gilbert to chaff,
And Marcus Aurelius to soothe one if vexed,
And good MARCUS TVAINUS to lend you a laugh;
There be capital tomes that are filled with fly-hooks,
And I've frequently found them the best kind of Books.
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