The Patriotic Tourist

SOME folks the Old World find so fair,

And fancy it so grand,

They see its marvels everywhere

About their native land.

When they the Hudson sail by day,

While all its beauties shine,

They most enthusiastic say,

“Behold the Yankee Rhine!”

As on Lake George they dream and drift,

Enrapt at every turn,

’Tis thus their voices up they lift,

“America’s Lake Lucerne!”

At Saranac sublimely frown

The Alps their travels know,

And then they breathe in Morristown

The air of Monaco.

Forsooth, it’s not the same with me,

For, from an Alpine gorge,

I view Lucerne, and sing in glee,

“’Tis Switzerland’s Lake George!”

When off Sorrento, in a boat,

I drift, serene and gay,

I fancy, in a dream, I float

On great Peconic Bay.

When in the Scottish Highlands I

Upon the heather bunk,

I look about and fondly sigh

O’er Caledon’s Mauch Chunk.

In London town, all smoke and fog,

I wander happy, when

I fancy that I gaily jog

Around in Pittsburg, Penn.

The Rhine is Europe’s Hudson long,

The Alps the Swiss Catskills;

Lake Como is the Ho-pat-cong

Of the Italian hills.

I see, from Dan to Jericho,

From Berne to Ispahan,

Wonders that imitate, I know,

Our own as best they can.

And I shall cheer, until I cease

To tread this earthly way,

Sky-high in classic Athens, Greece,

Manunka Chunk, N. J.