Partant Pour La Scribie

A pleasant land is Scribie, where The light comes mostly from below, And seems a sort of symbol rare Of things at large, and how they go, In rooms where doors are everywhere And cupboards shelter friend or foe. This is a realm where people tell Each other, when they chance to meet, Of things that long ago befell - And do most solemnly repeat Secrets they both know very well, Aloud, and in the public street! A land where lovers go in fours, Master and mistress, man and maid; Where people listen at the doors Or 'neath a table's friendly shade, And comic Irishmen in scores Roam o'er the scenes all undismayed: A land where Virtue in distress Owes much to uncles in disguise; Where British sailors frankly bless Their limbs, their timbers, and their eyes; And where the villain doth confess, Conveniently, before he dies! A land of lovers false and gay; A land where people dread a 'curse;' A land of letters gone astray, Or intercepted, which is worse; Where weddings false fond maids betray, And all the babes are changed at nurse. Oh, happy land, where things come right! We of the world where things go ill; Where lovers love, but don't unite; Where no one finds the Missing Will - Dominion of the heart's delight, Scribie, we've loved, and love thee still!