THE "STAY-AT-HOME."
I'll never dwell among the Caffres;
I'll never willing cross the Line,
Where Neptune, 'mid the tarry laughers,
Dips broiling landsmen in the brine.
I'll never go to New South Wales,
Nor hunt for glory at the Pole—
To feed the sharks, or catch the whales,
Or tempt a Lapland lady's soul.
I'll never willing stir an ell
Beyond old England's chalky border,
To steal or smuggle, buy or sell,
To drink cheap wine, or beg an Order.
Let those do so who long for claret,
Let those, who'd kiss a Frenchman's—toes;
I'll not drink vinegar, nor Star it,
For any he that wears a nose.
I'll not go lounge out life in Calais,
To dine at half a franc a head;
To hut like rats in lanes and alleys—
To eat an exile's gritty bread.
To flirt with shoeless Seraphinas,
To shrink at every ruffian's shako;
Without a pair of shirts between us,
Morn, noon, and night to smell tobacco;
To live my days in Gallic hovels,
Untouched by water since the flood;
To wade through streets, where famine grovels
In hunger, frippery, and mud.