I fled before this artful ruse
To cook my too-confiding goose,
And now I sweep, in chill despair,
This crossing in St. James's Square;
Some old Qui-hy, some rural flat
May drop a sixpence in my hat;
Yet still I mourn the mango-tree
Where Azla first grew fond of me.
These rogues, who swear my skin is tawny,
Would pawn their own for brandy-pawnee;
What matters it if theirs are snowy,
As Chloe fair! They're drunk as Chloe!
Your town is vile. In Thames's stream
The crocodiles get up the steam!
Your juggernauts their victims bump
From Camberwell to Aldgate pump!
A year ago, come Candlemas,
I wooed a plump Feringhee lass;
United at her idol fane,
I furnished rooms in Idol Lane.
A moon had waned when virtuous Emma
Involved me in a new dilemma:
The Brahma faith that Emma scorns
Impaled me tight on both its horns:
She vowed to die if she survived me;
Of this sweet fancy she deprived me,
She ran from all her obligations,
And went to stay with her relations.
My Azla weeps by Jumna's deeps,
But Emma mocks my trials,—
She pokes her jokes in Seven Oaks,
At me in Seven Dials,—
She'd see me farther still, than be,
Though Veeshnu wills it—my Suttee!