And Timbuctoo is reached at last,
The while our faithful porters keep
So still to let their masters sleep.”
Poor Blood and I were far too weak
To raise ourselves, or even speak;
We lay, content to languish.
When Sin, to make the matter certain,
Put out his head beyond the curtain,
And cried in utter anguish:
“This is not Timbuctoo at all,