Here stands my Cabul city, here I dwell by your favour at rest,
But the tribes of my frontier are evil, and know no respect for a guest:
If your commission needs a safe escort on the oath of a trusted friend,
I have not the means to protect them. But whom will the Viceroy send?
Wilt thou send the poet, Sir A. F. D., the man who advised the last war?
He is safer, I ween, on the Naini Tal lake than he would be near Kandahar.
Wilt thou send little Bobs—the Bahadur? He is trusted and honoured, I know,
But he’s cooling his heels at Ootacamund, and doesn’t seem anxious to go.
Shall I ask for the man with the ringlets? the virtuous lovely L—p—l,
He is living at home at his ease, writing books, and he has grown a great swell.