Oh, I shall take a fire into my hand
With thinking of my own dear Muscovy—
Only just over that Sierra there,
By which we tumbled headlong into—No-land.
Now, if without a bullet after me,
I could but get a peep of my old home—
Perhaps of my own mule to take me there—
All’s still—perhaps the gentlemen within
Are dreaming it is night behind their masks—
God send ’em a good nightmare!—Now then—Hark!