There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin!
I will wed some savage woman—nay, I’ll wed at least a dozen.
There I’ll rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared:
They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard—
Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon,
Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon.
I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard’s blood will daily quaff,
Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe.
Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses,
Startling from their noonday slumbers iron-bound rhinoceroses.
Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad,
For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian cad.
I the swell—the city dandy! I to seek such horrid places,—
I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and monkey-faces!
I to wed with Coromantees! I, who managed—very near—
To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shillibeer!
Stuff and nonsense! let me never fling a single chance away;
Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another maiden may.
‘Morning Post’ (‘The Times’ won’t trust me) help me, as I know you can;
I will pen an advertisement,—that’s a never-failing plan.