'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit,
And prate about the mundane spit,
And babble of Cook's track—
He'd roast the leather off his toes,
Ere he would trudge thro' polar snows,
To plant a British Jack!
IX.
Oh, not the proud licentious great,
That travel on a carpet skate,
Can value toils like thine!