The way was long, and the day was hot; His wings were weary; his hoofs were sore; And scarce could he trail His nerveless tail, As it furrowed the sand on the Red Sea shore!
The day had been hot, and the way was long; —Hoof-sore, and weary, and faint was he; He lower'd his sack, And the heat of his back As he leaned on a palm-trunk, blasted the tree!
He sat himself down in the palm-tree's shade, And he gazed, and he grinn'd in pure delight, As he peep'd inside The buffalo's hide He had sewn for a sack, and had cramm'd so tight.
For, though he'd "gone over a good deal of ground," And game had been scarce, he might well report That still he had got A decentish lot, And had had, on the whole, not a bad day's sport.
He had pick'd up in France a Maître de Danse,— A Maîtresse en titre,—two smart Grisettes, A Courtier at play,— And an English Roué— Who had bolted from home without paying his debts.—
—He had caught in Great Britain a Scrivener's clerk, A Quaker,—a Baker,—a Doctor of Laws,— And a Jockey of York— But Paddy from Cork "Desaved the ould divil," and slipp'd through his claws!
In Moscow, a Boyar knouting his wife —A Corsair's crew, in the Isles of Greece— And, under the dome Of St. Peter's, at Rome, He had snapp'd up a nice little Cardinal's Niece.—
He had bagg'd an Inquisitor fresh from Spain— A mendicant Friar—of Monks a score; A grave Don or two, And a Portuguese Jew, Whom he nabb'd while clipping a new Moidore.
And he said to himself, as he lick'd his lips, "Those nice little Dears!—what a delicate roast!— —Then, that fine fat Friar, At a very quick fire, Dress'd like a Woodcock, and served on toast!"
—At the sight of tit-bits so toothsome and choice Never did mouth water more than Nick's; But,—alas! and alack!— He had stuff'd his sack So full that he found himself quite "in a fix:"