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,