For the clothes that hung on him were turning to rags,
And Poole would have fainted to witness such “bags.”
But he screwed up his courage, still hoping to find
New horrors for British consumption designed;
And he wrote of his dreams, of his eating and drinking
(Too much of the latter some readers are thinking).
But they scan with delight that escape from a shell,
That leap from a mountain, that fall in a well;
And when brought as a spy to some captain or colonel,
’Twas an excellent scene to write up for his journal.