A sort of a je ne sais (Iro)-quois felt,
To see his Blue Riband to Yankeeland go,
B too, none the less, was the hearty “Bravo!”
Which, per Punch, he despatched to “our kin o’er the sea,”
Who, for not the first time, get the pull of J. B.
The Brokers of Wall Street are loud in delight,
And the belles of New York grow more beamingly bright;
Fizz creams like the foam of the storm-beaten surf,
To Jonathan’s triumph on John’s native turf,
And Punch brims his beaker in Sparkling Champagne,