Complete is the sell, and most utter the hash.
Oh! sweet as the whiff from my chibouque soft blowing,
Our joint little game till the Britisher came,
Like the wind from the desert rose-gardens o’erthrowing
And blew it to bits. ’Tis a thundering shame!
But long upon Arabi’s Orient guile and
Astuteness shall Abdul sit brooding in gloom.
To be bowled out at last by that crass Western Island!
Would, would it were swept by the blasting Simoom!
And now by Old Nilus Sir Garnet is burning,