While dozing that night in my camp bed so small,
With a mackintosh over to keep out the rain—
After one glass of grog, cold without—that was all—
I’d a dream, which I hope I shall ne’er have again.
Methought from damp Chobham’s mock-battle array,
I had bowled off to London, outside of a hack;
’Twas the season, and wax lights illumined the way
To the balls of Belgravia that welcomed me back.
I flew to the dancing rooms, whirled through so oft
With one sweet little partner, who tendril-like clung,