It was at Philippopolis, in August of this year,
I saw a little Bulgar boy,—I said, “What do you here?”
The glow upon his youthful cheek, bespake exceeding joy.
I said, “What is your little game, you little Bulgar boy?”
He sniffed, that little Bulgar boy, he seemed inclined to scoff;
My heart has been so often bruised, a little sets it off.
He put his finger to his—— Well, my haughty bosom rose,
And I applied my—hem—my handkerchief unto my nose.
“Hark! don’t you hear, my little man, your Suzerain speaks?” I said.
“How would you like a sack, a cord, the Bosphorus for a bed,