When I went back I gazed about—I hunted everywhere,
I could not see my little foe—because he was not there
I peeped at Philippopolis, and at Sofia too,
I cried, “You little Bulgar Boy, what has become of you?”
I could not see my Tribute, no!—I looked, but could not see
The little fiddle-faddle sham they call my Suzeraintee.
I could not see my Treaty-rights—my Balkan-range—oh, dear!
The whole great Bizzy-Dizzy game was a great fraud, I fear!
I could not see my status quo—it was not to be seen!—
Nor yet my Pan-Islamic Flag, that flag—like me—so green.