And Bucharians, and Affghans, and Persians, and Tartars,—
Chokes the wretched Mogul in his grandmother’s garters,
And will hang him to dry in the Luxembourg hall,
’Midst the plunder of Carthage and spoils of Bengal.
Such, we hear, was the plan; but I trust, if we meet ’em,
That savant to savant, our cargo will beat ’em.
Our plan of proceeding I’ll presently tell;—
But soft—I am call’d—I must bid you farewell:
To attend on our savans my pen I resign,
For, it seems, that they duck them on crossing the Line.