On some branch of foreign travel he was sure at last to tree us;
All unconscious of his error, he would sweetly patronise us,
And with oft-repeated stories still endeavours to surprise us.
And the sinners got to laughing; and that finally galled and stung us,
To ask him, wouldn’t he kindly once more settle down among us?
Didn’t he think that more home produce would improve our soul’s digestions?
They appointed me committee-man to go and ask the questions.
I found him in his garden, trim an’ buoyant as a feather;
He shook my hand, exclaiming, “This is quite Italian weather!