THE ISLE OF DOGS.
“On Linden when the sun was low.”
Ten thousand years the Isle of Dogs,
Lay sunk in mire, and hid in fogs,
Rats, cats and bats, and snakes and frogs—
The tenants of its scenery.
No pic-nic parties came from town,
To dance with nymphs, white, black, or brown,
(They stopped at Greenwich, at the Crown,
Neglecting all its greenery.)
Dut Dog-land saw another sight,
When serjeants cried, “Eyes left, eyes right,”
And jackets blue, and breeches white,
Were seen upon its tenantry.
Then tents along the shore were seen,
Then opened shop the gay Canteen,
And floated flags, inscribed,—“The Queen.”
All bustle, show, and pennantry.
There strutted laughter-loving Pat,
John Bull (in spirits rather flat,)
And Donald, restless as a rat,
Three nations in their rivalry.
There bugle rang, and rattled drum,
And sparkled in the glass the rum,
Each hero thinking of his plum,
The prize of Spanish chivalry.
At last, Blue-Peter mast-high shone,
The Isle of Dogs was left alone,
The bats and rats then claimed their own
By process sure and summary.
The bold battalions sail’d for Spain,
Soon longing to get home again,
Finding their stomachs tried in vain
To live on Spanish flummery.