(Cheapside, June 6, 1895.)
Oh, princely guest from Afghan clime,
The poet's lot is hard! Ah!
When he would find the proper rhyme,
To balance with Shah-zada!
I see the guardsman ride erect,
The bugle sounds! Aha!
My part should be, in verse correct,
To greet the Shahza-da!
Thy quantities have kill'd my song!