And I from thee my leave am taking,
After a stay too brief, too brief.
How sinks my heart with strange alarms!
An angry tear obscures my eye.
Stamboul, they drive me from thy charms;
Good-bye, sweet Porte, good-bye!
My innings end,—without much scoring,—
Loud swells the Rad's derisive jeer.
If France I long have failed in flooring,
Still I was here, still I was here.