Let me recall my wandering Muse;
She shall be steady if I choose—
She roves, instead of helping me
To tell the deeds of Bailey B.
The Pasha’s Visitor
One morning knocked, at half-past eight,
A tall Red Indian at his gate.
In Turkey, as you’re p’raps aware,
Red Indians are extremely rare.
The Visitor’s Outfit
Mocassins decked his graceful legs,
His eyes were black, and round as eggs,
And on his neck, instead of beads,
Hung several Catawampous seeds.
What the Visitor said
“Ho, ho!” he said, “thou pale-faced one,
Poor offspring of an Eastern sun,
You’ve never seen the Red Man skip
Upon the banks of Mississip!”
The Author’s Moderation
To say that Bailey oped his eyes
Would feebly paint his great surprise—
To say it almost made him die
Would be to paint it much too high.
The Author to his Reader