He's yet a child! whose ravings Across the ocean flew,
Of "Who am I? and where am I? and what am I to do?"
He's never grown a whisker, he's never known a beard!
Of hair upon the cranium, he never yet has heard!
And so he is not altered, he's still in statu quo,
As bald and snub, and chubby, as three hundred years ago!
Three hundred years are over, and lo! he's living yet,
He made a sleeping cabin, from the sky blue bassinet,
He made the punt commodious, with wreckage that he found,