V
The Foolhardy Geographer
The howling desert miles around,The tinkling brook the only sound—Wearied with all his toils and feats,The traveller dines on potted meats;On potted meats and princely wines,Not wisely but too well he dines.
The brindled Tiger loud may roar,High may the hovering Vulture soar;Alas! regardless of them all,Soon shall the empurpled glutton sprawl—Soon, in the desert’s hushed repose,Shall trumpet tidings through his nose!Alack, unwise! that nasal songShall be the Ounce’s dinner-gong!
A blemish in the cut appears;Alas! it cost both blood and tears.The glancing graver swerved aside,Fast flowed the artist’s vital tide!And now the apologetic bardDemands indulgence for his pard!