1 If I have held my peace so long Here, in the bosom of the plains, Trust me—'t was but because my brains Would yield no echo of a song. 2 A peaceful lot is mine to sing; In dullness deep my lines are laid Save when—to please some sporting maid, I tilt (and tumble) at the Ring. 3 Three black cheroots the day beguile; Week follows week—the long month goes, And Adlard sends his bill for 'close' Which I receive and promptly—file. 4 No longer flies the fiery steed Ramping (on two rupees per diem, To be refunded if you buy 'em) Across the Annandyllic meads. 5 No longer by the Jhampan's side I frisk along the crowded Mall From half past four till evenfall, Or by Peliti's take my ride. 6 No longer through the stately pines The soft Hill breezes come and go, No longer, in the dusk below The merry 'Rickshaw's lantern shines. 7 For Jakko's woods are far away And, in the place of Combermere, Across the muddy chick I hear The rain that 'raineth every day'. 8 Unharrowed is my tender soul By M-ss O'M-R-A's bold black eye— For, far from any passer by I hear the sullen presses roll. 9 The foul chaprassi in his lair Sits silent as a turban'd Sphinx; And all the city's million stinks Float inward on the frowy air. 10 And so I rest a graceful boot Upon the table's inky baize, And think of other—happier days And sob above my cheap cheroot. 11 I dream of lotos eating days, Of pleasant rides in pleasant places, Of half a hundred pretty faces, Of Solan beer and Henry Clays. 12 'A change' like that which Byron wrote, Comes 'o'er the spirit of my dream;' I hear the restless parrot scream And watch the gay thermantidote; 13 Too moved for words, its wings I study,— Wipe well each glass protected eye And, ere I throw the inkstand by Subscribe myself your truly, Ruddy.
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