A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave
His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion,
Providing in this world he was to have
A lordship over luck, by whose exertion
He might control the course of cards and brave
All throws of dice,—­but on a sea excursion
The juggling demon, in his usual vein,
Seized the last cast—­and Nicked him in the main!

LINES TO A LADY.[29]

[Footnote 29:  A parody of John Hamilton Reynolds’s once popular lines, beginning—­

“Go, where the water glideth gently ever,”]

ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.

Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly,
And tempest make a soda-water sea,
Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,
                  And think of me!

Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juice,—­
A wine more praised than it deserves to be! 
Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver-juice,
                  And think of me!

Go where the tiger in the darkness prowleth,
Making a midnight meal of he and she;
Go where the lion in his hunger howleth,
                  And think of me!

Go where the serpent dangerously coileth,
Or lies along at full length like a tree,
Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth,
                  And think of me!

Go where with human notes the parrot dealeth
In mono-polly-logue with tongue as free,
And, like a woman, all she can revealeth,
                  And think of me!

Go to the land of muslin and nankeening,
And parasols of straw where hats should be,
Go to the land of slaves and palankeening,
                  And think of me!

Go to the land of jungles and of vast hills,
And tall bamboos—­may none bamboozle thee! 
Go gaze upon their elephants and castles,
                  And think of me!

Go where a cook must always be a currier,
And parch the peppered palate like a pea,
Go where the fierce mosquito is a worrier,
                  And think of me!

Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes,
Consigned for wedlock to Calcutta’s quay,
Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes,
                  And think of me!

Go where the sun is very hot and fervent,
Go to the land of pagod and rupee,
Where every black will be your slave and servant,
                  And think of me!

THE ANGLER’S FAREWELL.

“Resigned, I kissed the rod.”

Well!  I think it is time to put up! 
For it does not accord with my notions,
  Wrist, elbow, and chine,
  Stiff from throwing the line,
To take nothing at last by my motions!

I ground-bait my way as I go,
And dip in at each watery dimple;
  But however I wish
  To inveigle the fish,
To my gentle they will not play simple!