. The book of ballads . - passions edg-e was my cousins cold refusal left me very much disgnsted! Since, ray lieart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse,A\hether worse shall be tlie better, or the better be the worse. Hark! my meriy comrades call me, bawling for another jorum;They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before em. ?Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayedIn the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade. I 11 to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest j-ieldsI{arer robes and finer than are sold at Spitalfields
. The book of ballads . - passions edg-e was my cousins cold refusal left me very much disgnsted! Since, ray lieart is sere and withered, and I do not care a curse,A\hether worse shall be tlie better, or the better be the worse. Hark! my meriy comrades call me, bawling for another jorum;They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear before em. ?Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least as go arrayedIn the most expensive satins and the newest silk brocade. I 11 to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest j-ieldsI{arer robes and finer than are sold at Spitalfields. tJr to burst all chains of habit, flinging habits self aside, I .shall walk the tang:led jungle in mankinds primeval jiride ; Teeding- on the luscious berries and the rich cassava root,Lots of dates and lots of gTiavas, of forbidden fruit. \\ ^r to (^^. Kever comes the trader thither, never oer the purple mamSounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of Cockaig-ne. There, methinks, would be enjoyment, where no envious nile prevents;Sink the steam-boats! cuss the railways! rot, O rot the Three per Cents! There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space to breathe, my cousin!I will take some savag-e woman—nay, I 11 take at least a dozen. There Ill rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street brats are reared,They shall dive for alligators, catch the wild goats by the beard— Wliistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-faced baboon,Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of the Moon. I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopards blood will daily quaff,Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen stream he crosses,Startling from their noon-day slumbers iron-bound rliinoceroses. Fool! again the dream, the fancy! But I know my words are mad,For I hold the grey
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