The other night, from cares exempt,
I slept—and what d’you think I dreamt?
I dreamt that somehow I had come
To dwell in Topsy-Turveydom—

Where vice is virtue—virtue, vice:
Where nice is nasty—nasty, nice:
Where right is wrong and wrong is right—
Where white is black and black is white.

Where babies, much to their surprise,
Are born astonishingly wise;
With every Science on their lips,
And Art at all their finger-tips.

But though a babe, as I have said,
Is born with learning in his head,
He must forget it, if he can,
Before he calls himself a man.

For that which we call folly here,
Is wisdom in that favoured sphere;
The wisdom we so highly prize
Is blatant folly in their eyes.

A boy, if he would push his way,
Must learn some nonsense every day;
And cut, to carry out this view,
His wisdom teeth and wisdom too.

Historians burn their midnight oils,
Intent on giant-killers’ toils;
And sages close their aged eyes
To other sages’ lullabies.

Our magistrates, in duty bound,
Commit all robbers who are found;
But there the Beaks (so people said)
Commit all robberies instead.

Our Judges, pure and wise in tone,
Know crime from theory alone,
And glean the motives of a thief
From books and popular belief.

Policemen march all folks away
Who practise virtue every day—
Of course, I mean to say, you know,
What we call virtue here below.

For only scoundrels dare to do
What we consider just and true,
And only good men do, in fact,
What we should think a dirty act.

But strangest of these social twirls,
The girls are boys—the boys are girls!
The men are women, too—but then,
Per contra, women all are men.

With them, as surely as can be,
A sailor should be sick at sea,
And not a passenger may sail
Who cannot smoke right through a gale.

A soldier (save by rarest luck)
Is always shot for showing pluck
(That is, if others can be found
With pluck enough to fire a round).

“How strange!” I said to one I saw;
“You quite upset our every law.
However can you get along
So systematically wrong?”

“Your wisest men are very far
Less learned than our babies are!”
I mused awhile—and then, oh me!
I framed this brilliant repartee:

“Although your babes are wiser far
Than our most valued sages are,
Your sages, with their toys and cots,
Are duller than our idiots!”

But this remark, I grieve to state,
Came just a little bit too late
For as I framed it in my head,
I woke and found myself in bed.

Still I could wish that, ’stead of here,
My lot were in that favoured sphere!—
Where greatest fools bear off the bell
I ought to do extremely well.

I often wonder whether you
Think sometimes of that Bishop, who
From black but balmy Rum-ti-Foo
   Last summer twelvemonth came.
Unto your mind I p’r’aps may bring
Remembrance of the man I sing
To-day, by simply mentioning
   That Peter was his name.

He only, of the reverend pack
Who minister to Christians black,
Brought any useful knowledge back
   To his Colonial fold.
In consequence a place I claim
For “Peter” on the scroll of Fame
(For Peter was that Bishop’s name,
   As I’ve already told).

He carried Art, he often said,
To places where that timid maid
(Save by Colonial Bishops’ aid)
   Could never hope to roam.
The Payne-cum-Lauri feat he taught
As he had learnt it; for he thought
The choicest fruits of Progress ought
   To bless the Negro’s home.

And he had other work to do,
For, while he tossed upon the Blue,
The islanders of Rum-ti-Foo
   Forgot their kindly friend.
Their decent clothes they learnt to tear—
They learnt to say, “I do not care,”
Though they, of course, were well aware
   How folks, who say so, end.

And so, when Bishop Peter came
(That was the kindly Bishop’s name),
He heard these dreadful oaths with shame,
   And chid their want of dress.
(Except a shell—a bangle rare—
A feather here—a feather there
The South Pacific Negroes wear
   Their native nothingness.)

   An actor—Gibbs, of Drury Lane—
      Of very decent station,
   Once happened in a part to gain
      Excessive approbation:
   It sometimes turns a fellow’s brain
   And makes him singularly vain
When he believes that he receives
      Tremendous approbation.

* * * * * * * *

That night that actor slept, and I’ll attempt
To tell you of the vivid dream he dreamt.

THE DREAM.

   In fighting with a robber band
      (A thing he loved sincerely)
   A sword struck Gibbs upon the hand,
      And wounded it severely.
   At first he didn’t heed it much,
   He thought it was a simple touch,
But soon he found the weapon’s bound
      Had wounded him severely.

   To Surgeon Cobb he made a trip,
      Who’d just effected featly
   An amputation at the hip
      Particularly neatly.
   A rising man was Surgeon Cobb
   But this extremely ticklish job
He had achieved (as he believed)
      Particularly neatly.

   “I don’t strap fingers up for doles,”
      Replied the haughty surgeon;
   “To use your cant, I don’t play rôles
      Utility that verge on.
   First amputation—nothing less—
   That is my line of business:
We surgeon nobs despise all jobs
      Utility that verge on

   “When in your hip there lurks disease”
      (So dreamt this lively dreamer),
   “Or devastating caries
      In humerus or femur,
   If you can pay a handsome fee,
   Oh, then you may remember me—
With joy elate I’ll amputate
      Your humerus or femur.”

   The disconcerted actor ceased
      The haughty leech to pester,
   But when the wound in size increased,
      And then began to fester,
   He sought a learned Counsel’s lair,
   And told that Counsel, then and there,
How Cobb’s neglect of his defect
      Had made his finger fester.

   That Counsel learned in the laws,
      With passion almost trembled.
   He just had gained a mighty cause
      Before the Peers assembled!
   Said he, “How dare you have the face
   To come with Common Jury case
To one who wings rhetoric flings
      Before the Peers assembled?”

   He found a Baron—one of those
      Who with our laws supply us—
   In wig and silken gown and hose,
      As if at Nisi Prius.
   But he’d just given, off the reel,
   A famous judgment on Appeal:
It scarce became his heightened fame
      To sit at Nisi Prius.

   Our friend began, with easy wit,
      That half concealed his terror:
   “Pooh!” said the Judge, “I only sit
      In Banco or in Error.
   Can you suppose, my man, that I’d
   O’er Nisi Prius Courts preside,
Or condescend my time to spend
      On anything but Error?”

* * * * * * * *

   He wrote to say he’d play the part.
I’ve but to tell he played it well—
   The author’s words—his native wit
   Combined, achieved a perfect “hit”—
      The papers praised him greatly.

An excellent soldier who’s worthy the name
   Loves officers dashing and strict:
When good, he’s content with escaping all blame,
   When naughty, he likes to be licked.

He likes for a fault to be bullied and stormed,
   Or imprisoned for several days,
And hates, for a duty correctly performed,
   To be slavered with sickening praise.

No officer sickened with praises his corps
   So little as Major La Guerre—
No officer swore at his warriors more
   Than Major Makredi Prepere.

For, oh! if La Guerre could all praises withhold,
   Why, so could Makredi Prepere,
And, oh! if Makredi could bluster and scold,
   Why, so could the mighty La Guerre.

“No doubt we deserve it—no mercy we crave—
   Go on—you’re conferring a boon;
We would rather be slanged by a warrior brave,
   Than praised by a wretched poltroon!”

Makredi would say that in battle’s fierce rage
   True happiness only was met:
Poor Major Makredi, though fifty his age,
   Had never known happiness yet!

La Guerre would declare, “With the blood of a foe
   No tipple is worthy to clink.”
Poor fellow! he hadn’t, though sixty or so,
   Yet tasted his favourite drink!

They agreed at their mess—they agreed in the glass—
   They agreed in the choice of their “set,”
And they also agreed in adoring, alas!
   The Vivandière, pretty Fillette.

Agreement, you see, may be carried too far,
   And after agreeing all round
For years—in this soldierly “maid of the bar,”
   A bone of contention they found!

“On the day that you marry her,” muttered Prepere
   (With a pistol he quietly played),
“I’ll scatter the brains in your noddle, I swear,
   All over the stony parade!”

“I cannot do that to you,” answered La Guerre,
   “Whatever events may befall;
But this I can do—if you wed her, mon cher!
   I’ll eat you, moustachios and all!”

The rivals, although they would never engage,
   Yet quarrelled whenever they met;
They met in a fury and left in a rage,
   But neither took pretty Fillette.

“Besides, though La Guerre has his faults, I’ll allow
   He’s one of the bravest of men:
My goodness! if I disagree with him now,
   I might disagree with him then.”

“No coward am I,” said La Guerre, “as you guess—
   I sneer at an enemy’s blade;
But I don’t want Prepere to get into a mess
   For splashing the stony parade!”

One day on parade to Prepere and La Guerre
   Came Corporal Jacot Debette,
And trembling all over, he prayed of them there
   To give him the pretty Fillette.

“Well, take her,” said both of them in a duet
   (A favourite form of reply),
“But when I am ready to marry Fillette.
   Remember you’ve promised to die!”

He married her then: from the flowery plains
   Of existence the roses they cull:
He lived and he died with his wife; and his brains
   Are reposing in peace in his skull.

Emily Jane was a nursery maid,
   James was a bold Life Guard,
John was a constable, poorly paid
   (And I am a doggerel bard).

A very good girl was Emily Jane,
   Jimmy was good and true,
John was a very good man in the main
   (And I am a good man too).

Rivals for Emmie were Johnny and James,
   Though Emily liked them both;
She couldn’t tell which had the strongest claims
   (And I couldn’t take my oath).

Said Jane, with a smirk, and a blush on her face,
   “I’ll promise to wed the boy
Who takes me to-morrow to Epsom Race!”
   (Which I would have done, with joy).

From Johnny escaped an expression of pain,
   But Jimmy said, “Done with you!
I’ll take you with pleasure, my Emily Jane!”
   (And I would have said so too).

John lay on the ground, and he roared like mad
   (For Johnny was sore perplexed),
And he kicked very hard at a very small lad
   (Which I often do, when vexed).

For John was on duty next day with the Force,
   To punish all Epsom crimes;
Young people will cross when they’re clearing the course
   (I do it myself, sometimes).

* * * * * * * *

The Derby Day sun glittered gaily on cads,
   On maidens with gamboge hair,
On sharpers and pickpockets, swindlers and pads,
   (For I, with my harp, was there).

He noticed his Emily Jane with Jim,
   And envied the well-made elf;
And people remarked that he muttered “Oh, dim!”
   (I often say “dim!” myself).

John dogged them all day, without asking their leaves;
   For his sergeant he told, aside,
That Jimmy and Jane were notorious thieves
   (And I think he was justified).

But James wouldn’t dream of abstracting a fork,
   And Jenny would blush with shame
At stealing so much as a bottle or cork
   (A bottle I think fair game).

But, ah! there’s another more serious crime!
   They wickedly strayed upon
The course, at a critical moment of time
   (I pointed them out to John).

The constable fell on the pair in a crack—
   And then, with a demon smile,
Let Jenny cross over, but sent Jimmy back
   (I played on my harp the while).

And Jenny is crying away like mad,
   And Jimmy is swearing hard;
And Johnny is looking uncommonly glad
   (And I am a doggerel bard).

But Jimmy he ventured on crossing again
   The scenes of our Isthmian Games—
John caught him, and collared him, giving him pain
   (I felt very much for James).

John led him away with a victor’s hand,
   And Jimmy was shortly seen
In the station-house under the grand Grand Stand
   (As many a time I’ve been).

Old Peter led a wretched life—
Old Peter had a furious wife;
Old Peter too was truly stout,
He measured several yards about.

The little fairy Picklekin
One summer afternoon looked in,
And said, “Old Peter, how de do?
Can I do anything for you?

“I have three gifts—the first will give
Unbounded riches while you live;
The second health where’er you be;
The third, invisibility.”

“’Tis yours,” the fairy said; “be quite
Invisible to mortal sight
Whene’er you please.  Remember me
Most kindly, pray, to Mrs. P.”

Old Mrs. Peter overheard
Wee Picklekin’s concluding word,
And, jealous of her girlhood’s choice,
Said, “That was some young woman’s voice!”

Old Peter let her scold and swear—
Old Peter, bless him, didn’t care.
“My dear, your rage is wasted quite—
Observe, I disappear from sight!”

A well-bred fairy (so I’ve heard)
Is always faithful to her word:
Old Peter vanished like a shot,
Put then—his suit of clothes did not!

For when conferred the fairy slim
Invisibility on him,
She popped away on fairy wings,
Without referring to his “things.”

So there remained a coat of blue,
A vest and double eyeglass too,
His tail, his shoes, his socks as well,
His pair of—no, I must not tell.

Old Peter woke next day and dressed,
Put on his coat, and shoes, and vest,
His shirt and stock; but could not find
His only pair of—never mind!

Old Peter was a decent man,
And though he twigged his lady’s plan,
Yet, hearing her approaching, he
Resumed invisibility.

“Dear Mrs. P., my only joy,”
Exclaimed the horrified old boy,
“Now, give them up, I beg of you—
You know what I’m referring to!”

But no; the cross old lady swore
She’d keep his—what I said before—
To make him publicly absurd;
And Mrs. Peter kept her word.

The poor old fellow had no rest;
His coat, his stick, his shoes, his vest,
Were all that now met mortal eye—
The rest, invisibility!

“Now, madam, give them up, I beg—
I’ve had rheumatics in my leg;
Besides, until you do, it’s plain
I cannot come to sight again!

But no; resolved to have her quiz,
The lady held her own—and his—
And Peter left his humble cot
To find a pair of—you know what.

But—here’s the worst of the affair—
Whene’er he came across a pair
Already placed for him to don,
He was too stout to get them on!

So he resolved at once to train,
And walked and walked with all his main;
For years he paced this mortal earth,
To bring himself to decent girth.

Old Peter walks through wind and rain,
Resolved to train, and train, and train,
Until he weighs twelve stone’ or so—
And when he does, I’ll let you know.

Perhaps already you may know
Sir Blennerhasset Portico?
A Captain in the Navy, he—
A Baronet and K.C.B.
         You do?  I thought so!
It was that Captain’s favourite whim
(A notion not confined to him)
That Rodney was the greatest tar
Who ever wielded capstan-bar.
         He had been taught so.

Sir Blennerhasset spent his days
In learning Rodney’s little ways,
And closely imitated, too,
His mode of talking to his crew—
         His port and paces.
An ancient tar he tried to catch
Who’d served in Rodney’s famous batch;
But since his time long years have fled,
And Rodney’s tars are mostly dead:
         Eheu fugaces!

But after searching near and far,
At last he found an ancient tar
Who served with Rodney and his crew
Against the French in ’Eighty-two,
         (That gained the peerage).
He gave him fifty pounds a year,
His rum, his baccy, and his beer;
And had a comfortable den
Rigged up in what, by merchantmen,
         Is called the steerage.

“Upon your spars I see you’ve clapped
Peak halliard blocks, all iron-capped.
I would not christen that a crime,
But ’twas not done in Rodney’s time.
         It looks half-witted!
Upon your maintop-stay, I see,
You always clap a selvagee!
Your stays, I see, are equalized—
No vessel, such as Rodney prized,
         Would thus be fitted!

Sir Blennerhasset “swifted in,”
Turned deadeyes up, and lent a fin
To strip (as told by Jasper Knox)
The iron capping from his blocks,
         Where there was any.
Sir Blennerhasset does away,
With selvagees from maintop-stay;
And though it makes his sailors stare,
He rigs breast backstays everywhere—
         In fact, too many.

One morning, when the saucy craft
Lay calmed, old Jasper toddled aft.
“My mind misgives me, sir, that we
Were wrong about that selvagee—
         I should restore it.”
“Good,” said the Captain, and that day
Restored it to the maintop-stay.
Well-practised sailors often make
A much more serious mistake,
         And then ignore it.

“Come, collar this bad man—
   Around the throat he knotted me
Till I to choke began—
   In point of fact, garotted me!”

So spake Sir Herbert White
   To James, Policeman Thirty-two—
All ruffled with his fight
   Sir Herbert was, and dirty too.

“No, great Sir Herbert White—
   Impossible to take him up.
This man is honest quite—
   Wherever did you rake him up?

“For Burglars, Thieves, and Co.,
   Indeed, I’m no apologist,
But I, some years ago,
   Assisted a Phrenologist.

“Observe his various bumps,
   His head as I uncover it:
His morals lie in lumps
   All round about and over it.”

“Now take him,” said Sir White,
   “Or you will soon be rueing it;
Bless me!  I must be right,—
   I caught the fellow doing it!”

Policeman calmly smiled,
   “Indeed you are mistaken, sir,
You’re agitated—riled—
   And very badly shaken, sir.

“Sit down, and I’ll explain
   My system of Phrenology,
A second, please, remain”—
   (A second is horology).

“Oh, surely, here are signs
   Should soften your rigidity:
This gentleman combines
   Politeness with timidity.

“Of Shyness here’s a lump—
   A hole for Animosity—
And like my fist his bump
   Of Impecuniosity.

“Just here the bump appears
   Of Innocent Hilarity,
And just behind his ears
   Are Faith, and Hope, and Charity.

“There, let him go his ways,
   He needs no stern admonishing.”
The Bart., in blank amaze,
   Exclaimed, “This is astonishing!

“I must have made a mull,
   This matter I’ve been blind in it:
Examine, please, my skull,
   And tell me what you find in it.”

That Crusher looked, and said,
   With unimpaired urbanity,
“Sir Herbert, you’ve a head
   That teems with inhumanity.

“Here’s Murder, Envy, Strife
   (Propensity to kill any),
And Lies as large as life,
   And heaps of Social Villany.

“Here’s Love of Bran-New Clothes,
   Embezzling—Arson—Deism—
A taste for Slang and Oaths,
   And Fraudulent Trusteeism.

“Here’s Love of Groundless Charge—
   Here’s Malice, too, and Trickery,
Unusually large
   Your bump of Pocket-Pickery—”

That Pleeceman’s scorn grew large
   (Phrenology had nettled it),
He took that Bart. in charge—
   I don’t know how they settled it.

      Once a fairy
      Light and airy
Married with a mortal;
      Men, however,
      Never, never
Pass the fairy portal.
      Slyly stealing,
      She to Ealing
Made a daily journey;
      There she found him,
      Clients round him
(He was an attorney).

      Georgie grew up;
      Then he flew up
To his fairy mother.
      Happy meeting—
      Pleasant greeting—
Kissing one another.
      “Choose a calling
      Most enthralling,
I sincerely urge ye.”
      “Mother,” said he
      (Rev’rence made he),
“I would join the clergy.

      She, with pleasure,
      Said, “My treasure,
’T is my wish precisely.
      Do your duty,
      There’s a beauty;
You have chosen wisely.
      Tell your father
      I would rather
As a churchman rank you.
      You, in clover,
      I’ll watch over.”
Georgie said, “Oh, thank you!”

      Georgie scudded,
      Went and studied,
Made all preparations,
      And with credit
      (Though he said it)
Passed examinations.
      (Do not quarrel
      With him, moral,
Scrupulous digestions—
      ’Twas his mother,
      And no other,
Answered all the questions.)

* * * * * * * *

      Time progressing,
      Georgie’s blessing
Grew more Ritualistic—
      Popish scandals,
      Tonsures—sandals—
Genuflections mystic;
      Gushing meetings—
      Bosom-beatings—
Heavenly ecstatics—
      Broidered spencers—
      Copes and censers—
Rochets and dalmatics.

      He, replying,
      Answered, sighing,
Hawing, hemming, humming,
      “It’s a pity—
      They’re so pritty;
Yet in mode becoming,
      Mother tender,
      I’ll surrender—
I’ll be unaffected—”
      But his Bishop
      Into his shop
Entered unexpected!

A lover came riding by awhile,
A wealthy lover was he, whose smile
   Some maids would value greatly—
A formal lover, who bowed and bent,
With many a high-flown compliment,
   And cold demeanour stately,
“You’ve still,” said she to her suitor stern,
“The ’prentice-work of your craft to learn,
   If thus you come a-cooing.
I’ve time to lose and power to choose;
’T is not so much the gallant who woos,
   As the gallant’s way of wooing!”

The sun was setting in its wonted west,
When Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Met Mahry Daubigny, the Village Rose,
Under the Wizard’s Oak—old trysting-place
Of those who loved in rosy Aquitaine.

A clumsy barrack-bully was Dubosc,
Quite unfamiliar with the well-bred tact
That animates a proper gentleman
In dealing with a girl of humble rank.
You’ll understand his coarseness when I say
He would have married Mahry Daubigny,
And dragged the unsophisticated girl
Into the whirl of fashionable life,
For which her singularly rustic ways,
Her breeding (moral, but extremely rude),
Her language (chaste, but ungrammatical),
Would absolutely have unfitted her.
How different to this unreflecting boor
Was Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.

Contemporary with the incident
Related in our opening paragraph,
Was that sad war ’twixt Gallia and ourselves
That followed on the treaty signed at Troyes;
And so Lieutenant-Colonel Jooles Dubosc
(Brave soldier, he, with all his faults of style)
And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Were sent by Charles of France against the lines
Of our Sixth Henry (Fourteen twenty-nine),
To drive his legions out of Aquitaine.

“Young Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
This night we shall attack the English camp:
Be the ‘forlorn hope’ yours—you’ll lead it, sir,
And lead it too with credit, I’ve no doubt.
As every man must certainly be killed
(For you are twenty ’gainst two thousand men),
It is not likely that you will return.
But what of that? you’ll have the benefit
Of knowing that you die a soldier’s death.”

“Your Grace,” he said, “start not—be not alarmed,
Although a Frenchman stands before your eyes.
I’m Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores.
My Colonel will attack your camp to-night,
And orders me to lead the hope forlorn.
Now I am sure our excellent King Charles
Would not approve of this; but he’s away
A hundred leagues, and rather more than that.
So, utterly devoted to my King,
Blinded by my attachment to the throne,
And having but its interest at heart,
I feel it is my duty to disclose
All schemes that emanate from Colonel Jooles,
If I believe that they are not the kind
Of schemes that our good monarch would approve.”

“But how,” said Bedford’s Duke, “do you propose
That we should overthrow your Colonel’s scheme?”
And Hongree, Sub-Lieutenant of Chassoores,
Replied at once with never-failing tact:
“Oh, sir, I know this cursed country well.
Entrust yourself and all your host to me;
I’ll lead you safely by a secret path
Into the heart of Colonel Jooles’ array,
And you can then attack them unprepared,
And slay my fellow-countrymen unarmed.”

On Peter’s portion oysters grew—a delicacy rare,
But oysters were a delicacy Peter couldn’t bear.
On Somers’ side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick,
Which Somers couldn’t eat, because it always made him sick.

Gray gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store
Of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature’s shore.
The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved,
For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.

And Somers sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south,
For the thought of Peter’s oysters brought the water to his mouth.
He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff:
He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.

How they wished an introduction to each other they had had
When on board the Ballyshannon!  And it drove them nearly mad
To think how very friendly with each other they might get,
If it wasn’t for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!

One day, when out a-hunting for the mus ridiculus,
Gray overheard his fellow-man soliloquizing thus:
“I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on,
M’Connell, S. B. Walters, Paddy Byles, and Robinson?”

“I beg your pardon—pray forgive me if I seem too bold,
But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old.
You spoke aloud of Robinson—I happened to be by.
You know him?”  “Yes, extremely well.”  “Allow me, so do I.”

It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on,
For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew Robinson!
And Mr. Somers’ turtle was at Peter’s service quite,
And Mr. Somers punished Peter’s oyster-beds all night.

They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night,
And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light;
Each other’s pleasant company they reckoned so upon,
And all because it happened that they both knew Robinson!

They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore,
And day by day they learned to love each other more and more.
At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day,
They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.

To Peter an idea occurred.  “Suppose we cross the main?
So good an opportunity may not be found again.”
And Somers thought a minute, then ejaculated, “Done!
I wonder how my business in the City’s getting on?”

But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found
The vessel was a convict ship from Portland, outward bound;
When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind,
To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.

As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke,
They recognized a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke:
’Twas Robinson—a convict, in an unbecoming frock!
Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!

They laughed no more, for Somers thought he had been rather rash
In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash;
And Peter thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon
In making the acquaintance of a friend of Robinson.

To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth,
And Peter takes the north again, and Somers takes the south;
And Peter has the oysters, which he hates, in layers thick,
And Somers has the turtle—turtle always makes him sick.