I leave, to bound the blue.
My Yacht lies yonder! 'Tis a bore,
But I _must_ part from you.
I sniff the brine, I love the sea;
Half Englishman am I.
Farewell to England, and to thee,
Dear Grandmamma--good-bye!

I leave your isle, the truth to tell,
With qualified regret.
July in London would be well,
But for the heavy wet.
The soaking shower, the sudden squall,
Spare not Imperial "tiles."
May it be dry when next I call,
Your slushiest of isles!

Yet I've enjoyed my visit, much,
In spite of wet and wind.
I with JOHN BULL have been in touch;
_You_ have been passing kind.
My father and grandfather gone
Once trod your city sad;
Now I the daring deed have done,
And--it is not half bad.

That Opera Show was quite a sight;
Your Sheriff HARRIS--well--
AUGUSTUS, after Actium's fight,
Was scarce a greater swell.