Adieu, adieu.  Old Albion’s shore! 
    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. 
  The long parade, led by the Blues,
    Gave me the blues again. 
  Not that the citizen were screws,
    No, Grand’ma, ’twas that rain!

  I—­ahem! blessed it fervently,
    Emperors must not complain;
  But do, do keep your Babylon dry,
    When I come back again. 
  For Garden Parties, Shows, Reviews,
    And civic functions pale,
  When water soaks the stoutest shoes,
    And it blows half a gale.

  Your Lord MAYOR and his liveried lot,
    They know a thing or two. 
  Speeches of course are always rot,
    But then—­the skies were blue! 
  As for your Crystal Palace—­ah! 
    Your pride I would not shock,
  But you owe much, dear Grandmamma,
    To PAXTON and to BROCK.

  Your warriors are fine, if few;
    But still, if you ask me,
  You leave far too much power to
    A Railway Company. 
  I would not let civilians snub
    My paladins—­no fear! 
  But then a Teuton—­there’s the rub! 
    Is no mere Volunteer!

  And now I really must be gone
    Upon the wide, wide sea. 
  Stiff state no more shall make me groan,
    Hurrah for liberty! 
  I’m tired to death of functions fine,
    And ceremonial rot;
  Hurrah for ease! the breezy brine
    Tar-toggery, and my Yacht!

  With yonder bark I’ll gladly brave
    The seas about your isle. 
  Thanks, Grand’ma, for that kerchief wave,
    And that right royal smile! 
  Welcome, ye billows, tumbling brisk
    Beneath a cloud-swept sky! 
  Give your white kerchief one more whisk,
    Dear Grandmamma—­Good-bye!

* * * * *

SCOTT (ANYTHING BUT) FREE.