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!