Oh! he was great in Cockney Land, the monarch of his kind, 'Tis said he died of phthysic by the ignorant and blind; 'Twas we assassinated him — ah! regicidal deed; And he has left Endymion for those who choose to read.
From book to book we hurry on, reviewing as before, From Log-books writ in Arctic seas to Log-books writ on shore; From arid plains in Afric to the icy Polar main, As though we had not murder'd him, the glory of Cockayne.
Remorseless, — nothing heeding the reproaches of his race, And martyring King Rimini, who reigneth in his place; But he is made of sterner stuff, unsentimental fellow! And lives, delighting still to case his nether man in yellow.
