It was three gallant Chinamen, With long tail and pig eye, And they have sworn a solemn oath, Sir T. Tea-leaf must die. And they have ta’en and flung him down Upon an iron bed, And underneath, with cruel hand, Have heaped the ashes red. They’ve spread him out, and pressed him down, And turned him o’er and o’er, They’ve dried him up, until he curled, And writhed in suffering sore. In vain he twisted and he turned, In vain he cried for grace; They kept him so, and scorched him till He grew black in the face. But finding he was still alive, Their malice waxed more keen; They dosed him first with Prussian blue Till his poor face turned green. What sparks of life might still remain Determined to foredo, They gave him next a bitter draught Of gum and catechu. And on his death his name they changed, Lest men their crime should know, And when men asked, “Who’s that lies there?” They answered, “Young Pekoe.” Whereas his name and family, It really was Souchong, Related to the old Congous, A race both rough and strong. Lest men should recognise his dust, To dust when passed away, His calcined bones they kneaded up With lumps of China clay. Their poison’d victim then they wrapp’d In lead, with well-feign’d grief, And wrote the epitaph outside, “Here lies Sir T. Tea-leaf.” And though their grief was all a sham, The epitaph was true, For “here” it said, “a Tea-leaf lies.” And “lie” such Tea-leaves do. Now Tea-leaf’s name is in repute In lands beyond the sea, Where maiden ladies love him much, Under the name Green-tea. Ah! little dream these ancient maids Of Chinaman’s vile craft, Nor think, while chatting o’er their cups, There’s poison in the draught. And little know they of the fate Poor Tea-leaf had to dree, Or in their teapots they would weep Tears bitter as their tea; Till with the water of their woe E’en the first brew was spiled, And the presiding maid would be Obliged to draw it mild! Then to poor Tea-leaf drop a tear, By poison doomed to fall; And when there’s green-tea in the pot, May I not drink――that’s all. _Punch_, November 29, 1851. ――――:o:―――― MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS. My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe―― My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. * * * * * ―――― SONG FOR A SCOTCH DUKE. (_Equally applicable to a Yankee Dog in the Manger._)