Twitching his visage into as many puckers As damsels wont to put into their tuckers (Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn, And bade the vail of modesty be drawn), Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause, "Jean Bool!--I vas not know him--yes, I vas-- I vas remember dat, von year or two, I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo-- Ma foi! il s'est tres joliment battu, Dat is for Englishman--m'entendez-vous? But den he had wit him one damn son-gun, Rogue I no like--dey call him Vellington." Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret, So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the strait. John Bull was in his very worst of moods, Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods; His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. His wars were ended, and the victory won, But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest John; And authors vouch, 'twas still this Worthy's way, "Never to grumble till he came to pay; And then he always thinks, his temper's such, The work too little, and the pay too much." Yet grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty, That when his mortal foe was on the floor, And past the power to harm his quiet more, Poor John had well-nigh wept for Bonaparte! Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd-- "And who are you," John answer'd, "and be d--d?" 'A stranger come to see the happiest man-- So, signior, all avouch--in Frangistan.'-- "Happy? my tenants breaking on my hand; Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land; Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths The sole consumers of my good broadcloths-- Happy?---why, cursed war and racking tax Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs."-- "In that case, signior, I may take my leave; I came to ask a favor--but I grieve."-- "Favor?" said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard, "It's my belief you came to break the yard!-- But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner-- Take that to buy yourself a shirt and dinner."-- With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head; But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said, "Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline; A SHIRT indeed I seek, but none of thine. Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well,"-- "Kiss and be d--d," quoth John, "and go to hell!"