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! Go to the land of muslin and nankeening, And parasols of straw where hats should be, Go to the land of slaves and palankeening, And think of me! Go to the land of Jungles and of vast hills, And tall bamboos--may none _bamboozle_ thee! Go gaze upon their Elephants and Castles, And think of me! Go where a cook must always be a currier, And parch the pepper’d palate like a pea, Go where the fierce musquito is a worrier, And think of me! [Illustration: “A SOW WESTER OFF THE CAPE:--PIGS IN THE TROUGH OF THE SEA.”] Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes, Consign’d for wedlock to Calcutta’s quay, Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes, And think of me! Go where the sun is very hot and fervent, Go to the land of pagod and rupee, Where every black will be your slave and servant, And think of me! THE NELSON. This here, your honour, upon wheels, is the true genuine real _Nelson’s Car_. GUIDE TO GREENWICH HOSPITAL. “THE Nelson,” I repeated to myself, as I read that illustrious name on the dicky of the vehicle--“the Nelson.” My fancy instantly converted the coach into a first-rate, the leaders and wheelers into sea-horses, the driver into Neptunus, brandishing a trident, and the guard into a Triton blowing his wreathed shell. There was room for one on the box, so I climbed up, and took my seat beside the coachman. “Now, clap on all sail,” said I, audibly, “I am proud to be one of the crew of the great Nelson, the hero of Aboukir.” “Begging your pardon, Sir,” said the coachman, “the Hero ain’t a booker at Mrs. Nelson’s: it goes from some other yard.” Gracious powers! what a tumble down stairs for an idea! As for mine, it pitched on its head, as stunned and stupefied as if it had rolled down the whole flight at the Monument. “I have made a Bull, indeed,” I exclaimed, as the noted inn at Aldgate occurred to my memory; “but we are the slaves of association,” I continued, addressing the coachman, “and the name of Nelson identified itself with the Union Jack.” “I really can’t say,” replied the coachman, very civilly, “whether the name of Mrs. Nelson is down to the Slave Associations or not: but as for Jack, if you mean Jack Bunce, he’s been off the Union these six months. Too fond of the _Bar_, Sir” (here he tipped me the most significant of winks), “to keep his seat on the _Bench_.”