This reticence, which some have called hypocrisy Was but the sign of nature’s aristocracy.
The ship was dropping down the stream, The Isle of Dogs was just abeam, And Sin and Blood and I Saw Greenwich Hospital go past, And gave a look--(for them the last)-- Towards the London sky! Ah! nowhere have I ever seen A sky so pure and so serene!
Did we at length, perhaps, regret Our strange adventurous lot? And were our eyes a trifle wet With tears that we repressed, and yet Which started blinding hot? Perhaps--and yet, I do not know, For when we came to go below, We cheerfully admitted That though there was a smell of paint (And though a very just complaint Had to be lodged against the food), The cabin furniture was good And comfortably fitted. And even out beyond the Nore We did not ask to go ashore.
[Illustration ** Stout man at dinner refusing asparagus.]
To turn to more congenial topics, I said a little while ago The food was very much below The standard needed to prepare Explorers for the special fare Which all authorities declare Is needful in the tropics. A Frenchman sitting next to us Rejected the asparagus; The turtle soup was often cold, The ices hot, the omelettes old, The coffee worse than I can tell; And Sin (who had a happy knack Of rhyming rapidly and well Like Cyrano de Bergerac) Said “Quant à moi, je n’aime pas Du tout ce pâté de foie gras!” But this fastidious taste Succeeded in a startling way; At Dinner on the following day They gave us Bloater Paste. Well--hearty Pioneers and rough Should not be over nice; I think these lines are quite enough, And hope they will suffice To make the Caterers observe The kind of Person whom they serve.----
[Illustration ** Our traveller, drink in hand, sitting on a trunk in front of a tent with an eager dog.]
And yet I really must complain About the Company’s Champagne! This most expensive kind of wine In England is a matter Of pride or habit when we dine (Presumably the latter). Beneath an equatorial sky You _must_ consume it or you die; And stern indomitable men Have told me, time and time again, “The nuisance of the tropics is The sheer necessity of fizz.” Consider then the carelessness-- The lack of polish and address, The villainy in short, Of serving what explorers think To be a necessary drink In bottles holding something less Than one Imperial quart, And costing quite a shilling more Than many grocers charge ashore.