“Private property was never “Made by Nature; pocketless, “With no pockets in our skins, we “Ev’ry one the world first entered.
“Not a single one amongst us “At his birth had such a pocket “In his body’s outer skin, “Where he might conceal his robb’ries.
“Man alone, that smooth-skinn’d being, “Who with foreign wool so nicely “Clothes himself, had e’er the sharpness “To provide himself with pockets.
“Pockets! They’re as much ’gainst nature “As is private property, “As possession’s rights themselves are-- “Men in fact are but pickpockets!
“Fiercely hate I them! My hatred “Unto thee, my son, bequeath I; “Here upon this altar shalt thou “Swear to man undying hatred!
“Be implacably the death-foe “Of those wicked vile oppressors “To the very end of life,-- “Swear it, swear it here, my son!”
And the youngster swore, as once did Hannibal. The moon, all yellow, On the stone of blood look’d wildly, And the pair of misanthropes.
By-and-by we’ll tell the story How the young bear ever faithful To his oath remain’d. Our lyre shall In another Epic praise him.
As respects friend Atta Troll, We will leave him for the present, Presently to come across him, All the surer, with a bullet.
All thy stealthy machinations, Traitor ’gainst man’s majesty, Now at length are terminated, And thy hour will sound to-morrow!
Like some drowsy bayaderes Look the mountains, standing shiv’ring In their snowy shirts of clouds, Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning.
Yet they soon become enliven’d By the sun-god stripping from them All the veil that’s hanging o’er them Lighting up their naked beauty!
Early in the morn I started With Lascaro on our journey Bound to hunt the bear. At noonday We arrived at Pont d’Espagne.
So they call the bridge which leadeth Out of France and into Spain, To the land of west barbarians, Who’re a thousand years behind us,--
Yes, a thousand years behind us In all modern civ’lisation; My barbarians to the eastward But a hundred years behind are.
Slowly, almost trembling, left I France’s sacred territory, Blessèd fatherland of freedom And the women that I love!
On the middle of the bridge A poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ry Lurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle, Misery in his eyes was lurking.
An old crazy mandoline With his wither’d fingers pinch’d he; Shrill the discord which re-echoed From the rocks, as in derision.