  Whither now? my stupid foot Fain to Germany would guide me; But my reason shakes its head Wisely, seeming thus to chide me: “Ended is the war indeed, “But they still keep up courts-martial, “And to writing things esteem’d “Shootable, thou’rt far too partial.” That’s quite true, and being shot Has for me no great attractions; I’m no hero, and unskill’d In pathetic words and actions. Fain to England would I go, View’d I not with such displeasure Englishmen and coals—their smell Makes me sick beyond all measure. To America methinks I would sail the broad seas over; To that place of freedom where All alike may live in clover, Did I not detest a land Where tobacco’s ’mongst their victuals, Where they never use spittoons, And so strangely play at skittles. Russia, that vast empire fair, Might be tolerably pleasant, But I should not like the knout That’s their usual winter present. Sadly gaze I up on high, Where the countless stars are gleaming, But I nowhere can discern Where my own bright star is beaming. Perhaps in heaven’s gold labyrinth It has got benighted lately, As I on this bustling earth Have myself been wandering greatly. |
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