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.