The Happy Ending

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION     I am tired of the day with its profitless labours,     And tired of the night with its lack of repose,     I am sick of myself, my surroundings, and neighbours,     Especially Aryan Brothers and crows;     O land of illusory hope for the needy,     O centre of soldiering, thirst, and shikar,     When a broken-down exile begins to get seedy,     What a beast of a country you are!     There are many, I know, that have honestly drawn a     Most moving description of pleasures to win     By the exquisite carnage of such of your fauna     As Nature provides with a 'head' or a 'skin';     I know that a pig is magnificent sticking;     But good as you are in the matter of sports,     When a person's alive, so to put it, and kicking,     You're a brute when a man's out of sorts.     For the moment he feels the effects of the weather -     A mild go of fever - a touch of the sun -     He arrives with a jerk at the end of his tether,     And finds your attractions a bit overdone;     Impatiently conscious of boredom and worry,     He sits in his misery, scowling at grief,     With a face like a pallid rechauffe of curry,     And a head like a lump of boiled beef.     I am sick of the day (as I happened to mention),     And sick of the night (as I stated before),     And it's oh, for the wings of a dove or a pension     To carry me home to a happier shore!     And oh, to be off, homeward bound, on the briny,     Away from the tropics - away from the heat,     And to take off a shocking old hat to the Shiny,     As I shake off her dust from my feet!