(_To the New Lord of Islam._)
He led the Chosen People forth;
Over the Red Sea tramped their legions;
They wandered East, they wandered North
Through very vague and tedious regions,
Ploughing a lot of desolating sand
Before they struck the Promised Land.
And you, who play so many parts,
And figure in such fancy poses,
Now, poring over Syrian charts,
Dressed for the character of MOSES,
In spirit lead your Turks, a happy band,
Bound for another Promised Land.
Promises you have made before;
And doubtless your adopted Bosches
Deemed the Canal would lend its floor
To pass them through without goloshes,
As though it were a segment of the dry
Peninsula of Sinaï.
And when they feared to lose their way
You answered them with ready wit: "Oh!
You'll have a pillar of cloud by day,
And through the night a fiery ditto,
But never said that these would be supplied
By airmen on the other side."
Nor did you mention how the sun
Promotes a thirst in desert places,
Nor how their route was like to run
A little short of green oases,
Because the wells that glad the wanderer's sight
Have been removed by dynamite.
Nor did you let the Faithful guess
That, on the Pentateuch's own showing,
Israel found the wilderness
Took forty years of steady going;
And after two-score summers, one would think,
Even a camel wants a drink.
And you yourself, if still alive
And not transferred (we'll say?) to heaven,
Would by the date when they arrive
Have touched the age of 97,
And scarcely be in quite the best condition
To share their labour's full fruition.
Come down, O fool, from Pisgah's heights,
Where, stung by Furies misbegotten,
You counterfeit Mosaic flights,
Aching for Egypt's corn and cotton;
Think how it makes the local fellah smile
To hear your _Watch upon the Nile!_