Farewell, O thou land of sweet sunshine, where I walked with
non-sweatable pace; I was fed, I was clothed, and I humbugged; my lady I
decked out with grace. From the cake with sugary frosting all covered
with raisins I go, to the land where the natives are often addicted to
shoveling snow, where I shan’t have a coon right before me to run when I
bid for a thing, I go from the land of sweet loafing, where our Uncle
George is the king.
Farewell, thou dear land of the Aztec, O, pulga, farewell, to thy sting,
to the hum of the social mosquito, that Gorgas could trap while a-wing.
Farewell to the nights of gay doing, to the mirth which I had on the
sly, some kinds that I now am a-rueing, while our uncle just winked on
the sly. When into a new job I sidle, somewhere in Nebraska’s broad
space, I ain’t got enough to live idle, but I pray that the Lord give me
grace, to find such a cinch unmolested, where no dictator ever shall
say: “Your job I’m about to have vested, in a man who will work for his
pay.” O! politics, where are the graces the Irish have seen in thy wake?
I’ve dropped into many soft places, and was ousted out just for your
sake. But no job was ever as downy as this one, the truth here I tell.
My bald brow is wrinkled and frowny; dear land of the Aztec, farewell!