In Italy the sky is blue;
The native loafs and lolls about,
He's nothing in the world to do,
And does it fairly well, no doubt;
( Ital-i-ans are disinclined
To honest work of any kind ).
A light Chianti wine he drinks,
And fancies it extremely good;
( It tastes like Stephens’ Blue-black Inks );—
While macaroni is his food.
( I think it must be rather hard
To eat one's breakfast by the yard ).
And, when he leaves his country for
Some northern climate,‘ tis his dream
To be an organ grinder, or
Retail bacilli in ice-cream.
( The French or German student terms
These creatures‘ Parisites’ or‘ Germs.’ )
Sometimes an anarchist is he,
And wants to slay a king or queen;
So with some dynamite, may be,
Concocts a murderous machine;
‘ Here goes!’ he shouts,‘ For Freedom's sake!’
Then blows himself up by mistake.
Naples and Florence both repay
A visit, and, if fortune takes
Your toddling little feet that way,
Do stop a moment at The Lakes.
While, should you go to Rome, I hope
You'll leave your card upon the Pope.
Do n't work too hard, but use a wise discretion;
Adopt the least laborious profession.
Do n't be an anarchist, but, if you must,
Do n't let your bombshell prematurely bust.