The Russian Empire, as you see,
Is governed by an Autocrat,
A sort of human target he
For anarchists to practise at;
And much relieved most people are
Not to be lodging with the Czar.
The Russian lets his whiskers grow,
Smokes cigarettes at meal-times, and
Imbibes more‘ vodki’ than‘ il faut’;
A habit which ( I understand )
Enables him with ease to tell
His name, which nobody could spell.
The climate here is cold, with snow,
And you go driving in a sleigh,
With bells and all the rest, you know,
Just like a Henry Irving play;
While, all around you, glare the eyes
Of secret officers and spies!
The Russian prisons have no drains,
No windows or such things as that;
You have no playthings there but chains,
And no companion but a rat;
When once behind the dungeon door,
Your friends do n't see you any more.
I further could enlarge,‘ tis true,
But fear my trembling pen confines;
I have no wish to travel to
Siberia and work the mines.
( In Russia you must write with care,
Or the police will take you there. )
If you hold morbid views about
A monarch's premature decease,
You only need a — Hi! Look out!
Here comes an agent of police!
( In future my address will be
‘ Siberia, Cell .’ )