JAMES YOUNG
1797—1846.
The Mosquito's Song.
'Oh the pleasures of the plains
In Bengal, and in the Rains,
When the climate, damp and warm,
Makes our tiny tribes to swarm
From each puddle, from each tank,
Fringed with vegetation rank;
Whence, 'mid duck-weed hatched, and slime.
In the fullness of good time,
Shuffled off our maggot coil,
Start we into life's turmoil,
Clamorous, winged, and armed for fight.
Speeding quick our eager flight,
Ravenous, in quest of prey.
With the sun's declining ray.
Let us to the Fort repair,
In the Royal Barracks—there.
Sure to find the ruddy Griffin,
Full of beer and full of tiffin.
In the sultry afternoon,
Legs on table lolling; soon
Hies he to his tempting cot,
Stretching him supine; forgot
Cares and sorrows, scanty pay.
Duns that haunt the livelong day,
All forgot. Anon the book.
That in listless hand he took,
Drops upon his breast, as close his
Languid eyes: he yawns, he dozes;
Sinks at length in sleep unquiet.
Wild fantastic visions riot.
Flitting o'er his throbbing brain.
Till all is chaos come again!
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