A COCKNEY WAIL by ANONYMOUS

THE great Pacific journey I have done,
In many a town and tent I've found a lodgment,
I think I've travelled to the setting sun,
And very nearly reached the day of judgment.
Like Launcelot in quest of Holy Grail,
From western Beersheba to Yankee Dan
I've been a seeker, yet I sadly fail
To find the genuine type American.

Where is this object of my youthful wonder,
Who met me in the pages of Sam Slick, --
Who opened every sentence with "By thunder!"
And whittled always on a bit of stick?
The more the crowd of friends around me thickens,
The less my chance to meet him seems to be;
Why did he freely show himself to Dickens,
To Dixon, Sala, Trollope, not to me?

No one accosts me with the words, "Wa'al, stranger!"
Greets me as "Festive cuss," or shouts "Old hoss!"
No grim six-shooter threatens me with danger,
If I don't "quickly pass the butter, boss."
Round friendly boards no "cocktail" ever passes,
No "brandy smash" my morning hour besets;
And petticoats are worn by all the lasses,
And the pianos don't wear pantalettes.

The ladies, when you offer chicken salad,
Don't say, "I'm pretty crowded now, I guess;"
They don't sing Mrs. Barney Williams' ballad
Of "Bobbing Round," nor add "sir-ee" to yes.
I, too, have sat, like every other fellow,
In many a railway, omnibus, street car;
No girl has spiked ME with a fierce umbrella,
And said, "You git, I mean to sit right thar."

Gone are the Yankees of my early reading!
Faded the Yankee land of eager quest!
I meet with culture, courtesy, good-breeding,
Art, letters, men and women of the best.
Oh, fellow Britons, all my hopes are undone!
Take counsel of a disappointed man:
Don't come out here, but stay at home in London,
And seek in books the true American.

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