The Orange

It ripen'd by the river banks, Where, mask and moonlight aiding, Dons Blas and Juan play their pranks, Dark Donnas serenading.

By Moorish damsel it was pluck'd, Beneath the golden day there; By swain 'twas then in London suck'd— Who flung the peel away there.

He could not know in Pimlico, As little she in Seville, That I should reel upon that peel, And—wish them at the devil!