Текст оригинала на английском языке
Farewell, my CONSTANTINE! A guardian navy Facilitates your exit on the blue; For Greece has been this long while in the gravy And he that put her there was plainly you; "TINO MUST GO!" was writ for all to see, Or, briefly, "T.M.G." Whither, dear Sir, do you propose to sally? To Switzerland's recuperative air, To sip condensed milk in a private chalet Or pluck the lissom chamois from his lair, Or on the summit of a neutral Alp Recline your crownless scalp? Or did you ask from him you love so dearly A royal haven fenced from rude alarms, Even though WILLIAM should reserve you merely A bedroom at "The Hohenzollern Arms," Having for poor relations on the loose No sort of further use? Beware! I gather he might clasp his TINO Only too warmly to his heaving chest, Saying, "O how reward such merits? _We_ know! Thou shalt command an Army in the West! Yes, thou shalt bear upon the British Front The pick of all the brunt." Frankly, if I were you, I wouldn't chance it. Fighting has never really been your forte; Witness Larissa, and your rapid transit, Chivied by slow foot-sloggers of the Porte; Far better make for Denmark o'er the foam; There is no place like home. Try some ancestral palace, well-appointed; For choice the one where _Hamlet_ nursed his spite, Who found the times had grown a bit disjointed And he was not the man to put 'em right; And there consult on that enchanted shore The ghosts of Elsinore.
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