Two, more or less, hunted up and down, Through the yelling streets of a filthy town, Their crime, to have come with a message of peace Into Heathenesse.
"T'was only the innocent native's play, "butchered to make him a holiday," Of brave pioneers who will aye increase, Two, morg oF less.
'Iwo, more or less, if they be obscure, Wearing no livery, and all poor Tu the priceless influence of back-stairs 'Two, more or less, 'The' the Outer Barbarian journals glow With philippic and epigrain,—be it, so! Lhe Superior Man not a tittle cares For their storm and stress. more or less, stripped to lie and rot, When the sun of July is glow'ring hot O'er terrace of rice and bamboo grove, In their Joneliness.
The' friends by the hundred, not far away, Wait sadly to honour them, day after day, Or seek the Superior Man to move With their fond distress. we, more or less, whom their foes detain Till corruption hath garnered its own again, And the murderers deem there is scarce a trace Of their " awkwardness."
While that humorous wight, the superior Man, Plays a practical joke, on a cynical plan, And leads anxious mourners a wild-goose chase After two, more or less,
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.