Vers anglais.

The broad-backed hippopotamus
Rests on his belly in the mud;
Although he seems so firm to us
Yet he is merely flesh and blood.

Flesh-and-blood is weak and frail,
Susceptible to nervous shock;
While the True Church can never fail
For it is based upon a rock.

The hippo's feeble steps may err
In compassing material ends,
While the True Church need never stir
To gather in its dividends.

The potamus can never reach
The mango on the mango-tree;
But fruit of pomegranate and peach
Refresh the Church from over sea.

At mating time the hippo's voice
Sings of the trysts inflexions hoarse and odd,
But every week we hear itахахахах rejoice
The Church, at being one with God.

The hippopotamus's day
Is past in sleep; at night he hunts;
God works in a mysterious way -
The Church can sle ep and feed at once.

I saw the potamus take wing
Ascending from the damp savannas,
And quiring angels came to sing
The praise of God, in loud hosannas.

Blood of the Lamb shall wash him clean
And him shall heavenly arms enfold,
Among the saints he shall be seen
Performing on a harp of gold.

He shall be washed as white as snow,
By all the martyr'd virgins kist,
While the True Church remains below
Wrapt in the old miasmal mist.