Bad Poetry: W. C. Hunter

Just when I thought I was running out of bad poetry, a friend generously supplied this, complete with background:

The following is a poem composed by a western trader at Canton, in the mid-nineteenth century when the English were carving out part of Canton as the Hong Kong colony and demanding that the rest of it hold itself open for opium sales. The trader/poet's name was W.C. Hunter. The only other necessary explanation is that, in Cantonese Chinese, the phrase "Se-Ta-Che" means "western guest."

The feast spread out, the splendour round
Allowed the eye no rest:
The wealth of Kwang-Tung, of all Ind,
Appeared to greet each guest.

All tongues are still; no converse free
The solemn silence broke.
Because, alas! friend Se-Ta-Che
No word of Chinese spoke.

Now here, now there, he picked a bit
Of what he could not name;
And all he knew was that, in fact,
They made him sick the same!

Mingqua, his host, pressed on each dish
With polished Chinese grace;
And much, Ming thought, he relished them,
At every ugly face!

At last he swore he'd eat no more.
'Twas written in his looks:
For, 'Zounds!' said he, 'the devil here
Sends both the meat and cooks!'

But, covers changed, he brightened up,
And thought himself in luck
When close before him what he saw
Looked something like a duck!

Still cautious grown but, to be sure,
His brain he set to rack;
At length he turned to one behind,
And, pointing, cried 'Quack, Quack!'

The Chinese gravely shook his head,
Next made a reverend bow;
And then expressed what dish it was
By uttering 'Bow-wow-wow.'