By Dr. Swift From India'S Burning Clime I'm Brought, With Cooling Gales Like Zephyrs Fraught. Not Iris, When She Paints The Sky, Can Show More Different Hues Than I; Nor Can She Change Her Form So Fast, I'm Now A Sail, And Now A Mast. I Here Am Red, And There Am Green, A Beggar There, And Here A Queen. I Sometimes Live In House Of Hair, And Oft In Hand Of Lady Fair. I Please The Young, I Grace The Old, And Am At Once Both Hot And Cold. Say What I Am Then, If You Can, And Find The Rhyme, And You're The Man.