Chapter VII (3)

How pa-tient-ly the geese at-tend!
But do they re-al-ly com-pre-hend
What Scho-pen-hau-er's driv-ing at?
Oh, not at all; but what of that?
Nei-ther do I; nei-ther does she;
And, for that mat-ter, nor does he.

_Oliver Herford_.

THE FLAMINGO

_Inspired by reading a chorus of spirits in a German play_

FIRST VOICE.

Oh! tell me have you ever seen a red, long-leg'd Flamingo?
Oh! tell me have you ever yet seen him the water in go?

SECOND VOICE.

Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've seen a red long-leg'd Flamingo,
Oh! yes at Bowling-Green I've there seen him the water in go.

FIRST VOICE.

Oh! tell me did you ever see a bird so funny stand-o
When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o?

SECOND VOICE.

No! in my life I ne'er did see a bird so funny stand-o
When forth he from the water comes and gets upon the land-o.

FIRST VOICE.

He has a leg some three feet long, or near it, so they say, Sir.
Stiff upon one alone he stands, t'other he stows away, Sir.

SECOND VOICE.

And what an ugly head he's got! I wonder that he'd wear it.
But rather _more_ I wonder that his long, thin neck can bear it.

FIRST VOICE.

And think, this length of neck and legs (no doubt they have their
uses)
Are members of a little frame, much smaller than a goose's!

BOTH.

Oh! isn't he a curious bird, that red, long-leg'd Flamingo?
A water bird, a gawky bird, a sing'lar bird, by jingo!

_Lewis Gaylord Clark_.

KINDNESS TO ANIMALS

Speak gently to the herring and kindly to the calf,
Be blithesome with the bunny, at barnacles don't laugh!
Give nuts unto the monkey, and buns unto the bear,
Ne'er hint at currant jelly if you chance to see a hare!
Oh, little girls, pray hide your combs when tortoises draw nigh,
And never in the hearing of a pigeon whisper Pie!
But give the stranded jelly-fish a shove into the sea,--
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!

Oh, make not game of sparrows, nor faces at the ram,
And ne'er allude to mint sauce when calling on a lamb.
Don't beard the thoughtful oyster, don't dare the cod to crimp,
Don't cheat the pike, or ever try to pot the playful shrimp.
Tread lightly on the turning worm, don't bruise the butterfly,
Don't ridicule the wry-neck, nor sneer at salmon-fry;
Oh, ne'er delight to make dogs fight, nor bantams disagree,--
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be!

Be lenient with lobsters, and ever kind to crabs,
And be not disrespectful to cuttle-fish or dabs;
Chase not the Cochin-China, chaff not the ox obese,
And babble not of feather-beds in company with geese.
Be tender with the tadpole, and let the limpet thrive,
Be merciful to mussels, don't skin your eels alive;
When talking to a turtle don't mention calipee--
Be always kind to animals wherever you may be.

_J. Ashby-Sterry_.

SAGE COUNSEL

The lion is the beast to fight,
He leaps along the plain,
And if you run with all your might,
He runs with all his mane.
I'm glad I'm not a Hottentot,
But if I were, with outward cal-lum
I'd either faint upon the spot
Or hie me up a leafy pal-lum.

The chamois is the beast to hunt;
He's fleeter than the wind,
And when the chamois is in front,
The hunter is behind.
The Tyrolese make famous cheese
And hunt the chamois o'er the chaz-zums;
I'd choose the former if you please,
For precipices give me spaz-zums.

The polar bear will make a rug
Almost as white as snow;
But if he gets you in his hug,
He rarely lets you go.
And Polar ice looks very nice,
With all the colors of a pris-sum;
But, if you'll follow my advice,
Stay home and learn your catechissum.

_A.T. Quiller-Couch_.

OF BAITING THE LION

Remembering his taste for blood
You'd better bait him with a cow;
Persuade the brute to chew the cud
Her tail suspended from a bough;
It thrills the lion through and through
To hear the milky creature moo.

Having arranged this simple ruse,
Yourself you climb a neighboring tree;
See to it that the spot you choose
Commands the coming tragedy;
Take up a smallish Maxim gun,
A search-light, whisky, and a bun.

It's safer, too, to have your bike
Standing immediately below,
In case your piece should fail to strike,
Or deal an ineffective blow;
The Lion moves with perfect grace,
But cannot go the scorcher's pace.

Keep open ear for subtle signs;
Thus, when the cow profusely moans,
That means to say, the Lion dines.
The crunching sound, of course, is bones;
Silence resumes her ancient reign--
This shows the cow is out of pain.

But when a fat and torpid hum
Escapes the eater's unctuous nose,
Turn up the light and let it come
Full on his innocent repose;
Then pour your shot between his eyes,
And go on pouring till he dies.

Play, even so, discretion's part;
Descend with stealth; bring on your gun;
Then lay your hand above his heart
To see if he is really done;
Don't skin him till you know he's dead
Or you may perish in his stead!

Years hence, at home, when talk is tall,
You'll set the gun-room wide agape,
Describing how with just a small
Pea-rifle, going after ape
You met a Lion unaware,
And felled him flying through the air.

_Owen Seaman_.

THE FROG

Be kind and tender to the Frog,
And do not call him names,
As "Slimy-Skin," or "Polly-wog,"
Or likewise, "Uncle James,"
Or "Gape-a-grin," or "Toad-gone-wrong,"
Or "Billy-Bandy-knees;"
The Frog is justly sensitive
To epithets like these.

No animal will more repay
A treatment kind and fair,
At least, so lonely people say
Who keep a frog (and, by the way,
They are extremely rare).

_Hilaire Belloc_.

THE YAK

As a friend to the children commend me the yak,
You will find it exactly the thing:
It will carry and fetch, you can ride on its back,
Or lead it about with a string.

A Tartar who dwells on the plains of Thibet
(A desolate region of snow)
Has for centuries made it a nursery pet,
And surely the Tartar should know!

Then tell your papa where the Yak can be got,
And if he is awfully rich,
He will buy you the creature--or else he will not,
(I cannot be positive which).

_Hilaire Belloc_.

THE PYTHON

A python I should not advise,
It needs a doctor for its eyes,
And has the measles yearly.

However, if you feel inclined
To get one (to improve your mind,
And not from fashion merely),

Allow no music near its cage;
And when it flies into a rage
Chastise it most severely.

I had an Aunt in Yucatan
Who bought a Python from a man
And kept it for a pet.

She died because she never knew
These simple little rules and few;--
The snake is living yet.

_Hilaire Belloc_.

THE BISON

The Bison is vain, and (I write it with pain)
The Door-mat you see on his head
Is not, as some learned professors maintain,
The opulent growth of a genius' brain;
But is sewn on with needle and thread.

_Hilaire Belloc_.

THE PANTHER

Be kind to the panther! for when thou wert young,
In thy country far over the sea,
'Twas a panther ate up thy papa and mamma,
And had several mouthfuls of thee!

Be kind to the badger! for who shall decide
The depths of his badgerly soul?
And think of the tapir when flashes the lamp
O'er the fast and the free-flowing bowl.

Be kind to the camel! nor let word of thine
Ever put up his bactrian back;
And cherish the she-kangaroo with her bag,
Nor venture to give her the sack.

Be kind to the ostrich! for how canst thou hope
To have such a stomach as it?
And when the proud day of your bridal shall come,
Do give the poor birdie a bit.

Be kind to the walrus! nor ever forget
To have it on Tuesday to tea;
But butter the crumpets on only one side,
Save such as are eaten by thee.

Be kind to the bison! and let the jackal
In the light of thy love have a share;
And coax the ichneumon to grow a new tail,
And have lots of larks in its lair.

Be kind to the bustard! that genial bird,
And humor its wishes and ways;
And when the poor elephant suffers from bile,
Then tenderly lace up his stays!

_Anonymous_.

THE MONKEY'S GLUE

When the monkey in his madness
Took the glue to mend his voice,
'Twas the crawfish showed his sadness
That the bluebird could rejoice.

Then the perspicacious parrot
Sought to save the suicide
By administering carrot,
But the monkey merely died.

So the crawfish and the parrot
Sauntered slowly toward the sea,
While the bluebird stole the carrot
And returned the glue to me.

_Goldwin Goldsmith_.

THERE WAS A FROG

There was a frog swum in the lake,
The crab came crawling by:
"Wilt thou," coth the frog, "be my make?"
Coth the crab, "No, not I."
"My skin is sooth and dappled fine,
I can leap far and nigh.
Thy shell is hard: so is not mine."
Coth the crab, "No, not I."
"Tell me," then spake the crab, "therefore,
Or else I thee defy:
Give me thy claw, I ask no more."
Coth the frog, "That will I."
The crab bit off the frog's fore-feet;
The frog then he must die.
To woo a crab it is not meet:
If any do, it is not I.

_From Christ Church MS., I. 549_.

THE BLOATED BIGGABOON

The bloated Biggaboon
Was so haughty, he would not repose
In a house, or a hall, or _ces choses_,
But he slept his high sleep in his clothes--
'Neath the moon.
The bloated Biggaboon
Pour'd contempt upon waistcoat and skirt,
Holding swallow-tails even as dirt--
So he puff'd himself out in his shirt,
Like a b'loon.

_H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_.

WILD FLOWERS

"Of what are you afraid, my child?" inquired the kindly teacher.
"Oh, sir! the flowers, they are wild," replied the timid creature.

_Peter Newell_.

TIMID HORTENSE

"Now, if the fish will only bite, we'll have some royal fun."
"And do fish bite? The horrid things! Indeed, I'll not catch one!"

_Peter Newell_.

HER POLKA DOTS

She played upon her music-box a fancy air by chance,
And straightway all her polka-dots began a lively dance.

_Peter Newell_.

HER DAIRY

"A milkweed, and a buttercup, and cowslip," said sweet Mary,
"Are growing in my garden-plot, and this I call my dairy."

_Peter Newell_.

TURVEY TOP

'Twas after a supper of Norfolk brawn
That into a doze I chanced to drop,
And thence awoke in the gray of dawn,
In the wonder-land of Turvey Top.

A land so strange I never had seen,
And could not choose but look and laugh--
A land where the small the great includes,
And the whole is less than the half!

A land where the circles were not lines
Round central points, as schoolmen show,
And the parallels met whenever they chose,
And went playing at touch-and-go!

There--except that every round was square
And save that all the squares were rounds--
No surface had limits anywhere,
So they never could beat the bounds.

In their gardens, fruit before blossom came,
And the trees diminished as they grew;
And you never went out to walk a mile,
'Twas the mile that walked to you.

The people there are not tall or short,
Heavy or light, or stout or thin,
And their lives begin where they should leave off,
Or leave off where they should begin.

There childhood, with naught of childish glee,
Looks on the world with thoughtful brow;
'Tis only the aged who laugh and crow,
And cry, "We have done with it now!"

A singular race! what lives they spent!
Got up before they went to bed!
And never a man said what he meant,
Or a woman meant what she said.

They blended colours that will not blend,
All hideous contrasts voted sweet;
In yellow and red their Quakers dress'd,
And considered it rather neat.

They didn't believe in the wise and good,
Said the best were worst, the wisest fools;
And 'twas only to have their teachers taught
That they founded national schools.

They read in "books that are no books,"
Their classics--chess-boards neatly bound;
Those their greatest authors who never wrote,
And their deepest the least profound.

Now, such were the folks of that wonder-land,
A curious people, as you will own;
But are there none of the race abroad,
Are no specimens elsewhere known?

Well, I think that he whose views of life
Are crooked, wrong, perverse, and odd,
Who looks upon all with jaundiced eyes--
Sees himself and believes it God,

Who sneers at the good, and makes the ill,
Curses a world he cannot mend;
Who measures life by the rule of wrong
And abuses its aim and end,

The man who stays when he ought to move,
And only goes when he ought to stop--
Is strangely like the folk in my dream,
And would flourish in Turvey Top.

_Anonymous_.

WHAT THE PRINCE OF I DREAMT

I dreamt it! such a funny thing--
And now it's taken wing;
I s'pose no man before or since
Dreamt such a funny thing?

It had a Dragon; with a tail;
A tail both long and slim,
And ev'ry day he wagg'd at it--
How good it was of him!

And so to him the tailest
Of all three-tailed Bashaws,
Suggested that for reasons
The waggling should pause;

And held his tail--which, parting,
Reversed that Bashaw, which
Reversed that Dragon, who reversed
Himself into a ditch.

* * * * *

It had a monkey--in a trap--
Suspended by the tail:
Oh! but that monkey look'd distress'd,
And his countenance was pale.

And he had danced and dangled there;
Till he grew very mad:
For his tail it was a handsome tail
And the trap had pinched it--bad.

The trapper sat below, and grinn'd;
His victim's wrath wax'd hot:
He bit his tail in two--and fell--
And killed him on the spot.

* * * * *

It had a pig--a stately pig;
With curly tail and quaint:
And the Great Mogul had hold of that
Till he was like to faint.

So twenty thousand Chinamen,
With three tails each at least,
Came up to help the Great Mogul,
And took him round the waist.

And so, the tail slipp'd through his hands;
And so it came to pass,
That twenty thousand Chinamen
Sat down upon the grass.

* * * * *

It had a Khan--a Tartar Khan--
With tail superb, I wis;
And that fell graceful down a back
Which was considered his.

Wherefore all sorts of boys that were
Accursed, swung by it;
Till he grew savage in his mind
And vex'd, above a bit:

And so he swept his tail, as one
Awak'ning from a dream;
And those abominable ones
Flew off into the stream.

Likewise they hobbled up and down,
Like many apples there;
Till they subsided--and became
Amongst the things that were.

* * * * *

And so it had a moral too,
That would be bad to lose;
"Whoever takes a Tail in hand
Should mind his p's and queues."

I dreamt it!--such a funny thing!
And now it's taken wing;
I s'pose no man before or since
Dreamt such a funny thing?

_H. Cholmondeley-Pennell_.

THE DINKEY-BIRD

In an ocean, 'way out yonder
(As all sapient people know),
Is the land of Wonder-Wander,
Whither children love to go;
It's their playing, romping, swinging,
That give great joy to me
While the Dinkey-Bird goes singing
In the Amfalula-tree!

There the gum-drops grow like cherries,
And taffy's thick as peas,--
Caramels you pick like berries
When, and where, and how you please:
Big red sugar-plums are clinging
To the cliffs beside that sea
Where the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.

So when children shout and scamper
And make merry all the day,
When there's naught to put a damper
To the ardor of their play;
When I hear their laughter ringing,
Then I'm sure as sure can be
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.

For the Dinkey-Bird's bravuras
And staccatos are so sweet--
His roulades, appogiaturas,
And robustos so complete,
That the youth of every nation--
Be they near or far away--
Have especial delectation
In that gladsome roundelay.

Their eyes grow bright and brighter,
Their lungs begin to crow,
Their hearts get light and lighter,
And their cheeks are all aglow;
For an echo cometh bringing
The news to all and me.
That the Dinkey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-tree.

I'm sure you'd like to go there
To see your feathered friend--
And so many goodies grow there
You would like to comprehend!
_Speed, little dreams, your winging
To that land across the sea
Where the Dickey-Bird is singing
In the Amfalula-Tree_!

_Eugene Field_.

THE MAN IN THE MOON

Said the Raggedy Man on a hot afternoon,
"My!
Sakes!
What a lot o' mistakes
Some little folks makes on the Man in the Moon!
But people that's been up to see him like Me,
And calls on him frequent and intimutly,
Might drop a few hints that would interest you
Clean!
Through!
If you wanted 'em to--
Some actual facts that might interest you!"

"O the Man in the Moon has a crick in his back;
Whee!
Whimm!
Ain't you sorry for him?
And a mole on his nose that is purple and black;
And his eyes are so weak that they water and run
If he dares to _dream_ even he looks at the sun,--
So he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise--
My!
Eyes!
But isn't he wise--
To jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?"

"And the Man in the Moon has a boil on his ear--
Whee!
Whing!
What a singular thing!
I know! but these facts are authentic, my dear,--
There's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,--
He calls it a dimple,--but dimples stick in,--
Yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know!
Whang!
Ho!
Why certainly so!--
It might be a dimple turned over, you know!"

"And the Man in the Moon has a rheumatic knee,
Gee!
Whizz!
What a pity that is!
And his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be.
So whenever he wants to go North he goes South,
And comes back with the porridge crumbs all round his mouth,
And he brushes them off with a Japanese fan,
Whing!
Whann!
What a marvellous man!
What a very remarkably marvellous man!"

"And the Man in the Moon," sighed the Raggedy Man,
"Gits!
So!
Sullonesome, you know!
Up there by himself since creation began!--
That when I call on him and then come away,
He grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,--
Till--well, if it wasn't for _Jimmy-cum-Jim_,
Dadd!
Limb!
I'd go pardners with him!
Jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"

_James Whitcomb Riley_.

THE STORY OF THE WILD HUNTSMAN

This is the Wild Huntsman that shoots the hares;
With the grass-green coat he always wears;
With game-bag, powder-horn and gun,
He's going out to have some fun.
He finds it hard without a pair
Of spectacles, to shoot the hare.

He put his spectacles upon his nose, and said,
"Now I will shoot the hares and kill them dead."
The hare sits snug in leaves and grass,
And laughs to see the green man pass.
Now as the sun grew very hot,
And he a heavy gun had got,
He lay down underneath a tree
And went to sleep as you may see.
And, while he slept like any top,
The little hare came, hop, hop, hop,--
Took gun and spectacles, and then
Softly on tiptoe went off again.
The green man wakes, and sees her place
The spectacles upon her face.
She pointed the gun at the hunter's heart,
Who jumped up at once with a start.
He cries, and screams, and runs away.
"Help me, good people, help! I pray."
At last he stumbled at the well,
Head over ears, and in he fell.
The hare stopped short, took aim, and hark!
Bang went the gun!--she missed her mark!
The poor man's wife was drinking up
Her coffee in her coffee-cup;
The gun shot cup and saucer through;
"Oh dear!" cried she, "what shall I do?"
Hiding close by the cottage there,
Was the hare's own child, the little hare.
When he heard the shot he quickly arose,
And while he stood upon his toes,
The coffee fell and burned his nose;
"Oh dear," he cried, "what burns me so?"
And held up the spoon with his little toe.

_Dr. Heinrich Hoffman_.

THE STORY OF PYRAMID THOTHMES

Thothmes, who loved a pyramid,
And dreamed of wonders that it hid,
Took up again one afternoon,
His longest staff, his sandal shoon,
His evening meal, his pilgrim flask,
And set himself at length the task,
Scorning the smaller and the small,
To climb the highest one of all.

The sun was very hot indeed,
Yet Thothmes never slacked his speed
Until upon the topmost stone
He lightly sat him down alone
To make himself some pleasant cheer
And turned to take his flask of beer,
For he was weary and athirst.
Forth from the neck the stopper burst
And rudely waked the sleeping dead.
In terror guilty Thothmes fled
As rose majestic, wroth and slow,
The Pharaoh's Ka of long ago.
"Help! help!" he cried, "or I am lost!
Oh! save me from old Pharaoh's ghost!"

Till, uttering one fearful yell,
He stumbled at the base and fell
Where Anubis was at his side,
And, by the god of death, he died.

The wife of Thothmes learned his tale
First from the "Memphis Evening Mail,"
And called her son, and told their woe;
"Alas!" said she, "I told him so!
Oh, think upon these awful things
And mount not on the graves of kings!
A pyramid is strange to see,
Though only at its base you be."

_Anonymous_.

THE STORY OF CRUEL PSAMTEK

Here is cruel Psamtek, see.
Such a wicked boy was he!
Chased the ibis round about,
Plucked its longest feathers out,
Stamped upon the sacred scarab
Like an unbelieving Arab,
Put the dog and cat to pain,
Making them to howl again.
Only think what he would do--
Tease the awful Apis too!
Basking by the sacred Nile
Lay the trusting crocodile;
Cruel Psamtek crept around him,
Laughed to think how he had found him,
With his pincers seized his tail,
Made the holy one to wail;
Till a priest of Isis came,
Called the wicked boy by name,
Shut him in a pyramid,
Where his punishment was hid.
--But the crocodile the while
Bore the pincers up the Nile--
Here the scribe who taught him letters,
And respect for all his betters,
Gave him many a heavy task,
Horrid medicines from a flask,
While on bread and water, too,
Bitter penance must he do.

The Crocodile is blythe and gay,
With friends and family at play,
And cries, "O blessed Land of Nile,
Where sacred is the crocodile,
Where no ill deed unpunished goes,
And man himself rewards our foes!"

_Anonymous_.

THE CUMBERBUNCE

I strolled beside the shining sea,
I was as lonely as could be;
No one to cheer me in my walk
But stones and sand, which cannot talk--
Sand and stones and bits of shell,
Which never have a thing to tell.

But as I sauntered by the tide
I saw a something at my side,
A something green, and blue, and pink,
And brown, and purple, too, I think.
I would not say how large it was;
I would not venture that, because
It took me rather by surprise,
And I have not the best of eyes.

Should you compare it to a cat,
I'd say it was as large as that;
Or should you ask me if the thing
Was smaller than a sparrow's wing,
I should be apt to think you knew,
And simply answer, "Very true!"

Well, as I looked upon the thing,
It murmured, "Please, sir, can I sing?"
And then I knew its name at once--
It plainly was a Cumberbunce.

You are amazed that I could tell
The creature's name so quickly? Well,
I knew it was not a paper-doll,
A pencil or a parasol,
A tennis-racket or a cheese,
And, as it was not one of these,
And I am not a perfect dunce--
It had to be a Cumberbunce!

With pleading voice and tearful eye
It seemed as though about to cry.
It looked so pitiful and sad
It made me feel extremely bad.
My heart was softened to the thing
That asked me if it, please, could sing.
Its little hand I longed to shake,
But, oh, it had no hand to take!
I bent and drew the creature near,
And whispered in its pale blue ear,
"What! Sing, my Cumberbunce? You can!
Sing on, sing loudly, little man!"

The Cumberbunce, without ado,
Gazed sadly on the ocean blue,
And, lifting up its little head,
In tones of awful longing, said:

"Oh, I would sing of mackerel skies,
And why the sea is wet,
Of jelly-fish and conger-eels,
And things that I forget.
And I would hum a plaintive tune
Of why the waves are hot
As water boiling on a stove,
Excepting that they're not!"

"And I would sing of hooks and eyes,
And why the sea is slant,
And gayly tips the little ships,
Excepting that I can't!
I never sang a single song,
I never hummed a note.
There is in me no melody,
No music in my throat."

"So that is why I do not sing
Of sharks, or whales, or anything!"

I looked in innocent surprise,
My wonder showing in my eyes.
"Then why, O, Cumberbunce," I cried,
"Did you come walking at my side
And ask me if you, please, might sing,
When you could not warble anything?"

"I did not ask permission, sir,
I really did not, I aver.
You, sir, misunderstood me, quite.
I did not ask you if I _might_.
Had you correctly understood,
You'd know I asked you if I _could_.
So, as I cannot sing a song,
Your answer, it is plain, was wrong.
The fact I could not sing I knew,
But wanted your opinion, too."

A voice came softly o'er the lea.
"Farewell! my mate is calling me!"

I saw the creature disappear,
Its voice, in parting, smote my ear--

"I thought all people understood
The difference 'twixt 'might' and 'could'!"

_Paul West_.

THE AHKOND OF SWAT

Who, or why, or which, or _what_,
Is the Ahkond of Swat?

Is he tall or short, or dark or fair?
Does he sit on a stool or sofa or chair,
or Squat,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Is he wise or foolish, young or old?
Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold,
or Hot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk,
or Trot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he wear a turban, a fez or a hat?
Does he sleep on a mattress, a bed or a mat,
or a Cot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

When he writes a copy in round-hand size,
Does he cross his t's and finish his i's
with a Dot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Can he write a letter concisely clear,
Without a speck or a smudge or smear
or Blot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Do his people like him extremely well?
Or do they, whenever they can, rebel,
or Plot,
At the Ahkond of Swat?

If he catches them then, either old or young,
Does he have them chopped in pieces or hung,
or Shot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Do his people prig in the lanes or park?
Or even at times, when days are dark,
Garotte?
Oh, the Ahkond of Swat?

Does he study the wants of his own dominion?
Or doesn't he care for public opinion
a Jot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

To amuse his mind do his people show him
Pictures, or any one's last new poem,
or What,
For the Ahkond of Swat?

At night if he suddenly screams and wakes,
Do they bring him only a few small cakes,
or a Lot,
For the Ahkond of Swat?

Does he live on turnips, tea or tripe,
Does he like his shawl to be marked with a stripe
or a Dot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he like to lie on his back in a boat
Like the lady who lived in that isle remote,
Shalott.
The Ahkond of Swat?

Is he quiet, or always making a fuss?
Is his steward a Swiss or a Swede or a Russ,
or a Scot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he like to sit by the calm blue wave?
Or to sleep and snore in a dark green cave,
or a Grott,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he drink small beer from a silver jug?
Or a bowl? or a glass? or a cup? or a mug?
or a Pot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he beat his wife with a gold-topped pipe,
When she lets the gooseberries grow too ripe,
or Rot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he wear a white tie when he dines with his friends,
And tie it neat in a bow with ends,
or a Knot,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he like new cream, and hate mince-pies?
When he looks at the sun does he wink his eyes,
or Not,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Does he teach his subjects to roast and bake?
Does he sail about on an inland lake,
in a Yacht,
The Ahkond of Swat?

Some one, or nobody knows I wot
Who or which or why or what
Is the Ahkond of Swat!

_Edward Lear_.

A THRENODY

What, what, what,
What's the news from Swat?
Sad news,
Bad news,
Comes by the cable led
Through the Indian Ocean's bed,
Through the Persian Gulf, the Red
Sea and the Med-
Iterranean--he's dead;
The Ahkoond is dead!

For the Ahkoond I mourn,
Who wouldn't?
He strove to disregard the message stern,
But he Ahkoodn't.
Dead, dead, dead;
(Sorrow Swats!)
Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,
Swats whom he hath often led
Onward to a gory bed,
Or to Victory,
As the case might be,
Sorrow Swats!
Tears shed,
Tears shed like water,
Your great Ahkoond is dead!
That Swats the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat!
Your great Ahkoond is not,
But lain 'mid worms to rot.
His mortal part alone, his soul was caught
(Because he was a good Ahkoond)
Up to the bosom of Mahound.
Though earthly walls his frame surround
(Forever hallowed be the ground!)
And sceptics mock the lowly mound
And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"
His soul is in the skies--
The azure skies that bend above his loved
Metropolis of Swat.
He sees with larger, other eyes,
Athwart all earthly mysteries--
He knows what's Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!
Fallen is at length
Its tower of strength,
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;
Dead lies the great Ahkoond,
The great Ahkoond of Swat
Is not!

_George Thomas Lanigan_.

DIRGE OF THE MOOLLA OF KOTAL

_Rival of the Akhoond of Swat_