Fytte the Second.
"Wire in, my warblers!" PUNCHIUS cried. "To 'wire,'
Though slangy, sounds appropriate to the Lyre."
Then forth there toddled with the mincing gait
Of some fair "Tottering Lily," him, the great
New Bard of Buddha! Grave, and grey of crest.
'Tis he illumes the nubibustic West
With the true "Light of Asia"—or, at least,
Such simulacrum of the effulgent East
As shineth from a homemade Chinese lantern.
No HAFIZ he, or SAADI, yet he can turn
Authentic Sanscrit to—Telegraphese,
And make the Muse a moon-faced Japanese.
Leaderesque love of gentle gush and "Caps.,"
Is blent in him with fondness for the Japs.
"Wah! wah! futtee!—wah! wah, gooroo!" he cried,
And twanged his tinkling orient lyre with pride.