“A translation from an eastern poet, you say?”
“Yes,” said Tom.
“'T is not very eastern in its character,” said Moriarty. “I mean a free translation, of course,” added the mock colonel.
“Would you favour us with the song again, in the original?” added Moriarty.
Tom Loftus did not know one syllable of any other language than his own, and it would not have been convenient to talk gibberish to Moriarty, who had a smattering of some of the eastern tongues; so he declined giving his Cashmerian song in its native purity, because, as he said, he never could manage to speak their dialect, though he understood it reasonably well.
“But there's a gentleman, I am sure, will sing some other song—and a better one, I have no doubt,” said Tom, with a very humble prostration of his head on the table, and anxious by a fresh song to get out of the dilemma in which Moriarty's question was near placing him.
“Not a better, colonel,” said the gentleman who was addressed, “but I cannot refuse your call, and I will do my best; hand me the port wine, pray; I always take a glass of port before I sing—I think 't is good for the throat—what do you say, colonel?”
“When I want to sing particularly well,” said Tom, “I drink canary.”
The gentleman smiled at the whimsical answer, tossed off his glass of port, and began.