I tell thee, Dick, where I have been;
Where I the rarest things have seen;
Oh, things without compare!
Such sights again can not be found
In any place on English ground,
Be it at wake or fair.
At Charing Cross, hard by the way
Where we (thou know'st) do sell our hay,
There is a house with stairs;
And there did I see coming down
Such folks as are not in our town;
Vorty at least, in pairs.
Amongst the rest one pest'lent fine
(His beard no bigger tho' than thine)
Walk'd on before the rest;
Our landlord looks like nothing to him;
The King (God bless him!) 'twould undo him
Should he go still so drest.
At Course-a-park, without all doubt,
He should have first been taken out
By all the maids i' th' town:
Though lusty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the green,
Or Vincent of the crown.
But wot you what? The youth was going
To make an end of all his woing;
The parson for him staid:
Yet by his leave, for all his haste,
He did not so much wish all past,
Perchance as did the maid.
The maid (and thereby hangs a tale)
For such a maid no Whitson-ale
Could ever yet produce;
No grape that's kindly ripe, could be
So round, so plump, so soft, as she
Nor half so full of juyce.
Her finger was so small, the ring
Would not stay on which they did bring;
It was too wide a peck:
And, to say truth (for out it must),
It look'd like the great collar (just)
About our young colt's neck.
Her feet beneath her petticoat,
Like little mice, stole in and out,
As if they fear'd the light:
But oh! she dances such a way;
No sun upon an Easter day
Is half so fine a sight.
Her cheeks so rare a white was on,
No daisie makes comparison
(Who sees them is undone);
For streaks of red were mingled there,
Such as are on a Cath'rine pear,
The side that's next the Sun.
Her lips were red; and one was thin,
Compared to that was next her chin
(Some bee had stung it newly);
But, Dick, her eyes so guard her face,
I durst no more upon them gaze,
Than on a Sun in July.
Her mouth so small, when she does speak,
Thou'dst swear her teeth her words did break,
That they might passage get;
But she so handled still the matter,
They came as good as ours, or better,
And are not spent a whit.
Passion, oh me! how I run on!
There's that that would be thought upon,
I trow, besides the bride.
The business of the kitchen's great;
For it is fit that men should eat,
Nor was it there denied.
Just in the nick the Cook knock'd thrice,
And all the waiters in a trice
His summons did obey;
Each serving man, with dish in hand,
March'd boldly up like our train'd band,
Presented, and away.
When all the meat was on the table,
What man of knife, or teeth, was able
To stay to be entreated?
And this the very reason was,
Before the parson could say grace
The company was seated.
Now hats fly off, and youths carouse;
Healths first go round, and then the house,
The bride's came thick and thick;
And when 'twas named another's health,
Perhaps he made it hers by stealth,
(And who could help it, Dick?)
O' th' sudden, up they rise and dance;
Then sit again, and sigh, and glance:
Then dance again, and kiss:
Thus sev'ral ways the time did pass,
Till ev'ry woman wish'd her place,
And ev'ry man wish'd his.
By this time all were stol'n aside
To counsel and undress the bride;
But that he must not know:
But yet 'twas thought he guest her mind,
And did not mean to stay behind
Above an hour or so.
Sir John Suckling.
XI
TRIBUTE
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 a 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.
|