The Book of Humorous Verse
Chapter 145 : III His rival, but in what?Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of Swat Kotal's lamen

III

His rival, but in what?

Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of Swat Kotal's lamented Moolla late, As it were, emulate?

Was it in the tented field With crash of sword on s.h.i.+eld, While backward meaner champions reeled And loud the tom-tom pealed?

Did they barter gash for scar With the Persian scimetar Or the Afghanistee tulwar, While loud the tom-tom pealed-- While loud the tom-tom pealed, And the jim-jam squealed, And champions less well heeled Their war-horses wheeled And fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o' the field?

Was Kotal's proud citadel-- Bastioned, walled, and demi-luned, Beaten down with shot and sh.e.l.l By the guns of the Akhoond?

Or were wails despairing caught, as The burghers pale of Swat Cried in panic, "Moolla ad Portas?"

--Or what?

Or made each in the cabinet his mark Kotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck?

Did they explain and render hazier The policies of Central Asia?

Did they with speeches from the throne, Wars dynastic, _Entents cordiales_, Between Swat and Kotal; Holy alliances, And other appliances Of statesmen with morals and consciences plastic Come by much more than their own?

Made they mots, as "There to-day is No more Himalayehs,"

Or, if you prefer it, "There to-day are No more Himalaya?"

Or, said the Akhoond, "Sah, L'Etat de Swat c'est moi?"

Khabu, did there come great fear On thy Khabuldozed Ameer Ali Shere?

Or did the Khan of far Kashgar Tremble at the menace hot Of the Moolla of Kotal, "I will extirpate thee, pal Of my foe the Akhoond of Swat?"

Who knows Of Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did?

Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes, And in their deaths not very much divided?

If any one knows it, Let him disclose it!

_George Thomas Lanigan._

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE

A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Pet.i.ts Champs its name is-- The New Street of the Little Fields.

And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a n.o.ble dish is-- A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo: Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at Terre's tavern In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks.

And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is?

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheeked _ecaillere_ is Still opening oysters at the door.

Is Terre still alive and able?

I recollect his droll grimace: He'd come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter--nothing's changed or older.

"How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?"

The waiter stares, and shrugs his shoulder-- "Monsieur is dead this many a day."

"It is the lot of saint and sinner, So honest Terre's run his race."

"What will Monsieur require for dinner?"

"Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"

"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer; "Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il?"

"Tell me a good one."--"That I can, Sir: The Chambertin with yellow seal."

"So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in My old accustom'd corner-place; "He's done with feasting and with drinking, With Burgundy and with Bouillabaisse."

My old accustom'd corner here is, The table still is in the nook; Ah! vanished many a busy year is This well-known chair since last I took.

When first I saw ye, _cari luoghi_, I'd scarce a beard upon my face, And now a grizzled, grim old fogy, I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.

Where are you, old companions trusty Of early days here met to dine?

Come, waiter! quick, a flagon crusty-- I'll pledge them in the good old wine.

The kind old voices and old faces My memory can quick retrace; Around the board they take their places, And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.

There's Jack has made a wondrous marriage; There's laughing Tom is laughing yet; There's brave Augustus drives his carriage; There's poor old Fred in the _Gazette_; On James's head the gra.s.s is growing: Good Lord! the world has wagged apace Since here we set the claret flowing, And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.

Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!

I mind me of a time that's gone, When here I'd sit, as now I'm sitting, In this same place--but not alone.

A fair young form was nestled near me, A dear dear face looked fondly up, And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me --There's no one now to share my cup.

I drink it as the Fates ordain it.

Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes: Fill up the lonely gla.s.s, and drain it In memory of dear old times.

Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is; And sit you down and say your grace With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.

--Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse!

_W. M. Thackeray._

OULD DOCTOR MACK

Ye may tramp the world over From Delhi to Dover, And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon, Circ.u.mvint back Through the whole Zodiack, But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon.

Have ye the dropsy, The gout, the autopsy?

Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez, No ways infarior In skill, but suparior, And lineal postarior to Ould Aysculapius.

_Chorus_

He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye, and complexion clarety: Here's to his health, Honor and wealth, The king of his kind and the crame of all charity!

How the rich and the poor, To consult for a cure, Crowd on to his doore in their carts and their carriages, Showin' their tongues Or unlacin' their lungs, For divle one symptom the docther disparages.

Troth, an' he'll tumble, For high or for humble, From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety; Makin' as light Of nursin' all night The beggar in rags as the belle of society.

_Chorus_--He and his wig, etc.

And as if by a meracle, Ailments hysterical, Dad, wid one dose of bread-pills he can smother, And quench the love-sickness Wid wonderful quickness, By prescribin' the right boys and girls to aich other.

And the sufferin' childer-- Your eyes 'twould bewilder To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin', And aich of them fast On some treasure at last, Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.

_Chorus_--He and his wig, etc.