Humour of the North — Poems
THE AHKOOND OF SWAT
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 Akhoond 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 had often led Onward to a gory bed, Or to victory, As the case might be.
Sorrow Swats!
Tears shed, Shed tears 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 (For ever 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 had dimmed ere it had nooned;
Dead lies the great Ahkoond, The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not.
THE AMATEUR ORLANDO
It was an Amateur Dram.
Ass.
(Kind reader, although your Knowledge of French is not first-class Don't call that Amature.
) It was an Amateur Dram.
Ass.
, The which did warfare wage On the dramatic works of this And every other age.
It had a walking gentleman, A leading juvenile, First lady in book-muslin dressed, With a galvanic smile;
Thereto a singing chambermaid, Benignant heavy pa, And oh, heavier still was the heavy vill- Ain, with his fierce "Ha!
ha!"
There wasn't an author from Shakespeare down-- Or up--to Boucicault These amateurs weren't competent (S.
Wegg) to collar and throw.
And when the winter time came round-- "Season" 's a stagier phrase-- The Am.
Dram.
Ass.
assaulted one Of the Bard of Avon's plays.
'Twas _As you Like It_ that they chose;
For the leading lady's heart Was set on playing Rosalind, Or some other page's part.
And the President of the Am.
Dram.
Ass.
, A stalwart, dry-goods clerk, Was cast for Orlando, in which rôle He felt he'd make his mark.
"I mind me," said the President (All thoughtful was his face), "When Orlando was taken by Thingummy That Charles was played by Mace.
Charles hath not many lines to speak, Nay, not a single length-- Oh, if find we can a Mussulman (That is, a man of strength), And bring him on the stage as Charles-- But, alas!
it can't be did!"
"It can," replied the Treasurer;
"Let's get The Hunky Kid."
This Hunky Kid of whom they spoke Belonged to the P. R.
;
He always had his hair cut short, And always had catarrh.
His voice was gruff, his language rough, His forehead villainous low, And 'neath his broken nose a vast Expanse of jaw did show.
He was forty-eight about the chest, And his fore-arm at the mid Did measure twenty-one and a half-- Such was The Hunky Kid!
The Am.
Dram.
Ass.
, they have engaged This pet of the P. R.
;
As Charles the Wrestler he's to be A bright, particular star.
And when they put the programme out, Announce him thus they did: Orlando ...
Mr. Romeo Jones;
Charles ...
Mr. T.
H.
Kid.
The night has come; the house is packed From pit to gallery, As those who through the curtain peep Quake inwardly to see.
A squeak's heard in the orchestra, As the leader draws across Th' intestines of the agile cat The tail of the noble hoss.
All is at sea behind the scenes.
Why do they fear and funk?
Alas, alas, The Hunky Kid Is lamentably drunk!
He's in that most unlovely stage Of half-intoxication When men resent the hint they're tight As a personal imputation!
"Ring up!
ring up!"
Orlando cried, "Or we must cut the scene;
For Charles the Wrestler is imbued With poisonous benzine, And every moment gets more drunk Than he before has been."
The wrestling scene has come and Charles Is much disguised in drink;
The stage to him's an inclined plane, The footlights make him blink, Still strives he to act well his part Where all the honour lies, Though Shakespeare would not in his lines His language recognise Instead of "Come, where is this young----?"
This man of bone and brawn, He squares himself and bellows, "Time!
Fetch your Orlandos on!"
"Now, Hercules be thy speed, young man," Fair Rosalind said she, As the two wrestlers in the ring Grapple right furiously;
But Charles the Wrestler had no sense Of dramatic propriety.
He seized on Mr. Romeo Jones In Graeco-Roman style;
He got what they call a grapevine lock On that leading juvenile;
He flung him into the orchestra, And the man with the ophicleide, On whom he fell, he just said--well, No matter what--and died!
When once the tiger has tasted blood, And found that it is sweet, He has a habit of killing more Than he can possibly eat.
And thus it was with The Hunky Kid.
In his homicidal blindness He lifted his hand against Rosalind, Not in the way of kindness.
He chased poor Celia off at L. , At R. U.
E.
Le Beau, And he put such a head upon Duke Fred, In fifteen seconds or so, That never one of the courtly train Might his haughty master know.
* * * * * And that's precisely what came to pass Because the luckless carles Belonging to the Am.
Dram.
Ass.
Cast The Hunky Kid for Charles!
THE PLUMBER'S REVENGE
A LEGEND OF MADISON AVENUE
_Canto I--The Death-Bed Oath_ It was some thirty years ago, An evening calm and red, When a gold-haired stripling stood beside His father's dying-bed.
"Attend, my son," the sick man said, "Unto my dying tones, And swear eternal vengeance to The accursed race of Jones.
For why?
Just nineteen years ago A girl sat by my side, With cheek of rose and breast of snow, My peerless, promised bride.
A viper by the name of Jones Came in between us twain;
With honeyed words he stole away My loved Belinda Jane.
For he was rich and I was poor, And poets all are stupid Who feign the god of Love is not Cupidity, but Cupid.
Perchance 'tis well, for had I wed That maid of dark-brown curls, You had not been, or been, instead Of boy, a pair of girls.
Now listen to me, Walter Smith;
Hie to yon plumber bold, An thou would'st ease my dying pang, His 'prentice be enrolled.
For Jones has houses many on The fashionable squares, And thou, perchance, may'st be called in To see to the repairs.
Think on thy father's ravished love.
Recall thy father's ills, Remember this, the death-bed oath, Then, make out Jones's bills."
_Canto II--The Young Avenger_ Young Walter's to the plumber gone.
A boy with smut on nose, Furnace and carpet-sack in hand, With the journeyman he goes.
Now grown a journeyman himself, In grimy hand he gripes A candle-end, and 'neath the sink Explores the frozen pipes.
His furnace portable he lights With smoking wads of news- Papers, and smiles to see within The pot the solder fuse.
He gives his fiat: "They are froze Down about sixteen feet;
If you want water ere July You must dig up the street."
"Practical Plumber" now is he, As witnesseth his sign, And ready now to undertake Repairs in any line.
One day a housemaid, as he sat At the receipt of biz, Came crying, "Ho, Sir Smith, Sir Smith, Sir Jones's pipes is friz."
He girt his apron round his loins, His tools took from the shelf, And to the journeyman he said, "_I'll see to this myself.
_" "Would," said he, as he drew the bill, "My father were alive;
Ten pounds of solder at ten cents, . 75!"
_Canto III--The Traitor's Doom_ The Jones had houses many on The avenues and squares, And hired the young Avenger Smith To see to the repairs, And Smith put faucets in, and cocks, And meters, eke, and taps, Connections, T-joints, sewer pipes, Basins and water-traps;
He tore the walls and ripped the floors To reach the pipes beyond, And excavations in the street And 'neath the side-walk yawned;
And daily as he entered up The items in his book The plumber's face wore a serene And retrospective look.
And Jones would wring his hands and cry, "Woe, woe, and utter woe!
Ah me!
that taxes should be so high And rents should be so low!"
Then he would give the Smith the house As instalment on account Of its repairs, and notes of hand For the rest of the amount.
_Canto IV--Avenged at Last_ Now Smith had been for a dozen years In the practical plumbing line, And the bills of Smith did not grind slow, And they ground extremely fine.
Terrace by terrace, house by house, The lands of Jones he took, And heavier still the balance was Writ in that fatal book.
At last, no property nor cash Had he, so he did fail, And the avenging plumber locked Him up in Ludlow Jail.
His heartless creditor he besought For mercy in his need.
"Nay, nay, no mercy, lie and rot," Quoth he, "in jail, like Tweed.
For I have sworn avenged to be On thee, thy kin and kith;
Rememberest thou Belinda Jane?
I am the son of Smith!!!"
