The Book of Humorous Verse Part 144

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, 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, 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 gla.s.s? 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 n.o.body knows I wot Who or which or why or what The Ahkond of Swat?

_Edward Lear._

THE AHKOOND OF SWAT

"The Ahkoond of Swat is dead."--London Papers of Jan. 22, 1878.

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 Ahkoond 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 hath 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 laid '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 (Forever hallowed by the ground!)

And skeptics 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 is dimmed ere it had nooned; Dead lies the great Ahkoond, The great Ahkoond of Swat Is not!

_George Thomas Lanigan._

DIRGE OF THE MOOLLA OF KOTAL,

RIVAL OF THE AKHOOND OF SWAT

I

Alas, unhappy land; ill-fated spot Kotal--though where or what On earth Kotal is, the bard has forgot; Further than this indeed he knoweth not-- It borders upon Swat!

II

When sorrows come, they come not single spies, But in battal- Ions: the gloom that lay on Swat now lies Upon Kotal, On sad Kotal whose people ululate For their loved Moolla late.

Put away his little turban, And his narghileh embrowned, The lord of Kotal--rural urban-- 'S gone unto his last Akhoond, 'S gone to meet his rival Swattan, 'S gone, indeed, but not forgotten.