Successful Recitations Part 4

And the little adventurer sat in a shed With one woman dying, and one woman dead.

Nothing he knew of the late defeat, Nothing of Mehemit's enforced retreat; For he spoke no word of the Turkish tongue, And had seen no Englishman all day long.

So he sat there, calm, with a flask of rum, And a cigarette 'twixt finger and thumb, Tranquilly smoking, and watching the smoke, And probably hatching some stupid joke, When in at the door, without a word, Burst a Circa.s.sian, hand on sword.

And the sword leapt out of its sheath, as a flame Breaks from the coals when the fire is stirred.

And Mr. King, with a "What's _your_ game?"

Faced the Tchirca.s.se with the wild-beast eyes.

"Naow, what do you want?" said Mr. King.

Quoth the savage, in English, "The woman dies!"

"Waat," said the impostor, "you'll take your fling, At least in the first case, along of a son Of Columbia, daughter of Albion."

The Tchirca.s.se moved to the side of the bed.

A distaff was leaning against the wall, And Mr. King, with arms at length, Gave it a swing, with all his strength, And crashed it full at the villain's head, And dropped him, pistols and daggers and all.

Then sword in hand, he raged through the door, And there were three hundred savages more, All hungry for murder, and loot, and worse!

Mr. King bore down with an oath and a curse, Bore down on the chief with the slain man's sword He saw at a glance the state of the case; He knew without need of a single word That the Turk had flown and the Russ was near, And the Tchirca.s.se held _his_ midday revel; So he laid himself out to curse and swear, And he raged like an eloquent devil.

They listen'd, in a mute surprise, Amaz'd that any single man should dare Harangue an armed crowd with such an air, And such commanding anger in his eyes; Till, thinking him at least an English lord, The Tchirca.s.se leader lower'd his sword, Spoke a few words in his own tongue, and bow'd, And slowly rode away with all his men.

Then Mr. King turn'd to his task again: Sought a rough araba with bullocks twain; Haled up the unwilling brutes with might and main, Laid the poor wounded woman gently down, And calmly drove her from the rescued town!

And Mr. King, when we heard the story, Was a little abash'd by the hero's glory; And, "Look you here, you boys; you may laff But I ain't the man to start at chaff.

I know without any jaw from you, 'Twas a darned nonsensical thing to do; But I tell you plain--and I mean it, too-- For all it was such a ridiculous thing, I should do it again!" said Mr. King.

THE ART OF "POETRY."

FROM "TOWN TOPICS."

I ask not much! but let th' "dank wynd" moan, "s.h.i.+mmer th' woold" and "rive the wanton surge;"

I ask not much; grant but an "eery drone,"

Some "wilding frondage" and a "bosky dirge;"

Grant me but these, and add a regal flush Of "sundered hearts upreared upon a byre;"

Throw in some yearnings and a "darksome hush,"

And--asking nothing more--I'll smite th' lyre.

Yea, I will smite th' falt'ring, quiv'ring strings, And magazines shall buy my murky stunts; Too long I've held my hand to honest things, Too long I've borne rejections and affronts; Now will I be profound and recondite, Yea, working all th' symbols and th' "props;"

Now will I write of "morn" and "yesternight;"

Now will I gush great gobs of soulful slops.

Yea, I will smite! Grant me but "swerveless wynd,"

And I will pipe a cadence rife with thrills; With "nearness" and "foreverness" I'll bind A "downflung sheaf" of outslants, paeans and trills; Pa.s.s me th' "quenchless gleam of t.i.tian hair,"

And eke th' "oozing forest's woozy clumps;"

Now will I go upon a metric tear And smite th' lyre with great resounding thumps.

THE KING OF BRENTFORD'S TESTAMENT.

W. M. THACKERAY.

The n.o.ble King of Brentford Was old and very sick, He summon'd his physicians To wait upon him quick: They stepp'd into their coaches And brought their best physick.

They cramm'd their gracious master With potion and with pill; They drenched him and they bled him: They could not cure his ill.

"Go fetch," says he, "my lawyer; I'd better make my will."

The monarch's Royal mandate The lawyer did obey; The thought of six-and-eightpence Did make his heart full gay.

"What is't," says he, "your Majesty Would wish of me to-day?"

"The doctors have belabour'd me With potion and with pill: My hours of life are counted, O man of tape and quill!

Sit down and mend a pen or two; I want to make my will.

"O'er all the land of Brentford I'm lord, and eke of Kew: I've three-per-cents and five-per-cents; My debts are but a few; And to inherit after me I have but children two.

"Prince Thomas is my eldest son; A sober prince is he, And from the day we breech'd him Till now--he's twenty-three-- He never caused disquiet To his poor mamma or me.

"At school they never flogg'd him; At college, though not fast, Yet his little-go and great-go He creditably pa.s.s'd, And made his year's allowance For eighteen months to last.

"He never owed a s.h.i.+lling, Went never drunk to bed, He has not two ideas Within his honest head-- In all respects he differs From my second son, Prince Ned.

"When Tom has half his income Laid by at the year's end, Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver That rightly he may spend, But sponges on a tradesman, Or borrows from a friend.

"While Tom his legal studies Most soberly pursues, Poor Ned must pa.s.s his mornings A-dawdling with the Muse: While Tom frequents his banker, Young Ned frequents the Jews.

"Ned drives about in buggies, Tom sometimes takes a 'bus; Ah, cruel fate, why made you My children differ thus?

Why make of Tom a _dullard_, And Ned a _genius_?'

"You'll cut him with a s.h.i.+lling,"

Exclaimed the man of writs: "I'll leave my wealth," said Brentford, "Sir Lawyer, as befits, And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits."

"Your Grace knows best," the lawyer said; "On your commands I wait."

"Be silent, sir," says Brentford, "A plague upon your prate!

Come take your pen and paper, And write as I dictate."

The will as Brentford spoke it Was writ and signed and closed; He bade the lawyer leave him, And turn'd him round and dozed; And next week in the churchyard The good old King reposed.

Tom, dressed in c.r.a.pe and hatband, Of mourners was the chief; In bitter self-upbraidings Poor Edward showed his grief: Tom hid his fat white countenance In his pocket-handkerchief.

Ned's eyes were full of weeping, He falter'd in his walk; Tom never shed a tear, But onwards he did stalk, As pompous, black, and solemn As any catafalque.

And when the bones of Brentford-- That gentle King and just-- With bell and book and candle Were duly laid in dust, "Now, gentlemen," says Thomas, "Let business be discussed.

"When late our sire beloved Was taken deadly ill, Sir Lawyer, you attended him (I mean to tax your bill); And, as you signed and wrote it, I prithee read the will"

The lawyer wiped his spectacles, And drew the parchment out; And all the Brentford family Sat eager round about: Poor Ned was somewhat anxious, But Tom had ne'er a doubt.

"My son, as I make ready To seek my last long home, Some cares I have for Neddy, But none for thee, my Tom: Sobriety and order You ne'er departed from.