The Wit and Humor of America Volume IX Part 22

BY GEORGE THOMAS LANIGAN

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 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 earthy walls his frame surround (Forever hallowed be 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!

THE CONSCIENTIOUS CURATE AND THE BEAUTEOUS BALLET GIRL

BY WILLIAM RUSSELL ROSE

Young William was a curate good, Who to himself did say: "I cawn't denounce the stage as vile Until I've seen a play."

He was so con-sci-en-ti-ous That, when the play he sought, To grasp its entire wickedness A front row seat he bought.

_'Twas in the burlesque, you know, the burlesque of "Prince Prettypate, or the Fairy m.u.f.fin Ring," and when the ballet came on, that good young curate met his fate. She, too, was in the front row, and--_

She danced like this, she danced like that, Her feet seemed everywhere; They scarcely touched the floor at all But twinkled in the air.

She _entrechat_, her fairy _pas_ Filled William with delight; She whirled around, his heart did bound-- 'Twas true love at first sight.

He sought her out and married her; Of course, she left the stage, And in his daily parish work With William did engage.

She helped him in his parish school, Where ragged urchins go, And all the places on the map She'd point out with her toe.

_And when William gently remonstrated with her, she only said: "William, when I married you I gave you my hand--my feet are still my own."_

She'd point like this, she'd point like that, The scholars she'd entrance-- "This, children, is America; And this, you see, is France.

"A highland here, an island there, 'Round which the waters roll; And this is Pa-ta-go-ni-ah, And this is the frozen Pole."

Young William's bishop called one day, But found the curate out, And so he told the curate's wife What he had come about

"Your merit William oft to me Most highly doth extol; I trust, my dear, you always try To elevate the soul."

_Then William's wife made the bishop a neat little curtsey, and gently said: "Oh, yes, your Grace, I always do--in my own peculiar way."_

She danced like this, she danced like that, The bishop looked aghast; He could not see her mazy skirts, They switched around so fast.

She tripped it here, she skipped it there, The bishop's eyes did roll-- "G.o.d bless me! 'tis a pleasant way To elevate the sole!"

THE HOSS

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

The hoss he is a splendud beast; He is man's friend, as heaven desined, And, search the world from west to east, No honester you'll ever find!

Some calls the hoss "a pore dumb brute,"

And yit, like Him who died fer you, I say, as I theyr charge refute, "'Fergive; they know not what they do!'"

No wiser animal makes tracks Upon these earthly sh.o.r.es, and hence Arose the axium, true as facts, Extoled by all, as "Good hoss-sense!"

The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th,-- You hitch him up a time er two And lash him, and he'll go his len'th And kick the dashboard out fer you!

But, treat him allus good and kind, And never strike him with a stick, Ner aggervate him, and you'll find He'll never do a hostile trick.

A hoss whose master tends him right And worters him with daily care, Will do your biddin' with delight, And act as docile as _you_ air.

He'll paw and prance to hear your praise, Because he's learn't to love you well; And, though you can't tell what he says, He'll nicker all he wants to tell.

He knows you when you slam the gate At early dawn, upon your way Unto the barn, and snorts elate, To git his corn, er oats, er hay.

He knows you, as the orphant knows The folks that loves her like theyr own, And raises her and "finds" her clothes, And "schools" her tel a womern-grown!

I claim no hoss will harm a man, Ner kick, ner run away, cavort, Stump-suck, er balk, er "catamaran,"

Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort.

But when I see the beast abused, And clubbed around as I've saw some, I want to see his owner noosed, And jest yanked up like Absolum!

Of course they's differunce in stock,-- A hoss that has a little yeer, And slender build, and shaller hock, Can beat his shadder, mighty near!

Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist And big in leg and full in flank, That tries to race, I still insist He'll have to take the second rank.

And I have jest laid back and laughed, And rolled and wallered in the gra.s.s At fairs, to see some heavy-draft Lead out at _first_, yit come in _last_!

Each hoss has his appinted place,-- The heavy hoss should plow the soil;-- The blooded racer, he must race, And win big wages fer his toil.