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

THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL"

'Twas on the shores that round our coast

From Deal to Ramsgate span,

That I found alone on a piece of stone

An elderly naval man.

His hair was weedy, his beard was long,

And weedy and long was he,

And I heard this wight on the shore recite,
In a singular minor key:

"Oh, I am a cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

And he shook his fists and he tore his hair,

Till I really felt afraid,

For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, And so I simply said:

Oh, elderly man, it's little I know

Of the duties of men of the sea, And I'll eat my hand if I understand How you can possibly be

At once a cook, and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which
Is a trick all seamen larn,

And having got rid of a thumping quid,
He spun this painful yarn:

""Twas in the good ship Nancy Bell
That we sailed to the Indian Sea,
And there on a reef we come to grief,
Which has often occurred to me.

And pretty nigh all the crew was drowned

(There was seventy-seven o' soul),

And only ten of the Nancy's men

Said 'here' to the muster-roll.

There was me and the cook and the captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,

And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite,

And the crew of the captain's gig.

For a month we'd neither wittles nor drink,

Till a-hungry we did feel,

So we drawed a lot, and accordin' shot

The captain for our meal.

"The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate,
And a delicate dish he made;

Then our appetite with the midshipmite
We seven survivors stayed.

"And then we murdered the bos'un tight,
And he much resembled pig;

Then we wittled free, did the cook and me,
On the crew of the captain's gig.

"Then only the cook and me was left,
And the delicate question, 'Which
Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose,
And we argued it out as sich.

"For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, And the cook he worshipped me;

But we'd both be blowed if we'd either be stowed In the other chap's hold, you see.

"I'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom.

'Yes, that,' says I, 'you'll be,

I'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I.
And Exactly so,' quoth he.

"Says he, 'Dear James, to murder me
Were a foolish thing to do,

For don't you see that you can't cook me,
While I can and will cook you!'

"So he boils the water, and takes the salt

And the pepper in portions true

(Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, And some sage and parsley too.

"Come here,' says he, with a proper pride,

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Which his smiling features tell,

"Twill soothing be if I let you see

How extremely nice you'll smell.'

And he stirred it round and round and round,

And he sniffed at the foaming froth;

When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals In the scum of the boiling broth.

"And I eat that cook in a week or less,

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The last of his chops, why, I almost drops,

For a vessel in sight I see.

And I never larf, and I never smile,
And I never lark or play,

But sit and croak, and a single joke
I have, which is to say:

"Oh, I am a cook and a captain bold,
And the mate of the Nancy brig,
And a bos'un tight, and a midshipmite,
And the crew of the captain's gig."

William S. Gilbert

WIDOW MACSHANE

Near ould Skibbereen, in the gim of the owshun,
The spaker was born, in a quare-lookin' place,
Where pigs and a cow were in full locomowshun,
And six other childers were shlapein' in pace.

I cannot say mooch for me father's exthraction,
Because, do ye see, he was born in the bogs;
But as for me mother, be double transaction,

She loved the ould chap and the rest of the hogs.

'Twas joost as I enter'd this wurruld of slaughter,
Me father looked up from his sate be the wall;
Says he, "Me swate Bridget, pray how is our daughter?"
Says she, "Ye ould fool, it's no daughter at all!”

"Och murther an' turf!" he exclaim'd, in a passion,
And struck wid his fist on the top of his knee;
His ancient dudheen in the corner went smashin',
And all on account of perverseness in me!

"Ye red-lookin' thafe!" says the gintle ould sinner, Adthressing his illigant languidge to me,

""Tis a nice-lookin' mout that ye have for a dinner!" But I was too spacheless his maneing to see.