Part 145 (1/2)

III

His rival, but in what?

Wherein did the deceased Akhoond of Swat Kotal's lamented Moolla late, As it were, emulate?

Was it in the tented field With crash of sword on s.h.i.+eld, While backward meaner champions reeled And loud the tom-tom pealed?

Did they barter gash for scar With the Persian scimetar Or the Afghanistee tulwar, While loud the tom-tom pealed-- While loud the tom-tom pealed, And the jim-jam squealed, And champions less well heeled Their war-horses wheeled And fled the presence of these mortal big bugs o' the field?

Was Kotal's proud citadel-- Bastioned, walled, and demi-luned, Beaten down with shot and sh.e.l.l By the guns of the Akhoond?

Or were wails despairing caught, as The burghers pale of Swat Cried in panic, ”Moolla ad Portas?”

--Or what?

Or made each in the cabinet his mark Kotalese Gortschakoff, Swattish Bismarck?

Did they explain and render hazier The policies of Central Asia?

Did they with speeches from the throne, Wars dynastic, _Entents cordiales_, Between Swat and Kotal; Holy alliances, And other appliances Of statesmen with morals and consciences plastic Come by much more than their own?

Made they mots, as ”There to-day is No more Himalayehs,”

Or, if you prefer it, ”There to-day are No more Himalaya?”

Or, said the Akhoond, ”Sah, L'Etat de Swat c'est moi?”

Khabu, did there come great fear On thy Khabuldozed Ameer Ali Shere?

Or did the Khan of far Kashgar Tremble at the menace hot Of the Moolla of Kotal, ”I will extirpate thee, pal Of my foe the Akhoond of Swat?”

Who knows Of Moolla and Akhoond aught more than I did?

Namely, in life they rivals were, or foes, And in their deaths not very much divided?

If any one knows it, Let him disclose it!

_George Thomas Lanigan._

THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE

A street there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Pet.i.ts Champs its name is-- The New Street of the Little Fields.

And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.

This Bouillabaisse a n.o.ble dish is-- A sort of soup, or broth, or brew, Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes, That Greenwich never could outdo: Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron, Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace: All these you eat at Terre's tavern In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.

Indeed, a rich and savoury stew 'tis; And true philosophers, methinks, Who love all sorts of natural beauties, Should love good victuals and good drinks.

And Cordelier or Benedictine Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace, Nor find a fast-day too afflicting, Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.

I wonder if the house still there is?

Yes, here the lamp is, as before; The smiling red-cheeked _ecaillere_ is Still opening oysters at the door.

Is Terre still alive and able?

I recollect his droll grimace: He'd come and smile before your table, And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.

We enter--nothing's changed or older.

”How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?”

The waiter stares, and shrugs his shoulder-- ”Monsieur is dead this many a day.”