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The Story of Prince Agib

Strike the concertina's melancholy string!
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!
Let the piano's martial blast
Rouse the echoes of the past,
For of AGIB, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

Of AGIB, who, amid Tartaric scenes,
Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:
His gentle spirit rolls
In the melody of souls —
Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.

Of AGIB, who could readily, at sight,
Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.
He would diligently play
On the Zoetrope all day,
And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter — I am shaky in my dates —
Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;
Oh, Allah be obeyed,
How infernally they played!
I remember that they called themselves the "Oüaits "

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in; Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin; And when (as snobs would say) They had "put it all away," He requested them to tune up and begin. Though its icy horror chill you to the core, I will tell you what I never told before — The consequences true Of that awful interview, For I listened at the keyhole in the door! They played him a sonata — let me see! "Medulla oblongata" — key of G. Then they began to sing That extremely lovely thing, "Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."

He gave them money, more than they could count, Scent from a most ingenious little fount, More beer in little kegs, Many dozen hard-boiled eggs, And goodies to a fabulous amount. Now follows the dim horror of my tale, And I feel I'm growing gradually pale; For even at this day, Though its sting has passed away, When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,
All-overish it made me for to feel.
"O Prince," he says, says he,
"If a Prince indeed you be,
I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death, To what the gent who's speaking to you saith: No 'Oüaits' in truth are we, As you fancy that we be, For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK — this is BETH!" Said AGIB, "Oh! accursed of your kind, I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!" BETH gave a dreadful shriek — But before he'd time to speak I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more,
They fastened me, full length, upon the floor.
On my face extended flat,
I was walloped with a cat,
For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonising thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still.)
For a week from ten to four
I was fastened to the floor,
While a mercenary wopped me with a will!

They branded me and broke me on a wheel,
And they left me in a hospital to heal;
And, upon my solemn word,
I have never, never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!

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