Volume 156 — TO AN EGYPTIAN BOY.

Child of the gorgeous East, whose ardent suns Have kissed thy velvet skin to deeper lustre And given thine almond eyes A look more calm and wise Than any we pale Westerners can muster, Alas! my mean intelligence affords No clue to grasp the meaning of the words Which vehemently from thy larynx leap. How is it that the liquid language runs? "Nai—soring—trîf—erwonbi— aster—ferish—îp." E'en so, methinks, did CLEOPATRA WOO Her vanquished victor, couched on scented roses, And PHARAOH from his throne With more imperious tone Addressed in some such terms rebellious MOSES; And esoteric priests in Theban shrines, Their ritual conned from hieroglyphic signs, Thus muttered incantations dark and deep To Isis and Osiris, Thoth and Shu: "Nai—soring—trîf—erwonbi— aster—ferish—îp." In all my youthful studies why was this Left out? What tutor shall I blame my folly on? From Sekhet-Hetepu Return to mortal view, O shade of BRUGSCH or MARIETTE or CHAMPOLLION; Expound the message latent in his speech Or send a clearer medium, I beseech; For lo! I listen till I almost weep For anguish at the priceless gems I miss: "Nai—soring—trîf—erwonbi— aster—ferish—îp." To sundry greenish orbs arranged on trays— Unripe, unluscious fruit—he draws attention. My mind, till now so dark, Receives a sudden spark That glows and flames to perfect comprehension; And I, whom no Rosetta Stone assists, Become the peer of Egyptologists, From whom exotic tongues no secrets keep; For this is what the alien blighter says: "Nice orang'; three for one piastre; very cheap."

When a dear little lady from Lancashire Came to London to act as a bank cashier, And asked, "Is it true 1 + 1 = 2?" They thought they'd revert to a man cashier.