  Long, long ago, in that heroic time When I, a coy and modest youth, was shot Out on this dust-heap of careers and crime To try and learn what's what, I had a servitor, a swarthy knave, Who showed an almost irreligious taste For wearing nothing but a turban, save A rag about the waist. This apparition gave me such a start, That I endowed him with a cast-off pair Of inexpressibles, and said, 'Depart, And be no longer bare.' He took the offering with broken thanks; But day succeeded day, and still revealed Those sombre and attenuated shanks Intensely unconcealed; Until at last the climax came when I Resolved to bring this matter to an end, And when I saw him passing, shouted, 'Hi! Where are your trousers, friend?' Halting, he gave a deferential bow; Then, to my horror, beamingly replied, 'Master not see? I wearing trousers now!' I would have said he lied, But could not. As I shaped the glowing phrase, I looked upon his turban—looked again— Mine own familiar pattern met my gaze, And all the truth was plain! Th' unhappy creature, Eastern to the core, Holding my gift in superstitious dread, Had made a turban out of it, and wore His trousers—on his head! |
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