  Abdulla Bey—a Pasha—had A turn for joy and merriment: You never caught him looking sad, Nor glowering in discontent. His normal attitude was one Of calm, serene placidity; His nature gay, and full of fun, And free from all acidity. A trifling instance I'll relate Of Pasha Bey's urbanity, The which will clearly indicate His marvellous humanity. He had a dozen wives or so (In him no immorality; For Eastern custom, as you know, Permits, of wives, plurality). Abdulla had, and for a while No sound was heard of strife or war Within Abdulla's domicile. But, oh! how rare it is to find A dozen ladies who'll consent To think as with a single mind, And live together in content. Abdulla's wives—altho', no doubt, If taken individually, Would never think of falling out,— Collectively, could not agree. At first, in quite a playful way, They quarrelled—rather prettily; Then cutting things contrived to say About each other wittily; Then petty jealousies and sneers Began,—just feeble flickerings— Which grew, alas! to bitter tears, And fierce domestic bickerings. Of course not—so you cannot know The grave discomfort in their lives These Pashas sometimes undergo. Abdulla Bey, however, he Was not the one to be dismayed, And doubtless you'll astounded be To hear what wisdom he displayed. He did not—as some would have done— Seek angry ladies to coerce; He did not use to any one Expressions impolite—or worse. He stood those ladies in a row, And said, "My dears, don't take amiss What I'm about to say, you know. "I find you cannot, like the birds, Within your little nest agree, So I'll unfold, in briefest words, A plan which has occurred to me. "These quarrellings, these manners lax, In comfort means a loss for us, So I must tie you up in sacks And throw you in the Bosphorus." Then Pasha Bey, I beg to state, Did not seek sympathy to win By posing as disconsolate. He mourned a week; and then, they say (A Pasha is, of course, a catch), Our friend, the good Abdulla Bey, Got married to another batch.
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