Laughable Lyrics eBook

This eBook from the Gutenberg Project consists of approximately 29 pages of information about Laughable Lyrics.

    And the Quangle Wangle said
        To himself on the Crumpetty Tree,
    “When all these creatures move
        What a wonderful noise there’ll be!”
    And at night by the light of the Mulberry moon
    They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon,
    On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree,
    And all were as happy as happy could be,
      With the Quangle Wangle Quee.

THE CUMMERBUND.  An Indian Poem.


She sate upon her Dobie,
    To watch the Evening Star,
And all the Punkahs, as they passed,
    Cried, “My! how fair you are!”
Around her bower, with quivering leaves,
    The tall Kamsamahs grew,
And Kitmutgars in wild festoons
    Hung down from Tchokis blue.


Below her home the river rolled
    With soft meloobious sound,
Where golden-finned Chuprassies swam,
    In myriads circling round. 
Above, on tallest trees remote
    Green Ayahs perched alone,
And all night long the Mussak moan’d
    Its melancholy tone.


And where the purple Nullahs threw
    Their branches far and wide,
And silvery Goreewallahs flew
    In silence, side by side,
The little Bheesties’ twittering cry
    Rose on the flagrant air,
And oft the angry Jampan howled
    Deep in his hateful lair.


She sate upon her Dobie,
    She heard the Nimmak hum,
When all at once a cry arose,
    “The Cummerbund is come!”
In vain she fled:  with open jaws
    The angry monster followed,
And so (before assistance came)
    That Lady Fair was swollowed.


They sought in vain for even a bone
    Respectfully to bury;
They said, “Hers was a dreadful fate!”
    (And Echo answered, “Very.”)
They nailed her Dobie to the wall,
    Where last her form was seen,
And underneath they wrote these words,
    In yellow, blue, and green: 
“Beware, ye Fair!  Ye Fair, beware! 
    Nor sit out late at night,
Lest horrid Cummerbunds should come,
    And swollow you outright.”

Note.—­First published in Times of India, Bombay, July, 1874.


    Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of swat
    Is he tall or short, or dark or fair? 
    Does he sit on a stool or a sofa or chair, or squat,
                                                       The Akond of Swat?

    Is he wise or foolish, young or old? 
    Does he drink his soup and his coffee cold, or hot,
                                                       The Akond of Swat?

    Does he sing or whistle, jabber or talk,
    And when riding abroad does he gallop or walk, or trot,
                                                       The Akond of Swat?

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Laughable Lyrics from Project Gutenberg. Public domain.
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