The good Tommy Moore did not know this, but, letting his warm Irish imagination run riot through a mixed bag of Eastern romancists and their works, he evolved, amid a pot pourri of impossibilities, an impossible damsel as unlike anything to be found in these parts as the celebrated elephant evolved from his inner consciousness by the German professor!

  As I traversed the main, or rolled by train,
    From my Western habitation,
  I frequently thought—­perhaps more than I ought—­
    Upon many a quiet occasion
  Of the elegant forms and manifold charms
    Of the beautiful female Asian.

  For the good Tommy Moore, in his pages of yore,
    Sang as though he could never be weary
  Of fair Nourmahal—­an adorable “gal”—­
    And of Paradise and the Peri,
  Until, I declare, I was wild to be where
    I might gaze on the lovely Kashmiri.

  Through the hot plains of Ind I fled like the wind,
    Unenchanted by mistress or ayah,
  The dusky Hindu, I soon saw, wouldn’t do,
    So I paused not, until in the sky——­Ah!—­
  Far upward arose the perpetual snows
    And the peaks of the proud Himalaya.

  But in Kashmir, alas!  I found not a lass
    Who answered to Tommy’s description—­
  For the make of such maid I am sadly afraid
    The fond parents have lost the prescription,
  And I murmured; “No doubt, the old breed has died out,
    At least such is my honest conviction.”

  In the horrible slums which form the foul homes
    Of the rag-covered dames of the city,
  I saw wrinkled hags, all wrapped in old rags,
    Whose appearance excited but pity. 
  Beyond question the word which it would be absurd
    To apply to these ladies is “pretty.”

  In the high Gujar huts were but brats and old sluts,
    These last being the plainest of women;
  Then I sought on the waters the sisters and daughters
    Of the Mangis—­those “bold, able seamen”
  (I have often been told that the Mangi is bold,
    And as brave as at least two or three men).

  One lady I saw—­I am told her papa
    In the market did forage and “gram” sell—­
  Decked all over with rings, necklets, bangles and things,
    She appeared a desirable damsel;
  And I cried “Oh, Eureka!  I’ve found what I seek: 
    Tell me quick—­Is she ‘madam’ or ’ma’mselle’?”

  It was comical, but to this question I put—­
    A remarkably innocent query—­
  I received but a sigh or evasive reply,
    Or a blush from the modest Kashmiri;
  And I gathered at last that the lady was “fast,”
    And her name should be Phryne, not Here.

  Toddled up a small tot—­her hair tied in a knot—­
    Who remarked, “I can hardly consider
  You’ve the ghost of a chance on this wild-goosie dance
    Unless you should hap on a ‘widder!’
  For our maidens at ten—­ay, and less now and then—­
    Are all booked to the wealthiest bidder.”