"Sahib Ghur me hi?"—"Is Mr. A. within?"
Exclaimed the master and his squire at once,
"Hum poochinga," cried Cerberus, with a grin.
"Here, take my card," roared Tom,—"the man's a dunce!"
Then, waiting full ten minutes in the sun's
O'erpowering influ'nce, counting every throb
That beat upon his brain, the brute returns,
Throws back the portals that keep out the mob,
And with stentorian bawl, proclaims a Bar ke Sahib!
A hundred menials posted at the door,
Demand his name, as, mounting up the flight
Of steps he strides, and proudly march before
To shew the way—'Twas an appalling sight.
But on he bounds, exerting all his might.
Brandishing a red handkerchief to dry
The dew-drops clustering with effulgence bright
On his carnation brow.—His heart beat high
As the exalted chieftain he was drawing nigh.
Now through a spacious dining-room they go,
Where one long table and four dozen chairs
Are seen, and twelve large globe lamps, hanging low.
And in each corner a zepoy, which bears
An Indian shade—while a long punkah stares
The Griffin in the face. Their journey's end.
The study of the great Qui hi, appears;
The door is opened—Jemmadars low bend
Their well-oiled, pliant backs, and usher in—our friend.
There seated, was a most cadav'rous figure,
With sallow visage, long and wrinkled too,
A large hooked nose, and twinkling eyes—no bigger
Than gooseberries, with just their greenish hue;
His spindle shanks were twined with treble screw;
And the thin hoary honours of his head
Fell long and lank, and scraped into a queue;
His clothes might o'er him and his wife have spread,
And shoes of red nankeen he wore—stitched with white thread.
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SIR CHARLES D'OYLEY.