Etchings in Verse (Underhill)/Lines by a Tired City Clerk

by Andrew Findlay Underhill

LINES BY A TIRED CITY CLERK.

Enviously dedicated to King Thee-Baw of Burmah.

I am weary here, and lonely;And I wish that I could onlyBe a monarch, or a prince in Eastern land; For my life is full of worry, And I'm damned, and told to hurry;And I drive a weary quill with weary hand.

 I would be a frowning Rajah Fierce and gray as any badger,With a cimeter of crooked limber steel, And a turban turned, and twisted; And if any man resistedMy authority, I'd cleave him to the heel.

 I would lord it o'er the niggers With a pistol of two triggers,And a double-barreled blunderbuss beside; And I'd howl like old Othello, And with jealousy grow yellowWhen I pleased—and raise the devil till I died.

 I would swim in seas of slaughter, And would give no room for quarter;But would carve, and stab my victims in the neck; And the corpse of each objector I would give to the dissector;For of human life I'd make a total wreck.

 I would pay no bills of tailors; But would have just twenty sailorsTo swear at every tradesman that came in; And behind them fifty slashers, Ten clubbers, and six gashersTo finish out this bill of fare of sin.

 I would be a holy terror— Or I'm very much in error—To the mothers that are called the ones "in law," And my sixteen wives' relations I'd put on salted rations,And lock them in a dungeon cold and raw.

 I would have an hundred horses, And would spend the realm's resourcesUpon drinks of every clime and every age. By Bacchus, how I'd go it! Steeped in rum, I'd be a poetAnd rhyme in wrathful rhapsodies of rage.

 Then, Allah ila Allah! Let the Norseman have Valhalla;But for me, I'll take the rare and racy East. For, by the bearded prophet! This life I live is Tophet,And a clerk is but a slave, to say the least.