My tale is not of these—oh no! I only mention them to show The divers gifts that divers men Brought o’er the sea to BAILEY BEN. _His Confidant_ A confidant had BAILEY B., A gay Mongolian dog was he; I am not good at Turkish names, And so I call him SIMPLE JAMES. _His Confidant’s Countenance_ A dreadful legend you might trace In SIMPLE JAMES’S honest face, For there you read, in Nature’s print, “A Scoundrel of the Deepest Tint.” _His Character_ A deed of blood, or fire, or flames, Was meat and drink to SIMPLE JAMES: To hide his guilt he did not plan, But owned himself a bad young man. _The Author to his Reader_ And why on earth good BAILEY BEN (The wisest, noblest, best of men) Made SIMPLE JAMES his right-hand man Is quite beyond my mental span. _The same_, _continued_ But there—enough of gruesome deeds! My heart, in thinking of them, bleeds; And so let SIMPLE JAMES take wing,— ’Tis not of him I’m going to sing. _The Pasha’s Clerk_ Good PASHA BAILEY kept a clerk (For BAILEY only made his mark), His name was MATTHEW WYCOMBE COO, A man of nearly forty-two. _His Accomplishments_ No person that I ever knew Could “yödel” half as well as COO, And Highlanders exclaimed, “Eh, weel!” When COO began to dance a reel. _His Kindness to the Pasha’s Wives_ He used to dance and sing and play In such an unaffected way, He cheered the unexciting lives Of PASHA BAILEY’S lovely wives. _The Author to his Reader_ But why should I encumber you With histories of MATTHEW COO? Let MATTHEW COO at once take wing,— ’Tis not of COO I’m going to sing. _The Author’s Muse_ Let me recall my wandering Muse; She _shall_ be steady if I choose— She roves, instead of helping me To tell the deeds of BAILEY B. _The Pasha’s Visitor_ One morning knocked, at half-past eight, A tall Red Indian at his gate. In Turkey, as you’re p’raps aware, Red Indians are extremely rare. _The Visitor’s Outfit_ Mocassins decked his graceful legs, His eyes were black, and round as eggs, And on his neck, instead of beads, Hung several Catawampous seeds. _What the Visitor said_ “Ho, ho!” he said, “thou pale-faced one, Poor offspring of an Eastern sun, You’ve _never_ seen the Red Man skip Upon the banks of Mississip!” _The Author’s Moderation_ To say that BAILEY oped his eyes Would feebly paint his great surprise— To say it almost made him die Would be to paint it much too high. _The Author to his Reader_