"_Festina lente_, sir. Reflecting on said petition, I deemed the circs. worthy of more formal commemoration than perfunctory acknowledgement. Wherefore and accordingly I scorn delights and live laborious days in inditing few lines pat to the occasion, which with august permission I will now proceed to chuck off chest." The two girls made suspicious use of their handkerchiefs; Joe Browne kicked Ferrier under the table; and Oliver, choking over his coffee, accused Mr. Halliday of smoking very strong cigars. John and the elder members of the party preserved their gravity, though it was in a curiously constrained tone that John asked the Bengali to favour the company. With a smile of gratification Said Mohammed unrolled a scroll of paper, and, looking round to make sure that every one was attending, began in his high-pitched voice-- Hear me tell a moving story, chronicled in lofty rhyme, Redolent of stripling’s glory, monument to end of time. Idol of my veneration, you I celebrate in song; Ornament of British nation, you I crack up, hot and strong. To begin at the beginning: When one day, at usual pace, Our oblate spheroid was spinning through an awful lot of space, You, an up-to-date Orion, Enfield rifle in your hand, Did for most obnoxious lion, holy terror in the land. Next, predaceous gang, Swahilis--Juma, if you please, and Co.,-- Prowling, slippery as eel is, on the rampage to and fro, Depredated native village, spreading woe and dire alarm, Then for more important pillage fell like ton of bricks on farm. Faithful servant, Said Mohammed, feeling anything but bold, Like a bleating orphan lamb hid, sniffing wolves within the fold; While despoilers collared rifles, ammunition, shell and shot; Item, sundry piffling trifles which the poet has forgot. Minions of a base levanter, villains of the deepest dye,-- You are after them instanter, lightning flashing from your eye; Swoop upon them in their slumbers, catch them fairly on the hop, Though inferior in numbers, smite them hip and thigh and crop. Terrified by dire disaster, they make hurry-scurry flight. Yoicks! our whipper-in goes faster, helter-skelter day and night, Till dark citadel is sighted, wall-encircled, likewise moat. Is prodigious effort blighted? Not at all: we simply gloat. Roberts’ grit and Cæsar’s clear eye--honestly, you have them both. ’Fas est ab hoste doceri,’ august Roman general quoth: Taking leaf from book of Juma, you perpended ruse de guerre, And with dodgy slimness you manoeuvred brigands from their lair. Penned within restricted compass, you repel the fierce attack, Calm amid most awful rumpus: things are looking very black. Lo! in thickest of the slaughter, one sees chance of chipping in, And with can of boiling water stems the tide and scores a win.