Their eyes would flash—their teeth would grind— Their lips would tightly curl— They’d say, “Thy way thyself must find, Thou misdirecting churl!” And, similarly, also, when He tried a foreign friend; Italians answered, “_Il balen_”— The French, “No comprehend.” The Russ would say with gleaming eye “Sevastopol!” and groan. The Greek said, “Τυπτω, τυπτομαι, Τυπτω, τυπτειν, τυπτων.” To wander thus for many a year That Crusher never ceased— The Men of London dropped a tear, Their anger was appeased. At length exploring gangs were sent To find poor FORTH’S remains— A handsome grant by Parliament Was voted for their pains. To seek the poor policeman out Bold spirits volunteered, And when they swore they’d solve the doubt, The Men of London cheered. And in a yard, dark, dank, and drear, They found him, on the floor— It leads from Richmond Buildings—near The Royalty stage-door. With brandy cold and brandy hot They plied him, starved and wet, And made him sergeant on the spot— The Men of London’s pet! BEN ALLAH ACHMET; OR, THE FATAL TUM I ONCE did know a Turkish man Whom I upon a two-pair-back met, His name it was EFFENDI KHAN BACKSHEESH PASHA BEN ALLAH ACHMET. A DOCTOR BROWN I also knew— I’ve often eaten of his bounty; The Turk and he they lived at Hooe, In Sussex, that delightful county! I knew a nice young lady there, Her name was EMILY MACPHERSON, And though she wore another’s hair, She was an interesting person. The Turk adored the maid of Hooe (Although his harem would have shocked her). But BROWN adored that maiden too: He was a most seductive doctor. They’d follow her where’er she’d go— A course of action most improper; She neither knew by sight, and so For neither of them cared a copper. BROWN did not know that Turkish male, He might have been his sainted mother: The people in this simple tale Are total strangers to each other. One day that Turk he sickened sore, And suffered agonies oppressive; He threw himself upon the floor And rolled about in pain excessive. It made him moan, it made him groan, And almost wore him to a mummy. Why should I hesitate to own That pain was in his little tummy? At length a doctor came, and rung (As ALLAH ACHMET had desired), Who felt his pulse, looked up his tongue, And hemmed and hawed, and then inquired: “Where is the pain that long has preyed Upon you in so sad a way, sir?” The Turk he giggled, blushed, and said: “I don’t exactly like to say, sir.” “Come, nonsense!” said good DOCTOR BROWN. “So this is Turkish coyness, is it? You must contrive to fight it down— Come, come, sir, please to be explicit.”