A Threnody

WHAT, what, what,

What's the news from Swat?

Sad news,

Bad news,

Comes by the cable led

Through the Indian Ocean's bed,

Through the Persian Gulf, the Red

Sea and the Med-

Iterranean -- he's dead;

The Ahkoond is dead!

Dead, dead, dead!

Sorrow, Swats!

Swats wha' hae wi' Ahkoond bled,

Swats whom he had often led

Onward to a gory bed,

Or to victory,

As the case might be.

Sorrow, Swats!

Tears shed,

Shed tears like water,

Your great Ahkoond is dead!

That Swat's the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat!

Your great Ahkoond is not,

But lain 'mid worms to rot:

His mortal part alone, his soul was caught

(Because he was a good Ahkoond)

Up to the bosom of Mahound.

Though earthly walls his frame surround

(For ever hallowed be the ground!)

And sceptics mock the lowly mound

And say, `He's now of no Ahkound!'

(His soul is in the skies!)

The azure skies that bend above his loved

Metropolis of Swat

He sees with larger, other eyes,

Athwart all earthly mysteries --

He knows what's Swat.

Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond

With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!

Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond

With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!

Fallen is at length

Its tower of strength,

Its sun had dimmed ere it had nooned:

Dead lies the great Ahkoond.

The great Ahkoond of Swat

Is not.

George T. Lanigan