I state these truths, exactly why The reader knows as well as I; They've nothing in the world to do With what I hope we're coming to If Pegasus be good enough To move when he has stood enough. Egad! his ribs I would examine Had I a sharper spur than famine, Or even with that if 'twould incline To examine his instead of mine. Where was I? Ah, that silent man Who dwelt one time in Ispahan— He had a name—was known to all As Meerza Solyman Zingall. There lived afar in Astrabad, A man the world agreed was mad, So wickedly he broke his joke Upon the heads of duller folk, So miserly, from day to day, He gathered up and hid away In vaults obscure and cellars haunted What many worthy people wanted, A stingy man!—the tradesmen's palms Were spread in vain: 'I give no alms Without inquiry'—so he'd say, And beat the needy duns away. The bastinado did, 'tis true, Persuade him, now and then, a few Odd tens of thousands to disburse To glut the taxman's hungry purse, But still, so rich he grew, his fear Was constant that the Shah might hear. (The Shah had heard it long ago, And asked the taxman if 'twere so, Who promptly answered, rather airish, The man had long been on the parish.) The more he feared, the more he grew A cynic and a miser, too, Until his bitterness and pelf Made him a terror to himself; Then, with a razor's neckwise stroke, He tartly cut his final joke. So perished, not an hour too soon, The wicked Muley Ben Maroon. From Astrabad to Ispahan At camel speed the rumor ran That, breaking through tradition hoar, And throwing all his kinsmen o'er, The miser'd left his mighty store Of gold—his palaces and lands— To needy and deserving hands (Except a penny here and there To pay the dervishes for prayer.) 'Twas known indeed throughout the span Of earth, and into Hindostan, That our beloved mute was the Residuary legatee. The people said 'twas very well, And each man had a tale to tell Of how he'd had a finger in 't By dropping many a friendly hint At Astrabad, you see. But ah, They feared the news might reach the Shah! To prove the will the lawyers bore 't Before the Kadi's awful court, Who nodded, when he heard it read, Confirmingly his drowsy head, Nor thought, his sleepiness so great, Himself to gobble the estate. 'I give,' the dead had writ, 'my all To Meerza Solyman Zingall Of Ispahan. With this estate I might quite easily create Ten thousand ingrates, but I shun Temptation and create but one, In whom the whole unthankful crew The rich man's air that ever drew To fat their pauper lungs I fire Vicarious with vain desire! From foul Ingratitude's base rout I pick this hapless devil out, Bestowing on him all my lands, My treasures, camels, slaves and bands Of wives—I give him all this loot, And throw my blessing in to boot. Behold, O man, in this bequest Philanthropy's long wrongs redressed: To speak me ill that man I dower With fiercest will who lacks the power. Allah il Allah! now let him bloat With rancor till his heart's afloat, Unable to discharge the wave Upon his benefactor's grave!' Forth in their wrath the people came And swore it was a sin and shame To trick their blessed mute; and each Protested, serious of speech, That though he'd long foreseen the worst He'd been against it from the first.
