THE STORY OF PRINCE AGIB

                    by W. S. Gilbert


Strike the concertina's melancholy string!
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!
     Let the piano's martial blast
     Rouse the echoes of the past,
For of AGIB, Prince of Tartary, I sing!

Of AGIB, who, amid Tartaric scenes,
Wrote a lot of ballet-music in his teens:
     His gentle spirit rolls
     In the melody of souls--
Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.

Of AGIB, who could readily, at sight,
Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.
     He would diligently play
     On the Zoetrope all day,
And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.

One winter--I am shaky in my dates--
Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;
     Oh, Allah be obeyed,
     How infernally they played!
I remember that they called themselves the "Ouaits "

Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
     Photographically lined
     On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!

Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in;
Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin;
     And when (as snobs would say)
     They had "put it all away,"
He requested them to tune up and begin.

Though its icy horror chill you to the core,
I will tell you what I never told before--
     The consequences true
     Of that awful interview,
For I listened at the keyhole in the door!

They played him a sonata--let me see!
"Medulla oblongata"--key of G.
     Then they began to sing
     That extremely lovely thing,
"Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp.

He gave them money, more than they could count,
Scent from a most ingenious little fount,
     More beer in little kegs,
     Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,
And goodies to a fabulous amount.

Now follows the dim horror of my tale,
And I feel I'm growing gradually pale;
     For even at this day,
     Though its sting has passed away,
When I venture to remember it, I quail!

The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,
All-overish it made me for to feel.
     "O Prince," he says, says he,
     "If a Prince indeed you be,
I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!

"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,
To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:
     No 'Ouaits' in truth are we,
     As you fancy that we be,
For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK--this is BETH!"

Said AGIB, "Oh! accursed of your kind,
I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"
     BETH gave a dreadful shriek--
     But before he'd time to speak
I was mercilessly collared from behind.

In number ten or twelve, or even more,
They fastened me, full length, upon the floor.
     On my face extended flat,
     I was walloped with a cat,
For listening at the keyhole of a door.

Oh! the horror of that agonising thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still.)
     For a week from ten to four
     I was fastened to the floor,
While a mercenary wopped me with a will!

They branded me and broke me on a wheel,
And they left me in a hospital to heal;
     And, upon my solemn word,
     I have never, never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.

But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
     Photographically lined
     On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!