Rudyard Kipling

Alnaschar

              1 

So runs the telegram. Prepare
      The fatted calf—the firstling slay!
Wife of my Soul! Our meagre fare 
      Shall be a Persian feast today.
The Widow's vintage must be poured
This night above our humble board.

              2 

Bring forth the Bank-book—let us con 
      The total of our savings small.
Draw draughts the London branch upon; 
      Tomorrow we remit it all.
There is a tide—but no one knows
How soon it ebbs—how far it flows.

              3 

Methinks there is a suaver touch,
      A blander influence o'er the Earth;
The pauper East from Prome to Cutch
      Is radiant with returning mirth. 
The very sky that hems us in,
Beams with a fine financial grin.  

              4 

The fervid Sun seems almost kind,
      My evening mutton almost tender;
Yea, at this moment, I could find
      Heart to believe my spouse is—slender.
Long vistas of enormous wealth 
Confront me as I drink her health. 

              5 

Now Thomas Timpkins—he my son, 
      A lad of rare and curious parts—
Shall blossom as the seasons run 
      Into a Bachelor of Arts.
Oxford in after years shall claim
A share of his illustrious name.

              6 

Amelia—Yes—a ladies' school
      At Brighton. Then, a year or twain
At Paris under Convent rule— 
      Then to her parents' arms again.
And last—Oh joy for us and her!—
Wife of a full Commissioner.

              7 

And—let me see—my leave next year 
      Is due. I really think we might—
Eh, Mrs Timpkins?—save a clear
      Three thou . . .
            The Clicquot's finished quite.
Alas! To think so poor am I—
A penny sets me leaping high!