Old is the song that I sing— Old as my unpaid bills— Old as the chicken that kitmutgars bring Men at dak-bungalows—old as the Hills. Ahasuerus Jenkins of the “Operatic Own” Was dowered with a tenor voice of super-Santley tone. His views on equitation were, perhaps, a trifle queer; He had no seat worth mentioning, but oh! he had an ear. He clubbed his wretched company a dozen times a day, He used to quit his charger in a parabolic way, His method of saluting was the joy of all beholders, But Ahasuerus Jenkins had a head upon his shoulders. He took two months to Simla when the year was at the spring, And underneath the deodars eternally did sing. He warbled like a bulbul, but particularly at Cornelia Agrippina who was musical and fat. She controlled a humble husband, who, in turn, controlled a Dept., Where Cornelia Agrippina's human singing-birds were kept From April to October on a plump retaining fee, Supplied, of course, per mensem, by the Indian Treasury. Cornelia used to sing with him, and Jenkins used to play; He praised unblushingly her notes, for he was false as they: So when the winds of April turned the budding roses brown, Cornelia told her husband: “Tom, you mustn't send him down.” They haled him from his regiment which didn't much regret him; They found for him an office-stool, and on that stool they set him, To play with maps and catalogues three idle hours a day, And draw his plump retaining fee—which means his double pay. Now, ever after dinner, when the coffeecups are brought, Ahasuerus waileth o'er the grand pianoforte; And, thanks to fair Cornelia, his fame hath waxen great, And Ahasuerus Jenkins is a power in the State.
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