I Am the Ancient Aryan,
And you have done me wrong--
I did not come from Hindostan,
I've been here all along.
I never travelled from the East
In huge successive waves.
You'll find your ancestors deceased
Inside your own old caves.
There my remains may now be sought,
Mixed up with mastodons,
Which very long with flints I fought
Before I fought with bronze.
In simple skins I wrapped me round,
Ere mats I learned to make;
I dug my dwellings in the ground,
Or reared them on a lake.
I had no pen--I'm sure of this,
Although you say I penned
All manner of theologies
In Sanskrit and in Zend!
My nature you've misunderstood.
When first I sojourned here,
I worshipped chunks of stone or wood,
My rites were rather queer!
The more my little ways you scan
The less you'll care to praise
And bless the dear old Aryan
Of Neolithic days.
They've mixed me up, till I declare
I hardly can report
Whether I first was tall and fair
Or I was dark and short.
But on two things I take my stand,
Through all their noise and strife,
I didn't come from Asia; and
I _had_ no Higher Life!
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[Illustration: THE TIP OBLIQUE.
_Verger_ (_to over-generous Visitor_). "I BEG YOUR PARDON, SIR. NO
GRATUITIES--ER--AT PRESENT. BUT--ER--THE DEAN WILL HAVE PASSED IN TWO
MINUTES, SIR!"]
* * * * *