A Sombre Retrospect

Long, long ago, in that heroic time     When I, a coy and modest youth, was shot     Out on this dust-heap of careers and crime     To try and learn what's what,     I had a servitor, a swarthy knave,     Who showed an almost irreligious taste     For wearing nothing but a turban, save     A rag about the waist.     This apparition gave me such a start,     That I endowed him with a cast-off pair     Of inexpressibles, and said, 'Depart,     And be no longer bare.'     He took the offering with broken thanks;     But day succeeded day, and still revealed     Those sombre and attenuated shanks     Intensely unconcealed;     Until at last the climax came when I     Resolved to bring this matter to an end,     And when I saw him passing, shouted, 'Hi!     Where are your trousers, friend?'     Halting, he gave a deferential bow;     Then, to my horror, beamingly replied,     'Master not see? I wearing trousers now!'     I would have said he lied,     But could not. As I shaped the glowing phrase,     I looked upon his turban - looked again -     Mine own familiar pattern met my gaze,     And all the truth was plain!     Th' unhappy creature, Eastern to the core,     Holding my gift in superstitious dread,     Had made a turban out of it, and wore     His trousers - on his head!