To instruct a brainy brat in Canine or colloquial Latin _May_ be wise; But it’s not an education As a fruitful speculation I’d advise.
French? All elegance equips it, But how oft on foreign lips it Runs awry; German, tainted, execrated, Is for ages relegated To the sty.
As for brand-new tongues invented By professors discontented With the old, Well, the prospect of a “panto” Played and sung in Esperanto Leaves me cold.
(_Lines suggested by an Australian aboriginal place-name commonly known by its last syllable._)
Fine names are found upon the map— Kanturk and Chirk and Cong, Grogtown and Giggleswick and Shap, Chowbent and Chittagong; But other places, less renowned, In richer euphony abound Than the familiar throng; For instance, there is Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.
In childhood’s days I took delight In LEAR’S immortal Dong, Whose nose was luminously bright, Who sang a silvery song. He did not terrify the birds With strange and unpropitious words Of double-edged _ontong_; I’m sure he hailed from Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.
_Prince Giglio’s_ bag, the fairy’s gift, Helped him to right the wrong, Encouraged diligence and thrift, And “opened with a pong”; But though its magic powers were great It could not quite ejaculate A word so proud and strong And beautiful as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.
I crave no marble pleasure-dome, No forks with golden prong; Like HORACE, in a frugal home I’d gladly rub along, Contented with the humblest cot Or shack or hut, if it had got A name like Billabong, Or, better still, like Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.
Sweet is the music of the spheres, Majestic is Mong Blong, And bland the beverage that cheers, Called Sirupy Souchong; But sweeter, more inspiring far Than tea or peak or tuneful star I deem it to belong To such a place as Beeyah-byyah-bunniga-nelliga-jong.
BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND
End of Project Gutenberg's Lauds and libels, by Charles Larcom Graves