The Jester Condemned to Death by Horace Smith

The Jester Condemned to Death

by Horace Smith

One of the Kings of Scanderoon,

A royal jester,

Had in his train a gross buffoon,

Who used to pester

The court with tricks inopportune,

Venting on the highest folks his

Scurvy pleasantries and hoaxes.

It needs some sense to play the fool;

Which wholesome rule

Occurr'd not to our jackanapes,

Who consequently found his freaks

Lead to innumerable scrapes,

And quite as many kicks and tweaks,

Which only seem'd to make him faster

Try the patience of his master.

Some sin at last, beyond all measure,

Incurr'd the desperate displeasure

Of his serene and raging highness:

Whether the wag had twitch'd his beard,

Which he was bound to have revered,

Or had intruded on the shyness

Of the seraglio, or let fly

An epigram at royalty,

None knows—his sin was an occult one;

But records tell us that the sultan,

Meaning to terrify the knave,

Exclaim'd—“'Tis time to stop that breath;

Thy doom is seal'd;—presumptuous slave!

Thou stand'st condemn'd to certain death

Silence, base rebel!—no replying!—

But such is my indulgence still,

That, of my own free grace and will,

I leave to thee the mode of dying.”

“Thy royal will be done—'tis just,”

Replied the wretch, and kiss'd the dust;

“Since, my last moments to assuage,

Your majesty's humane decree

Has deign'd to leave the choice to me,

I'll die, so please you, of old age.”