There was a man in our town,
Half beggar, half rapscallion,
Who, just because his eyes were brown,
Was thought to be Italian:
And, though with much insistence
He said that people erred,
And bitterly to Italy
He frequently referred,
The false report, as is the way
Of false reports, had come to stay!
So every one who’d been to Rome
By aid of Cook’s or Gaze’s,
Would call upon him at home
To flaunt Italian phrases.
“Capite Questa lingua?”
The inquiry would be:
“Pochissimo? Benissimo!
Vi prego, ditemi,
Siete voi contento qua,
Lontano dall’ Italia?”
The victim, plunged in deep disgust,
Grew nervous, could not slumber;
Said he, “I’m called Italian, just
Because my eyes are umber,
And if this persecution
Is ever to be stopped,
Some stern and stoic, hard, heroic
Course I must adopt!”
And so, to everyone’s surprise,
He calmly scratched out both his eyes!
The neighbors said: “So strange a thing
Might seem to be an omen.
We thought his wits were wandering,
But now we know they’re Roman!”
And so at him by legions,
By bevies, hosts, and herds,
Professors, purists, tramps, and tourists
Screamed Italian words.
Perceiving all he’d done was vain,
He scratched his eyesight in again.
The moral: If your neighbors say
You’re one thing or another,
You’ll find there isn’t any way
Their predudice to smother.
What matter if they think you
From Italy or Greece?
I beg you, treasure no displeasure:
Bow and hold your peace.
Like Omar, underneath the bow
You’ll find there’s paradise enow!