As I left the Halls at Lumley, rose the vision of a comelyMaid last season worshipped dumbly, watched with fervor from afar;And I wondered idly, blindly, if the maid would greet me kindly.That was all—the rest was settled by the clinking tonga-bar.Yea, my life and hers were coupled by the tonga coupling-bar.For my misty meditation, at the second changin'-station,Suffered sudden dislocation, fled before the tuneless jarOf a Wagner obbligato, scherzo, doublehand staccato,Played on either pony's saddle by the clacking tonga-bar—Played with human speech, I fancied, by the jigging, jolting bar.“She was sweet,” thought I, “last season, but 'twere surely wild unreasonSuch tiny hope to freeze on as was offered by my Star,When she whispered, something sadly: 'I—we feel your going badly!'”“And you let the chance escape you?” rapped the rattling tonga-bar.“What a chance and what an idiot!” clicked the vicious tonga-bar.Heart of man—oh, heart of putty! Had I gone by Kakahutti,On the old Hill-road and rutty, I had 'scaped that fatal car.But his fortune each must bide by, so I watched the milestones slide by,To “You call on Her tomorrow!”—fugue with cymbals by the bar—“You must call on Her tomorrow!”—post-horn gallop by the bar.Yet a further stage my goal on—we were whirling down to Solon,With a double lurch and roll on, best foot foremost, ganz und gar—“She was very sweet,” I hinted. “If a kiss had been imprinted?”—“'Would ha' saved a world of trouble!” clashed the busy tonga-bar.“'Been accepted or rejected!” banged and clanged the tonga-bar.Then a notion wild and daring, 'spite the income tax's paring,And a hasty thought of sharing—less than many incomes are,Made me put a question private, you can guess what I would drive at.“You must work the sum to prove it,” clanked the careless tonga-bar.“Simple Rule of Two will prove it,” lilted back the tonga-bar.It was under Khyraghaut I mused. “Suppose the maid be haughty—(There are lovers rich—and rotty)—wait some wealthy Avatar?Answer monitor untiring, 'twixt the ponies twain perspiring!”“Faint heart never won fair lady,” creaked the straining tonga-bar.“Can I tell you ere you ask Her?” pounded slow the tonga-bar.Last, the Tara Devi turning showed the lights of Simla burning,Lit my little lazy yearning to a fiercer flame by far.As below the Mall we jingled, through my very heart it tingled—Did the iterated order of the threshing tonga-bar—“Try your luck—you can't do better!” twanged the loosened tonga-bar.
So long as 'neath the Kalka hillsThe tonga-horn shall ring,So long as down the Solon dipThe hard-held ponies swing,So long as Tara Devi seesThe lights of Simla town,So long as Pleasure calls us up,Or Duty drives us down,If you love me as I love youWhat pair so happy as we two?So long as Aces take the King,Or backers take the bet,So long as debt leads men to wed,Or marriage leads to debt,So long as little luncheons, Love,And scandal hold their vogue,While there is sport at AnnandaleOr whisky at Jutogh,If you love me as I love youWhat knife can cut our love in two?So long as down the rocking floorThe raving polka spins,So long as Kitchen Lancers spurThe maddened violins,So long as through the whirling smokeWe hear the oft-told tale—“Twelve hundred in the Lotteries,”And Whatshername for sale?If you love me as I love youWe'll play the game and win it too.So long as Lust or Lucre temptStraight riders from the course,So long as with each drink we pourBlack brewage of Remorse,So long as those unloaded gunsWe keep beside the bed,Blow off, by obvious accident,The lucky owner's head,If you love me as I love youWhat can Life kill or Death undo?So long as Death 'twixt dance and danceChills best and bravest blood,And drops the reckless rider downThe rotten, rain-soaked khud,So long as rumours from the NorthMake loving wives afraid,So long as Burma takes the boyOr typhoid kills the maid,If you love me as I love youWhat knife can cut our love in two?By all that lights our daily lifeOr works our lifelong woe,From Boileaugunge to Simla DownsAnd those grim glades below,Where, heedless of the flying hoofAnd clamour overhead,Sleep, with the grey langur for guardOur very scornful Dead,If you love me as I love youAll Earth is servant to us two!By Docket, Billetdoux, and File,By Mountain, Cliff, and Fir,By Fan and Sword and Office-box,By Corset, Plume, and SpurBy Riot, Revel, Waltz, and War,By Women, Work, and Bills,By all the life that fizzes inThe everlasting Hills,If you love me as I love youWhat pair so happy as we two?
I.If It be pleasant to look on, stalled in the packed serai,Does not the Young Man try Its temper and pace ere he buy?If She be pleasant to look on, what does the Young Man say?“Lo! She is pleasant to look on, give Her to me today!”II.Yea, though a Kafir die, to him is remitted JehannumIf he borrowed in life from a native at sixty per cent. per annum.III.Blister we not for bursati? So when the heart is vexed,The pain of one maiden's refusal is drowned in the pain of the next.IV.The temper of chums, the love of your wife, and a new piano's tune—Which of the three will you trust at the end of an Indian June?V.Who are the rulers of Ind—to whom shall we bow the knee?Make your peace with the women, and men will make you L. G.VI.Does the woodpecker flit round the young ferash?Does grass clothe a new-built wall?Is she under thirty, the woman who holds a boy in her thrall?VII.If She grow suddenly gracious—reflect. Is it all for thee?The black-buck is stalked through the bullock, and Man through jealousy.VIII.Seek not for favor of women. So shall you find it indeed.Does not the boar break cover just when you're lighting a weed?IX.If He play, being young and unskilful, for shekels of silver and gold,Take his money, my son, praising Allah. The kid was ordained to be sold.X.With a “weed” among men or horses verily this is the best,That you work him in office or dog-cart lightly—but give him no rest.XI.Pleasant the snaffle of Courtship, improving the manners and carriage;But the colt who is wise will abstain from the terrible thorn-bit of Marriage.XII.As the thriftless gold of the babul, so is the gold that we spendOn a derby Sweep, or our neighbor's wife, or the horse that we buy from afriend.XIII.The ways of man with a maid be strange, yet simple and tameTo the ways of a man with a horse, when selling or racing that same.XIV.In public Her face turneth to thee, and pleasant Her smile when ye meet.It is ill. The cold rocks of El-Gidar smile thus on the waves at their feet.In public Her face is averted, with anger. She nameth thy name.It is well. Was there ever a loser content with the loss of the game?XV.If She have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed,And the Brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed.If She have written a letter, delay not an instant, but burn it.Tear it to pieces, O Fool, and the wind to her mate shall return it!If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear,Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.XVI.My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give o'er,Yet lip meets with lip at the last word—get out!She has been there before.They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose who are lacking in lore.XVII.If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred on thecourse.Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth forever Remorse.XVIII.“By all I am misunderstood!” if the Matron shall say, or the Maid:“Alas! I do not understand,” my son, be thou nowise afraid.In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed.XIX.My son, if I, Hafiz, the father, take hold of thy knees in my pain,Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour—refrain.Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest another man's chain?
There's a widow in sleepy ChesterWho weeps for her only son;There's a grave on the Pabeng River,A grave that the Burmans shun,And there's Subadar Prag TewarriWho tells how the work was done.A Snider squibbed in the jungle,Somebody laughed and fled,And the men of the First ShikarisPicked up their Subaltern dead,With a big blue mark in his foreheadAnd the back blown out of his head.Subadar Prag Tewarri,Jemadar Hira Lal,Took command of the party,Twenty rifles in all,Marched them down to the riverAs the day was beginning to fall.They buried the boy by the river,A blanket over his face—They wept for their dead Lieutenant,The men of an alien race—They made a samadh in his honor,A mark for his resting-place.For they swore by the Holy Water,They swore by the salt they ate,That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt SahibShould go to his God in state;With fifty file of BurmanTo open him Heaven's gate.The men of the First ShikarisMarched till the break of day,Till they came to the rebel village,The village of Pabengmay—A jingal covered the clearing,Calthrops hampered the way.Subadar Prag Tewarri,Bidding them load with ball,Halted a dozen riflesUnder the village wall;Sent out a flanking-partyWith Jemadar Hira Lal.The men of the First ShikarisShouted and smote and slew,Turning the grinning jingalOn to the howling crew.The Jemadar's flanking-partyButchered the folk who flew.Long was the morn of slaughter,Long was the list of slain,Five score heads were taken,Five score heads and twain;And the men of the First ShikarisWent back to their grave again,Each man bearing a basketRed as his palms that day,Red as the blazing village—The village of Pabengmay,And the “drip-drip-drip” from the basketsReddened the grass by the way.They made a pile of their trophiesHigh as a tall man's chin,Head upon head distorted,Set in a sightless grin,Anger and pain and terrorStamped on the smoke-scorched skin.Subadar Prag TewarriPut the head of the BohOn the top of the mound of triumph,The head of his son below,With the sword and the peacock-bannerThat the world might behold and know.Thus the samadh was perfect,Thus was the lesson plainOf the wrath of the First Shikaris—The price of a white man slain;And the men of the First ShikarisWent back into camp again.Then a silence came to the river,A hush fell over the shore,And Bohs that were brave departed,And Sniders squibbed no more;For the Burmans saidThat a kullah's headMust be paid for with heads five score.There's a widow in sleepy ChesterWho weeps for her only son;There's a grave on the Pabeng River,A grave that the Burmans shun,And there's Subadar Prag TewarriWho tells how the work was done.
Beneath the deep veranda's shade,When bats begin to fly,I sit me down and watch—alas!—Another evening die.Blood-red behind the sere ferashShe rises through the haze.Sainted Diana! can that beThe Moon of Other Days?Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith,Sweet Saint of Kensington!Say, was it ever thus at HomeThe Moon of August shone,When arm in arm we wandered longThrough Putney's evening haze,And Hammersmith was Heaven beneathThe Moon of Other Days?But Wandle's stream is Sutlej now,And Putney's evening hazeThe dust that half a hundred kineBefore my window raise.Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mistThe seething city looms,In place of Putney's golden gorseThe sickly babul blooms.Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust,And bid the pie-dog yell,Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ,From each bazaar its smell;Yea, suck the fever from the tankAnd sap my strength therewith:Thank Heaven, you show a smiling faceTo little Kitty Smith!
THE OVERLAND MAIL(Foot-Service to the Hills)In the name of the Empress of India, make way,O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.The woods are astir at the close of the day—We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.Let the robber retreat—let the tiger turn tail—In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill—The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill:“Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail.”Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.Does the tempest cry “Halt”? What are tempests to him?The Service admits not a “but” or and “if.”While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail,In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,From level to upland, from upland to crest,From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur,Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.From rail to ravine—to the peak from the vale—Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road—A jingle of bells on the foot-path below—There's a scuffle above in the monkey's abode—The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow.For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail:“In the name of the Empress the Overland Mail!”
WHAT THE PEOPLE SAIDJune 21st, 1887By the well, where the bullocks goSilent and blind and slow—By the field where the young corn diesIn the face of the sultry skies,They have heard, as the dull Earth hearsThe voice of the wind of an hour,The sound of the Great Queen's voice:“My God hath given me years,Hath granted dominion and power:And I bid you, O Land, rejoice.”And the ploughman settles the shareMore deep in the grudging clod;For he saith: “The wheat is my care,And the rest is the will of God.“He sent the Mahratta spearAs He sendeth the rain,And the Mlech, in the fated year,Broke the spear in twain.“And was broken in turn. Who knowsHow our Lords make strife?It is good that the young wheat grows,For the bread is Life.”Then, far and near, as the twilight drew,Hissed up to the scornful darkGreat serpents, blazing, of red and blue,That rose and faded, and rose anew.That the Land might wonder and mark“Today is a day of days,” they said,“Make merry, O People, all!”And the Ploughman listened and bowed his head:“Today and tomorrow God's will,” he said,As he trimmed the lamps on the wall.“He sendeth us years that are good,As He sendeth the dearth,He giveth to each man his food,Or Her food to the Earth.“Our Kings and our Queens are afar—On their peoples be peace—God bringeth the rain to the Bar,That our cattle increase.”And the Ploughman settled the shareMore deep in the sun-dried clod:“Mogul Mahratta, and Mlech from the North,And White Queen over the Seas—God raiseth them up and driveth them forthAs the dust of the ploughshare flies in the breeze;But the wheat and the cattle are all my care,And the rest is the will of God.”
“To-tschin-shu is condemned to death.How can he drink tea with the Executioner?”Japanese Proverb.The eldest son bestrides him,And the pretty daughter rides him,And I meet him oft o' mornings on the Course;And there kindles in my bosomAn emotion chill and gruesomeAs I canter past the Undertaker's Horse.Neither shies he nor is restive,But a hideously suggestiveTrot, professional and placid, he affects;And the cadence of his hoof-beatsTo my mind this grim reproof beats:—“Mend your pace, my friend, I'm coming. Who's the next?”Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen,I have watched the strongest go—menOf pith and might and muscle—at your heels,Down the plantain-bordered highway,(Heaven send it ne'er be my way!)In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.Answer, sombre beast and dreary,Where is Brown, the young, the cheery,Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force?You were at that last dread dakWe must cover at a walk,Bring them back to me, O Undertaker's Horse!With your mane unhogged and flowing,And your curious way of going,And that businesslike black crimping of your tail,E'en with Beauty on your back, Sir,Pacing as a lady's hack, Sir,What wonder when I meet you I turn pale?It may be you wait your time, Beast,Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast—Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the glass—Follow after with the others,Where some dusky heathen smothersUs with marigolds in lieu of English grass.Or, perchance, in years to follow,I shall watch your plump sides hollow,See Carnifex (gone lame) become a corse—See old age at last o'erpower you,And the Station Pack devour you,I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker's Horse!But to insult, jibe, and quest, I'veStill the hideously suggestiveTrot that hammers out the unrelenting text,And I hear it hard behind meIn what place soe'er I find me:—“'Sure to catch you sooner or later. Who's the next?”
This fell when dinner-time was done—'Twixt the first an' the second rub—That oor mon Jock cam' hame againTo his rooms ahist the Club.An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang,An' syne we thocht him fou,An' syne he trumped his partner's trick,An' garred his partner rue.Then up and spake an elder mon,That held the Spade its Ace—“God save the lad! Whence comes the licht“That wimples on his face?”An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled,An' ower the card-brim wunk:—“I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg,“May be that I am drunk.”“There's whusky brewed in Galashils“An' L. L. L. forbye;“But never liquor lit the lowe“That keeks fra' oot your eye.“There's a third o' hair on your dress-coat breast,“Aboon the heart a wee?”“Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye“That slobbers ower me.”“Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts,“An' terrier dogs are fair,“But never yet was terrier born,“Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!“There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast,“Below the left lappel?”“Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar,“Whenas the stump-end fell.”“Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse,“For ye are short o' cash,“An' best Havanas couldna leave“Sae white an' pure an ash.“This nicht ye stopped a story braid,“An' stopped it wi' a curse.“Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel'—“An' capped it wi' a worse!“Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou!“But plainly we can ken“Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band“O' cantie single men!”An' it fell when sirris-shaws were sere,An' the nichts were lang and mirk,In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring,Oor Jock gaed to the Kirk!
A great and glorious thing it isTo learn, for seven years or so,The Lord knows what of that and this,Ere reckoned fit to face the foe—The flying bullet down the Pass,That whistles clear: “All flesh is grass.”Three hundred pounds per annum spentOn making brain and body meeterFor all the murderous intentComprised in “villainous saltpetre!”And after—ask the YusufzaiesWhat comes of all our 'ologies.A scrimmage in a Border Station—A canter down some dark defile—Two thousand pounds of educationDrops to a ten-rupee jezail—The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,Shot like a rabbit in a ride!No proposition Euclid wrote,No formulae the text-books know,Will turn the bullet from your coat,Or ward the tulwar's downward blowStrike hard who cares—shoot straight who can—The odds are on the cheaper man.One sword-knot stolen from the campWill pay for all the school expensesOf any Kurrum Valley scampWho knows no word of moods and tenses,But, being blessed with perfect sight,Picks off our messmates left and right.With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,The troop-ships bring us one by one,At vast expense of time and steam,To slay Afridis where they run.The “captives of our bow and spear”Are cheap—alas! as we are dear.
“You must choose between me and your cigar.”—BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885.Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.We quarrelled about Havanas—we fought o'er a good cheroot,And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space;In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie's a loving lass,But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay;But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away—Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown—But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!Maggie, my wife at fifty—grey and dour and old—With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar—The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket—With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket!Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a while.Here is a mild Manila—there is a wifely smile.Which is the better portion—bondage bought with a ring,Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?Counsellors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried,And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close,This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,With only a Suttee's passion—to do their duty and burn.This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice betweenThe wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year;And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery lightOf stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire?Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?Open the old cigar-box—let me consider anew—Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.Light me another Cuba—I hold to my first-sworn vows.If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse!
Where the sober-colored cultivator smilesOn his byles;Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crowCome and go;Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea,Hides and ghi;Where the Babu drops inflammatory hintsIn his prints;Stands a City—Charnock chose it—packed awayNear a Bay—By the Sewage rendered fetid, by the sewerMade impure,By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swampMoist and damp;And the City and the Viceroy, as we see,Don't agree.Once, two hundred years ago, the trader cameMeek and tame.Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed,Till mere tradeGrew to Empire, and he sent his armies forthSouth and NorthTill the country from Peshawur to CeylonWas his own.Thus the midday halt of Charnock—more's the pity!Grew a City.As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed,So it spread—Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and builtOn the silt—Palace, byre, hovel—poverty and pride—Side by side;And, above the packed and pestilential town,Death looked down.But the Rulers in that City by the SeaTurned to flee—Fled, with each returning spring-tide from its illsTo the Hills.From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blazeOf old days,From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,Beat retreat;For the country from Peshawur to CeylonWas their own.But the Merchant risked the perils of the PlainFor his gain.Now the resting-place of Charnock, 'neath the palms,Asks an alms,And the burden of its lamentation is,Briefly, this:“Because for certain months, we boil and stew,So should you.“Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspireIn our fire!”And for answer to the argument, in vainWe explainThat an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot fry:“All must fry!”That the Merchant risks the perils of the PlainFor gain.Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,From its kitchen.Let the Babu drop inflammatory hintsIn his prints;And mature—consistent soul—his plan for stealingTo Darjeeling:Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile,England's isle;Let the City Charnock pitched on—evil day!Go Her way.Though the argosies of Asia at Her doorsHeap their stores,Though Her enterprise and energy secureIncome sure,Though “out-station orders punctually obeyed”Swell Her trade—Still, for rule, administration, and the rest,Simla's best.
The End
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shallmeet,Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great JudgmentSeat;But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,When two strong men stand face to face,tho' they come from the ends of the earth!Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride:He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides:“Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?”Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:“If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.“At dusk he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair,But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.“But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.”The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of thegallows-tree.The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat—Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.“Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “Show now if ye can ride.”It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen.They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woful heap fell he,And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive,“'Twas only by favour of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive:There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.“If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.”Lightly answered the Colonel's son: “Do good to bird and beast,But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.“If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.“They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garneredgrain,The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle areslain.“But if thou thinkest the price be fair,—thy brethren wait to sup,The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,—howl, dog, and call them up!And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!”Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.“No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet.“May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?”Lightly answered the Colonel's son: “I hold by the blood of my clan:Take up the mare for my father's gift—by God, she has carried a man!”The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast;“We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger best.“So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.”The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,“Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he;“will ye take the mate from a friend?”“A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb.“Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!”With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest—He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.“Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides,And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,Thy life is his—thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.“So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line,And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power—Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.”They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear—There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.“Ha' done! ha' done!” said the Colonel's son.“Put up the steel at your sides!Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—tonight 'tis a man of the Guides!”Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,When two strong men stand face to face,tho' they come from the ends of the earth!
Not many years ago a King died in one of the Rajpoot States. His wives,disregarding the orders of the English against Suttee, would have brokenout of the palace had not the gates been barred.But one of them, disguised as the King's favourite dancing-girl, passedthrough the line of guards and reached the pyre. There, her couragefailing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court, to kill her. Thishe did, not knowing who she was.
Udai Chand lay sick to deathIn his hold by Gungra hill.All night we heard the death-gongs ringFor the soul of the dying Rajpoot King,All night beat up from the women's wingA cry that we could not still.All night the barons came and went,The lords of the outer guard:All night the cressets glimmered paleOn Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail,Mewar headstall and Marwar mail,That clinked in the palace yard.In the Golden room on the palace roofAll night he fought for air:And there was sobbing behind the screen,Rustle and whisper of women unseen,And the hungry eyes of the Boondi QueenOn the death she might not share.He passed at dawn—the death-fire leapedFrom ridge to river-head,From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars:And wail upon wail went up to the starsBehind the grim zenana-bars,When they knew that the King was dead.The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouthAnd robe him for the pyre.The Boondi Queen beneath us cried:“See, now, that we die as our mothers diedIn the bridal-bed by our master's side!Out, women!—to the fire!”We drove the great gates home apace:White hands were on the sill:But ere the rush of the unseen feetHad reached the turn to the open street,The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat—We held the dovecot still.A face looked down in the gathering day,And laughing spoke from the wall:“Ohe', they mourn here: let me by—Azizun, the Lucknow nautch-girl, I!When the house is rotten, the rats must fly,And I seek another thrall.“For I ruled the King as ne'er did Queen,—Tonight the Queens rule me!Guard them safely, but let me go,Or ever they pay the debt they oweIn scourge and torture!” She leaped below,And the grim guard watched her flee.They knew that the King had spent his soulOn a North-bred dancing-girl:That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god,And kissed the ground where her feet had trod,And doomed to death at her drunken nod,And swore by her lightest curl.We bore the King to his fathers' place,Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand:Where the gray apes swing, and the peacocks preenOn fretted pillar and jewelled screen,And the wild boar couch in the house of the QueenOn the drift of the desert sand.The herald read his titles forth,We set the logs aglow:“Friend of the English, free from fear,Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer,Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer,King of the Jungle,—go!”All night the red flame stabbed the skyWith wavering wind-tossed spears:And out of a shattered temple creptA woman who veiled her head and wept,And called on the King—but the great King slept,And turned not for her tears.Small thought had he to mark the strife—Cold fear with hot desire—When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame,And thrice she beat her breast for shame,And thrice like a wounded dove she cameAnd moaned about the fire.One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze,The silent streets between,Who had stood by the King in sport and fray,To blade in ambush or boar at bay,And he was a baron old and gray,And kin to the Boondi Queen.He said: “O shameless, put asideThe veil upon thy brow!Who held the King and all his landTo the wanton will of a harlot's hand!Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand?Stoop down, and call him now!”Then she: “By the faith of my tarnished soul,All things I did not well,I had hoped to clear ere the fire died,And lay me down by my master's sideTo rule in Heaven his only bride,While the others howl in Hell.“But I have felt the fire's breath,And hard it is to die!Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lordTo sully the steel of a Thakur's swordWith base-born blood of a trade abhorred,”—And the Thakur answered, “Ay.”He drew and struck: the straight blade drankThe life beneath the breast.“I had looked for the Queen to face the flame,But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame—Sister of mine, pass, free from shame,Pass with thy King to rest!”The black log crashed above the white:The little flames and lean,Red as slaughter and blue as steel,That whistled and fluttered from head to heel,Leaped up anew, for they found their mealOn the heart of—the Boondi Queen!