On the road to Mandalay the flying-fishes play,But there are no omnibuses to ply.Is there not a thirst here, and are there any ten commandments?O you commandments! you first, second, third ... and tenth commandments! What has Mandalay to do with you, and what have you to do with Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay the flying-fishes play,But there are no omnibuses to ply.Is there not a thirst here, and are there any ten commandments?O you commandments! you first, second, third ... and tenth commandments! What has Mandalay to do with you, and what have you to do with Mandalay?
Ha! What is that?
Is it a sound, is it the thunder, the sudden thunder, strepitant, tonant?Is it the midday (twelve o'clock) cannon?
Is it a sound, is it the thunder, the sudden thunder, strepitant, tonant?Is it the midday (twelve o'clock) cannon?
No!
Is it not then the ocean, the storm of the ocean?
Is it not then the ocean, the storm of the ocean?
Divil a bit!
Return, return then O soldiers,Return, you that have been discharged with pensions, as time-expired men, or as incorrigible and worthless,Return, for it is the dawn, and it is calling to you as it comes up from China,Though why from China do you ask me?Then ask me another!
Return, return then O soldiers,Return, you that have been discharged with pensions, as time-expired men, or as incorrigible and worthless,Return, for it is the dawn, and it is calling to you as it comes up from China,Though why from China do you ask me?Then ask me another!
Clothes and the Man I sing.Reformers, noteThese of the Subaltern who owned a Coat.He was what veterans miscall, for short,By that objectionable term, a wart:[2]The Coat an item of the 'sealed' attireWrung from his helpless but reluctant sire;Also the tails were long; and, for the prideThereof, were buttons on the after-side;Majestic orbs, whose gilded obverse boreThe bossy symbol of his future corps.The youth, ere sailing for a distant land,Did, in the interval, receive command
Clothes and the Man I sing.Reformers, noteThese of the Subaltern who owned a Coat.
He was what veterans miscall, for short,By that objectionable term, a wart:[2]
The Coat an item of the 'sealed' attireWrung from his helpless but reluctant sire;
Also the tails were long; and, for the prideThereof, were buttons on the after-side;
Majestic orbs, whose gilded obverse boreThe bossy symbol of his future corps.
The youth, ere sailing for a distant land,Did, in the interval, receive command
[2]A last-joined young officer.—Military Definitions.
[2]A last-joined young officer.—Military Definitions.
To join a 'Course,' where men of grave reputeInstruct the young idea how to shoot.Thither he sped, and on the opening dayRose, and, empanoplied in brave array,(Ample of flowing skirt, and with great craftAnd pomp of blazoned buttonry abaft)Won to the mess, and preened his fledgling plumesBoth in the breakfast and the ante-rooms.Awhile he moved in rapture, and awhileThrilled in the old, inevitable styleTo that stern joy which youthful warriors feelIn wearing garments worthy of their zeal;Then came the seneschal upon the scenes,And knocked his infant pride to smithereens.For out, alack! the Fathers of the messStrictly prohibited that form of dress,Being by sad experience led to findDisaster in the buttonry behind,Which tore and scratched the leather-cushioned chairs,And cost a perfect fortune in repairs!It was a crushing blow. That SubalternDiscovered that he had a lot to learn;Removed his Coat, and laid it, weeping, inIts long sarcophagus of beaten tin:Buried it deep, and drew it thence no more;Finished his Course, and sought an alien shore.
To join a 'Course,' where men of grave reputeInstruct the young idea how to shoot.
Thither he sped, and on the opening dayRose, and, empanoplied in brave array,
(Ample of flowing skirt, and with great craftAnd pomp of blazoned buttonry abaft)
Won to the mess, and preened his fledgling plumesBoth in the breakfast and the ante-rooms.
Awhile he moved in rapture, and awhileThrilled in the old, inevitable style
To that stern joy which youthful warriors feelIn wearing garments worthy of their zeal;
Then came the seneschal upon the scenes,And knocked his infant pride to smithereens.
For out, alack! the Fathers of the messStrictly prohibited that form of dress,
Being by sad experience led to findDisaster in the buttonry behind,
Which tore and scratched the leather-cushioned chairs,And cost a perfect fortune in repairs!
It was a crushing blow. That SubalternDiscovered that he had a lot to learn;
Removed his Coat, and laid it, weeping, inIts long sarcophagus of beaten tin:
Buried it deep, and drew it thence no more;Finished his Course, and sought an alien shore.
So runs the tale. I had it from the youthHimself, and I suppose he told the truth.(The words alone are mine; I need but hintThat his were too emotional for print.)And as in India, though the chairs are hard,His Coat—delicious irony—is barred;Being designed for cooler zones, and notFor one inadequately known as 'hot';And, furthermore, as bold Sir Fashion bringsChanges, yea, even to the soldier's things:He questions if the Coat were worth the price,Seeing that he will hardly wear it twice.
So runs the tale. I had it from the youthHimself, and I suppose he told the truth.
(The words alone are mine; I need but hintThat his were too emotional for print.)
And as in India, though the chairs are hard,His Coat—delicious irony—is barred;
Being designed for cooler zones, and notFor one inadequately known as 'hot';
And, furthermore, as bold Sir Fashion bringsChanges, yea, even to the soldier's things:
He questions if the Coat were worth the price,Seeing that he will hardly wear it twice.
'The Government of Indiahas been pleasedto sanction the infliction of a fine of ..., etc.'
'The Government of Indiahas been pleasedto sanction the infliction of a fine of ..., etc.'
To him that reads with careless eyesMy present theme affordsBut little scope for enterpriseIn buttering one's lords:Fines, he would urge, have always bulkedLargely to Those that rule,For, plainly, every man They mulctContributes to the pool.But when in ages dead and goneOur fathers fought with Sin,However hard they laid it on,They didn't rub it in;While These not only bring to bearTheir dark prerogatives,But diabolically airThe pleasure that it gives!Here is the Iron Hand that buildsOur realms beyond the sea;Nosuaviter in modogildsTheirfortiter in re;Here is no washy velvet gloveTo pad the Fist of Fear—None of your guiding charms of Love—None of your hogwash here!No. From Their thrones amid the starsThey glower athwart the landImplacable, with 'eye like MarsTo threaten and command.'Too cold, too truculent, to stayThe awful bolt They fling,They make no bones about it—TheyArepleasedto do this thing!Blind to the victim's mask of woe,Deaf to his poignant howls,No pity stirs Their bosoms, noReluctance wrings Their bow'ls!By prompt and ready cash aloneTheir wrath shall be appeasedWho pile it on like gods, and own,Like men, to being pleased.
To him that reads with careless eyesMy present theme affordsBut little scope for enterpriseIn buttering one's lords:Fines, he would urge, have always bulkedLargely to Those that rule,For, plainly, every man They mulctContributes to the pool.
But when in ages dead and goneOur fathers fought with Sin,However hard they laid it on,They didn't rub it in;While These not only bring to bearTheir dark prerogatives,But diabolically airThe pleasure that it gives!
Here is the Iron Hand that buildsOur realms beyond the sea;Nosuaviter in modogildsTheirfortiter in re;Here is no washy velvet gloveTo pad the Fist of Fear—None of your guiding charms of Love—None of your hogwash here!
No. From Their thrones amid the starsThey glower athwart the landImplacable, with 'eye like MarsTo threaten and command.'Too cold, too truculent, to stayThe awful bolt They fling,They make no bones about it—TheyArepleasedto do this thing!
Blind to the victim's mask of woe,Deaf to his poignant howls,No pity stirs Their bosoms, noReluctance wrings Their bow'ls!By prompt and ready cash aloneTheir wrath shall be appeasedWho pile it on like gods, and own,Like men, to being pleased.
After R. B.
Tummas Katt cam' roun' to woo,Ha, ha, the wooin' o't;Lichtly sang ta lang nicht thro',Ha, ha, the mewin' o't;Tabbie, winsome, tim'rous beast,Speakit: 'Tummas, hand tha' weist!Girt auld Tummas 'gan inseest;Ha, ha, the doin' o't!Tabbie laucht, an' brawly fleired,Ha, ha, the fleirin' o't;Tummas,—ech! but Tummas speiredHa, ha, the speirin' o't;Sic an awesome, fearfu' screep,Wakin' a' aroun' frae sleep;Fegs, it gar'd the Gudeman weep!Ha, ha, the hearin' o't!Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm his een!'Ha, ha, the swearin' o't;'Muckle fasht was I yestreen,A' thro' the bearin' o't!Ere the sonsie moon was bricht,Clean awa' till mornin' licht,Mickle sleep was mine the nicht;Ha, ha, the wearin' o't!''Where are noo ma booties twa?Ha, ha, the stoppin' o't;'Tis mysel' shall gar him fa';Ha, ha, the coppin' o't!'Gin a bootie, strang an' stoot,Sneckit Tummas roun' ta snoot,Winna Tummas gang frae oot?Ha, ha, the droppin' o't!'Swuft the pawky booties came,Ha, ha, the flittin' o't:Tummas scraught, an' lit for hame,Ha, ha, the spittin' o't;Lauchit Tabbs to see him fa';Leapit frae ta gairden wa';Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm it a'!What price the hittin' o't?'
Tummas Katt cam' roun' to woo,Ha, ha, the wooin' o't;Lichtly sang ta lang nicht thro',Ha, ha, the mewin' o't;Tabbie, winsome, tim'rous beast,Speakit: 'Tummas, hand tha' weist!Girt auld Tummas 'gan inseest;Ha, ha, the doin' o't!
Tabbie laucht, an' brawly fleired,Ha, ha, the fleirin' o't;Tummas,—ech! but Tummas speiredHa, ha, the speirin' o't;Sic an awesome, fearfu' screep,Wakin' a' aroun' frae sleep;Fegs, it gar'd the Gudeman weep!Ha, ha, the hearin' o't!
Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm his een!'Ha, ha, the swearin' o't;'Muckle fasht was I yestreen,A' thro' the bearin' o't!Ere the sonsie moon was bricht,Clean awa' till mornin' licht,Mickle sleep was mine the nicht;Ha, ha, the wearin' o't!'
'Where are noo ma booties twa?Ha, ha, the stoppin' o't;'Tis mysel' shall gar him fa';Ha, ha, the coppin' o't!'Gin a bootie, strang an' stoot,Sneckit Tummas roun' ta snoot,Winna Tummas gang frae oot?Ha, ha, the droppin' o't!'
Swuft the pawky booties came,Ha, ha, the flittin' o't:Tummas scraught, an' lit for hame,Ha, ha, the spittin' o't;Lauchit Tabbs to see him fa';Leapit frae ta gairden wa';Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm it a'!What price the hittin' o't?'
Christmas comes but once a year.Though by nature snappy,Let us, as we may, appearMerry, friend, and happy!Buckle to; and when you meet yourThunderstricken fellow-creature,Show the broad, indulgent smileOf th' ingenuous crocodile!Look as if you'd backed a winner!Laugh, you miserable sinner!Brother, Christmas Day has come.Can't you seek for inspi-ration in the turkey, plum-pudding, beef, and mince-pie?Brave it out, and tho' you sit onTenterhooks, remain a Briton;You can only do your best;Boxing Day's a day of rest!Throw aside your small digestiveEccentricities. Be festive!Christmas Day is on the wing.Are you feeling wroth withAny one for anything?Beg his pardonforthwith!Though the right is all onyourside,Say it isn't; say 'Of course I'dNo intention—very rude—Shocking taste—but misconstrued'—Then (while I admit it's horri-fying) tell the man you're sorry!Christmas Day will soon have flown.If, despite persuasion,You resolve to be aloneOn the glad occasion,Better (do as I have done!)Vanish with a scatter-gun;If you have to see it through,(Better do what I shall do!)Dining quietly at the Club'llSave us from a world of trouble!
Christmas comes but once a year.Though by nature snappy,Let us, as we may, appearMerry, friend, and happy!Buckle to; and when you meet yourThunderstricken fellow-creature,Show the broad, indulgent smileOf th' ingenuous crocodile!Look as if you'd backed a winner!Laugh, you miserable sinner!
Brother, Christmas Day has come.Can't you seek for inspi-ration in the turkey, plum-pudding, beef, and mince-pie?Brave it out, and tho' you sit onTenterhooks, remain a Briton;You can only do your best;Boxing Day's a day of rest!Throw aside your small digestiveEccentricities. Be festive!
Christmas Day is on the wing.Are you feeling wroth withAny one for anything?Beg his pardonforthwith!Though the right is all onyourside,Say it isn't; say 'Of course I'dNo intention—very rude—Shocking taste—but misconstrued'—Then (while I admit it's horri-fying) tell the man you're sorry!
Christmas Day will soon have flown.If, despite persuasion,You resolve to be aloneOn the glad occasion,Better (do as I have done!)Vanish with a scatter-gun;If you have to see it through,(Better do what I shall do!)Dining quietly at the Club'llSave us from a world of trouble!
['Never do To-day what can be postponed till To-morrow, save at the dictates of your personal convenience.'—Maxims of the Wicked, No. 3.]
['Never do To-day what can be postponed till To-morrow, save at the dictates of your personal convenience.'—Maxims of the Wicked, No. 3.]
Sweet Word, by whose unwearying assistanceWe of the Ruling Race, when sorely tried,Can keep intrusive persons at a distance,And let unseasonable matters slide;Thou at whose blast the powers of irritationYield to a soft and gentlemanly lullOf solid peace and flat Procrastination,These to thy praise and honour, good old Kal!For we are greatly plagued by sacrilegiousMonsters in human form, who care for naughtSave with incessant papers to besiege us,E'en to the solemn hour of silent thought;They draw no line; the frightful joy of givingPain is their guerdon; but for Thee alone,Life would be hardly worth the bore of living,No one could call his very soul his own.But in thy Name th' importunate besetterMeets a repelling force that none can stem;Varlets may come (they do) and go (they'd better!),Kal is the word that always does for them!To-morrowthey may join the usual muster;To-day shall pass inviolably by;BeelzebubHimself, for all his bluster,Would get the same old sickening reply.And, for thine aid in baffling the malignant,Who, with unholy art, conspire to seeOur ease dis-eased, our dignity indignant,We do Thee homage on the bended knee.And I would add a word of common gratitudeTo those thy coadjutors,aoandlao,[3]Who take, with Thee, th' uncompromising attitudeFrom which the dullest mind deducesjao.
Sweet Word, by whose unwearying assistanceWe of the Ruling Race, when sorely tried,Can keep intrusive persons at a distance,And let unseasonable matters slide;Thou at whose blast the powers of irritationYield to a soft and gentlemanly lullOf solid peace and flat Procrastination,These to thy praise and honour, good old Kal!
For we are greatly plagued by sacrilegiousMonsters in human form, who care for naughtSave with incessant papers to besiege us,E'en to the solemn hour of silent thought;They draw no line; the frightful joy of givingPain is their guerdon; but for Thee alone,Life would be hardly worth the bore of living,No one could call his very soul his own.
But in thy Name th' importunate besetterMeets a repelling force that none can stem;Varlets may come (they do) and go (they'd better!),Kal is the word that always does for them!To-morrowthey may join the usual muster;To-day shall pass inviolably by;BeelzebubHimself, for all his bluster,Would get the same old sickening reply.
And, for thine aid in baffling the malignant,Who, with unholy art, conspire to seeOur ease dis-eased, our dignity indignant,We do Thee homage on the bended knee.And I would add a word of common gratitudeTo those thy coadjutors,aoandlao,[3]Who take, with Thee, th' uncompromising attitudeFrom which the dullest mind deducesjao.
[3]Kal-ao='return to-morrow';kal-lao='bring it back to-morrow.' Each of these phrases is the euphemistic equivalent ofjao, that is, 'go away, (and stay there).'
[3]Kal-ao='return to-morrow';kal-lao='bring it back to-morrow.' Each of these phrases is the euphemistic equivalent ofjao, that is, 'go away, (and stay there).'
Solace of mine hours of anguish,Peace-imparting View, when I,Sick of Hindo-Sturm-und-Drang, wishI could lay me down and die,Very present help in trouble,Never-failing anodyneFor the blows that knock us double,Here's towards thee, Hathi mine!As, 'tis said, the dolorous Jack TarTurns to view the watery Vast,When he mourns his frail charàc-tar,Or deplores his jagged Past,Climbs a cliff, and breathes his sighs onThat appalling breast until,Borne from off the far horizon,Voices whisper, 'Cheer up, Bill!'So when evil chance or dark as-persions crush the bosom's lord,When discomfort rends the car-cass,When we're sorry, sick, or bored,When the year is at its hottest,And our life with sorrow crowned,Gazing thee-wards, where thou blottestOut the landscape, pulls us round,Gives us peace, some nameless modi-cum of cheer to mind and eye:Something that can soothe a bodyLike a blessed lullaby.Sweet it is to watch thee, Hathi,Through the stertorous afternoons,Wond'ring why so stout a partyWears such baggy pantaloons:Sweet, again, to steal a-nigh andWatch thee, ere thy meals begin,Deftly weigh th' unleavened viand,Lest thou be deceived therein:Sweet to mark thee gravely dining:Grand, when day has nearly gone,'Tis to view yon Orb decliningDown behind thee, broadside on:Ay! and when thy vassals tub thee,And thou writhest 'neath the brickWherewithal they take and scrub thee,'Twere a sight to heal the sick!Not a pose but serves to ward offPangs that had of yore prevailed;E'en the stab of being scored offOwns the charm, old Double-Tailed!But, O Thou that giv'st the flabbyStrength, and stingo'st up the weak:-Restful as a grand old Abbey—Bracing as a Mountain Peak:—All the bonds of Age were slackened,And my years were out of sight,When I burst upon thy back endAs thou kneeled'st yesternight!Head and frame were hidden. OnlyLoomed a black, colossal Seat,Taut, magnificent, and lonely,O'er a pair of suppliant feetTo th' astounded mind conveyingDreams from which my manhood shrank,Of a very fat man praying,Whom a boy would love to spank.And I felt my fingers twitching,And my sinews turned to wire,And my palm was itching, itching,With the old, unhallowed fire.While the twofold voice within meUrged their long-forgotten feud,One to do thee shame would win me,—One that whispered, 'Don't be rude!'Till, by heaven! thy pleading beautyDrove those carnal thoughts away,And the friend that came to scruti-nise was left behind to pray:—For I shamed thee not, nor spanked thee;But to rearward, on the plain,Hathi, on my knees I thanked theeThat I felt a boy again!
Solace of mine hours of anguish,Peace-imparting View, when I,Sick of Hindo-Sturm-und-Drang, wishI could lay me down and die,
Very present help in trouble,Never-failing anodyneFor the blows that knock us double,Here's towards thee, Hathi mine!
As, 'tis said, the dolorous Jack TarTurns to view the watery Vast,When he mourns his frail charàc-tar,Or deplores his jagged Past,
Climbs a cliff, and breathes his sighs onThat appalling breast until,Borne from off the far horizon,Voices whisper, 'Cheer up, Bill!'
So when evil chance or dark as-persions crush the bosom's lord,When discomfort rends the car-cass,When we're sorry, sick, or bored,
When the year is at its hottest,And our life with sorrow crowned,Gazing thee-wards, where thou blottestOut the landscape, pulls us round,
Gives us peace, some nameless modi-cum of cheer to mind and eye:Something that can soothe a bodyLike a blessed lullaby.
Sweet it is to watch thee, Hathi,Through the stertorous afternoons,Wond'ring why so stout a partyWears such baggy pantaloons:
Sweet, again, to steal a-nigh andWatch thee, ere thy meals begin,Deftly weigh th' unleavened viand,Lest thou be deceived therein:
Sweet to mark thee gravely dining:Grand, when day has nearly gone,'Tis to view yon Orb decliningDown behind thee, broadside on:
Ay! and when thy vassals tub thee,And thou writhest 'neath the brickWherewithal they take and scrub thee,'Twere a sight to heal the sick!
Not a pose but serves to ward offPangs that had of yore prevailed;E'en the stab of being scored offOwns the charm, old Double-Tailed!
But, O Thou that giv'st the flabbyStrength, and stingo'st up the weak:-Restful as a grand old Abbey—Bracing as a Mountain Peak:—
All the bonds of Age were slackened,And my years were out of sight,When I burst upon thy back endAs thou kneeled'st yesternight!
Head and frame were hidden. OnlyLoomed a black, colossal Seat,Taut, magnificent, and lonely,O'er a pair of suppliant feet
To th' astounded mind conveyingDreams from which my manhood shrank,Of a very fat man praying,Whom a boy would love to spank.
And I felt my fingers twitching,And my sinews turned to wire,And my palm was itching, itching,With the old, unhallowed fire.
While the twofold voice within meUrged their long-forgotten feud,One to do thee shame would win me,—One that whispered, 'Don't be rude!'
Till, by heaven! thy pleading beautyDrove those carnal thoughts away,And the friend that came to scruti-nise was left behind to pray:—
For I shamed thee not, nor spanked thee;But to rearward, on the plain,Hathi, on my knees I thanked theeThat I felt a boy again!
It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic SchoolsThere are rulesBy observing which when mundane matter irks,Or the world has gone amiss, youCan incontinently issueFrom the circumscribing tissueOf your Works.That the body and the gentleman insideCan divide,And the latter, if acquainted with the plan,Can alleviate the tensionBy remaining 'in suspension'As a kind of fourth dimensionBogie man.And to such as mourn an Indian Solar CrimeAt its prime,'Twere a stratagem so luminously fit,That tho' doctrinaires deny it,And Academicians guy it,I, for one, would like to try itFor a bit.Just to leave one's earthly tenement asleepIn a heap,And detachedly to watch it as it lies,With an epidermis pickledWhere the prickly heat has prickled,And a sense of being tickledBy the flies.And to sit and loaf and idle till the dayDies away,In a duplicate ethereally cool,Or around the place to potter,(Tho' the flesh could hardly totter,)As contented as an otterIn a pool!'Let the pestilent mosquito do his worstTill he burst,Let him bore and burrow, morning, noon, and night,If he finds the diet sweet, oh,Who amIto place a vetoOn the pestilent mosquito?—Lethim bite!'O my cumbersome misfit of bone and skin,Could I winTo the wisdom that would render me exemptFrom the grosser bonds that tetherYou and Astral Me together,I should simply treat the weatherWith contempt;I should contemplate its horrors with entireLack of ire,And pursuant to my comfortable aim,With a snap at every shackleI should quit my tabernacle,And serenely sit and cackleAt the game!But, alas! the 'mystic glory swims away,'And the clayIs as vulgarly persistent as of yore,And the cuticle is pickledWhere the prickly heat has prickled,And the nose and ears are tickledAs before;And until the Buddhi-theosophic SchoolsPrint the rulesThat will bring our tale of sorrows to a close,Body mine, though others chide thee,And consistently deride thee,I shall have to stay inside thee,I suppose!
It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic SchoolsThere are rulesBy observing which when mundane matter irks,Or the world has gone amiss, youCan incontinently issueFrom the circumscribing tissueOf your Works.
That the body and the gentleman insideCan divide,And the latter, if acquainted with the plan,Can alleviate the tensionBy remaining 'in suspension'As a kind of fourth dimensionBogie man.
And to such as mourn an Indian Solar CrimeAt its prime,'Twere a stratagem so luminously fit,That tho' doctrinaires deny it,And Academicians guy it,I, for one, would like to try itFor a bit.
Just to leave one's earthly tenement asleepIn a heap,And detachedly to watch it as it lies,With an epidermis pickledWhere the prickly heat has prickled,And a sense of being tickledBy the flies.
And to sit and loaf and idle till the dayDies away,In a duplicate ethereally cool,Or around the place to potter,(Tho' the flesh could hardly totter,)As contented as an otterIn a pool!
'Let the pestilent mosquito do his worstTill he burst,Let him bore and burrow, morning, noon, and night,If he finds the diet sweet, oh,Who amIto place a vetoOn the pestilent mosquito?—Lethim bite!'
O my cumbersome misfit of bone and skin,Could I winTo the wisdom that would render me exemptFrom the grosser bonds that tetherYou and Astral Me together,I should simply treat the weatherWith contempt;
I should contemplate its horrors with entireLack of ire,And pursuant to my comfortable aim,With a snap at every shackleI should quit my tabernacle,And serenely sit and cackleAt the game!
But, alas! the 'mystic glory swims away,'And the clayIs as vulgarly persistent as of yore,And the cuticle is pickledWhere the prickly heat has prickled,And the nose and ears are tickledAs before;
And until the Buddhi-theosophic SchoolsPrint the rulesThat will bring our tale of sorrows to a close,Body mine, though others chide thee,And consistently deride thee,I shall have to stay inside thee,I suppose!
Come, let us quaff the brimming cupOf sorrow, bitterness, and pain;For clearly, things are warming upAgain.Observe with what awakened powersThe vulgar Sun resumes the rightOf rising in the hallowed hoursOf night.Bound to the village water-wheel,The motive bullock bows his crest,And signals forth a mute appealFor rest.His neck is galled beneath the yoke:His patient eyes are very dim:Life is a dismal sort of jokeTohim.Yet one there is, to whom the oxIs kin; who knows, as habitat,The cold, unsympathetic box,Or mat;Who urges on, with wearied arms,The punkah's rhythmic, laboured sweep,Nor dares to contemplate the charmsOf sleep.Now 'mid a host of lesser thingsThat pasture through the heaving nights,The sharp mosquito flaps his wings,And bites;With other Anthropophagi,Such as that microscopic brandThe common Sand-fly (or the flyOf sand),Who, with a hideous lust uncurbedBy clappings of the frequent palm,Devours one's ankles, undisturbed,And calm.The scorpion nips one unaware:The lizard flops upon the head:And cobras, uninvited, shareOne's bed.Oh, if I only had the luckTo feel the grand Olympic fireThat thrilled the Greater when they struckThe lyre!When Homer wrote of this and that:When Dante sang like one possessed:When Milton groaned and laboured atHis Best!Had I the swelling rise and fall,Whereof the Bo'sun's quivering moanDerives a breezy fragrance allIts own:Oh, I would pour such passion out—Good gracious me!—I would so singThat you should know thefactsaboutThis thing!Then w-w-wake, my Lyre! O halting lilt!O miserable, broken lay!It may not be: I am not builtThat way.Yet other gifts the gods bestow.I do not weep, I do not grieve.Far from it. I shall simply goOn leave.
Come, let us quaff the brimming cupOf sorrow, bitterness, and pain;For clearly, things are warming upAgain.
Observe with what awakened powersThe vulgar Sun resumes the rightOf rising in the hallowed hoursOf night.
Bound to the village water-wheel,The motive bullock bows his crest,And signals forth a mute appealFor rest.
His neck is galled beneath the yoke:His patient eyes are very dim:Life is a dismal sort of jokeTohim.
Yet one there is, to whom the oxIs kin; who knows, as habitat,The cold, unsympathetic box,Or mat;
Who urges on, with wearied arms,The punkah's rhythmic, laboured sweep,Nor dares to contemplate the charmsOf sleep.
Now 'mid a host of lesser thingsThat pasture through the heaving nights,The sharp mosquito flaps his wings,And bites;
With other Anthropophagi,Such as that microscopic brandThe common Sand-fly (or the flyOf sand),
Who, with a hideous lust uncurbedBy clappings of the frequent palm,Devours one's ankles, undisturbed,And calm.
The scorpion nips one unaware:The lizard flops upon the head:And cobras, uninvited, shareOne's bed.
Oh, if I only had the luckTo feel the grand Olympic fireThat thrilled the Greater when they struckThe lyre!
When Homer wrote of this and that:When Dante sang like one possessed:When Milton groaned and laboured atHis Best!
Had I the swelling rise and fall,Whereof the Bo'sun's quivering moanDerives a breezy fragrance allIts own:
Oh, I would pour such passion out—Good gracious me!—I would so singThat you should know thefactsaboutThis thing!
Then w-w-wake, my Lyre! O halting lilt!O miserable, broken lay!It may not be: I am not builtThat way.
Yet other gifts the gods bestow.I do not weep, I do not grieve.Far from it. I shall simply goOn leave.
From the dust, and the drought, and the heat,I am borne on the pinions of leave,From the things that are bad to repeatTo the things that are good to receive.From the glare of the day at its heightOn a land that was blinding to see,From the wearisome hiss of the night,By a turn of the wheel I am free.I have passed to the heart of the Hills,For a season of halcyon hours,'Mid the music of murmurous rills,And the delicate odours of flowers;And I walk in an exquisite shade,Where the fern-tasselled boughs interlace;And the verdurous fringe of the gladeIs a marvel of fairylike grace;And with never an aim or a planI can wander in uttermost ease,Where the only reminders of ManAre the monkeys aloft in the trees;Or, perchance, on the 'silvery mere,'In a 'shallop' I lazily float,With—it's possible—some one to steer,Or with no one (which lightens the boat).O the glorious gift of releaseFrom the chains that encircle the thrall,To be quiet, and cool, and at peace,And to loaf, and do nothing at all!I am clear of that infamous lark;I am far from the blare of the Band;And the bugles are silent, the barkOf the Colonel is hushed in the land.And—I say it again—I am free,In the valleys of wandering bliss;And most gratefully 'own, if therebeAn Elysium on earth, it is this!'
From the dust, and the drought, and the heat,I am borne on the pinions of leave,From the things that are bad to repeatTo the things that are good to receive.
From the glare of the day at its heightOn a land that was blinding to see,From the wearisome hiss of the night,By a turn of the wheel I am free.
I have passed to the heart of the Hills,For a season of halcyon hours,'Mid the music of murmurous rills,And the delicate odours of flowers;
And I walk in an exquisite shade,Where the fern-tasselled boughs interlace;And the verdurous fringe of the gladeIs a marvel of fairylike grace;
And with never an aim or a planI can wander in uttermost ease,Where the only reminders of ManAre the monkeys aloft in the trees;
Or, perchance, on the 'silvery mere,'In a 'shallop' I lazily float,With—it's possible—some one to steer,Or with no one (which lightens the boat).
O the glorious gift of releaseFrom the chains that encircle the thrall,To be quiet, and cool, and at peace,And to loaf, and do nothing at all!
I am clear of that infamous lark;I am far from the blare of the Band;And the bugles are silent, the barkOf the Colonel is hushed in the land.
And—I say it again—I am free,In the valleys of wandering bliss;And most gratefully 'own, if therebeAn Elysium on earth, it is this!'
'... O she,To me myself, for some three careless moons,The summer pilot of an empty heartUnto the shores of Nothing.'—Tennyson.
'... O she,To me myself, for some three careless moons,The summer pilot of an empty heartUnto the shores of Nothing.'—Tennyson.
'Tis the hour when golden slumbersThrough th' Hesperian portals creep,And the youth who lisps in numbersDreams of novel rhymes to 'sleep';Ishall merely note, at starting,That responsive Nature thrillsTo thetwilighthour of partingFrom my Lady of the Hills.Lady, 'neath the deepening umbrageWe have wandered near and far,To the ludicrously dumb rageOf your truculent Mamma;We have urged the long-tailed gallop;Lightly danced the still night through;Smacked the ball, and oared the shallop(In a vis-à-vis canoe);We have walked this fair Oasis,Keeping, more by skill than chance,To the non-committal basisOf indefinite romance;Till, as love within me ripened,I have wept the hours away,Brooding on my meagre stipend,Mourning mine exiguous pay.Dear, 'tis hard, indeed, to stifleFervour such as mine has grown,And I 'd freely give a trifleCould I win you for mine own;But the question simply narrowsDown to one persistent fact,That we cannot say we're sparrows,And we oughtn't so to act.Married bliss is born of incomes;While to drag the long years throughTill some hypothetic tin comes,Seems a childish thing to do;Rather let us own as lastingOur unpardonable crime,Giving thanks, with prayer and fasting,For so very high a time.Fare you well. Your dreadful Mother,If I know that woman's mind,Has her eye upon AnotherViceme, my dear, resigned;And I see you mated shortlyTo some covenanted swain,Not objectionably portly,Not prohibitively plain.Take his gifts, and ask a blessing.Meddle not with minor cares.Trust me, your unprepossessingDam soon settles those affairs!Then will I, with honeyed suasion,Pinch some thriftless man of billsOf a mark of the occasionFor my Lady of the Hills.
'Tis the hour when golden slumbersThrough th' Hesperian portals creep,And the youth who lisps in numbersDreams of novel rhymes to 'sleep';Ishall merely note, at starting,That responsive Nature thrillsTo thetwilighthour of partingFrom my Lady of the Hills.
Lady, 'neath the deepening umbrageWe have wandered near and far,To the ludicrously dumb rageOf your truculent Mamma;We have urged the long-tailed gallop;Lightly danced the still night through;Smacked the ball, and oared the shallop(In a vis-à-vis canoe);
We have walked this fair Oasis,Keeping, more by skill than chance,To the non-committal basisOf indefinite romance;Till, as love within me ripened,I have wept the hours away,Brooding on my meagre stipend,Mourning mine exiguous pay.
Dear, 'tis hard, indeed, to stifleFervour such as mine has grown,And I 'd freely give a trifleCould I win you for mine own;But the question simply narrowsDown to one persistent fact,That we cannot say we're sparrows,And we oughtn't so to act.
Married bliss is born of incomes;While to drag the long years throughTill some hypothetic tin comes,Seems a childish thing to do;Rather let us own as lastingOur unpardonable crime,Giving thanks, with prayer and fasting,For so very high a time.
Fare you well. Your dreadful Mother,If I know that woman's mind,Has her eye upon AnotherViceme, my dear, resigned;And I see you mated shortlyTo some covenanted swain,Not objectionably portly,Not prohibitively plain.
Take his gifts, and ask a blessing.Meddle not with minor cares.Trust me, your unprepossessingDam soon settles those affairs!Then will I, with honeyed suasion,Pinch some thriftless man of billsOf a mark of the occasionFor my Lady of the Hills.
There's a little lake that liesIn a valley, where the skiesKiss the mountains, as they rise,On the crown;And the heaven-born éliteAre accustomed to retreatFrom the pestilential heatLower down.Where the Mighty, for a space,Mix with Beauty, Rank, and Grace,(I myself was in the place,At my best!)And the atmosphere's divine,While the deodar and pineAre particularly fineFor the chest.And a little month ago,When the sun was lying low,And the water lay aglowLike a pearl,I, remarkably arrayed,Dipped an unobtrusive bladeIn the lake—and in the shade—With a girl.O 'twas pleasant thus to glideOn the 'softly-flowing tide'(Which it's not!) and, undescried,Take a handIn the sweet, idyllic sportsThat are known in such resorts,To the sympathetic snortsOf the Band.Till, when o'er the 'still lagoon'Passed the golden afternoon,The preposterous bassoon,Growling deep,Saved the King and knelled the dayAs the crimson changed to greyAnd the little valley layHalf asleep.It is finished. She was kind.'Out of sight is out of mind.'But the taste remains behind,(And the bills,)And I'd give the world to knowIf there's some one else in towWith my love (a month ago)In the Hills!O ye valleys, tell me, pray,Was she on the lake to-day?Does she foot it in the gay,Social whirl?O ye Mountains of Gilboa,Send a bird, or kindly blow aBreeze to tell me all you know a-bout that girl!
There's a little lake that liesIn a valley, where the skiesKiss the mountains, as they rise,On the crown;And the heaven-born éliteAre accustomed to retreatFrom the pestilential heatLower down.
Where the Mighty, for a space,Mix with Beauty, Rank, and Grace,(I myself was in the place,At my best!)And the atmosphere's divine,While the deodar and pineAre particularly fineFor the chest.
And a little month ago,When the sun was lying low,And the water lay aglowLike a pearl,I, remarkably arrayed,Dipped an unobtrusive bladeIn the lake—and in the shade—With a girl.
O 'twas pleasant thus to glideOn the 'softly-flowing tide'(Which it's not!) and, undescried,Take a handIn the sweet, idyllic sportsThat are known in such resorts,To the sympathetic snortsOf the Band.
Till, when o'er the 'still lagoon'Passed the golden afternoon,The preposterous bassoon,Growling deep,Saved the King and knelled the dayAs the crimson changed to greyAnd the little valley layHalf asleep.
It is finished. She was kind.'Out of sight is out of mind.'But the taste remains behind,(And the bills,)And I'd give the world to knowIf there's some one else in towWith my love (a month ago)In the Hills!
O ye valleys, tell me, pray,Was she on the lake to-day?Does she foot it in the gay,Social whirl?O ye Mountains of Gilboa,Send a bird, or kindly blow aBreeze to tell me all you know a-bout that girl!
After A. T.
So for the last great Hockey of the Hills,—Damselv.Dame—by ruder cynics calledThe Tournament of the Dead Dignities,We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens,Perused the revels. Here on autumn grassLeapt the lithe-elbowed Spin, and strongly mergedIn scrimmage with the comfortable WifeAnd temporary Widow,—know you not,Such trifles are the merest commonplaceIn loftier contours?—Twenty-two in allThey numbered, and none other trod the fieldSave one, the bold Sir Referee, whose chargeIt was to keep fair order in the lists,And peace 'twixt Dame and Damsel: married, he.O brothers, had ye seen them! O the games!Fleet-footed some: lightly they leapt, and draveOr missed the pellet; then, perchance, would turnWith hand that sought their tresses. Others movedCareless, in half disdain, nor urged pursuit;Yet ever and anon would shriek, and missThe pellet, while the bold Sir RefereeSkipt in avoidance. From the factions cameThe cry of voices shrilling woman-wise,The clash of stick on stick, the muffled shin,The sudden whistle, and the murmurous noteOf mutual disaffection. OtherwhereThe myriad coolie chortled, knightly palmsClapped, and the whole vale echoed to the noiseOf ladies, who in session to the WestSat with the light behind them, self-approved.Fortune with equal favour poised the scale,And loudlier rang the trouble, till I heard'A Susan! Ho! A Susan!'—She, oh she,One whom myself had picked from out the crowdOf hot girl-athletes with their tousled hair,Was on the ball. Deftly she smote, and draveOn, and so paddled swiftly in its wake.The good ash gleamed and fell; the forward ranksGave passage; once again she smote, againPaddled, nor passed, but paddling ever nearedThe mournful guardian of the Sacred Goal,Hewing and hacking. Little need to tellOf Susan in her glory; whom she smoteShe felled, and whom she shocked she overthrew;And, shrieking, passed exultant to her doom.For Susan, while she clove a devious course,Moved crab-like, in a strange diagonal,And, driving, crossed the frontiers. Thither cameThe bold Sir Referee, and shrilled abroadThe tremulous, momentary 'touch.' But she,Heaving with unaccustomed exercise,Blinded and baffled, wild with all despair,Stood sweeping, as a churl that sweeps the scytheIn earlier pastures. Twice he skipped, and pouredThe desperate whistle. Once again, and he,Skipping, diffused the whistle. But at last,So shrewd a blow she dealt him on the shin,That had he stood reverse-wise on his head,Not on his feet, I know not what had chanced.Then to the shuddering Orient skies there roseA marvellous great shriek, the splintering noiseOf shattered ash-plant and of battered shank,Mixed with a higher. For Susan, overwrought,Lost footing, and with one clear dolorous wailFell headlong, only more so. And I saw,Clothed in black stockings, mystic, wonderful,That which I saw. The coolies yelled. The crowdClosed round, and so the tourney reached an end.Then home they bore the bold Sir RefereeIn Susan's litter; and they tended himWith curious tendance; and they drowned his viewsOn Susan, and the tourney, and the placeWhither he'd see them ere again he ruledSuch functions, with a sweet, small song (I callIt sweet that should not!). This is how it ran:—
So for the last great Hockey of the Hills,—Damselv.Dame—by ruder cynics calledThe Tournament of the Dead Dignities,We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens,Perused the revels. Here on autumn grassLeapt the lithe-elbowed Spin, and strongly mergedIn scrimmage with the comfortable WifeAnd temporary Widow,—know you not,Such trifles are the merest commonplaceIn loftier contours?—Twenty-two in allThey numbered, and none other trod the fieldSave one, the bold Sir Referee, whose chargeIt was to keep fair order in the lists,And peace 'twixt Dame and Damsel: married, he.
O brothers, had ye seen them! O the games!Fleet-footed some: lightly they leapt, and draveOr missed the pellet; then, perchance, would turnWith hand that sought their tresses. Others movedCareless, in half disdain, nor urged pursuit;Yet ever and anon would shriek, and missThe pellet, while the bold Sir RefereeSkipt in avoidance. From the factions cameThe cry of voices shrilling woman-wise,The clash of stick on stick, the muffled shin,The sudden whistle, and the murmurous noteOf mutual disaffection. OtherwhereThe myriad coolie chortled, knightly palmsClapped, and the whole vale echoed to the noiseOf ladies, who in session to the WestSat with the light behind them, self-approved.
Fortune with equal favour poised the scale,And loudlier rang the trouble, till I heard'A Susan! Ho! A Susan!'—She, oh she,One whom myself had picked from out the crowdOf hot girl-athletes with their tousled hair,Was on the ball. Deftly she smote, and draveOn, and so paddled swiftly in its wake.The good ash gleamed and fell; the forward ranksGave passage; once again she smote, againPaddled, nor passed, but paddling ever nearedThe mournful guardian of the Sacred Goal,Hewing and hacking. Little need to tellOf Susan in her glory; whom she smoteShe felled, and whom she shocked she overthrew;And, shrieking, passed exultant to her doom.
For Susan, while she clove a devious course,Moved crab-like, in a strange diagonal,And, driving, crossed the frontiers. Thither cameThe bold Sir Referee, and shrilled abroadThe tremulous, momentary 'touch.' But she,Heaving with unaccustomed exercise,Blinded and baffled, wild with all despair,Stood sweeping, as a churl that sweeps the scytheIn earlier pastures. Twice he skipped, and pouredThe desperate whistle. Once again, and he,Skipping, diffused the whistle. But at last,So shrewd a blow she dealt him on the shin,That had he stood reverse-wise on his head,Not on his feet, I know not what had chanced.Then to the shuddering Orient skies there roseA marvellous great shriek, the splintering noiseOf shattered ash-plant and of battered shank,Mixed with a higher. For Susan, overwrought,Lost footing, and with one clear dolorous wailFell headlong, only more so. And I saw,Clothed in black stockings, mystic, wonderful,That which I saw. The coolies yelled. The crowdClosed round, and so the tourney reached an end.
Then home they bore the bold Sir RefereeIn Susan's litter; and they tended himWith curious tendance; and they drowned his viewsOn Susan, and the tourney, and the placeWhither he'd see them ere again he ruledSuch functions, with a sweet, small song (I callIt sweet that should not!). This is how it ran:—