Ay, lay him 'neath the Simla pine—A fortnight fully to be missed,Behold, we lose our fourth at whist,A chair is vacant where we dine.His place forgets him; other menHave bought his ponies, guns, and traps.His fortune is the Great PerhapsAnd that cool rest-house down the glen,Whence he shall hear, as spirits may,Our mundane revel on the height,Shall watch each flashing 'rickshaw-lightSweep on to dinner, dance, and play.Benmore shall woo him to the ballWith lighted rooms and braying band;And he shall hear and understand“Dream Faces” better than us all.For, think you, as the vapours fleeAcross Sanjaolie after rain,His soul may climb the hill againTo each field of victory.Unseen, who women held so dear,The strong man's yearning to his kindShall shake at most the window-blind,Or dull awhile the card-room's cheer.@In his own place of power unknown,His Light o' Love another's flame,And he an alien and alone!Yet may he meet with many a friend—Shrewd shadows, lingering long unseenAmong us when “God save the Queen”Shows even “extras” have an end.And, when we leave the heated room,And, when at four the lights expire,The crew shall gather round the fireAnd mock our laughter in the gloom;Talk as we talked, and they ere death—Flirt wanly, dance in ghostly-wise,With ghosts of tunes for melodies,And vanish at the morning's breath.
Dim dawn behind the tamarisks—the sky is saffron-yellow—As the women in the village grind the corn,And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellowThat the Day, the staring Easter Day is born.Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!Oh the clammy fog that hovers o'er the earth;And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry—What part have India's exiles in their mirth?Full day behind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring—As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly—Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice!With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,And today we bid “good Christian men rejoice!”High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us—As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us,And forget us till another year be gone!Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it.Gold was good—we hoped to hold it,And today we know the fulness of our gain.Grey dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together—As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.That drags us back howe'er so far we roam.Hard her service, poor her payment—she is ancient, tattered raiment—India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter,The door is shut—we may not look behind.Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus—As the conches from the temple scream and bray.With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!Call a truce, then, to our labors—let us feast with friends andneighbors,And be merry as the custom of our caste;For if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if sadness follow after,We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
The toad beneath the harrow knowsExactly where each tooth-point goes.The butterfly upon the roadPreaches contentment to that toad.Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith—He spoke of the heat of India as the “Asian Solar Myth”;Came on a four months' visit, to “study the East,” in November,And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September.March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay,Called me a “bloated Brahmin,” talked of my “princely pay.”March went out with the roses. “Where is your heat?” said he.“Coming,” said I to Pagett, “Skittles!” said Pagett, M.P.April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat,—Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.He grew speckled and mumpy—hammered, I grieve to say,Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.May set in with a dust-storm,—Pagett went down with the sun.All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.Imprimis—ten day's “liver”—due to his drinking beer;Later, a dose of fever—slight, but he called it severe.Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat—Lowered his portly person—made him yearn to depart.He didn't call me a “Brahmin,” or “bloated,” or “overpaid,”But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed.July was a trifle unhealthy,—Pagett was ill with fear.'Called it the “Cholera Morbus,” hinted that life was dear.He babbled of “Eastern Exile,” and mentioned his home with tears;But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years.We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon,(I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon.That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fledWith a practical, working knowledge of “Solar Myths” in his head.And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lipsAs I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their “Eastern trips,”And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land,And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.
How shall she know the worship we would do her?The walls are high, and she is very far.How shall the woman's message reach unto herAbove the tumult of the packed bazaar?Free wind of March, against the lattice blowing,Bear thou our thanks, lest she depart unknowing.Go forth across the fields we may not roam in,Go forth beyond the trees that rim the city,To whatsoe'er fair place she hath her home in,Who dowered us with wealth of love and pity.Out of our shadow pass, and seek her singing—“I have no gifts but Love alone for bringing.”Say that we be a feeble folk who greet her,But old in grief, and very wise in tears;Say that we, being desolate, entreat herThat she forget us not in after years;For we have seen the light, and it were grievousTo dim that dawning if our lady leave us.By life that ebbed with none to stanch the failingBy Love's sad harvest garnered in the spring,When Love in ignorance wept unavailingO'er young buds dead before their blossoming;By all the grey owl watched, the pale moon viewed,In past grim years, declare our gratitude!By hands uplifted to the Gods that heard not,By fits that found no favor in their sight,By faces bent above the babe that stirred not,By nameless horrors of the stifling night;By ills foredone, by peace her toils discover,Bid Earth be good beneath and Heaven above her!If she have sent her servants in our painIf she have fought with Death and dulled his sword;If she have given back our sick again.And to the breast the waking lips restored,Is it a little thing that she has wrought?Then Life and Death and Motherhood be nought.Go forth, O wind, our message on thy wings,And they shall hear thee pass and bid thee speed,In reed-roofed hut, or white-walled home of kings,Who have been helpen by her in their need.All spring shall give thee fragrance, and the wheatShall be a tasselled floorcloth to thy feet.Haste, for our hearts are with thee, take no rest!Loud-voiced ambassador, from sea to seaProclaim the blessing, manifold, confessed.Of those in darkness by her hand set free.Then very softly to her presence move,And whisper: “Lady, lo, they know and love!”
One moment bid the horses wait,Since tiffin is not laid till three,Below the upward path and straightYou climbed a year ago with me.Love came upon us suddenlyAnd loosed—an idle hour to kill—A headless, armless armoryThat smote us both on Jakko Hill.Ah Heaven! we would wait and waitThrough Time and to Eternity!Ah Heaven! we could conquer FateWith more than Godlike constancyI cut the date upon a tree—Here stand the clumsy figures still:“10-7-85, A.D.”Damp with the mist of Jakko Hill.What came of high resolve and great,And until Death fidelity!Whose horse is waiting at your gate?Whose 'rickshaw-wheels ride over me?No Saint's, I swear; and—let me seeTonight what names your programme fill—We drift asunder merrily,As drifts the mist on Jakko Hill.L'ENVOI.Princess, behold our ancient stateHas clean departed; and we see'Twas Idleness we took for FateThat bound light bonds on you and me.Amen! Here ends the comedyWhere it began in all good will;Since Love and Leave together fleeAs driven mist on Jakko Hill!
Too late, alas! the songTo remedy the wrong;—The rooms are taken from us, swept andgarnished for their fate.But these tear-besprinkled pagesShall attest to future agesThat we cried against the crime of it—too late, alas! too late!“What have we ever done to bear this grudge?”Was there no room save only in BenmoreFor docket, duftar, and for office drudge,That you usurp our smoothest dancing floor?Must babus do their work on polished teak?Are ball-rooms fittest for the ink you spill?Was there no other cheaper house to seek?You might have left them all at Strawberry Hill.We never harmed you! Innocent our guise,Dainty our shining feet, our voices low;And we revolved to divers melodies,And we were happy but a year ago.Tonight, the moon that watched our lightsome wiles—That beamed upon us through the deodars—Is wan with gazing on official files,And desecrating desks disgust the stars.Nay! by the memory of tuneful nights—Nay! by the witchery of flying feet—Nay! by the glamour of foredone delights—By all things merry, musical, and meet—By wine that sparkled, and by sparkling eyes—By wailing waltz—by reckless galop's strain—By dim verandas and by soft replies,Give us our ravished ball-room back again!Or—hearken to the curse we lay on you!The ghosts of waltzes shall perplex your brain,And murmurs of past merriment pursueYour 'wildered clerks that they indite in vain;And when you count your poor Provincial millions,The only figures that your pen shall frameShall be the figures of dear, dear cotillionsDanced out in tumult long before you came.Yea! “See Saw” shall upset your estimates,“Dream Faces” shall your heavy heads bemuse,Because your hand, unheeding, desecratesOur temple; fit for higher, worthier use.And all the long verandas, eloquentWith echoes of a score of Simla years,Shall plague you with unbidden sentiment—Babbling of kisses, laughter, love, and tears.So shall you mazed amid old memories stand,So shall you toil, and shall accomplish nought,And ever in your ears a phantom BandShall blare away the staid official thought.Wherefore—and ere this awful curse he spoken,Cast out your swarthy sacrilegious train,And give—ere dancing cease and hearts be broken—Give us our ravished ball-room back again!
That night, when through the mooring-chainsThe wide-eyed corpse rolled free,To blunder down by Garden ReachAnd rot at Kedgeree,The tale the Hughli told the shoalThe lean shoal told to me.'T was Fultah Fisher's boarding-house,Where sailor-men reside,And there were men of all the portsFrom Mississip to Clyde,And regally they spat and smoked,And fearsomely they lied.They lied about the purple SeaThat gave them scanty bread,They lied about the Earth beneath,The Heavens overhead,For they had looked too often onBlack rum when that was red.They told their tales of wreck and wrong,Of shame and lust and fraud,They backed their toughest statements withThe Brimstone of the Lord,And crackling oaths went to and froAcross the fist-banged board.And there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,Bull-throated, bare of arm,Who carried on his hairy chestThe maid Ultruda's charm—The little silver crucifixThat keeps a man from harm.And there was Jake Without-the-Ears,And Pamba the Malay,And Carboy Gin the Guinea cook,And Luz from Vigo Bay,And Honest Jack who sold them slopsAnd harvested their pay.And there was Salem Hardieker,A lean Bostonian he—Russ, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn,Yank, Dane, and Portuguee,At Fultah Fisher's boarding-houseThey rested from the sea.Now Anne of Austria shared their drinks,Collinga knew her fame,From Tarnau in GaliciaTo Juan Bazaar she came,To eat the bread of infamyAnd take the wage of shame.She held a dozen men to heel—Rich spoil of war was hers,In hose and gown and ring and chain,From twenty mariners,And, by Port Law, that week, men calledher Salem Hardieker's.But seamen learnt—what landsmen know—That neither gifts nor gainCan hold a winking Light o' LoveOr Fancy's flight restrain,When Anne of Austria rolled her eyesOn Hans the blue-eyed Dane.Since Life is strife, and strife means knife,From Howrah to the Bay,And he may die before the dawnWho liquored out the day,In Fultah Fisher's boarding-houseWe woo while yet we may.But cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,Bull-throated, bare of arm,And laughter shook the chest beneathThe maid Ultruda's charm—The little silver crucifixThat keeps a man from harm.“You speak to Salem Hardieker;“You was his girl, I know.“I ship mineselfs tomorrow, see,“Und round the Skaw we go,“South, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm,“To Besser in Saro.”When love rejected turns to hate,All ill betide the man.“You speak to Salem Hardieker”—She spoke as woman can.A scream—a sob—“He called me—names!”And then the fray began.An oath from Salem Hardieker,A shriek upon the stairs,A dance of shadows on the wall,A knife-thrust unawares—And Hans came down, as cattle drop,Across the broken chairs.* * * * * *In Anne of Austria's trembling handsThe weary head fell low:—“I ship mineselfs tomorrow, straight“For Besser in Saro;“Und there Ultruda comes to me“At Easter, und I go—“South, down the Cattegat—What's here?“There—are—no—lights—to guide!”The mutter ceased, the spirit passed,And Anne of Austria criedIn Fultah Fisher's boarding-houseWhen Hans the mighty died.Thus slew they Hans the blue-eyed Dane,Bull-throated, bare of arm,But Anne of Austria looted firstThe maid Ultruda's charm—The little silver crucifixThat keeps a man from harm.
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.