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 broken out of the palace had not the gates been barred.But one of them, disguised as the King's favourite dancing-girl,passed through the line of guards and reached the pyre. There,her courage failing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court,to kill her. This he 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:“Oh]/e, 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, —To-night 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!
Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told.His mercy fills the Khyber hills — his grace is manifold;He has taken toll of the North and the South —his glory reacheth far,And they tell the tale of his charity from Balkh to Kandahar.Before the old Peshawur Gate, where Kurd and Kaffir meet,The Governor of Kabul dealt the Justice of the Street,And that was strait as running noose and swift as plunging knife,Tho' he who held the longer purse might hold the longer life.There was a hound of Hindustan had struck a Euzufzai,Wherefore they spat upon his face and led him out to die.It chanced the King went forth that hour when throat was bared to knife;The Kaffir grovelled under-hoof and clamoured for his life.Then said the King: “Have hope, O friend! Yea, Death disgraced is hard;Much honour shall be thine”; and called the Captain of the Guard,Yar Khan, a bastard of the Blood, so city-babble saith,And he was honoured of the King — the which is salt to Death;And he was son of Daoud Shah, the Reiver of the Plains,And blood of old Durani Lords ran fire in his veins;And 'twas to tame an Afghan pride nor Hell nor Heaven could bind,The King would make him butcher to a yelping cur of Hind.“Strike!” said the King. “King's blood art thou —his death shall be his pride!”Then louder, that the crowd might catch: “Fear not — his arms are tied!”Yar Khan drew clear the Khyber knife, and struck, and sheathed again.“O man, thy will is done,” quoth he; “a King this dog hath slain.”Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, to the North and the South is sold.The North and the South shall open their mouthto a Ghilzai flag unrolled,When the big guns speak to the Khyber peak, and his dog-Heratis fly:Ye have heard the song — How long? How long?Wolves of the Abazai!That night before the watch was set, when all the streets were clear,The Governor of Kabul spoke: “My King, hast thou no fear?Thou knowest — thou hast heard,” — his speech died at his master's face.And grimly said the Afghan King: “I rule the Afghan race.My path is mine — see thou to thine — to-night upon thy bedThink who there be in Kabul now that clamour for thy head.”That night when all the gates were shut to City and to throne,Within a little garden-house the King lay down alone.Before the sinking of the moon, which is the Night of Night,Yar Khan came softly to the King to make his honour white.The children of the town had mocked beneath his horse's hoofs,The harlots of the town had hailed him “butcher!” from their roofs.But as he groped against the wall, two hands upon him fell,The King behind his shoulder spake: “Dead man, thou dost not well!'Tis ill to jest with Kings by day and seek a boon by night;And that thou bearest in thy hand is all too sharp to write.But three days hence, if God be good, and if thy strength remain,Thou shalt demand one boon of me and bless me in thy pain.For I am merciful to all, and most of all to thee.My butcher of the shambles, rest — no knife hast thou for me!”Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief,holds hard by the South and the North;But the Ghilzai knows, ere the melting snows,when the swollen banks break forth,When the red-coats crawl to the sungar wall,and his Usbeg lances fail:Ye have heard the song — How long? How long?Wolves of the Zuka Kheyl!They stoned him in the rubbish-field when dawn was in the sky,According to the written word, “See that he do not die.”They stoned him till the stones were piled above him on the plain,And those the labouring limbs displaced they tumbled back again.One watched beside the dreary mound that veiled the battered thing,And him the King with laughter called the Herald of the King.It was upon the second night, the night of Ramazan,The watcher leaning earthward heard the message of Yar Khan.From shattered breast through shrivelled lips broke forth the rattling breath,“Creature of God, deliver me from agony of Death.”They sought the King among his girls, and risked their lives thereby:“Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that he die!”“Bid him endure until the day,” a lagging answer came;“The night is short, and he can pray and learn to bless my name.”Before the dawn three times he spoke, and on the day once more:“Creature of God, deliver me, and bless the King therefor!”They shot him at the morning prayer, to ease him of his pain,And when he heard the matchlocks clink, he blessed the King again.Which thing the singers made a song for all the world to sing,So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy of the King.Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told,He has opened his mouth to the North and the South,they have stuffed his mouth with gold.Ye know the truth of his tender ruth — and sweet his favours are:Ye have heard the song — How long? How long?from Balkh to Kandahar.
When spring-time flushes the desert grass,Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass.Lean are the camels but fat the frails,Light are the purses but heavy the bales,As the snowbound trade of the North comes downTo the market-square of Peshawur town.In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill,A kafila camped at the foot of the hill.Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose,And tent-peg answered to hammer-nose;And the picketed ponies, shag and wild,Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled;And the bubbling camels beside the loadSprawled for a furlong adown the road;And the Persian pussy-cats, brought for sale,Spat at the dogs from the camel-bale;And the tribesmen bellowed to hasten the food;And the camp-fires twinkled by Fort Jumrood;And there fled on the wings of the gathering duskA savour of camels and carpets and musk,A murmur of voices, a reek of smoke,To tell us the trade of the Khyber woke.The lid of the flesh-pot chattered high,The knives were whetted and — then came ITo Mahbub Ali the muleteer,Patching his bridles and counting his gear,Crammed with the gossip of half a year.But Mahbub Ali the kindly said,“Better is speech when the belly is fed.”So we plunged the hand to the mid-wrist deepIn a cinnamon stew of the fat-tailed sheep,And he who never hath tasted the food,By Allah! he knoweth not bad from good.We cleansed our beards of the mutton-grease,We lay on the mats and were filled with peace,And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south,With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth.Four things greater than all things are, —Women and Horses and Power and War.We spake of them all, but the last the most,For I sought a word of a Russian post,Of a shifty promise, an unsheathed swordAnd a gray-coat guard on the Helmund ford.Then Mahbub Ali lowered his eyesIn the fashion of one who is weaving lies.Quoth he: “Of the Russians who can say?When the night is gathering all is gray.But we look that the gloom of the night shall dieIn the morning flush of a blood-red sky.Friend of my heart, is it meet or wiseTo warn a King of his enemies?We know what Heaven or Hell may bring,But no man knoweth the mind of the King.That unsought counsel is cursed of GodAttesteth the story of Wali Dad.“His sire was leaky of tongue and pen,His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen;And the colt bred close to the vice of each,For he carried the curse of an unstanched speech.Therewith madness — so that he soughtThe favour of kings at the Kabul court;And travelled, in hope of honour, farTo the line where the gray-coat squadrons are.There have I journeyed too — but ISaw naught, said naught, and — did not die!He harked to rumour, and snatched at a breathOf `this one knoweth' and `that one saith', —Legends that ran from mouth to mouthOf a gray-coat coming, and sack of the South.These have I also heard — they passWith each new spring and the winter grass.“Hot-foot southward, forgotten of God,Back to the city ran Wali Dad,Even to Kabul — in full durbarThe King held talk with his Chief in War.Into the press of the crowd he broke,And what he had heard of the coming spoke.“Then Gholam Hyder, the Red Chief, smiled,As a mother might on a babbling child;But those who would laugh restrained their breath,When the face of the King showed dark as death.Evil it is in full durbarTo cry to a ruler of gathering war!Slowly he led to a peach-tree small,That grew by a cleft of the city wall.And he said to the boy: `They shall praise thy zealSo long as the red spurt follows the steel.And the Russ is upon us even now?Great is thy prudence — await them, thou.Watch from the tree. Thou art young and strong,Surely thy vigil is not for long.The Russ is upon us, thy clamour ran?Surely an hour shall bring their van.Wait and watch. When the host is near,Shout aloud that my men may hear.'“Friend of my heart, is it meet or wiseTo warn a King of his enemies?A guard was set that he might not flee —A score of bayonets ringed the tree.The peach-bloom fell in showers of snow,When he shook at his death as he looked below.By the power of God, who alone is great,Till the seventh day he fought with his fate.Then madness took him, and men declareHe mowed in the branches as ape and bear,And last as a sloth, ere his body failed,And he hung as a bat in the forks, and wailed,And sleep the cord of his hands untied,And he fell, and was caught on the points and died.“Heart of my heart, is it meet or wiseTo warn a King of his enemies?We know what Heaven or Hell may bring,But no man knoweth the mind of the King.Of the gray-coat coming who can say?When the night is gathering all is gray.Two things greater than all things are,The first is Love, and the second War.And since we know not how War may prove,Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!”
More than a hundred years ago, in a great battle fought near Delhi,an Indian Prince rode fifty miles after the day was lostwith a beggar-girl, who had loved him and followed him in all his camps,on his saddle-bow. He lost the girl when almost within sight of safety.A Maratta trooper tells the story:—
The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck,Our hands and scarfs were saffron-dyed for signal of despair,When we went forth to Paniput to battle with theMlech, —Ere we came back from Paniput and left a kingdom there.Thrice thirty thousand men were we to force the Jumna fords —The hawk-winged horse of Damajee, mailed squadrons of the Bhao,Stark levies of the southern hills, the Deccan's sharpest swords,And he the harlot's traitor son the goatherd Mulhar Rao!Thrice thirty thousand men were we before the mists had cleared,The low white mists of morning heard the war-conch scream and bray;We called upon Bhowani and we gripped them by the beard,We rolled upon them like a flood and washed their ranks away.The children of the hills of Khost before our lances ran,We drove the black Rohillas back as cattle to the pen;'Twas then we needed Mulhar Rao to end what we began,A thousand men had saved the charge; he fled the field with ten!There was no room to clear a sword — no power to strike a blow,For foot to foot, ay, breast to breast, the battle held us fast —Save where the naked hill-men ran, and stabbing from belowBrought down the horse and rider and we trampled them and passed.To left the roar of musketry rang like a falling flood —To right the sunshine rippled red from redder lance and blade —Above the darkUpsaras* flew, beneath us plashed the blood,And, bellying black against the dust, the Bhagwa Jhanda swayed.* The Choosers of the Slain.I saw it fall in smoke and fire, the banner of the Bhao;I heard a voice across the press of one who called in vain: —“Ho! Anand Rao Nimbalkhur, ride! Get aid of Mulhar Rao!Go shame his squadrons into fight — the Bhao — the Bhao is slain!”Thereat, as when a sand-bar breaks in clotted spume and spray —When rain of later autumn sweeps the Jumna water-head,Before their charge from flank to flank our riven ranks gave way;But of the waters of that flood the Jumna fords ran red.I held by Scindia, my lord, as close as man might hold;A Soobah of the Deccan asks no aid to guard his life;But Holkar's Horse were flying, and our chiefest chiefs were cold,And like a flame among us leapt the long lean Northern knife.I held by Scindia — my lance from butt to tuft was dyed,The froth of battle bossed the shield and roped the bridle-chain —What time beneath our horses' feet a maiden rose and cried,And clung to Scindia, and I turned a sword-cut from the twain.(He set a spell upon the maid in woodlands long ago,A hunter by the Tapti banks she gave him water there:He turned her heart to water, and she followed to her woe.What need had he of Lalun who had twenty maids as fair?)Now in that hour strength left my lord; he wrenched his mare aside;He bound the girl behind him and we slashed and struggled free.Across the reeling wreck of strife we rode as shadows rideFrom Paniput to Delhi town, but not alone were we.'Twas Lutuf-Ullah Populzai laid horse upon our track,A swine-fed reiver of the North that lusted for the maid;I might have barred his path awhile, but Scindia called me back,And I — O woe for Scindia! — I listened and obeyed.League after league the formless scrub took shape and glided by —League after league the white road swirled behind the white mare's feet —League after league, when leagues were done, we heard the Populzai,Where sure as Time and swift as Death the tireless footfall beat.Noon's eye beheld that shame of flight, the shadows fell, we fledWhere steadfast as the wheeling kite he followed in our train;The black wolf warred where we had warred, the jackal mocked our dead,And terror born of twilight-tide made mad the labouring brain.I gasped: — “A kingdom waits my lord; her love is but her own.A day shall mar, a day shall cure for her, but what for thee?Cut loose the girl: he follows fast. Cut loose and ride alone!”Then Scindia 'twixt his blistered lips: — “My Queens' Queen shall she be!“Of all who ate my bread last night 'twas she alone that cameTo seek her love between the spears and find her crown therein!One shame is mine to-day, what need the weight of double shame?If once we reach the Delhi gate, though all be lost, I win!”We rode — the white mare failed — her trot a staggering stumble grew, —The cooking-smoke of even rose and weltered and hung low;And still we heard the Populzai and still we strained anew,And Delhi town was very near, but nearer was the foe.Yea, Delhi town was very near when Lalun whispered: — “Slay!Lord of my life, the mare sinks fast — stab deep and let me die!”But Scindia would not, and the maid tore free and flung away,And turning as she fell we heard the clattering Populzai.Then Scindia checked the gasping mare that rocked and groaned for breath,And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a hand's-breadth in her side —The hunter and the hunted know how that last pause is death —The blood had chilled about her heart, she reared and fell and died.Our Gods were kind. Before he heard the maiden's piteous screamA log upon the Delhi road, beneath the mare he lay —Lost mistress and lost battle passed before him like a dream;The darkness closed about his eyes — I bore my King away.
This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,Erst a Pretender to Theebaw's throne,Who harried the district of Alalone:How he met with his fate and the V.P.P.*At the hand of Harendra Mukerji,Senior Gomashta, G.B.T.* Value Payable Parcels Post: in which the Governmentcollects the money for the sender.Boh Da Thone was a warrior bold:His sword and his Snider were bossed with gold,And the Peacock Banner his henchmen boreWas stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore.He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weakFrom the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak:He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean,He filled old ladies with kerosene:While over the water the papers cried,“The patriot fights for his countryside!”But little they cared for the Native Press,The worn white soldiers in Khaki dress,Who tramped through the jungle and camped in the byre,Who died in the swamp and were tombed in the mire,Who gave up their lives, at the Queen's Command,For the Pride of their Race and the Peace of the Land.Now, first of the foemen of Boh Da ThoneWas Captain O'Neil of the “Black Tyrone”,And his was a Company, seventy strong,Who hustled that dissolute Chief along.There were lads from Galway and Louth and MeathWho went to their death with a joke in their teeth,And worshipped with fluency, fervour, and zealThe mud on the boot-heels of “Crook” O'Neil.But ever a blight on their labours lay,And ever their quarry would vanish away,Till the sun-dried boys of the Black TyroneTook a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone:And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends,The Boh and his trackers were best of friends.The word of a scout — a march by night —A rush through the mist — a scattering fight —A volley from cover — a corpse in the clearing —The glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring —The flare of a village — the tally of slain —And. . .the Boh was abroad “on the raid” again!They cursed their luck, as the Irish will,They gave him credit for cunning and skill,They buried their dead, they bolted their beef,And started anew on the track of the thiefTill, in place of the “Kalends of Greece”, men said,“When Crook and his darlings come back with the head.”They had hunted the Boh from the hills to the plain —He doubled and broke for the hills again:They had crippled his power for rapine and raid,They had routed him out of his pet stockade,And at last, they came, when the Day Star tired,To a camp deserted — a village fired.A black cross blistered the Morning-gold,And the body upon it was stark and cold.The wind of the dawn went merrily past,The high grass bowed her plumes to the blast.And out of the grass, on a sudden, brokeA spirtle of fire, a whorl of smoke —And Captain O'Neil of the Black TyroneWas blessed with a slug in the ulnar-bone —The gift of his enemy Boh Da Thone.(Now a slug that is hammered from telegraph-wireIs a thorn in the flesh and a rankling fire.). . . . .The shot-wound festered — as shot-wounds mayIn a steaming barrack at Mandalay.The left arm throbbed, and the Captain swore,“I'd like to be after the Boh once more!”The fever held him — the Captain said,“I'd give a hundred to look at his head!”The Hospital punkahs creaked and whirred,But Babu Harendra (Gomashta) heard.He thought of the cane-brake, green and dank,That girdled his home by the Dacca tank.He thought of his wife and his High School son,He thought — but abandoned the thought — of a gun.His sleep was broken by visions dreadOf a shining Boh with a silver head.He kept his counsel and went his way,And swindled the cartmen of half their pay.. . . . .And the months went on, as the worst must do,And the Boh returned to the raid anew.But the Captain had quitted the long-drawn strife,And in far Simoorie had taken a wife.And she was a damsel of delicate mould,With hair like the sunshine and heart of gold,And little she knew the arms that embracedHad cloven a man from the brow to the waist:And little she knew that the loving lipsHad ordered a quivering life's eclipse,And the eye that lit at her lightest breathHad glared unawed in the Gates of Death.(For these be matters a man would hide,As a general rule, from an innocent Bride.)And little the Captain thought of the past,And, of all men, Babu Harendra last.. . . . .But slow, in the sludge of the Kathun road,The Government Bullock Train toted its load.Speckless and spotless and shining withghee,In the rearmost cart sat the Babu-jee.And ever a phantom before him fledOf a scowling Boh with a silver head.Then the lead-cart stuck, though the coolies slaved,And the cartmen flogged and the escort raved;And out of the jungle, with yells and squeals,Pranced Boh Da Thone, and his gang at his heels!Then belching blunderbuss answered backThe Snider's snarl and the carbine's crack,And the blithe revolver began to singTo the blade that twanged on the locking-ring,And the brown flesh blued where the bay'net kissed,As the steel shot back with a wrench and a twist,And the great white bullocks with onyx eyesWatched the souls of the dead arise,And over the smoke of the fusilladeThe Peacock Banner staggered and swayed.Oh, gayest of scrimmages man may seeIs a well-worked rush on the G.B.T.!The Babu shook at the horrible sight,And girded his ponderous loins for flight,But Fate had ordained that the Boh should startOn a lone-hand raid of the rearmost cart,And out of that cart, with a bellow of woe,The Babu fell — flat on the top of the Boh!For years had Harendra served the State,To the growth of his purse and the girth of hisp]^et.There were twenty stone, as the tally-man knows,On the broad of the chest of this best of Bohs.And twenty stone from a height dischargedAre bad for a Boh with a spleen enlarged.Oh, short was the struggle — severe was the shock —He dropped like a bullock — he lay like a block;And the Babu above him, convulsed with fear,Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear.And thus in a fashion undignifiedThe princely pest of the Chindwin died.. . . . .Turn now to Simoorie where, lapped in his ease,The Captain is petting the Bride on his knees,Where thewhitof the bullet, the wounded man's screamAre mixed as the mist of some devilish dream —Forgotten, forgotten the sweat of the shamblesWhere the hill-daisy blooms and the gray monkey gambols,From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel,The Peace of the Lord is with Captain O'Neil.. . . . .Up the hill to Simoorie — most patient of drudges —The bags on his shoulder, the mail-runner trudges.“For Captain O'Neil,Sahib. One hundred and tenRupees to collect on delivery.”Then(Their breakfast was stopped while the screw-jack and hammerTore waxcloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer;)Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow,With a crash and a thud, rolled — the Head of the Boh!And gummed to the scalp was a letter which ran: —“IN FIELDING FORCE SERVICE.Encampment,10th Jan.“Dear Sir, — I have honour to send,as you said,For final approval (see under) Boh's Head;“Was took by myself in most bloody affair.By High Education brought pressure to bear.“Now violate Liberty, time being bad,To mail V.P.P. (rupees hundred) Please add“Whatever Your Honour can pass. Price of BloodMuch cheap at one hundred, and children want food;“So trusting Your Honour will somewhat retainTrue love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train,“And show awful kindness to satisfy me,I am,Graceful Master,YourH. MUKERJI.”. . . . .As the rabbit is drawn to the rattlesnake's power,As the smoker's eye fills at the opium hour,As a horse reaches up to the manger above,As the waiting ear yearns for the whisper of love,From the arms of the Bride, iron-visaged and slow,The Captain bent down to the Head of the Boh.And e'en as he looked on the Thing where It lay'Twixt the winking new spoons and the napkins' array,The freed mind fled back to the long-ago days —The hand-to-hand scuffle — the smoke and the blaze —The forced march at night and the quick rush at dawn —The banjo at twilight, the burial ere morn —The stench of the marshes — the raw, piercing smellWhen the overhand stabbing-cut silenced the yell —The oaths of his Irish that surged when they stoodWhere the black crosses hung o'er the Kuttamow flood.As a derelict ship drifts away with the tideThe Captain went out on the Past from his Bride,Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year,When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer.As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water,In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter,And men who had fought with O'Neil for the lifeHad gazed on his face with less dread than his wife.For she who had held him so long could not hold him —Though a four-month Eternity should have controlled him —But watched the twin Terror — the head turned to head —The scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red —The spirit that changed from her knowing and flew toSome grim hidden Past she had never a clue to.But It knew as It grinned, for he touched it unfearing,And muttered aloud, “So you kept that jade earring!”Then nodded, and kindly, as friend nods to friend,“Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end.”. . . . .The visions departed, and Shame followed Passion: —“He took what I said in this horrible fashion,“I'llwrite to Harendra!” With language unsaintedThe Captain came back to the Bride. . .who had fainted.. . . . .And this is a fiction? No. Go to SimoorieAnd look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri,A pert little, Irish-eyed Kathleen Mavournin —She's always about on the Mall of a mornin' —And you'll see, if her right shoulder-strap is displaced,This:Gulesuponargent, a Boh's Head,erased!
O woe is me for the merry lifeI led beyond the Bar,And a treble woe for my winsome wifeThat weeps at Shalimar.They have taken away my long jezail,My shield and sabre fine,And heaved me into the Central jailFor lifting of the kine.The steer may low within the byre,The Jat may tend his grain,But there'll be neither loot nor fireTill I come back again.And God have mercy on the JatWhen once my fetters fall,And Heaven defend the farmer's hutWhen I am loosed from thrall.It's woe to bend the stubborn backAbove the grinching quern,It's woe to hear the leg-bar clackAnd jingle when I turn!But for the sorrow and the shame,The brand on me and mine,I'll pay you back in leaping flameAnd loss of the butchered kine.For every cow I spared beforeIn charity set free,If I may reach my hold once moreI'll reive an honest three.For every time I raised the lowThat scared the dusty plain,By sword and cord, by torch and towI'll light the land with twain!Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai,YoungSahibwith the yellow hair —Lie close, lie close as khuttucks lie,Fat herds below Bonair!The one I'll shoot at twilight-tide,At dawn I'll drive the other;The black shall mourn for hoof and hide,The white man for his brother.'Tis war, red war, I'll give you then,War till my sinews fail;For the wrong you have done to a chief of men,And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl.And if I fall to your hand afreshI give you leave for the sin,That you cram my throat with the foul pig's flesh,And swing me in the skin!
This ballad appears to refer to one of the exploits of the notoriousPaul Jones, the American pirate. It is founded on fact.
. . . At the close of a winter day,Their anchors down, by London town, the Three Great Captains lay;And one was Admiral of the North from Solway Firth to Skye,And one was Lord of the Wessex coast and all the lands thereby,And one was Master of the Thames from Limehouse to Blackwall,And he was Captain of the Fleet — the bravest of them all.Their good guns guarded their great gray sidesthat were thirty foot in the sheer,When there came a certain trading-brig with news of a privateer.Her rigging was rough with the clotted drift that drives in a Northern breeze,Her sides were clogged with the lazy weed that spawns in the Eastern seas.Light she rode in the rude tide-rip, to left and right she rolled,And the skipper sat on the scuttle-butt and stared at an empty hold.“I ha' paid Port dues for your Law,” quoth he, “and where is the Law ye boastIf I sail unscathed from a heathen port to be robbed on a Christian coast?Ye have smoked the hives of the Laccadives as we burn the lice in a bunk,We tack not now to a Gallang prow or a plunging Pei-ho junk;I had no fear but the seas were clear as far as a sail might fareTill I met with a lime-washed Yankee brig that rode off Finisterre.There were canvas blinds to his bow-gun ports to screen the weight he bore,And the signals ran for a merchantman from Sandy Hook to the Nore.He would not fly the Rovers' flag — the bloody or the black,But now he floated the Gridiron and now he flaunted the Jack.He spoke of the Law as he crimped my crew — he swore it was only a loan;But when I would ask for my own again, he swore it was none of my own.He has taken my little parrakeets that nest beneath the Line,He has stripped my rails of the shaddock-frails and the green unripened pine;He has taken my bale of dammer and spice I won beyond the seas,He has taken my grinning heathen gods — and what should he want o' these?My foremast would not mend his boom, my deckhouse patch his boats;He has whittled the two, this Yank Yahoo, to peddle for shoe-peg oats.I could not fight for the failing light and a rough beam-sea beside,But I hulled him once for a clumsy crimp and twice because he lied.Had I had guns (as I had goods) to work my Christian harm,I had run him up from his quarter-deck to trade with his own yard-arm;I had nailed his ears to my capstan-head, and ripped them off with a saw,And soused them in the bilgewater, and served them to him raw;I had flung him blind in a rudderless boat to rot in the rocking dark,I had towed him aft of his own craft, a bait for his brother shark;I had lapped him round with cocoa husk, and drenched him with the oil,And lashed him fast to his own mast to blaze above my spoil;I had stripped his hide for my hammock-side,and tasselled his beard i' the mesh,And spitted his crew on the live bamboothat grows through the gangrened flesh;I had hove him down by the mangroves brown,where the mud-reef sucks and draws,Moored by the heel to his own keel to wait for the land-crab's claws!He is lazar within and lime without, ye can nose him far enow,For he carries the taint of a musky ship — the reek of the slaver's dhow!”The skipper looked at the tiering guns and the bulwarks tall and cold,And the Captains Three full courteously peered down at the gutted hold,And the Captains Three called courteously from deck to scuttle-butt: —“Good Sir, we ha' dealt with that merchantman or ever your teeth were cut.Your words be words of a lawless race, and the Law it standeth thus:He comes of a race that have never a Law, and he never has boarded us.We ha' sold him canvas and rope and spar — we know that his price is fair,And we know that he weeps for the lack of a Law as he rides off Finisterre.And since he is damned for a gallows-thief by you and better than you,We hold it meet that the English fleet should know that we hold him true.”The skipper called to the tall taffrail: — “And what is that to me?Did ever you hear of a Yankee brig that rifled a Seventy-three?Do I loom so large from your quarter-deck that I lift like a ship o' the Line?He has learned to run from a shotted gun and harry such craft as mine.There is never a Law on the Cocos Keys to hold a white man in,But we do not steal the niggers' meal, for that is a nigger's sin.Must he have his Law as a quid to chaw, or laid in brass on his wheel?Does he steal with tears when he buccaneers?'Fore Gad, then, why does he steal?”The skipper bit on a deep-sea word, and the word it was not sweet,For he could see the Captains Three had signalled to the Fleet.But three and two, in white and blue, the whimpering flags began: —“We have heard a tale of a — foreign sail, but he is a merchantman.”The skipper peered beneath his palm and swore by the Great Horn Spoon: —“'Fore Gad, the Chaplain of the Fleet would bless my picaroon!”By two and three the flags blew free to lash the laughing air: —“We have sold our spars to the merchantman — we know that his price is fair.”The skipper winked his Western eye, and swore by a China storm: —“They ha' rigged him a Joseph's jury-coat to keep his honour warm.”The halliards twanged against the tops, the bunting bellied broad,The skipper spat in the empty hold and mourned for a wasted cord.Masthead — masthead, the signal sped by the line o' the British craft;The skipper called to his Lascar crew, and put her about and laughed: —“It's mainsail haul, my bully boys all — we'll out to the seas again —Ere they set us to paint their pirate saint, or scrub at his grapnel-chain.It's fore-sheet free, with her head to the sea,and the swing of the unbought brine —We'll make no sport in an English court till we come as a ship o' the Line:Till we come as a ship o' the Line, my lads, of thirty foot in the sheer,Lifting again from the outer main with news of a privateer;Flying his pluck at our mizzen-truck for weft of Admiralty,Heaving his head for our dipsey-lead in sign that we keep the sea.Then fore-sheet home as she lifts to the foam — we stand on the outward tack,We are paid in the coin of the white man's trade —the bezant is hard, ay, and black.The frigate-bird shall carry my word to the Kling and the Orang-LautHow a man may sail from a heathen coast to be robbed in a Christian port;How a man may be robbed in Christian port while Three Great Captains thereShall dip their flag to a slaver's rag — to show that his trade is fair!”
It was our war-shipClampherdownWould sweep the Channel clean,Wherefore she kept her hatches closeWhen the merry Channel chops arose,To save the bleached marine.She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton,And a great stern-gun beside;They dipped their noses deep in the sea,They racked their stays and stanchions freeIn the wash of the wind-whipped tide.It was our war-shipClampherdown,Fell in with a cruiser lightThat carried the dainty Hotchkiss gunAnd a pair o' heels wherewith to runFrom the grip of a close-fought fight.She opened fire at seven miles —As ye shoot at a bobbing cork —And once she fired and twice she fired,Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tiredThat lolls upon the stalk.“Captain, the bow-gun melts apace,The deck-beams break below,'Twere well to rest for an hour or twain,And botch the shattered plates again.”And he answered, “Make it so.”She opened fire within the mile —As ye shoot at the flying duck —And the great stern-gun shot fair and true,With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue,And the great stern-turret stuck.“Captain, the turret fills with steam,The feed-pipes burst below —You can hear the hiss of the helpless ram,You can hear the twisted runners jam.”And he answered, “Turn and go!”It was our war-shipClampherdown,And grimly did she roll;Swung round to take the cruiser's fireAs the White Whale faces the Thresher's ireWhen they war by the frozen Pole.“Captain, the shells are falling fast,And faster still fall we;And it is not meet for English stockTo bide in the heart of an eight-day clockThe death they cannot see.”“Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B.,We drift upon her beam;We dare not ram, for she can run;And dare ye fire another gun,And die in the peeling steam?”It was our war-shipClampherdownThat carried an armour-belt;But fifty feet at stern and bowLay bare as the paunch of the purser's sow,To the hail of theNordenfeldt.“Captain, they hack us through and through;The chilled steel bolts are swift!We have emptied the bunkers in open sea,Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be.”And he answered, “Let her drift.”It was our war-shipClampherdown,Swung round upon the tide,Her two dumb guns glared south and north,And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth,And she ground the cruiser's side.“Captain, they cry, the fight is done,They bid you send your sword.”And he answered, “Grapple her stern and bow.They have asked for the steel. They shall have it now;Out cutlasses and board!”It was our war-shipClampherdownSpewed up four hundred men;And the scalded stokers yelped delight,As they rolled in the waist and heard the fightStamp o'er their steel-walled pen.They cleared the cruiser end to end,From conning-tower to hold.They fought as they fought in Nelson's fleet;They were stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet,As it was in the days of old.It was the sinkingClampherdownHeaved up her battered side —And carried a million pounds in steel,To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel,And the scour of the Channel tide.It was the crew of theClampherdownStood out to sweep the sea,On a cruiser won from an ancient foe,As it was in the days of long ago,And as it still shall be.