Archives: Poems

Sweet is the  Rose's  scent—Tobacco's  smell 
   Is sweeter; wherefore let me charge again.
Old blackened meerschaum, I have loved thee well
  From youth, when smoke brought sickness in its train. 
Foolish I was: Manillas I disdained,
  And cigarettes to Burmahs did prefer, 
And even spumed Havana's fragrant joy;
  But now my mind is pained,
In that my smoking days I did defer,
  Nor knew this pleasure when I was a boy.

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1 
Your trail runs to the westward,
   And mine to my own place;
There is water between our lodges,
   And I have not seen your face.
2 
But since I have read your verses
   ’Tis easy to guess the rest,—
Because in the hearts of the children
    There is neither East nor West.
3 
Born to a thousand fortunes
     Of good or evil hap,
Once they were kings together,
    Throned in a mother’s lap.
4 
Surely they know that secret—
    Yellow and black and white—
When they meet as kings together
    In innocent dreams at night.
5 
By a moon they all can play with—
    Grubby and grimed and unshod,
Very happy together,
   And very near to God.
6 
Your trail runs to the westward,
    And mine to my own place:
There is water between our lodges,
   And you cannot see my face.—
7 
And that is well—for crying
    Should neither be written nor seen,
But if I call you Smoke-in-the-Eyes,
    I know you will know what I mean.

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Naked and shivering, how the oozy tide 
Affrights me waiting! Yonder boatman there
Is dull and moveless as the very stones
That fringe the infernal river. Woe is me!
All that I had, departed, and this state
Of aimless wandering on the farther shore
Is scarcely better than the life of forms
I see around me. Huge deformèd toads
Yellow and dripping monsters, loathsome plants, 
Dropping their blotched leaves in the reeking slime.
This is the land of death, in very truth.
The imprisoned air bears not my trembling voice
To shapes, my comrades in the upper life,
To those that sate and laughed with me of old,
Alas, how altered! Tullius Quaestor there
Stands solitary, he that lovèd mirth,
And drank the unmixed wine till morning came
With me how often!  Is that Poetus
Mine ancient enemy? O Gods, he comes!
Beating the dead air with his outstretched palms
In silent supplication. Now his mouth
Is shaping words, and yet there comes no sound;
And now he passes in the drifting mist
A shadow amid shadows. I alone
Retain a lasting form, or seem to do.
Claudius Herminius, once a trusty friend,
Is fleeting like the others. Is there none
To stay and give me peace? Ixion now
Had eased me, for he beareth greater pain,
But all alone, among these crumbling banks, 
False as the world I left, how shall I be
Or rather cease from being?  Could I lose
My soul, sensation, all that makes me I,
Oblivion were thrice blessèd. Lo, the boat
Is moving toward me—now at least is change.
Slowly, oh! slowly, parts the stagnant flood,
And slow as is repentance, Charon rows!

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There was a strife 'twixt man and maid—
Oh, that was at the birth of time!
But what befell 'twixt man and maid, 
Oh, that's beyond the grip of rhyme.
'Twas, "Sweet, I must not bide with you," 
And "Love, I cannot bide alone"; 
For both were young and both were true, 
And both were hard as the nether stone.
                                                   Auchinleck’s Ride

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1 
I closed and drew for my love's sake
That now is false to me,
And I slew the Reiver of Tarrant Moss
And set Dumeny free.
2 
They have gone down, they have gone down,
They are standing all arow–
Twenty knights in the peat-water,
That never struck a blow!
3 
Their armour shall not dull nor rust,
Their flesh shall not decay,
For Tarrant Moss holds them in trust,
Until the Judgment Day.
4 
Their soul went from them in their youth,
Ah, God, that mine had gone,
When as I leaned on my love's truth
And not on my sword alone!
5 
When as I leaned on lad's belief
And not on my naked blade–
And I slew a thief, and an honest thief,
For the sake of a worthless maid.
6 
They have laid the Reiver low in his place,
They have set me up on high.
But the twenty knights in the peat-water
Are luckier than I !
7 
And ever they give me gold and praise
And ever I mourn my loss–
For I struck the blow for my false love's sake
And not for the Men of the Moss!

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1 
W—stl—nd, the bank–note man,
      Holding the Treasury keys,
Promised to 'pay the bearer' 
      Eighty crores  of rupees,
And C—lv—n was caught up to Allahabad
            –Valhallahabad of L.G.'s.
2 
W—stl—nd, the bank–note man,
      Proved in a lucid way
Nobody ought to be wrath if 
      Government couldn't pay;
And C—lv—n leaned from the bar of Heaven 
            and cheered him on to the fray.
3 
W—stl—nd, the bank–note man,
       Served up the usual hash,
Added a grain of salt, and
      Drew pro-notes for the cash;
Devastating the P——r 
            with seven columns of trash.
    4 
.   A scrape from the golah's mouth-
          A tea cupful of the brine—
    A crutch and a stay  and we pull through the day,
          And blunder along the line,
    While Krishna W—stl—nd tootles his flute 
                to C—lv—n's starveling kine.
5 
W—stl—nd, the bank–note man,
      Trusting to Time and Chance,
Tinkered the leak with a kerosine-can
      In the name of paraffinance;
And C—lv—n lighted a hurricane lamp
            to shine on the dreary dance.
    6 
.   Knaust where we lack the nous— 
           Thora mutti–ki–tel—
    A pinch and a shift and away we drift
      With a dying wind in the sail;
    But what shall we do when the cruize is run 
            and the last, least catspaws fail?
7 
Here is a study in oils—
       Naught in the world could be fairer
W—stl—nd making his Bearer pay,
      Instead of  'paying the bearer',
And an Empire starting a bunnia's shop,  
            as the pice grow rarer and rarer.

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1 
Required, a hint for a summer's excursion; 
  Will anyone proffer a word of advice,
Say where may a gentleman, bent on diversion, 
  Be certain of pleasure at moderate price?
2 
Dalhousie takes seventeen hours to go ter
  (How hard are good rhymes!) and is deluged with rain,
While the people who live on the top of Bakrota  
  Have a Mall of their own and are 'cuts'  with Potrain.  
3 
And Murree's mere Pindi,  or something too near it,
  With babies and Ayahs  pervading the Mall—
A halting place solely for men who Kashmir it, 
  With a season that isn't a season at all.
4 
There's merry Mussoorie, dégagée and breezy—
  All tail and no head which is pleasant ...perhaps; 
Where life flows along in one big 'free and easy',
  And those who aren't 'Johnnies' and 'sportsmen' are 'chaps'.
5 
There's Simla, a trifle less high than its prices,
  Where you must wear good clothes for six months of the year—
With a false reputation for long deceased vices—
  As dull as Dalhousie and ten times as dear.
6 
Oh! what is the good of three–farthing frivolity,
  On the lee of a Khud with the monkey and crow?
The wise man will seek metropolitan jollity,
  Will save up his leave for three seasons and go.

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1  
The shame of Amajuba Hill 
Lies heavy on our line,
But here is shame completer still 
And England makes no sign.
Unchallenged, in the market place 
Of Freedom's chosen land,
Our rulers pass our rule and race 
Into the Stranger's hand.
2  
At a great price you loosed the yoke 
'Neath which our brethren lay
(Your dead that perished ere 'twas broke 
Are scarcely dust to-day).
Think you ye freed them at that price?
Wake, or your toil is vain! 
Our rulers jugglingly devise 
To sell them back again.
3  
Back to the ancient bitterness 
Ye ended once for all—
Back to oppression none may guess 
Who have not borne its thrall—
Back to the slough of their despond 
Helots anew, held fast
By England's seal upon the bond
As Helots to the last.
4  
What is their sin that they are made 
Rebellion's lawful prey?
This is their sin: that oft betrayed 
They did not oft betray;
That to their hurt they kept their vows,
That for their faith they died—
God help them, children of Our House, 
Whom England hath denied.
5  
But we—what God shall turn our doom—
What blessings dare we claim,
Who slay a nation in the womb 
To crown a trickster's game?
Who come before amazed mankind, 
Foresworn in party-feud,
And search the forms of law to bind 
Our blood to servitude.
6  
Now, even now, before men learn 
How near we broke our trust, 
Now, even now, ere we return 
Dominion to the dust;
Now, ere the Gates of Mercy close 
For ever 'gainst the line
That sells its sons to serve its foes— 
Will England make no sign?

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The sons of the suburbs were carefully bred 
And quite unaccustomed to strife;
The lessons they learned in the books they had read 
Had taught them the value of life.
From Erith to Ealing they cherished a feeling 
That battle and slaughter were sin;
From Hendon to Tooting they didn't like shooting 
And did not intend to begin.
If the clergyman's daughter drinks nothing but water 
She's certain to finish on gin  

The tribes of the Teutons were otherwise trained,
And accustomed to bloodshed from birth.
Their ministers preached and their masters maintained 
That they had only one duty on earth,
And what they were for was sanguineous war 
The rest didn't matter a damn.
Being also intent on culture, they went 
For the voters of Wanstead and Ham;
But reading the name on the tin of the same 
Doesn't give you the taste of the jam. 

The sons of the suburbs were firm but polite;
Each rose in his place with a gun 
And a live bayonet to express his regret 
At the actions of Herman the Hun.
It likewise appears they flung bombs round his ears,
Which caused a percentage of slain,
And finding it sport, I regret to report,
They did it again and again.
If the wife of the vicar never touched liquor, 
Look out when she finds the champagne.  

The sons of the suburbs awoke to the fact 
That fighting has points of its own,
As giving a spice their existence had lacked 
So they rarely left Herman alone.
They were young it was true, and the business was new,
But youth is the key to all arts, 
That's why a beginner's so often a winner 
At capturing trenches or hearts. 
If the churchwarden's wife never danced in her life 
She'll kick off your hat when she starts. 

There are things in the breast of mankind which are best 
In darkness and secrecy hid; 
For you never can tell, when you've opened a hell, 
How soon you can put back the lid.
Now Herman's annoyed with East Finchley and Croyd- 
On, Penge, Tottenham, Bromley and Kew.
It wasn't their fault they commited assault 
But the rest, I'll leave it to you.
If you and your friend never go on a bend 
It's Bow-street and gaol when you do.

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