Archives: Poems

This much am I to you—
    If I departed out of your house 
         Coming no more at all—
You would wait a while tis true
    You would lift your voice—You would call—
You would take some Lover into your house 
    And be to him all in all.

This much am I to you—
    As I take delight with you in your house—
         And live your love of all. 
I do not hold you true—
    I know some day you will fall,—
A horror will come on your gilded house
    Turning delight to gall.

Yet still I hold to you—
    Living with you at ease in your house
I count the gain not small.

      *         *         *         *         *  

When the years shall come to both of us 
    When all old pleasures pall,—
When kisses fail, and we love not thus,
    Nor hold Love all in all—
You will pass away to another house
    Silent and funeral—
You will veil your head in the empty house
    Nor hear me when I call—
Oh woman our Love will go from us,
    Coming no more at all!

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I wrote you verses two years syne 
When I was yours and you were mine 
Will you accept these rhymes I send 
If I but call myself your friend
And should my foolish songs discover
Some traces of your girlhood's lover 
Forgive me—two long years apart 
Still leaves me' mistress of my heart.

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(Vide Recent Judgement of C—H—C)

'Come let us slate the Magistrate, 
  The District judge no less—
"Young persons" they, from whose mad sway
  The ryots ask redress.
Yea, let us print the scornful hint
  About the D.S.P.;
And straightly curse that most perverse
  And juvenile  D.C.'

They cursed them free, judicially 
  In judgment and report.
They took the District judges' list
  To make a Bench's sport.
They bullied then these luckless men 
  In divers ways and harsh;
And, while they wrote, with grateful throat
  The  people cried:—'Shabash!'

And argued thus ('t is obvious 
  They took too hasty views;
For Oriental discontent
  Runs fast in Europe shoes):—
'Tis plain indeed, from what we read,
  Whatever we may do
To Sahibs like these, is sure to please
  One Judge and, may be, two.'

The Magistrate, respected late, 
  Was chased by wild Vakils.
The Zemindar would oft shikar
  The 'Stunt' among the bhils.
When they had slain a Judge or twain, 
  They looked for honour, but
That budding hope a slip-knot rope
  Incontinently cut.

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So we settled it all, when the storm was done,
As comfy as comfy could be.
And I was to wait in the barn, my dears, 
Because I was only three.
And Teddy would run to the rainbow's foot 
Because he was five and a man—
And that's how it all began, my dears, 
And that's how it all began!

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The day was ended, and a crowd of boys
Raced through the corridor and upwards shot
To top-most dormitories, chattering loud,
Of the great fray, while some their bolsters scan,
With anxious eye lest an un-noticed rent
Insidious lurking in the seamy sides,
Might in the thick of battle on their heads
Scatter the feathers, others quickly strip
To shirts and trousers; stand expectant all,
The sides are chosen and "the signal given",
Rush on the warriors. Then began the din,
The noise of bolsters falling on the floor.
The heavy thud when some well-planted blow
Hath brought the strong opponent to his knees
Now high above the strife was heard the sound
Of earthen pitcher loosened from the stand
And crashing to the earth. The sharper ring
Of myriad glasses breaking, swelled the hymn
Of glorious war. Confusion at its height
Raves through the rooms; rattle the windows all,
Fills all the air with dust. The shadowy forms
Loom through the mist, dealing Titanic blows. 
Hero meets hero, and the gathering war 
Swells like some sea whose murmurs heard at night
Far in the distance, grinding heavy stones,
Menace the air. 
How can I sing of Victory and Defeat?
How can I tell of Battle's awful scenes?
How least of all of vengeance dire and deep?
Vengeance for sleep disturbed and graceless noise,
That echoing loud aroused a master's ire,
The heavy stripes, the long-drawn gasping sob,
Repentant vows wrung from the chastened soul,
The victim's anguish, and the after-glow.
Let others tell: I only sing the fray.

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'Oh drop your notes' the Viceroy said,
      'Let be the script and scrawl;
No longer shall debates be read 
      In Legislative Hall.
By unassisted verbal skill
Into the Act shall bud the Bill.'

The fiat passed. The notes were dropped; 
      The script was laid aside.
Incontinent the speakers stopped,
      The long discussion died.
D-rb-ngha drooped, and, so 'tis sung,
E'en fluent Ilbert held his tongue.

With 'hems' and 'haws' and 'ahs' and 'ohs',
      And 'wells' and 'buts' and 'thens'
The torrent trickled to its close; 
      The stenographic pens
Ceased from their penning—ceased no less
Reports throughout the Indian Press.

The Senior Member winked one eye, 
      In Legislative style;
And o'er his visage crept, forebye,
      A Legislative smile:—
'Habent', he murmured. 'Oh my friends
Methinks the Rent Bill struggle ends.'

And so it did. With break and pause,
      With gasp and groan and snort,
They shovelled off each weighty clause,
      (Mnemonics weren't their forte).
The ghost was laid. The Members wept;
And like a child our V-c-r-y slept.

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Rhymes, or of grief or of sorrow 
  Pass and are not,
Rhymes of today—tomorrow 
  Lie forgot.

I that am writer of verses—
  What is my prize?—
 Palm crowns and gold filled purses, 
  Honour  that  dies
  As the year flies,
As the multitude breaks and disperses
And the new Generations arise—?

If through these rhymes in their reading 
  Thy blood should be
Quickened one moment conceding 
  Homage to me—
l have got me a prize far exceeding 
  All prizes that be.

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