Archives: Poems

Hoots! toots! ayont, ahint, afore,
The bleth'rin' blast may blathe an blaw 
      An' shak' my dhoti;
But I am canty, crouse, and full, 
      An' aiblins at my pipe I pull,
Safe in my khoti.

I bang the gudewife wi' my loof,
And shak' the dung-cakes fra' the roof 
      To feed the low;
An' gin my dinner crowds my pét
My wee bit bairnies stamp it straight 
      Wi' joyous crow.

What mair, I ask, could man desire 
Beyont his bit of bread an' fire,
      An' safe inves'ment
O' bawbees in a silver chain 
To guard against a day of rain
      Or raised assessments?

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1 
The wild waves beat upon the shore, 
   The sand is flecked with flying spume,
   The cliffs have hid themselves in gloom, 
The gas is lit at half past four. 
2
The draughts are flying here and there 
   All aimless, and our bodies chill; 
   We plug with wood the window sill
And shiver in the nipping air. 
3
We sit and shiver row on row,
   We wrap ourselves in rug and cloak, 
   The chimneys fill the room with smoke,
And we—we wish it were not so. 
4
The rime lies white on Goosey Pool, 
   The hoar frost glitters from the sedge, 
   We talk of in- and outer- edge,
And furbish skates throughout the School. 
5
Tho' hours be dull and days be cold, 
   And spirits, noses, fingers, blue,
   This longest term wears slowly through, 
And brings us cates, and Christmas gold— 
6
The gift of those that love us so 
   And send us to Devonian strands, 
   And sit and rub paternal hands
Behind a yard-broad fire's glow. 
7
They think of us sometimes. Alas, 
   Their comforts come before our eyes 
   Too vividly whene'er we rise
And hear the ice clink in the glass.

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1 
Gentlemen reformers with an English Education—
    Lights of Aryavarta take our heartiest applause,
For the spectacle you offer of an 'educated' nation 
    Working out its freedom under 'educated' laws.
2 
Laudable your sentiments, eloquent your diction,
    For your flowing periods, all our language racked is.
May a brutal Briton ask:—'Wherefore then the friction 
    'Twixt the golden Principle and the grubby Practice.'
3 
Gentlemen reformers, you have heard the story
    Weighed the woman's evidence—marked the man's reply.
Here's a chance for honour, notoriety and glory! 
    Graduates of culture will you let that chance go by?
4 
[You can lecture government, draught a resolution— 
    Sign a huge memorial—that Calcutta saw.
Never such an opening for touching elocution—
    As the text of Rukhmibhaio, jailed by Hindu law]
5 
What? No word of protest? Not a sign of pity?
    Not a hand to help the girl, but, in black and white
Writes the leading oracle of the leading city:— 
    'We the Indian nation, we hold it served her right.
6 
Wherefore, gracious government, let her do her sentence: 
    Learn the majesty of Law, teach our erring wives—
By a six months' sojourn in a common prison pent—hence
    She and they are cattle at our service all their lives.'
7 
Gentlemen reformers, you can understand the loathing 
    That would fill your bosoms did a mehter claim to share
On the strength of velvet skull-cap and a suit of snowy [clothing 
    Your name and rank and prospects and a seat beside your chair]
8 
[Very hard it is to keep in bounds of decent moderation— 
    And grief to smother epithets unseemly out of place
When excellent reformers chose to call themselves a nation
    And clamour for equality beside the higher race.
9 
It is then the brutal Briton feels an impulse, wild, unruly— 
    That tingles in the toe nails of a non-official boot—
Lumps in one mean heap of cruelty the graduate and cooly— 
    And the old race-instinct answers to the clamour:—Hut you brute.
10 
Which is barbarous and savage but the graduate of culture
    May console himself with thinking of the proverb wise and old
'Though you paint him as a peacock, still the vulture is a vulture'—
    And the dôm is still an outcast though you plate his back with gold.]    

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1 
If I have held my peace so long
        Here, in the bosom of the plains,
        Trust me—'t was but because my brains
Would yield no echo of a song.
2
A peaceful lot is mine to sing;
        In dullness deep my lines are laid
        Save when—to please some sporting maid,
I tilt (and tumble) at the Ring.
3
Three black cheroots the day beguile;
        Week follows week—the long month goes,
        And Adlard sends his bill for 'close'
Which I receive and promptly—file.
4
No longer flies the fiery steed
        Ramping (on two rupees per diem, 
        To be refunded if you buy 'em)
Across the Annandyllic meads.
5
No longer by the Jhampan's side
        I frisk along the crowded Mall 
        From half past four till evenfall,
Or by Peliti's take my ride.
6
No longer through the stately pines
        The soft Hill breezes come and go,
        No longer, in the dusk below
The merry 'Rickshaw's lantern shines.
7
For Jakko's woods are far away
        And, in the place of Combermere,
        Across the muddy chick I hear 
The rain that 'raineth every day'.
8
Unharrowed is my tender soul
        By M-ss O'M-R-A's bold black eye—
        For, far from any passer by 
I hear the sullen presses roll.
9
The foul chaprassi in his lair
        Sits silent as a turban'd Sphinx;
        And all the city's million stinks 
Float inward on the frowy air.
10
And so I rest a graceful boot 
        Upon the table's inky baize,
        And think of other—happier days
And sob above my cheap cheroot.
11
I dream of lotos eating days,
        Of pleasant rides in pleasant places, 
        Of half a hundred pretty faces,
Of Solan beer and Henry Clays. 
12
'A change' like that which Byron wrote,  
        Comes 'o'er the spirit of my dream;' 
        I hear the restless parrot scream
And watch the gay thermantidote; 
13
Too moved for words, its wings I study,— 
        Wipe well each glass protected eye 
        And, ere I throw the inkstand by
Subscribe myself your truly,
                                                  Ruddy.

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Fairest of women is she.
      In all the passion of youth,
      In deed and in word and in truth; 
For time and eternity
I woo her, so let it be.

Rouge and wrinkles and puff, 
Padding and powder enough
      To win a hundred hearts!
      They are welcome. From me departs 
      Love for this woman of arts.

Old friend, why discourse of these things?
      Fairest of women was she.
      Somewhere in eternity
We may play out the game again; 
Here, Time has ended her reign, 
      Making her hateful to see.

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"I have a thousand men," said he,  
  "To wait upon my will;
And towers nine upon the Tyne, 
  And three upon the Till."

"And what care I for your men?" said she,  
  "Or towers from Tyne to Till?
Sith you must go with me," said she, 
  "To wait upon my will."

"And you may lead a thousand men 
  Nor ever draw the rein,
But before you lead the Fairy Queen 
  'Twill burst your heart in twain."

He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar, 
  The bridle from his hand,
And he is bound by hand and foot 
  To the Queen of Fairy Land.

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Oh Love what need is it that thou should'st die?
  Oh Faith what need that thou shouldest wax so cold—
Seeing that good returneth presently—
  And all things are as in that year of old.
Nay–tis a passing cloud that dims the sun
  If Love be for a season full of pain,
A passing woe that swiftly is fordone,
  A passing cloud that melteth in sweet rain.
Have patience for a little, and the end
  Shall pay thy patience and thy hour's dismay
When Woe's remembrance sweets to Joy doth lend,
  And night's black memory brightens the new day.
Oh Love faint not if she whose slave thou art
Being most maidenlike know not her heart.

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