Archives: Poems

There was no one like ’im, ’Orse or Foot,      (1) 
        Nor any o’ the Guns I knew;
An’ because it was so, why, o’ course ’e went an’ died,
      Which is just what the best men do. 
     
So it’s knock out your pipes an’ follow me!     (5) 
      An’ it’s finish up your swipes an’ follow me!
        Oh, ’ark to the big drum callin’,
          Follow me—follow me ’ome!

     ’Is mare she neighs the ’ole day long,     (9) 
       She paws the ’ole night through,
An’ she won’t take ’er feed ’cause o’ waitin’ for ’is step,
       Which is just what a beast would do. 
    
  ’Is girl she goes with a bombardier     (13) 
      Before ’er month is through;
 An’ the banns are up in church, for she’s got the beggar hooked,
      Which is just what a girl would do. 
  
   We fought ’bout a dog—last week it were—     (17) 
       No more than a round or two;
 But I strook ’im cruel ’ard, an’ I wish I ’adn’t now,
      Which is just what a man can’t do.
 
    ’E was all that I ’ad in the way of a friend,     (21) 
       An’ I’ve ’ad to find one new;
 But I’d give my pay an’ stripe for to get the beggar back,
       Which it’s just too late to do. 

      So it’s knock out your pipes an’ follow me!     (25) 
      An’ it’s finish off your swipes an’ follow me!
        Oh, ’ark to the fifes a-crawlin’!
               Follow me—follow me ’ome! 

      Take ’im away! ’E’s gone where the best men go.     (29) 
      Take ’im away! An’ the gun-wheels turnin’ slow.
      Take ’im away! There’s more from the place ’e come.
      Take ’im away, with the limber an’ the drum. 

      For it’s “Three rounds blank” an’ follow me,     (33) 
      An’ it’s “Thirteen rank” an’ follow me;
        Oh, passin’ the love o’ women,
          Follow me—follow me ’ome!

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SCENE: A rugged mountain pass near B———e.

Enter P—T R—M N—N (R) singing and dancing.

SONG: P—T R—M N—N.

I am convinced my merits rare,
And powers of legal disputation,
Indubitably levers were
To this exalted situation.
He marked me with His eagle eye,
When, lowly pleading, oft I pleaded;
And, e’en ten weary years gone by
I knew I did not toil unheeded.
In Cap. and Code, both Civ. and Crim.
I have no rival. Hushiar
Beyond all pleaders, I to Him
Appeared a legal Avatar:

For I am an Aryans judge! Hurrah!
I am an Aryan judge!
(pp con molt. exp.) And it’s not half bad sport, if you are the right sort,
To be an Aryan judge!

Pas Legislatif. Crosses R to L and comes down.
Enter Full B—NCH P—B also singing and dancing (R),
with attar, pan and garlands.

CHORUS: B—NCH (fortissimo).

He’s an affable Aryan judge—
A star and a light to our leading—
Though the vulgar may snigger and nudge
We will pass by their comments unheeding,
For who in his senses would grudge
A seat on the B—nch to this judge?
This
Indigenous, affable, eloquent, erudite, excellent, Aryan judge.

Pas Legislatif. The P—T skipping over garlands.
Exit (R) wreathed with smiles and roses.

B—NCH sit down (C) 9 and sing
pianissimo looking warily at the B———e lights

CHORUS: B—NCH

We know we aren’t exactly strong
Hush! Hush! Hush!
In weighty matters of the law.
Hist! Hist! Hist!
We think Sir C——s extremely wrong
Hush! Hush! Hush!
We watch his latest step with awe.
Hist! Hist! Hist!
We know we aren’t exactly strong
In weighty matters of the law
But,
If We are incompetent, which We of course deny,
Why not new importation s of Our nationality ?
And,
If We aren’t incompetent, Oh why insult the trus-
ty band of ticca j-dges with a course of action thus ?

Da Capo Pianissimo. Practicable window opens in B——e
R.U.E. discloses Sir C—s with P—b G—tte in his hand,
which he waves in time to the music.

BASS SOLO : SIR C—S
Rash men of Law and bold!
Restrain yourselves! Be still!
Yet shall the truth be told—
It was the Principill.

B—NCH seriatim, in state of nervous collapse

BASS RECITATIVE:  SIR C (looking out of the window)

Shuts down window, while B—nch faint in the order of their seniority;
and are removed one by one by the P—t. (R)

CHORUS OF NATIVE EDITORS under Window (C)

Hear our unanimous cry.
Mulk-i-Lat Sahib ke Jai
Strengthen your soul with the thought
You have our warmest support.
How shall your Honour take harm
Backed by the Akhbar-i-Aam?
Friend of the great Koh-i-Noor,
Widely perused in L—e?

(ffff)

(fff fff)

SIR C——s bowing his acknowledgments from window, and
accompanying himself on a mandolin:

Yes! yes! ‘Tis the voice of the Indian Nation.

SONG: SIR C——s

By measures such as these I much
Delight the teeming land;
And closer bind my fellow-kind
In amicable band.
And in a few more decades, to
United India we,
With one consent, our Government
Resign and homeward flee.
Oh! This is Government by Love,
And Truth, and bound to come,
And I anticipate from this
The new Millenium.

CHORUS: still more rapturously

Yes this is government by love
And Right, and bound to come.
Be this our cry:—’Sir C——s our bhai
And the Millenium

Blue red and green fire, ; showers of roses
and tumultuous cheering.

CURTAIN

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              I

Pre-admonisheth
Ye youth

A youth but late returned from School, 
Fourteen, facetious, fat,
I swear by that I cherish most,­ 
Videlicet 'My Hat'. 
 

           II  

And defendeth
His Oath

Oaths are immoral people say, 
But still they come so pat
When one's excited. It's not sin 
I'm sure, to say My Hat! 
 

            III   

Instances when
Ye Oath
May be Needful
  
When nightly slumbers broken are  
By symphony of cat,
I think of spring traps, dogs, & death,  
And vengeful growl 'My Hat!' 
 

          IV   

The Substance
Of ye Oath

I have but one, —a bowler 'tis 
As rough as any mat,
The felt inside is cocoa-stained, 
Nathless I love my Hat. 
 

             V

Ye Conscience that
Swayeth ye Youth

Folks say it's seedy, but I stick  
To it the more for that.
As Conscience keeps me to my word 
And lives inside my Hat.
 

           VI   

The affection of
ye Youth

As student I shall keep it still,  
Moreover when I mat-
riculate at seventeen  
I'll go up in my Hat. 
 

            VII   

He imagineth
Misfortune

And if I miss, (which Heaven forbid) 
Proving myself a flat,
Then I should find to my disgust,
Myself inside my Hat. 
 

           VIII  

And telleth
Of his Poesie

When you're at breakfast there will come  
The postman's rat-tat-tat,
Bringing your business letters and 
These verses on my Hat.
  

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"Exchange is now quoted at 1–5⅞"
C & M Gazette, December 17th.

    I am a man of culture small
       With seven mouths to fill,
    And do not understand at all
       Why money can't keep still;
    Bi-metallism is to me
    A grim unfathomed mystery.

    Years back—ere Mrs Smith was fat
       Or I an ardent lover,
    The fraudulent Rupee stood at
       Two 'bob' and something over.
    I led her to the altar—then
    It altered too, to one and ten.

    Years passed, and children came with years
       Demanding food and drink,
    And raiment oft—we watched with tears
       The vengeful token sink—
    Sink with each new born innocent—
    Nine, eight and seven—down it went!

    We sent them overseas to flee
       The fate that dogged their path,
    And fed with all economy
       Our babe-denuded hearth.
    A fourth was born. Next day with pain
    I read—'Exchange is down again.'

    That was two weary years ago
       No other child succeeding,
    I hoped 'twould take the hint—but no,
       Exchange dropped down unheeding,
    To fractions past my counting—Yet
    Another filled the bassinette.

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Jack Barrett went to Quetta
    Because they told him to.
He left his wife at Simla
   On three-fourths his monthly screw.
Jack Barrett died at Quetta
     Ere the next month's pay he drew.

Jack Barrett went to Quetta.
     He didn't understand
The reason of his transfer
     From the pleasant mountain-land.
The season was September,
     And it killed him out of hand.

Jack Barrett went to Quetta
     And there gave up the ghost,
Attempting two men's duty
     In that very healthy post;
And Mrs. Barrett mourned for him
     Five lively months at most.

Jack Barrett's bones at Quetta
     Enjoy profound repose;
But I shouldn't be astonished
     If now his spirit knows
The reason of his transfer
     From the Himalayan snows.

And, when the Last Great Bugle Call
     Adown the Hurnai throbs,
And the last grim joke is entered
     In the big black Book of Jobs.
And Quetta graveyards give again
     Their victims to the air,
I shouldn't like to be the man
     Who sent Jack Barrett there.
 
 

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The stumbling block of Western lore 
Is faith in old arithmetics—
That two and two are always four 
And three and three make ever six 
Whereas 'neath less exacting skies, 
These numbers total otherwise, 
Equality of A to B
Is interesting—Greenwich way;
But does not for a moment pred-
-icate the like 'twixt B and A. 
For East of Suez, be it said
B is the sum of XYZ.
It may be heat or damp or dew
That warps the numbers, one to ten, so 
And twists the alphabet askew 
Disproving Euclid and Colenso;
Or else there must be people who
Don't think as other people do.

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