When 'Omer smote 'is bloomin' lyre, He'd 'eard men sing by land an' sea; An' what he thought 'e might require, 'E went an' took - the same as me! The market-girls an' fishermen, The shepherds an' the sailors, too, They 'eard old songs turn up again, But kep' it quiet - same as you! They knew 'e stole; 'e knew they knowed. They didn't tell, nor make a fuss, But winked at 'Omer down the road, An' 'e winked back - the same as us!
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I wandered by the riverside, To gaze upon the view, And watched the Alligator glide After the dead Hindu, Who stank and sank beneath the tide, Then rose and stank anew. The evening dews were falling fast, The damp, unwholesome dew; The river rippled 'neath the blast, The black crow roostward flew; And swift the Alligator passed In chase of his Hindu. And, from the margin of the tide, I watched the twain that fled— The Alligator, scaly-thighed, Close pressed the flying dead, Who gazed, with eyeballs opened wide, Upward, but nothing said. And many a time at eventide, As night comes on anew, I think upon the riverside Where, gazing on the view, I watched the Alligator glide After the dead Hindu.
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"Have you news of my boy Jack?" Not this tide. "When d'you think that he'll come back?" Not with this wind blowing, and this tide. "Has any one else had word of him?" Not this tide. For what is sunk will hardly swim, Not with this wind blowing, and this tide. "Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?" None this tide, Nor any tide, Except he did not shame his kind– Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide. Then hold your head up all the more, This tide, And every tide; Because he was the son you bore, And gave to that wind blowing and that tide.
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'Less you want your toes trod off you'd better get back at once, For the bullocks are walking two by two, The byles are walking two by two, And the elephants bring the guns. Ho! Yuss! Great—big—long—black—forty-pounder guns. Jiggery-jolty to and fro, Each as big as a launch in tow— Blind—dumb—broad-breeched—beggars o'battering-guns!
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Imperious wool-booted sage Though your years as men reckon are Three You are wiser than ten times your age, And your faithfullest servants are we. Oh fluffy Philosopher small You can't read our rhymes it is true, For dinner and play is your All And Creation is—you! You cry for the moon and—you get it, You laugh and our spirits have mirth, And the least of your orders we set it O'er everything else upon earth. We know we are older—we may be More wise than yourself O my sweet But today you are Queen of us Baby And we come with our gifts to your feet.
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I thank you Mrs Colvin for the fruits in juice disolvin' & I ate the grapes and oranges with will & I'd like another basket Any time I choose to ask it, & I'm always yours sin [cerely Mrs Hill.]
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1 In extended observation of the ways and works of man, From the Four-mile Radius roughly to the Plains of Hindustan: I have drunk with mixed assemblies, seen the racial ruction rise, And the men of half Creation damning half Creation's eyes. 2 I have watched them in their tantrums, all that Pentecostal crew, French, Italian, Arab, Spaniard, Dutch and Greek, and Russ and Jew, Celt and savage, buff and ochre, cream and yellow, mauve and white, But it never really mattered till the English grew polite; 3 Till the men with polished toppers, till the men in long frock-coats, Till the men who do not duel, till the men who war with votes, Till the breed that take their pleasures as Saint Lawrence took his grid, Began to "beg your pardon" and—the knowing croupier hid. 4 Then the bandsmen with their fiddles, and the girls that bring the beer, Felt the psychological moment, left the lit Casino clear; But the uninstructed alien, from the Teuton to the Gaul, Was entrapped, once more, my country, by that suave, deceptive drawl. 5 As it was in ancient Suez or 'neath wilder, milder skies, I "observe with apprehension" how the racial ructions rise; And with keener apprehension, if I read the times aright, Hear the old Casino order: "Watch your man, but be polite. 6 “Keep your temper. Never answer (that was why they spat and swore). Don't hit first, but move together (there's no hurry) to the door. Back to back, and facing outward while the linguist tells 'em how— 'Nous sommes allong ar notre batteau, nous ne voulong pas un row.'" 7 So the hard, pent rage ate inward, till some idiot went too far... "Let 'em have it!" and they had it, and the same was merry war— Fist, umbrella, cane, decanter, lamp and beer-mug, chair and boot— Till behind the fleeing legions rose the long, hoarse yell for loot. 8 Then the oil-cloth with its numbers, like a banner fluttered free; Then the grand piano cantered, on three castors, down the quay; White, and breathing through their nostrils, silent, systematic, swift— They removed, effaced, abolished all that man could heave or lift. 9 Oh, my country, bless the training that from cot to castle runs— The pitfall of the stranger but the bulwark of thy sons— Measured speech and ordered action, sluggish soul and unperturbed, Till we wake our Island-Devil—nowise cool for being curbed! 10 When the heir of all the ages "has the honour to remain," When he will not hear an insult, though men make it ne'er so plain, When his lips are schooled to meekness, when his back is bowed to blows— Well the keen aas-vogels know it—well the waiting jackal knows. 11 Build on the flanks of Etna where the sullen smoke-puffs float— Or bathe in tropic waters where the lean fin dogs the boat— Cock the gun that is not loaded, cook the frozen dynamite— But oh, beware my Country, when my Country grows polite!
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1 There's a little red-faced man, Which is Bobs, Rides the tallest 'orse 'e can- Our Bobs. If it bucks or kicks or rears, 'E can sit for twenty years With a smile round both 'is ears- Can't yer, Bobs? 2 Then 'ere's to Bobs Bahadur - little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs! E's our pukka Kandahader- Fightin' Bobs, Bobs, Bobs! E's the Dook of Aggy Chel; E's the man that done us well, An' we'll follow 'im to 'ell Won't we, Bobs? 3 If a limber's slipped a trace, 'Ook on Bobs. If a marker's lost 'is place, Dress by Bobs. For 'e's eyes all up 'is coat, An' a bugle in 'is throat, An' you will not play the goat Under Bobs. 4 E's a little down on drink, Chaplain Bobs; But it keeps us outer Clink Don't it, Bobs? So we will not complain Tho' ‘e’s water on the brain, If 'e leads us straight again- Blue-light Bobs. 5 If you stood 'im on 'is head, Father Bobs, You could spill a quart of lead Outer Bobs. 'E's been at it thirty years An-amassin' souveneers In the way o' slugs an' spears- Ain't yer, Bobs? 6 What 'e does not know o' war, Gen'ral Bobs, You can arst the shop next door- Can't they, Bobs? Oh, 'e's little but he's wise, 'E's terror for 'is size, An–'e-does-not-advertise- Do yer, Bobs? 7 Now they've made a bloomin' Lord Outer Bobs, Which was but 'is fair reward- Weren't it, Bobs? So 'e'll wear a coronet Where 'is 'elmet used to set; But we know you won't forget- Will yer, Bobs? 8 Then 'ere's to Bobs Bahadur- little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs, Pocket-Wellin'ton 'an arder Fightin' Bobs, Bobs, Bobs! This ain't no bloomin' ode, But you've 'elped the soldier's load, An' for benefits bestowed, Bless yer, Bobs!
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Now the Knighte and the Ladye had been long aparte
and knew not when they might again meet.
So they sent a Message by the Page, sayinge that
Love was the same in olde or yonge
(for which God shall reste their soules)
And the Message was after this sort—
1 Spare neither lie, nor deed, nor gold— Smite hard, trip not, let no thought stray From the purpose set, for short is Day, And night is moonless, and blank and cold. 2 If I be dumb for a while—Remain Dumb for a season—that none may see What is the chain 'twixt thee and me, And the light loss brings a greater gain. 3 We have seen the world's most secret woe, We have drunk together of bitter springs, We fashioned us vain imaginings That lived and faded long ago. 4 Nothing is left but Love alone, Binding fast,—as the black frost binds When the lake lies dead to the winter winds And the face of the land is turned to stone— 5 Spur the Stallion weak and lame, (Long it is since his fire past) Furbish old armour, come at last As the perfect knight of my girlhood came— 6 Ere the night come, come swiftly thou, For we are old. Stay not but come. Old lips are swiftly smitten dumb And the lifeblood faileth even now.
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1 Jane Austen Beecher Stowe de Rouse Was good beyond all earthly need; But, on the other hand, her spouse Was very, very bad indeed. He smoked cigars, called churches slow, And raced - but this she did not know. 2 For Belial Machiavelli kept The little fact a secret, and, Though o'er his minor sins she wept, Jane Austen did not understand That Lilly - thirteen-two and bay Absorbed one-half her husband's pay. 3 She was so good, she made him worse; (Some women are like this, I think;) He taught her parrot how to curse, Her Assam monkey how to drink. He vexed her righteous soul until She went up, and he went down hill. 4 Then came the crisis, strange to say, Which turned a good wife to a better. A telegraphic peon, one day, Brought her - now, had it been a letter For Belial Machiavelli, I Know Jane would just have let it lie. 5 But 'twas a telegram instead, Marked "urgent," and her duty plain To open it. Jane Austen read: "Your Lilly's got a cough again. Can't understand why she is kept At your expense." Jane Austen wept. 6 It was a misdirected wire. Her husband was at Shaitanpore. She spread her anger, hot as fire, Through six thin foreign sheets or more. Sent off that letter, wrote another To her solicitor - and mother. 7 Then Belial Machiavelli saw Her error and, I trust, his own, Wired to the minion of the Law, And travelled wifeward - not alone. For Lilly - thirteen-two and bay - Came in a horse-box all the way. 8 There was a scene - a weep or two - With many kisses. Austen Jane Rode Lilly all the season through, And never opened wires again. She races now with Belial. This Is very sad, but so it is.
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