'A singular scarcity of men prevails this year at most of the Hill Stations of Upper India; owing to the number of men who have taken leave to England or Kashmir—Newsletter.' 1 There's wailing on the Camel's Back; There's grief on Simla Mall; Blank horror thrills the Murree Hills And broods o'er Naini Tal! The dances stop; the dinners drop; The blatant bands are dumb: The maidens wait disconsolate For men who never come. 2 The 'rickshaws run—none run beside, Uncavaliered they go; The only mails (Her Majesty's) Accentuate their woe. Ah ha! they scorned our simple worth In other, livelier years; Come, let us mock their misery, And gloat upon their tears! 3 Go, ask the bounding barasingh Where are your partners gone! Speak to the flying P and O, Or Thomas Cook and Son! They hunt another quarry now, The men whose loss you grieve; For half of them are in Kashmir And half at Home on leave. 4 For six short weeks each rover seeks A broader, bustling Mall— A cool, electric-lighted Ind Behind the Albert Hall. What is the scent of deodars- The bray of G– ldst– n's band— To odours dear of London smoke, And tumult of the Strand? 5 They will return, I know them well, But you must eke till then A semi-torpid season out With 'boys' and aged men. The rawest thing in uniform, The rowdiest in check, Shall save your dance from breaking down, Your picnic from a wreck. 6 Go up, bald-headed patriarchs! Time brings again your chance; A dado of sweet wallflowers Is withering for a dance. Fly, flaxen-headed innocence! Flirt while your Fate allows; The Law is kind and does not bind A minor to his vows.
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