Nay, not 'mechanical' my Lord— A personal and private glow Pervades us when our humble hoard Is 'cut' by twenty dibs or so. Least of your subjects, store immense I Set monthly by Your Excellency. For when I pay my little dues, I wonder where the money goes; And read the papers for the news, Or write to ventilate my woes. Because I sink my money in The firm of 'Queen and Dufferin'. Oft in some ultra loyal mood I tender newly coined rupees; In case His Excellency should Befoul his gloves with dirt and grease. By arts like these, I strive to win The friendship of Lord Dufferin. But, when the red chaprassi brings— Magnificent in marge and line A letter, hinting awful things, From some respected friend of mine, Because my tax is overdue, Then much, my Lord, I mourn for you. My friend is kindest of the kind, I meet him oft—I know him well— It ne'er would cross his courteous mind To threaten me with dungeon cell. Who drove him, therefore, into sin? He answers sadly:—'Dufferin'. And when some 'unearned increment' Is added to my modest stipend— Like Achan in the fateful tent So I—a neatly-worded lie penned— Secrete my gold untaxed, and smile With glee ungodly at my guile. Now, I was nurtured in a creed That hates a lie and scorns a theft; Who makes me traitor to my breed, Of truth and honour both bereft? Who vulcanized my moral skin?— My business partner—Dufferin. And when I pay that tax no more, And pass beyond the fires they kindle, St Peter at the half-shut door Will tax me with my latest swindle. But I shall answer:—'Let me in! Refer the debt to Dufferin.' And thus the Silver Chain hooks on Our destinies diverse in tether; And Frederick Temple Hamilton, And You and I, and they together, Are linked in ties, occult, unreckoned, Of last year's Act, surnamed the Second.
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