Part 6 (1/2)

If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear, Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.

XVI.

My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give o'er, Yet lip meets with lip at the last word--get out!

She has been there before.

They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose who are lacking in lore.

XVII.

If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred on the course.

Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth forever Remorse.

XVIII.

”By all I am misunderstood!” if the Matron shall say, or the Maid: ”Alas! I do not understand,” my son, be thou nowise afraid.

In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed.

XIX.

My son, if I, Hafiz, the father, take hold of thy knees in my pain, Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour--refrain.

Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest another man's chain?

THE GRAVE OF THE HUNDRED HEAD

There's a widow in sleepy Chester Who weeps for her only son; There's a grave on the Pabeng River, A grave that the Burmans shun, And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri Who tells how the work was done.

A Snider squibbed in the jungle, Somebody laughed and fled, And the men of the First s.h.i.+karis Picked up their Subaltern dead, With a big blue mark in his forehead And the back blown out of his head.

Subadar Prag Tewarri, Jemadar Hira Lal, Took command of the party, Twenty rifles in all, Marched them down to the river As the day was beginning to fall.

They buried the boy by the river, A blanket over his face-- They wept for their dead Lieutenant, The men of an alien race-- They made a samadh in his honor, A mark for his resting-place.

For they swore by the Holy Water, They swore by the salt they ate, That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib Should go to his G.o.d in state; With fifty file of Burman To open him Heaven's gate.

The men of the First s.h.i.+karis Marched till the break of day, Till they came to the rebel village, The village of Pabengmay-- A jingal covered the clearing, Calthrops hampered the way.

Subadar Prag Tewarri, Bidding them load with ball, Halted a dozen rifles Under the village wall; Sent out a flanking-party With Jemadar Hira Lal.

The men of the First s.h.i.+karis Shouted and smote and slew, Turning the grinning jingal On to the howling crew.

The Jemadar's flanking-party Butchered the folk who flew.

Long was the morn of slaughter, Long was the list of slain, Five score heads were taken, Five score heads and twain; And the men of the First s.h.i.+karis Went back to their grave again,

Each man bearing a basket Red as his palms that day, Red as the blazing village-- The village of Pabengmay, And the ”drip-drip-drip” from the baskets Reddened the gra.s.s by the way.

They made a pile of their trophies High as a tall man's chin, Head upon head distorted, Set in a sightless grin, Anger and pain and terror Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin.

Subadar Prag Tewarri Put the head of the Boh On the top of the mound of triumph, The head of his son below, With the sword and the peac.o.c.k-banner That the world might behold and know.