Part 7 (1/2)

WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID June 21st, 1887

By the well, where the bullocks go Silent and blind and slow-- By the field where the young corn dies In the face of the sultry skies, They have heard, as the dull Earth hears The voice of the wind of an hour, The sound of the Great Queen's voice: ”My G.o.d hath given me years, Hath granted dominion and power: And I bid you, O Land, rejoice.”

And the ploughman settles the share More deep in the grudging clod; For he saith: ”The wheat is my care, And the rest is the will of G.o.d.

”He sent the Mahratta spear As He sendeth the rain, And the Mlech, in the fated year, Broke the spear in twain.

”And was broken in turn. Who knows How our Lords make strife?

It is good that the young wheat grows, For the bread is Life.”

Then, far and near, as the twilight drew, Hissed up to the scornful dark Great serpents, blazing, of red and blue, That rose and faded, and rose anew.

That the Land might wonder and mark ”Today is a day of days,” they said, ”Make merry, O People, all!”

And the Ploughman listened and bowed his head: ”Today and tomorrow G.o.d's will,” he said, As he trimmed the lamps on the wall.

”He sendeth us years that are good, As He sendeth the dearth, He giveth to each man his food, Or Her food to the Earth.

”Our Kings and our Queens are afar-- On their peoples be peace-- G.o.d bringeth the rain to the Bar, That our cattle increase.”

And the Ploughman settled the share More deep in the sun-dried clod: ”Mogul Mahratta, and Mlech from the North, And White Queen over the Seas-- G.o.d raiseth them up and driveth them forth As the dust of the ploughshare flies in the breeze; But the wheat and the cattle are all my care, And the rest is the will of G.o.d.”

THE UNDERTAKER'S HORSE

”To-tschin-shu is condemned to death.

How can he drink tea with the Executioner?”

j.a.panese Proverb.

The eldest son bestrides him, And the pretty daughter rides him, And I meet him oft o' mornings on the Course; And there kindles in my bosom An emotion chill and gruesome As I canter past the Undertaker's Horse.

Neither s.h.i.+es he nor is restive, But a hideously suggestive Trot, professional and placid, he affects; And the cadence of his hoof-beats To my mind this grim reproof beats:-- ”Mend your pace, my friend, I'm coming. Who's the next?”

Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen, I have watched the strongest go--men Of pith and might and muscle--at your heels, Down the plantain-bordered highway, (Heaven send it ne'er be my way!) In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.

Answer, sombre beast and dreary, Where is Brown, the young, the cheery, Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force?

You were at that last dread dak We must cover at a walk, Bring them back to me, O Undertaker's Horse!

With your mane unhogged and flowing, And your curious way of going, And that businesslike black crimping of your tail, E'en with Beauty on your back, Sir, Pacing as a lady's hack, Sir, What wonder when I meet you I turn pale?

It may be you wait your time, Beast, Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast-- Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the gla.s.s-- Follow after with the others, Where some dusky heathen smothers Us with marigolds in lieu of English gra.s.s.

Or, perchance, in years to follow, I shall watch your plump sides hollow, See Carnifex (gone lame) become a corse-- See old age at last o'erpower you, And the Station Pack devour you, I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker's Horse!

But to insult, jibe, and quest, I've Still the hideously suggestive Trot that hammers out the unrelenting text, And I hear it hard behind me In what place soe'er I find me:-- ”'Sure to catch you sooner or later. Who's the next?”

THE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE