Part 7 (2/2)
This fell when dinner-time was done-- 'Twixt the first an' the second rub-- That oor mon Jock cam' hame again To his rooms ahist the Club.
An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang, An' syne we thocht him fou, An' syne he trumped his partner's trick, An' garred his partner rue.
Then up and spake an elder mon, That held the Spade its Ace-- ”G.o.d save the lad! Whence comes the licht ”That wimples on his face?”
An' Jock he sn.i.g.g.e.red, an' Jock he smiled, An' ower the card-brim wunk:-- ”I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg, ”May be that I am drunk.”
”There's whusky brewed in Galas.h.i.+ls ”An' L. L. L. forbye; ”But never liquor lit the lowe ”That keeks fra' oot your eye.
”There's a third o' hair on your dress-coat breast, ”Aboon the heart a wee?”
”Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye ”That s...o...b..rs ower me.”
”Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts, ”An' terrier dogs are fair, ”But never yet was terrier born, ”Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!
”There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast, ”Below the left lappel?”
”Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar, ”Whenas the stump-end fell.”
”Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coa.r.s.e, ”For ye are short o' cash, ”An' best Havanas couldna leave ”Sae white an' pure an ash.
”This nicht ye stopped a story braid, ”An' stopped it wi' a curse.
”Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel'-- ”An' capped it wi' a worse!
”Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou!
”But plainly we can ken ”Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band ”O' cantie single men!”
An' it fell when sirris-shaws were sere, An' the nichts were lang and mirk, In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring, Oor Jock gaed to the Kirk!
ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER
A great and glorious thing it is To learn, for seven years or so, The Lord knows what of that and this, Ere reckoned fit to face the foe-- The flying bullet down the Pa.s.s, That whistles clear: ”All flesh is gra.s.s.”
Three hundred pounds per annum spent On making brain and body meeter For all the murderous intent Comprised in ”villainous saltpetre!”
And after--ask the Yusufzaies What comes of all our 'ologies.
A scrimmage in a Border Station-- A canter down some dark defile-- Two thousand pounds of education Drops to a ten-rupee jezail-- The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride, Shot like a rabbit in a ride!
No proposition Euclid wrote, No formulae the text-books know, Will turn the bullet from your coat, Or ward the tulwar's downward blow Strike hard who cares--shoot straight who can-- The odds are on the cheaper man.
One sword-knot stolen from the camp Will pay for all the school expenses Of any Kurrum Valley scamp Who knows no word of moods and tenses, But, being blessed with perfect sight, Picks off our messmates left and right.
With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem, The troop-s.h.i.+ps bring us one by one, At vast expense of time and steam, To slay Afridis where they run.
<script>