Part 9 (1/2)

The particular procedure leaves research In the lurch, But, apparently, this matter-moulded form Is a kind of outer plaster, Which a well-instructed Master Can remove without disaster When he's warm.

And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Clime At its prime 'Twere a thesis most immeasurably fit, So expansively elastic, And so plausibly fantastic, That one gets enthusiastic For a bit.

_From the Times of India_.

INDIFFERENCE

In loopy links the canker crawls, Tads twiddle in their 'polian glee, Yet sinks my heart as water falls.

The loon that laughs, the babe that bawls, The wedding wear, the funeral palls, Are neither here nor there to me.

Of life the mingled wine and brine I sit and sip pipslipsily.

_Anonymous_.

HEART-FOAM

Oh! to be wafted away From this black Aceldama of sorrow, Where the dust of an earthy to-day Makes the earth of a dusty to-morrow.

_W.S. Gilbert_.

COSSIMBAZAR

Come fleetly, come fleetly, my hookabadar, For the sound of the tam-tam is heard from afar.

”Banoolah! Banoolah!” The Brahmins are nigh, And the depths of the jungle re-echo their cry.

_Pestonjee Bomanjee_!

Smite the guitar; Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Heed not the blast of the deadly monsoon, Nor the blue Brahmaputra that gleams in the moon.

Stick to thy music, and oh, let the sound Be heard with distinctness a mile or two round.

_Famsetjee, Feejeebhoy_!

Sweep the guitar.

Join in the chorus, my hookabadar.

Art thou a Buddhist, or dost thou indeed Put faith in the monstrous Mohammedan creed?

Art thou a Ghebir--a blinded Pa.r.s.ee?

Not that it matters an atom to me.

_Cursetjee Bomanjee_!