Part 12 (1/2)

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.

Thus the samadh was perfect, Thus was the lesson plain Of the wrath of the First s.h.i.+karis-- The price of a white man slain; And the men of the First s.h.i.+karis Went back into camp again.

Then a silence came to the river, A hush fell over the sh.o.r.e, And Bohs that were brave departed, And Sniders squibbed no more; For the Burmans said That a kullah's head Must be paid for with heads five score.

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.

THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS

Beneath the deep veranda's shade, When bats begin to fly, I sit me down and watch--alas!-- Another evening die.

Blood-red behind the sere ferash She rises through the haze.

Sainted Diana! can that be The Moon of Other Days?

Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith, Sweet Saint of Kensington!

Say, was it ever thus at Home The Moon of August shone, When arm in arm we wandered long Through Putney's evening haze, And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath The Moon of Other Days?

But Wandle's stream is Sutlej now, And Putney's evening haze The dust that half a hundred kine Before my window raise.

Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist The seething city looms, In place of Putney's golden gorse The sickly babul blooms.

Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust, And bid the pie-dog yell, Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ, From each bazaar its smell; Yea, suck the fever from the tank And sap my strength therewith: Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face To little Kitty Smith!

THE OVERLAND MAIL (Foot-Service to the Hills)

In the name of the Empress of India, make way, O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.

The woods are astir at the close of the day-- We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.

Let the robber retreat--let the tiger turn tail-- In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!

With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in, He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill-- The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin, And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill: ”Despatched on this date, as received by the rail, Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail.”

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.

Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.

Does the tempest cry ”Halt”? What are tempests to him?