Part 19 (2/2)

They have taken away my long jezail, My s.h.i.+eld and sabre fine, And heaved me into the Central jail For lifting of the kine.

The steer may low within the byre, The Jat may tend his grain, But there'll be neither loot nor fire Till I come back again.

And G.o.d have mercy on the Jat When once my fetters fall, And Heaven defend the farmer's hut When I am loosed from thrall.

It's woe to bend the stubborn back Above the grinching quern, It's woe to hear the leg-bar clack And jingle when I turn!

But for the sorrow and the shame, The brand on me and mine, I'll pay you back in leaping flame And loss of the butchered kine.

For every cow I spared before In charity set free, If I may reach my hold once more I'll reive an honest three.

For every time I raised the low That scared the dusty plain, By sword and cord, by torch and tow I'll light the land with twain!

Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai, Young Sahib with the yellow hair-- Lie close, lie close as khuttucks lie, Fat herds below Bonair!

The one I'll shoot at twilight-tide, At dawn I'll drive the other; The black shall mourn for hoof and hide, The white man for his brother.

'Tis war, red war, I'll give you then, War till my sinews fail; For the wrong you have done to a chief of men, And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl.

And if I fall to your hand afresh I give you leave for the sin, That you cram my throat with the foul pig's flesh, And swing me in the skin!

THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS

This ballad appears to refer to one of the exploits of the notorious Paul Jones, the American pirate. It is founded on fact.

... At the close of a winter day, Their anchors down, by London town, the Three Great Captains lay; And one was Admiral of the North from Solway Firth to Skye, And one was Lord of the Wess.e.x coast and all the lands thereby, And one was Master of the Thames from Limehouse to Blackwall, And he was Captain of the Fleet--the bravest of them all.

Their good guns guarded their great gray sides that were thirty foot in the sheer, When there came a certain trading-brig with news of a privateer.

Her rigging was rough with the clotted drift that drives in a Northern breeze, Her sides were clogged with the lazy weed that sp.a.w.ns in the Eastern seas.

Light she rode in the rude tide-rip, to left and right she rolled, And the skipper sat on the scuttle-b.u.t.t and stared at an empty hold.

”I ha' paid Port dues for your Law,” quoth he, ”and where is the Law ye boast If I sail unscathed from a heathen port to be robbed on a Christian coast?

Ye have smoked the hives of the Laccadives as we burn the lice in a bunk, We tack not now to a Gallang prow or a plunging Pei-ho junk; I had no fear but the seas were clear as far as a sail might fare Till I met with a lime-washed Yankee brig that rode off Finisterre.

”There were canvas blinds to his bow-gun ports to screen the weight he bore, And the signals ran for a merchantman from Sandy Hook to the Nore.

”He would not fly the Rovers' flag--the b.l.o.o.d.y or the black, But now he floated the Gridiron and now he flaunted the Jack.

He spoke of the Law as he crimped my crew--he swore it was only a loan; But when I would ask for my own again, he swore it was none of my own.

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