Chapter 2

And, furthermore, as bold Sir Fashion brings Changes, yea, even to the soldier's things:

He questions if the Coat were worth the price, Seeing that he will hardly wear it twice.

THE IRON HAND

'The Government of India _has been pleased_ to sanction the infliction of a fine of ..., etc.'

To him that reads with careless eyes My present theme affords But little scope for enterprise In buttering one's lords: Fines, he would urge, have always bulked Largely to Those that rule, For, plainly, every man They mulct Contributes to the pool.

But when in ages dead and gone Our fathers fought with Sin, However hard they laid it on, They didn't rub it in; While These not only bring to bear Their dark prerogatives, But diabolically air The pleasure that it gives!

Here is the Iron Hand that builds Our realms beyond the sea; No _suaviter in modo_ gilds Their _fortiter in re_; Here is no washy velvet glove To pad the Fist of Fear-- None of your guiding charms of Love-- None of your hogwash here!

No. From Their thrones amid the stars They glower athwart the land Implacable, with 'eye like Mars To threaten and command.' Too cold, too truculent, to stay The awful bolt They fling, They make no bones about it--They Are _pleased_ to do this thing!

Blind to the victim's mask of woe, Deaf to his poignant howls, No pity stirs Their bosoms, no Reluctance wrings Their bow'ls! By prompt and ready cash alone Their wrath shall be appeased Who pile it on like gods, and own, Like men, to being pleased.

THE WOOIN' O' TUMMAS

_After R. B._

Tummas Katt cam' roun' to woo, Ha, ha, the wooin' o't; Lichtly sang ta lang nicht thro', Ha, ha, the mewin' o't; Tabbie, winsome, tim'rous beast, Speakit: 'Tummas, hand tha' weist! Girt auld Tummas 'gan inseest; Ha, ha, the doin' o't!

Tabbie laucht, an' brawly fleired, Ha, ha, the fleirin' o't; Tummas,--ech! but Tummas speired Ha, ha, the speirin' o't; Sic an awesome, fearfu' screep, Wakin' a' aroun' frae sleep; Fegs, it gar'd the Gudeman weep! Ha, ha, the hearin' o't!

Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm his een!' Ha, ha, the swearin' o't; 'Muckle fasht was I yestreen, A' thro' the bearin' o't! Ere the sonsie moon was bricht, Clean awa' till mornin' licht, Mickle sleep was mine the nicht; Ha, ha, the wearin' o't!'

'Where are noo ma booties twa? Ha, ha, the stoppin' o't; 'Tis mysel' shall gar him fa'; Ha, ha, the coppin' o't! 'Gin a bootie, strang an' stoot, Sneckit Tummas roun' ta snoot, Winna Tummas gang frae oot? Ha, ha, the droppin' o't!'

Swuft the pawky booties came, Ha, ha, the flittin' o't: Tummas scraught, an' lit for hame, Ha, ha, the spittin' o't; Lauchit Tabbs to see him fa'; Leapit frae ta gairden wa'; Quoth the Gudeman: 'Dairm it a'! What price the hittin' o't?'

CHRISTMAS GREETINGS

Christmas comes but once a year. Though by nature snappy, Let us, as we may, appear Merry, friend, and happy! Buckle to; and when you meet your Thunderstricken fellow-creature, Show the broad, indulgent smile Of th' ingenuous crocodile! Look as if you'd backed a winner! Laugh, you miserable sinner!

Brother, Christmas Day has come. Can't you seek for inspi- ration in the turkey, plum- pudding, beef, and mince-pie? Brave it out, and tho' you sit on Tenterhooks, remain a Briton; You can only do your best; Boxing Day's a day of rest! Throw aside your small digestive Eccentricities. Be festive!

Christmas Day is on the wing. Are you feeling wroth with Any one for anything? Beg his pardon _forth_with! Though the right is all on _your_ side, Say it isn't; say 'Of course I'd No intention--very rude-- Shocking taste--but misconstrued'-- Then (while I admit it's horri- fying) tell the man you're sorry!

Christmas Day will soon have flown. If, despite persuasion, You resolve to be alone On the glad occasion, Better (do as I have done!) Vanish with a scatter-gun; If you have to see it through, (Better do what I shall do!) Dining quietly at the Club'll Save us from a world of trouble!

'KAL!'

(=TO-MORROW)

['Never do To-day what can be postponed till To-morrow, save at the dictates of your personal convenience.'--_Maxims of the Wicked_, No. 3.]

Sweet Word, by whose unwearying assistance We of the Ruling Race, when sorely tried, Can keep intrusive persons at a distance, And let unseasonable matters slide; Thou at whose blast the powers of irritation Yield to a soft and gentlemanly lull Of solid peace and flat Procrastination, These to thy praise and honour, good old Kal!

For we are greatly plagued by sacrilegious Monsters in human form, who care for naught Save with incessant papers to besiege us, E'en to the solemn hour of silent thought; They draw no line; the frightful joy of giving Pain is their guerdon; but for Thee alone, Life would be hardly worth the bore of living, No one could call his very soul his own.

But in thy Name th' importunate besetter Meets a repelling force that none can stem; Varlets may come (they do) and go (they'd better!), Kal is the word that always does for them! _To-morrow_ they may join the usual muster; To-day shall pass inviolably by; BEELZEBUB Himself, for all his bluster, Would get the same old sickening reply.

And, for thine aid in baffling the malignant, Who, with unholy art, conspire to see Our ease dis-eased, our dignity indignant, We do Thee homage on the bended knee. And I would add a word of common gratitude To those thy coadjutors, _ao_ and _lao_,[3] Who take, with Thee, th' uncompromising attitude From which the dullest mind deduces _jao_.

[Footnote 3: _Kal-ao_='return to-morrow'; _kal-lao_='bring it back to-morrow.' Each of these phrases is the euphemistic equivalent of _jao_, that is, 'go away, (and stay there).']

TO AN ELEPHANT

ON HIS TONIC QUALITIES

Solace of mine hours of anguish, Peace-imparting View, when I, Sick of Hindo-Sturm-und-Drang, wish I could lay me down and die,

Very present help in trouble, Never-failing anodyne For the blows that knock us double, Here's towards thee, Hathi mine!

As, 'tis said, the dolorous Jack Tar Turns to view the watery Vast, When he mourns his frail charàc-tar, Or deplores his jagged Past,

Climbs a cliff, and breathes his sighs on That appalling breast until, Borne from off the far horizon, Voices whisper, 'Cheer up, Bill!'

So when evil chance or dark as- persions crush the bosom's lord, When discomfort rends the car-cass, When we're sorry, sick, or bored,

When the year is at its hottest, And our life with sorrow crowned, Gazing thee-wards, where thou blottest Out the landscape, pulls us round,

Gives us peace, some nameless modi- cum of cheer to mind and eye: Something that can soothe a body Like a blessed lullaby.

Sweet it is to watch thee, Hathi, Through the stertorous afternoons, Wond'ring why so stout a party Wears such baggy pantaloons:

Sweet, again, to steal a-nigh and Watch thee, ere thy meals begin, Deftly weigh th' unleavened viand, Lest thou be deceived therein:

Sweet to mark thee gravely dining: Grand, when day has nearly gone, 'Tis to view yon Orb declining Down behind thee, broadside on:

Ay! and when thy vassals tub thee, And thou writhest 'neath the brick Wherewithal they take and scrub thee, 'Twere a sight to heal the sick!

Not a pose but serves to ward off Pangs that had of yore prevailed; E'en the stab of being scored off Owns the charm, old Double-Tailed!

But, O Thou that giv'st the flabby Strength, and stingo'st up the weak:- Restful as a grand old Abbey-- Bracing as a Mountain Peak:--

All the bonds of Age were slackened, And my years were out of sight, When I burst upon thy back end As thou kneeled'st yesternight!

Head and frame were hidden. Only Loomed a black, colossal Seat, Taut, magnificent, and lonely, O'er a pair of suppliant feet

To th' astounded mind conveying Dreams from which my manhood shrank, Of a very fat man praying, Whom a boy would love to spank.

And I felt my fingers twitching, And my sinews turned to wire, And my palm was itching, itching, With the old, unhallowed fire.

While the twofold voice within me Urged their long-forgotten feud, One to do thee shame would win me,-- One that whispered, 'Don't be rude!'

Till, by heaven! thy pleading beauty Drove those carnal thoughts away, And the friend that came to scruti- nise was left behind to pray:--

For I shamed thee not, nor spanked thee; But to rearward, on the plain, Hathi, on my knees I thanked thee That I felt a boy again!

VISIONARY

ON THE ADVANTAGES OF AN 'ASTRAL BODY'

It is told, in Buddhi-theosophic Schools There are rules By observing which when mundane matter irks, Or the world has gone amiss, you Can incontinently issue From the circumscribing tissue Of your Works.

That the body and the gentleman inside Can divide, And the latter, if acquainted with the plan, Can alleviate the tension By remaining 'in suspension' As a kind of fourth dimension Bogie man.

And to such as mourn an Indian Solar Crime At its prime, 'Twere a stratagem so luminously fit, That tho' doctrinaires deny it, And Academicians guy it, I, for one, would like to try it For a bit.

Just to leave one's earthly tenement asleep In a heap, And detachedly to watch it as it lies, With an epidermis pickled Where the prickly heat has prickled, And a sense of being tickled By the flies.

And to sit and loaf and idle till the day Dies away, In a duplicate ethereally cool, Or around the place to potter, (Tho' the flesh could hardly totter,) As contented as an otter In a pool!

'Let the pestilent mosquito do his worst Till he burst, Let him bore and burrow, morning, noon, and night, If he finds the diet sweet, oh, Who am _I_ to place a veto On the pestilent mosquito?-- _Let_ him bite!'

O my cumbersome misfit of bone and skin, Could I win To the wisdom that would render me exempt From the grosser bonds that tether You and Astral Me together, I should simply treat the weather With contempt;

I should contemplate its horrors with entire Lack of ire, And pursuant to my comfortable aim, With a snap at every shackle I should quit my tabernacle, And serenely sit and cackle At the game!

But, alas! the 'mystic glory swims away,' And the clay Is as vulgarly persistent as of yore, And the cuticle is pickled Where the prickly heat has prickled, And the nose and ears are tickled As before;

And until the Buddhi-theosophic Schools Print the rules That will bring our tale of sorrows to a close, Body mine, though others chide thee, And consistently deride thee, I shall have to stay inside thee, I suppose!

SUMMER PORTENTS

Come, let us quaff the brimming cup Of sorrow, bitterness, and pain; For clearly, things are warming up Again.

Observe with what awakened powers The vulgar Sun resumes the right Of rising in the hallowed hours Of night.

Bound to the village water-wheel, The motive bullock bows his crest, And signals forth a mute appeal For rest.

His neck is galled beneath the yoke: His patient eyes are very dim: Life is a dismal sort of joke To _him_.

Yet one there is, to whom the ox Is kin; who knows, as habitat, The cold, unsympathetic box, Or mat;

Who urges on, with wearied arms, The punkah's rhythmic, laboured sweep, Nor dares to contemplate the charms Of sleep.

Now 'mid a host of lesser things That pasture through the heaving nights, The sharp mosquito flaps his wings, And bites;

With other Anthropophagi, Such as that microscopic brand The common Sand-fly (or the fly Of sand),

Who, with a hideous lust uncurbed By clappings of the frequent palm, Devours one's ankles, undisturbed, And calm.

The scorpion nips one unaware: The lizard flops upon the head: And cobras, uninvited, share One's bed.

Oh, if I only had the luck To feel the grand Olympic fire That thrilled the Greater when they struck The lyre!

When Homer wrote of this and that: When Dante sang like one possessed: When Milton groaned and laboured at His Best!

Had I the swelling rise and fall, Whereof the Bo'sun's quivering moan Derives a breezy fragrance all Its own:

Oh, I would pour such passion out-- Good gracious me!--I would so sing That you should know the _facts_ about This thing!

Then w-w-wake, my Lyre! O halting lilt! O miserable, broken lay! It may not be: I am not built That way.

Yet other gifts the gods bestow. I do not weep, I do not grieve. Far from it. I shall simply go On leave.

ELYSIUM

From the dust, and the drought, and the heat, I am borne on the pinions of leave, From the things that are bad to repeat To the things that are good to receive.

From the glare of the day at its height On a land that was blinding to see, From the wearisome hiss of the night, By a turn of the wheel I am free.

I have passed to the heart of the Hills, For a season of halcyon hours, 'Mid the music of murmurous rills, And the delicate odours of flowers;

And I walk in an exquisite shade, Where the fern-tasselled boughs interlace; And the verdurous fringe of the glade Is a marvel of fairylike grace;

And with never an aim or a plan I can wander in uttermost ease, Where the only reminders of Man Are the monkeys aloft in the trees;

Or, perchance, on the 'silvery mere,' In a 'shallop' I lazily float, With--it's possible--some one to steer, Or with no one (which lightens the boat).

O the glorious gift of release From the chains that encircle the thrall, To be quiet, and cool, and at peace, And to loaf, and do nothing at all!

I am clear of that infamous lark; I am far from the blare of the Band; And the bugles are silent, the bark Of the Colonel is hushed in the land.

And--I say it again--I am free, In the valleys of wandering bliss; And most gratefully 'own, if there _be_ An Elysium on earth, it is this!'

TO MY LADY OF THE HILLS

'... O she, To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of Nothing.'--_Tennyson_.

'Tis the hour when golden slumbers Through th' Hesperian portals creep, And the youth who lisps in numbers Dreams of novel rhymes to 'sleep'; _I_ shall merely note, at starting, That responsive Nature thrills To the _twilight_ hour of parting From my Lady of the Hills.

Lady, 'neath the deepening umbrage We have wandered near and far, To the ludicrously dumb rage Of your truculent Mamma; We have urged the long-tailed gallop; Lightly danced the still night through; Smacked the ball, and oared the shallop (In a vis-à-vis canoe);

We have walked this fair Oasis, Keeping, more by skill than chance, To the non-committal basis Of indefinite romance; Till, as love within me ripened, I have wept the hours away, Brooding on my meagre stipend, Mourning mine exiguous pay.

Dear, 'tis hard, indeed, to stifle Fervour such as mine has grown, And I 'd freely give a trifle Could I win you for mine own; But the question simply narrows Down to one persistent fact, That we cannot say we're sparrows, And we oughtn't so to act.

Married bliss is born of incomes; While to drag the long years through Till some hypothetic tin comes, Seems a childish thing to do; Rather let us own as lasting Our unpardonable crime, Giving thanks, with prayer and fasting, For so very high a time.

Fare you well. Your dreadful Mother, If I know that woman's mind, Has her eye upon Another _Vice_ me, my dear, resigned; And I see you mated shortly To some covenanted swain, Not objectionably portly, Not prohibitively plain.

Take his gifts, and ask a blessing. Meddle not with minor cares. Trust me, your unprepossessing Dam soon settles those affairs! Then will I, with honeyed suasion, Pinch some thriftless man of bills Of a mark of the occasion For my Lady of the Hills.

THE SHORES OF NOTHING

There's a little lake that lies In a valley, where the skies Kiss the mountains, as they rise, On the crown; And the heaven-born élite Are accustomed to retreat From the pestilential heat Lower down.

Where the Mighty, for a space, Mix with Beauty, Rank, and Grace, (I myself was in the place, At my best!) And the atmosphere's divine, While the deodar and pine Are particularly fine For the chest.

And a little month ago, When the sun was lying low, And the water lay aglow Like a pearl, I, remarkably arrayed, Dipped an unobtrusive blade In the lake--and in the shade-- With a girl.

O 'twas pleasant thus to glide On the 'softly-flowing tide' (Which it's not!) and, undescried, Take a hand In the sweet, idyllic sports That are known in such resorts, To the sympathetic snorts Of the Band.

Till, when o'er the 'still lagoon' Passed the golden afternoon, The preposterous bassoon, Growling deep, Saved the King and knelled the day As the crimson changed to grey And the little valley lay Half asleep.

It is finished. She was kind. 'Out of sight is out of mind.' But the taste remains behind, (And the bills,) And I'd give the world to know If there's some one else in tow With my love (a month ago) In the Hills!

O ye valleys, tell me, pray, Was she on the lake to-day? Does she foot it in the gay, Social whirl? O ye Mountains of Gilboa, Send a bird, or kindly blow a Breeze to tell me all you know a- bout that girl!

THE LAST HOCKEY

_After A. T._

So for the last great Hockey of the Hills, --Damsel _v._ Dame--by ruder cynics called The Tournament of the Dead Dignities, We gained the lists, and I, thro' humorous lens, Perused the revels. Here on autumn grass Leapt the lithe-elbowed Spin, and strongly merged In scrimmage with the comfortable Wife And temporary Widow,--know you not, Such trifles are the merest commonplace In loftier contours?--Twenty-two in all They numbered, and none other trod the field Save one, the bold Sir Referee, whose charge It was to keep fair order in the lists, And peace 'twixt Dame and Damsel: married, he.

O brothers, had ye seen them! O the games! Fleet-footed some: lightly they leapt, and drave Or missed the pellet; then, perchance, would turn With hand that sought their tresses. Others moved Careless, in half disdain, nor urged pursuit; Yet ever and anon would shriek, and miss The pellet, while the bold Sir Referee Skipt in avoidance. From the factions came The cry of voices shrilling woman-wise, The clash of stick on stick, the muffled shin, The sudden whistle, and the murmurous note Of mutual disaffection. Otherwhere The myriad coolie chortled, knightly palms Clapped, and the whole vale echoed to the noise Of ladies, who in session to the West Sat with the light behind them, self-approved.

Fortune with equal favour poised the scale, And loudlier rang the trouble, till I heard 'A Susan! Ho! A Susan!'--She, oh she, One whom myself had picked from out the crowd Of hot girl-athletes with their tousled hair, Was on the ball. Deftly she smote, and drave On, and so paddled swiftly in its wake. The good ash gleamed and fell; the forward ranks Gave passage; once again she smote, again Paddled, nor passed, but paddling ever neared The mournful guardian of the Sacred Goal, Hewing and hacking. Little need to tell Of Susan in her glory; whom she smote She felled, and whom she shocked she overthrew; And, shrieking, passed exultant to her doom.

For Susan, while she clove a devious course, Moved crab-like, in a strange diagonal, And, driving, crossed the frontiers. Thither came The bold Sir Referee, and shrilled abroad The tremulous, momentary 'touch.' But she, Heaving with unaccustomed exercise, Blinded and baffled, wild with all despair, Stood sweeping, as a churl that sweeps the scythe In earlier pastures. Twice he skipped, and poured The desperate whistle. Once again, and he, Skipping, diffused the whistle. But at last, So shrewd a blow she dealt him on the shin, That had he stood reverse-wise on his head, Not on his feet, I know not what had chanced. Then to the shuddering Orient skies there rose A marvellous great shriek, the splintering noise Of shattered ash-plant and of battered shank, Mixed with a higher. For Susan, overwrought, Lost footing, and with one clear dolorous wail Fell headlong, only more so. And I saw, Clothed in black stockings, mystic, wonderful, That which I saw. The coolies yelled. The crowd Closed round, and so the tourney reached an end.

Then home they bore the bold Sir Referee In Susan's litter; and they tended him With curious tendance; and they drowned his views On Susan, and the tourney, and the place Whither he'd see them ere again he ruled Such functions, with a sweet, small song (I call It sweet that should not!). This is how it ran:--

'Our Referee has fall'n, has fall'n. The stick, The little stick he leapt at in the lists Has riven and cleft the bark, and raised a bulk Of crescent span, that spreads on every side A thousand hues, all flushing into one.