Part 3

Alas, I omitted to mention before What sort of luggage the bandy bore, How under his mattrass poor Jones had packed Many a book and many a tract. For Jones was wont, where'er he might go, To be a sort of travelling Depôt. There were pamphlets in English,--heap on heap, Badly printed, but very cheap. There were newspapers, too, for mild Hindoos With everything in them, excepting news. There were bundles and bundles, and layers and layers, Of very wise sayings by very wise sayers. Tracts in Canarese, tracts in Tamil, Enough to have broken the back of a camel. It would have been lucky for Jones that night If only this literature had been _light_; Or if only he had omitted to place Under his pillow his travelling case. For now his bandy, ah woe is me! Had fallen with its roof where its wheels ought to be: And thus it was not a very great wonder That his luggage was up, and poor Jones was under. Pray what could the Reverend gentleman do? The deep black mud was as sticky as glue. There was mud at his night-cap, and mud at his socks, On his back were his books, on his head was his box. In the ditch the bandyman struggled and splutter'd, But not a word the poor gentleman utter'd: But, imbedded in mud some three feet deep, Calmly and quietly went to sleep. The handyman then with care unpacked Book and newspaper, pamphlet and tract; And found----if he could, he would have turned pale-- His good old master as dead as a nail!

So died Mr. Jones. Oh! D. P. W. Have you no conscience, or doesn't it trouble you? Are your funds all expended, or do you not care That the roads are shockingly bad everywhere? Here on the stones we rattle our bones, There meet with great pits, such as did for poor Jones. Well, shall I say more? Shall my verse repeat Some truths which I know are too true to be sweet? Your healths, good sirs,--R. E.'s and O. E.'s! You are mighty hands at spending rupees! You build fine bridges, you spend many a lac, And for zeal and discretion get clapped on the back; Till down roll the rivers in flood some day, And sweep your gingerbread structures away. Then come explanations. It is easy, you know, To say this, or that arch, was too narrow or low. That a flaw was here, or a fault was there, Or the mortar was somehow not mixed with care, Or that some unaccountable swirl of the tide Did this, when it should have done something beside. Oh Sirs, you are wise! But wondrous to say Your wisdom comes always too late in the day. Here in India, forsooth! our barracks must crumble, Embankments give way, and light-houses tumble. In another clime they have bridged the pride Of ice-charg'd St. Lawrence's terrible tide! They curb the sea in Holland, but here A tank is too strong for our Engineer! Then hail, merry gentlemen, R. and C. E.'s! Spend on the generous Public's rupees! May you ne'er meet some end, like that, by which The light of Jones was snuff'd out in a ditch!

"Urgent Private Affairs."

Dear Captain Green,--This morning, I see, The _Gazette_ good news for you bears:-- "_On leave for six months to proceed to sea On urgent private affairs._"

"_To sea_" forsooth! Pray what does this mean? There's surely some mystery here? "_On urgent private affairs._"--O Green, This sounds uncommonly queer!

Affairs at sea? Ha!--I see through it now! Sly dog, you're in luck without doubt!-- Some coy little _mermaid_ you chanced to know And hooked on your voyage out?

O happy Green, is she blonde or brunette? Has she golden or raven tresses? But will walking on land suit the tail of your pet? I hope she judiciously dresses!

Her name? Is she young? Of course she can speak? Does she wear her long hair in curls? I trust she has got no scales on her cheek? Are you marrying for love or for pearls?

I suppose Father Neptune will give her away? I assure you, you have my best wishes. I remain, yours,--C. P.S.--By the way, My Salaams to all your Friend-Fishes.

Herewith I send, of my friendship a token, A tortoise-shell comb from Galle; A pocket mirror not easily broken, A harp, and a squeaking doll.

In conclusion, dear Green, I may add that I wish I knew some sweet sub-marine girls: I have no objections to marrying fish-- Provided they've plenty of pearls.

The old Buffer's advice.

Come Frank, my boy, take my advice, And hear out what I say-- If you get so sweet on the girls you meet There'll be the deuce to pay! For what's your paltry 300 a month? Take care! It's a funny thing-- _But if you pull the ropes, you must Expect the bells to ring!_

There was Clara White:--I admit she was A girl you might call 'nice.' Jones thought so--spoon'd--was hook'd! They're poor, Both of them, as church mice. How they will manage, goodness knows! Ah Frank, it's a serious thing-- _But if you pull the ropes, you must Expect the bells to ring!_

And then there's D. P. W. Smith, He married Alice Gray. Ten months have passed. Now Frank, just guess What happened yesterday-- Smith's wife presented him with twins! Ah Frank, it's an AWFUL thing-- _But if you pull the ropes, you must Expect the bells to ring!_

My Whiskers

I sit alone in my garden: Around, the moonlight flows: And the air is faint with the fragrance Of the too-sweet tuberose.

By the lilies and dewy myrtles The fireflies rise and fall; And the peerless yucca raises Her silver coronal.

Now the night-loving cactus, Like a Hebe, holdeth up, To the dew and showery moonlight, Many a milk-white cup.

From under the eaves' deep shadow The jasmine-bud, pearl-white, peers; And on the bent face of the sunflower The dew-drops shine like tears.

All nature is lapt in silence, Save only yon moonlit sea,-- Whose voice seems but to echo The memories that rise in me.

* * * * *

"Just thirty years," I murmur, "Just thirty years to-night They were sitting here in my garden, Werder, and Green, and Wright.

In my ears now ring their voices: We had each our cheroots alit; And the swift hours flitted o'er us, Winged by laughter and wit.

As now, then glittered the fireflies, And gleam'd the moonlit leaf; And as now, we heard midst our converse The roller boom from yon reef.

The same stars in their places Shine from the same old sky,-- But I, of those four blithe comrades I only remain, even I."

* * * * *

The German, Rheinhold Werder, The Englishman, John Wright, With Thomas Green, the Welshman, Were at my house that night:

And these, my jovial comrades, Their jokes began to bandy, Because that I, a Scotchman, Had whiskers somewhat sandy.

To whiskerless old Werder Thereat I turned, and said,-- "Why don't _you_ try and grow some? What odds if they were red?"

Old Werder chuckled grimly, And straight replied, "Ah vell! Since you vould ask de reason, I now a tale vill tell.--

"Vonce on a time an Angel, Von star-eyed leetle thing, Some presents to de nations Did in von basket bring.

"Dese gifts vere hair and viskars, Vich she from heaven brought down, And dey vere of all colours, Some black, some red, some brown.

"She first did go to England, Dey chose brown viskars there: And den de Velshmans gladly, Selected de black pair.

"Moustaches fierce and lengthy De Frenchmans most did please; And all de beards called "goaty" Vere taken by 'cute Yankees.

"After, de leetle Angel Did come to Germanie, And don, vidin de basket-- Mein Gott!--vat did ve see!--

"Only von pair of viskars! You dirtee--_ach!_--RED pair! So said ve to de Angel,-- 'Ve dont vant any hair!'

"Thus de Angel took dese viskars Across de German Sea,-- And on de cheeks of Scotchmans Dese viskars now ve see!"

We laughed at Werder's story, And I the most of all, Whilst the clouds in the west were rising, And the western moon did fall.

Then followed one hour of converse, And then came the rushing rain,-- So we four comrades parted, Never to meet again!

* * * * *

Thirty long years--just thirty Since then have passed away. Alas! those jovial comrades, To-night, ah where are they?

The wild Atlantic billow Rolls over Thomas Green; And in a Dorset Churchyard John Wright's name may be seen.--

And brave old Rheinhold Werder Dropt to a Chassepôt shot, Amongst the trees that shadow The road past Gravelotte.

And I, I only linger; And thinking of them to-night, Unconsciously pull my whiskers, So "sandy" once,--now white.

Mr. Chutney's Confession.

Dame Nature, that to flowers Gives sunshine, dew, and showers, To me hath given much billing and much cooing. And now my head grows gray, I can but sigh and say That wooing almost always ends in ruing.

Shrive me, good Reader!--oft I've loved. My heart's too soft. "I love not man the less, but woman more." In each new form and face I see some special grace: I've loved too many girls----Confiteor!

Confiteor!--One sees Those little humbugs, bees, Flit fast from flower to flower, their honey hiving; It has been mine to seek Rose lip and lily cheek. Confound it, yes! I need no end of shriving!

Why, I was scarce fourteen, And only once had seen Sweet Caroline, the pride of Bangalore, When straight to her I wrote On pink, a gushing note, In which my love, by all the stars, I swore!

But very strange to say, Upon that self-same day, I met three sisters, Alice, Clare, and Nelly: Nelly had golden hair, Alice sang well, and Clare Was a great hand at making guava jelly!

Bound by this triple chain, I knew not, in my pain, To which of these fair three to bend my knees: When at a ball one night Burst on my raptured sight Star-like, the charms of my serene Louise.

For, ah! I must confess A boundless amorousness Ingrain'd and rooted in my nature is; A girl I cannot see But straight there wakes in me Unutterable longing for a kiss!

When last, Madras, in thee I saw sweet Rosalie, With eyes so blue, so bright, and O! so merry,-- I loved her,--till I met The coy and pale Annette, A sweet French rose that blooms in Pondicherry.

To Trichy next I came, And there another flame Blazed for a little, then was quench'd in tears For soon I learnt, enraged, That Agnes was engaged To Major Spooney of the Fusiliers.

But why should I dilate Further upon my fate Of loving many maids but wedding none? How Maud my heart perplext, Then Annie, Constance next,-- The last a widow, aged twenty-one?

Enough for me to say That now, though I grow gray, My heart's as warm and tender as of yore. Yet, though my love burns bright It sheds a softer light, A milder radiance, mellowing evermore!

For now, not one, nor two, But every maid I view I love, with love that widens with my years. And when I pass away, Reader, weep not, but say, _Chutney is with the cherubs--pretty dears!_

A Specimen of an Indian "Poetical Puff."

THE RUSSIANS IN MADRAS.

McDowell, McDowell, Beware of the day When the Russians come sailing Through Bengal Bay; When they land at Madras In countless shoals, Cossacks, Siberians, Laplanders, Poles! Beware for they come As thirsty as bold, To a very hot climate, From regions of cold, And as soon as they land To ransack this town, They will rush, O! McDowell, To thy Godown! Oh who would not weep For thee O Madras! They'll swig every quart Of "_Daukes' bottled Bass:_" McDowell, slap into Your godowns, pell mell, They'll burst, and get tight on Your "_Sparkling Moselle._" Your "_Light Wines,_" and "_Rhine Wines_" They'll certainly drain, Your "_Burgundy,_" "_Hock,_" "_Greek Wines,_" and "_Champagne._" "_Hockeimer,_" thy blood In torrents shall flow, With that choicest of Burgundies,-- "_Clos Vougeot._" Lucid "_White Hymet,_" Crystally clear, On the lips of Laplanders Shall shed many a tear. Down the throats of Siberians Shall freely be pour'd, "_Suisse Extract d'Absinthe,_" And th' "_Old Tom_" of "_Swaine Board._" Whilst the Cossacks of Don Their paunches shall fill With "_Creme de Noyeau_" And "_Creme de Vanille._" McDowell, McDowell, Tell me I pray. Think you, could Russians Resist your "_Tokai?_" Think you their palates Could ever refuse Your mellow "_Oporto_" Your "_Grande Chartreuse?_" "_Steinwine, in Box butel_" "_Blue labell'd Schloss,_" With "_Chateau Pexoto,_" They'll certainly toss. Alas, oh, alas, What then will become Of your "_Munro's best Cooper,_" And "_Syrup of Gum?_" Where then will your "_Chablis,_" And "_Palatine_" go,-- With your "_Muscat,_" your "_Cider,_"-- McDowell and Co.? Oh ghost of Exshaw, What bottles they'll burst, Of your "_No. 1 Brandy,_"-- Of brandies the first! With Gledstane's best vintage They'll make them right merry,-- His "_oldest choice Cognac,_" His "_pale yellow Sherry._" But what shall we do That this may not be, When the thirsty barbarians Come over the sea?-- _Let us forestal the Russians!_ _At once let us go--_ _And buy the whole stock of_ MCDOWELL & CO.