I saw it fall in smoke and fire, the banner of the Bhao; I heard a voice across the press of one who called in

vain:

'Ho! Anand Rao Nimbalkhur, ride! Get aid of Mulhar Rao!

Go shame his squadrons into fight-the Bhao-the Bhao is slain!'

Thereat, as when a sand-bar breaks in clotted spume and spray

When rain of later autumn sweeps the Jumna water

head,

Before their charge from flank to flank our riven ranks gave way;

But of the waters of that flood the Jumna fords ran red.

I held by Scindia, my lord, as close as man might hold; A Soobah of the Deccan asks no aid to guard his

life;

But Holkar's Horse were flying, and our chiefest chiefs were cold,

And like a flame among us leapt the long lean Northern knife.

I held by Scindia-my lance from butt to tuft was dyed, The froth of battle bossed the shield and roped the bridle-chain

What time beneath our horses' feet a maiden rose and

cried,

And clung to Scindia, and I turned a sword-cut from

the twain

WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI

(He set a spell upon the maid in woodlands long ago, A hunter by the Tapti banks she gave him water

there:

He turned her heart to water, and she followed to her

woe.

What need had he of Lalun who had twenty maids as fair?)

Now in that hour strength left my lord; he wrenched his mare aside;

He bound the girl behind him and we slashed and

struggled free.

Across the reeling wreck of strife we rode as shadows ride

From Paniput to Delhi town, but not alone were we.

'Twas Lutuf-Ullah Populzai laid horse upon our track, A swine-fed reiver of the North that lusted for the maid;

I might have barred his path awhile, but Scindia called me back,

And I-O woe for Scindia!-I listened and obeyed.

League after league the formless scrub took shape and glided by

League after league the white road swirled behind the white mare's feet

League after league, when leagues were done, we heard the Populzai,

Where sure as Time and swift as Death the tireless

footfall beat.

Noon's eye beheld that shame of flight, the shadows fell, we fled

Where steadfast as the wheeling kite he followed in our train;

The black wolf warred where we had warred, the jackal mocked our dead,

And terror born of twilight-tide made mad the labouring brain.

I gasped:-'A kingdom waits my lord; her love is but her own.

A day shall mar, a day shall cure for her, but what for

thee?

Cut loose the girl: he follows fast. Cut loose and ride

alone!'

Then Scindia 'twixt his blistered lips:-'My Queens' Queen shall she be!

'Of all who ate my bread last night 'twas she alone that

came

To seek her love between the spears and find her crown

therein!

One shame is mine to-day, what need the weight of double shame?

If once we reach the Delhi gate, though all be lost, I

win!'

We rode the white mare failed-her trot a staggering stumble grew,-

The cooking-smoke of even rose and weltered and hung low;

And still we heard the Populzai and still we strained

anew,

And Delhi town was very near, but nearer was the foe.

WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI

Yea, Delhi town was very near when Lalun whispered:'Slay!

Lord of my life, the mare sinks fast-stab deep and let me die!'

But Scindia would not, and the maid tore free and flung

away,

And turning as she fell we heard the clattering Popul

zai.

Then Scindia checked the gasping mare that rocked and groaned for breath,

And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a handsbreadth in her side

The hunter and the hunted know how that last pause

is

death

The blood had chilled about her heart, she reared and fell and died.

Our Gods were kind. Before he heard the maiden's piteous scream

A log upon the Delhi road, beneath the mare he layLost mistress and lost battle passed before him like a

dream;

The darkness closed about his eyes-I bore my King away.

THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE

T

(1888)

HIS is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,

Erst a Pretender to Theebaw's throne,
Who harried the district of Alalone:
How he met with his fate and the V. P. P.
At the hand of Harendra Mukerji,
Senior Gomashta, G. B. T.

Boh Da Thone was a warrior bold:

His sword and his Snider were bossed with gold.

And the Peacock Banner his henchmen bore
Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore.

He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weak
From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak:

He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean,
He filled old ladies with kerosene:

While over the water the papers cried,
"The patriot fights for his countryside!'

But little they cared for the Native Press,
The worn white soldiers in Khaki dress,