Where the 'whit' of the bullet, the wounded man's

scream

Are mixed as the mist of some devilish dream

Forgotten, forgotten the sweat of the shambles

Where the hill-daisy blooms and the gray monkey gambols,

From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel, The Peace of the Lord is with Captain O'Neil.

Up the hill to Simoorie-most patient of drudges—
The bags on his shoulder, the mail-runner trudges.

'For Captain O'Neil, Sahib. One hundred and ten Rupees to collect on delivery.'

Then

(Their breakfast was stopped while the screw-jack and hammer

Tore waxcloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer),

Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow,
With a crash and a thud, rolled-the Head of the Boh!

And gummed to the scalp was a letter which ran:'In Fielding Force Service.

'Encampment,

'10th Jan.

'Dear Sir, I have honour to send, as you said, For final approval (see under) Boh's Head;

THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE
Was took by myself in most bloody affair.
By High Education brought pressure to bear.

'Now violate Liberty, time being bad,

To mail V. P. P. (rupees hundred) Please add

'Whatever Your Honour can pass. Price of Blood Much cheap at one hundred, and children want food;

'So trusting Your Honour will somewhat retain True love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train,

'And show awful kindness to satisfy me,

'I am,

'Graceful Master,

'Your

'H. Mukerji.'

As the rabbit is drawn to the rattlesnake's power,
As the smoker's eye fills at the opium hour,

As a horse reaches up to the manger above,
As the waiting ear yearns for the whisper of love,

From the arms of the Bride, iron-visaged and slow,
The Captain bent down to the Head of the Boh.

And e'en as he looked on the Thing where It lay 'Twixt the winking new spoons and the napkins' array,

The freed mind fled back to the long-ago days-
The hand-to-hand scuffle-the smoke and the blaze-

The forced march at night and the quick rush at dawn— The banjo at twilight, the burial ere morn—

The stench of the marshes-the raw, piercing smell
When the overhand stabbing-cut silenced the yell-

The oaths of his Irish that surged when they stood Where the black crosses hung o'er the Kuttamow flood.

As a derelict ship drifts away with the tide
The Captain went out on the Past from his Bride,

Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year, When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer.

As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water,

In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter,

And men who had fought with O'Neil for the life
Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife.

For she who had held him so long could not hold himThough a four-month Eternity should have controlled him

But watched the twin Terror-the head turned to headThe scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red

The spirit that changed from her knowing and flew to Some grim hidden Past she had never a clue to.

THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE

But It knew as It grinned, for he touched it unfearing, And muttered aloud, 'So you kept that jade ear-ring!'

Then nodded, and kindly, as friend nods to friend,
'Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end.'

The visions departed, and Shame followed Passion:'He took what I said in this horrible fashion,

'I'll write to Harendra!' With language unsainted The Captain came back to the Bride

fainted.

who had

And this is a fiction? No. Go to Simoorie
And look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri,

A pert little, Irish-eyed Kathleen Mavournin-
She's always about on the Mall of a mornin’—

And you'll see, if her right shoulder-strap is displaced, This: Gules upon argent, a Boh's Head, erased!

THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE

O

THIEF

(1888)

WOE is me for the merry life

I led beyond the Bar,

And a treble woe for my winsome wife
That weeps at Shalimar.

They have taken away my long jezail,
My shield and sabre fine,

And heaved me into the Central Jail
For lifting of the kine.

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

And God have mercy on the Jut
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!