[At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.] With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife Some interesting details of the General's private life. The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still, And red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill. And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not):"I think we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!" All honour unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones thereafter know By word or act official who read off that helio. But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan They know the worthy General as "that most immoral man.” PUBLIC WASTE Walpole talks of "a man and his price.” The sale of a Deputy-Acting-Vice- Bought like a bullock, hoof and hide, By the Little Tin Gods on the Mountain Side. BY THE Laws of the Family Circle 'tis written in letters of brass That only a Colonel from Chatham can manage the Railways of State, Because of the gold on his breeks, and the subjects wherein he must pass; Because in all matters that deal not with Railways his knowledge is great. Now Exeter Battleby Tring had laboured from boyhood to eld On the Lines of the East and the West, and eke of the North and South; Many Lines had he built and surveyed-important the posts which he held; And the Lords of the Iron Horse were dumb when he opened his mouth. Black as the raven his garb, and his heresies jettier still→ Hinting that Railways required lifetimes of study and know ledge Never clanked sword by his side-Vauban he knew not nor drill Nor was his name on the list of the men who had passed through the "College." Wherefore the Little Tin Gods harried their little tin souls, Seeing he came not from Chatham, jingled no spurs at his heels, Knowing that, nevertheless, was he first on the Government rolls For the billet of "Railway Instructor to Little Tin Gods on Wheels." Letters not seldom they wrote him, "having the honour to state," It would be better for all men if he were laid on the shelf. Much would accrue to his bank-book, an he consented to wait Until the Little Tin Gods built him a berth for himself, "Special, well paid, and exempt from the Law of the Fifty and Five, Even to Ninety and Nine"-these were the terms of the pact: Thus did the Little Tin Gods (long may Their Highnesses thrive!) Silence his mouth with rupees, keeping their Circle intact; Appointing a Colonel from Chatham who managed the Bhamo State Line (The which was one mile and one furlong-a guaranteed twenty-inch gauge), So Exeter Battleby Tring consented his claims to resign, And died, on four thousand a month, in the ninetieth year of his age! WHAT HAPPENED HURREE CHUNDER MOOKERJEE, pride of Bow Bazaar, Owner of a native press, "Barrishter-at-Lar," Waited on the Government with a claim to wear Then the Indian Government winked a wicked wink, Hurree Chunder Mookerjee sought the gunsmith and Bought the tubes of Lancaster, Ballard, Dean, and Bland, Bought a shiny bowie-knife, bought a town-made sword, Jingled like a carriage-horse when he went abroad. But the Indian Government, always keen to please, Killar Khan the Marri chief, Jowar Singh the Sikh, They were unenlightened men, Ballard knew them not. With a unanimity dear to patriot hearts All those hairy gentlemen out of foreign parts Said: "The good old days are back-let us go to war!" Swaggered down the Grand Trunk Road into Bow Bazaar, Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat found a hide-bound flail; Jowar Singh the Sikh procured sabre, quoit, and mace, What became of Mookerjee? Soothly, who can say? What became of Ballard's guns? Afghans black and grubby What became of Mookerjee? Ask Mahommed Yar THE MAN WHO COULD WRITE Shun-shun the Bowl! That fatal, facile drink Save when you write receipts for paid-up bills in 't. BOANERGES BLITZEN, servant of the Queen, Boanerges Blitzen argued therefore-"I, [Men who spar with Government need, to back their blows, Something more than ordinary journalistic prose.] Never young Civilian's prospects were so bright, Certainly he scored it, bold, and black, and firm, When the Rag he wrote for praised his plucky game, When the men he wrote of shook their heads and swore, |