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But there'll be neither loot nor fire

       Till I come back again.

      And God have mercy on the Jat

       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!

      But for the sorrow and the shame,

       The brand on me and mine,

       I'll pay you back in leaping flame

       And loss of the butchered kine.

      For every cow I spared before

       In charity set free,

       If I may reach my hold once more

       I'll reive an honest three.

      For every time I raised the low

       That scared the dusty plain,

       By sword and cord, by torch and tow

       I'll light the land with twain!

      Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai,

       Young Sahib with the yellow hair—

       Lie close, lie close as khuttucks lie,

       Fat herds below Bonair!

      The one I'll shoot at twilight-tide,

       At dawn I'll drive the other;

       The black shall mourn for hoof and hide,

       The white man for his brother.

      'Tis war, red war, I'll give you then,

       War till my sinews fail;

       For the wrong you have done to a chief of men,

       And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl.

      And if I fall to your hand afresh

       I give you leave for the sin,

       That you cram my throat with the foul pig's flesh,

       And swing me in the skin!

The Rhyme of the Three Captains

       Table of Contents

      This ballad appears to refer to one of the exploits of the notorious Paul

       Jones, the American pirate. It is founded on fact.

      ... At the close of a winter day,

       Their anchors down, by London town, the Three Great Captains lay;

       And one was Admiral of the North from Solway Firth to Skye,

       And one was Lord of the Wessex coast and all the lands thereby,

       And one was Master of the Thames from Limehouse to Blackwall,

       And he was Captain of the Fleet—the bravest of them all.

      Their good guns guarded their great gray sides that were thirty foot in the

       sheer,

       When there came a certain trading-brig with news of a privateer.

      Her rigging was rough with the clotted drift that drives in a Northern breeze,

       Her sides were clogged with the lazy weed that spawns in the Eastern seas.

      Light she rode in the rude tide-rip, to left and right she rolled,

       And the skipper sat on the scuttle-butt and stared at an empty hold.

      "I ha' paid Port dues for your Law," quoth he, "and where is the Law ye boast

       If I sail unscathed from a heathen port to be robbed on a Christian coast?

       Ye have smoked the hives of the Laccadives as we burn the lice in a bunk,

       We tack not now to a Gallang prow or a plunging Pei-ho junk;

       I had no fear but the seas were clear as far as a sail might fare

       Till I met with a lime-washed Yankee brig that rode off Finisterre.

      "There were canvas blinds to his bow-gun ports to screen the weight he bore,

       And the signals ran for a merchantman from Sandy Hook to the Nore.

      "He would not fly the Rovers' flag—the bloody or the black,

       But now he floated the Gridiron and now he flaunted the Jack.

       He spoke of the Law as he crimped my crew—he swore it was only a loan;

       But when I would ask for my own again, he swore it was none of my own.

      "He has taken my little parrakeets that nest beneath the Line,

       He has stripped my rails of the shaddock-frails and the green unripened pine;

       He has taken my bale of dammer and spice I won beyond the seas,

       He has taken my grinning heathen gods—and what should he want o' these?

       My foremast would not mend his boom, my deckhouse patch his boats;

       He has whittled the two, this Yank Yahoo, to peddle for shoe-peg oats.

      "I could not fight for the failing light and a rough beam-sea beside,

       But I hulled him once for a clumsy crimp and twice because he lied.

      "Had I had guns (as I had goods) to work my Christian harm,

       I had run him up from his quarter-deck to trade with his own yard-arm;

       I had nailed his ears to my capstan-head, and ripped them off with a saw,

       And soused them in the bilgewater, and served them to him raw;

       I had flung him blind in a rudderless boat to rot in the rocking dark,

       I had towed him aft of his own craft, a bait for his brother shark;

       I had lapped him round with cocoa husk, and drenched him with the oil,

       And lashed him fast to his own mast to blaze above my spoil;

       I had stripped his hide for my hammock-side, and tasselled his beard i' the

       mesh,

       And spitted his crew on the live bamboo that grows through the gangrened

       flesh;

       I had hove him down by the mangroves brown, where the mud-reef sucks and

       draws,

       Moored by the heel to his own keel to wait for the land-crab's claws!

       He is lazar within and lime without, ye can nose him far enow,

       For he carries the taint of a musky ship—the reek of the slaver's dhow!"

       The skipper looked at the tiering guns and the bulwarks tall and cold,

       And the Captains Three full courteously peered down at the gutted hold,

       And the Captains Three called courteously from deck to scuttle-butt:—

       "Good Sir, we ha' dealt with that merchantman or ever your teeth were cut.

      "Your words be words of a lawless race, and the Law it standeth thus:

       He comes of a race that have never a Law, and he never has boarded us.

      "We ha' sold him canvas and rope and spar—we know that his price is fair,

       And we know that he weeps for the lack of a Law as he rides off Finisterre.

      "And since he is damned for a gallows-thief by you and better than you,

       We hold it meet that the English fleet should know that we hold him true."

      

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