LITMIR.BIZ

        My name is O’Kelly, I’ve heard the Revelly

        From Birr to Bareilly, from Leeds to Lahore,

        Hong-Kong and Peshawur,

        Lucknow and Etawah,

        And fifty-five more all endin’ in “pore”.

        Black Death and his quickness, the depth and the thickness,

        Of sorrow and sickness I’ve known on my way,

        But I’m old and I’m nervis,

        I’m cast from the Service,

        And all I deserve is a shillin’ a day.

         (Chorus)  Shillin’ a day,

                     Bloomin’ good pay —

                     Lucky to touch it, a shillin’ a day!

        Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days I

        Went slap for the Ghazi, my sword at my side,

        When we rode Hell-for-leather

        Both squadrons together,

        That didn’t care whether we lived or we died.

        But it’s no use despairin’, my wife must go charin’

        An’ me commissairin’ the pay-bills to better,

        So if me you be’old

        In the wet and the cold,

        By the Grand Metropold, won’t you give me a letter?

         (Full chorus)  Give ‘im a letter —

                          ‘Can’t do no better,

                          Late Troop-Sergeant-Major an’ – runs with a letter!

                          Think what ‘e’s been,

                          Think what ‘e’s seen,

                          Think of his pension an’ —

                          GAWD SAVE THE QUEEN.

             Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

             Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;

             But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

             When two strong men stand face to face,

               tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!

        Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,

        And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the Colonel’s pride:

        He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,

        And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.

        Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a troop of the Guides:

        “Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?”

         Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:

        “If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.

        At dusk he harries the Abazai – at dawn he is into Bonair,

        But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,

        So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,

        By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.

        But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,

        For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men.

        There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,

        And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.”

         The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,

        With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell

          and the head of the gallows-tree.

        The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat —

        Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.

        He’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,

        Till he was aware of his father’s mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,

        Till he was aware of his father’s mare with Kamal upon her back,

        And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.

        He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.

        “Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said.  “Show now if ye can ride.”

         It’s up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,

        The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.

        The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,

        But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.

        There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,

        And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho’ never a man was seen.

        They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,

        The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.

        The dun he fell at a water-course – in a woful heap fell he,

        And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.

        He has knocked the pistol out of his hand – small room was there to strive,

        “‘Twas only by favour of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive:

        There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,

        But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.

        If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,

        The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:

        If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,

        The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.”

         Lightly answered the Colonel’s son:  “Do good to bird and beast,

        But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.

        If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,

        Belike the price of a jackal’s meal were more than a thief could pay.

        They will feed their horse on the standing crop,

          their men on the garnered grain,

        The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.

        But if thou thinkest the price be fair, – thy brethren wait to sup,

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