LITMIR.BIZ

        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 knowledge —

        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!

        We have another viceroy now, – those days are dead and done

        Of Delilah Aberyswith and depraved Ulysses Gunne.

        Delilah Aberyswith was a lady – not too young —

        With a perfect taste in dresses and a badly-bitted tongue,

        With a thirst for information, and a greater thirst for praise,

        And a little house in Simla in the Prehistoric Days.

        By reason of her marriage to a gentleman in power,

        Delilah was acquainted with the gossip of the hour;

        And many little secrets, of the half-official kind,

        Were whispered to Delilah, and she bore them all in mind.

        She patronized extensively a man, Ulysses Gunne,

        Whose mode of earning money was a low and shameful one.

        He wrote for certain papers, which, as everybody knows,

        Is worse than serving in a shop or scaring off the crows.

        He praised her “queenly beauty” first; and, later on, he hinted

        At the “vastness of her intellect” with compliment unstinted.

        He went with her a-riding, and his love for her was such

        That he lent her all his horses and – she galled them very much.

        One day, THEY brewed a secret of a fine financial sort;

        It related to Appointments, to a Man and a Report.

        ‘Twas almost worth the keeping, – only seven people knew it —

        And Gunne rose up to seek the truth and patiently pursue it.

        It was a Viceroy’s Secret, but – perhaps the wine was red —

        Perhaps an Aged Councillor had lost his aged head —

        Perhaps Delilah’s eyes were bright – Delilah’s whispers sweet —

        The Aged Member told her what ‘twere treason to repeat.

        Ulysses went a-riding, and they talked of love and flowers;

        Ulysses went a-calling, and he called for several hours;

        Ulysses went a-waltzing, and Delilah helped him dance —

        Ulysses let the waltzes go, and waited for his chance.

        The summer sun was setting, and the summer air was still,

        The couple went a-walking in the shade of Summer Hill.

        The wasteful sunset faded out in Turkish-green and gold,

        Ulysses pleaded softly, and – that bad Delilah told!

        Next morn, a startled Empire learnt the all-important news;

        Next week, the Aged Councillor was shaking in his shoes.

        Next month, I met Delilah and she did not show the least

        Hesitation in affirming that Ulysses was a “beast.”

        We have another Viceroy now, those days are dead and done —

        Of Delilah Aberyswith and most mean Ulysses Gunne!

        Hurree Chunder Mookerjee, pride of Bow Bazaar,

        Owner of a native press, “Barrishter-at-Lar,”

         Waited on the Government with a claim to wear

        Sabres by the bucketful, rifles by the pair.

        Then the Indian Government winked a wicked wink,

        Said to Chunder Mookerjee: “Stick to pen and ink.

        They are safer implements, but, if you insist,

        We will let you carry arms wheresoe’er you list.”

        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,

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