LITMIR.BIZ

        A Snider squibbed in the jungle,

          Somebody laughed and fled,

        And the men of the First Shikaris

          Picked up their Subaltern dead,

        With a big blue mark in his forehead

          And the back blown out of his head.

        Subadar Prag Tewarri,

          Jemadar Hira Lal,

        Took command of the party,

          Twenty rifles in all,

        Marched them down to the river

          As the day was beginning to fall.

        They buried the boy by the river,

          A blanket over his face —

        They wept for their dead Lieutenant,

          The men of an alien race —

        They made a samadh in his honor,

          A mark for his resting-place.

        For they swore by the Holy Water,

          They swore by the salt they ate,

        That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib

          Should go to his God in state;

        With fifty file of Burman

          To open him Heaven’s gate.

        The men of the First Shikaris

          Marched till the break of day,

        Till they came to the rebel village,

          The village of Pabengmay —

        A jingal covered the clearing,

          Calthrops hampered the way.

        Subadar Prag Tewarri,

          Bidding them load with ball,

        Halted a dozen rifles

          Under the village wall;

        Sent out a flanking-party

          With Jemadar Hira Lal.

        The men of the First Shikaris

          Shouted and smote and slew,

        Turning the grinning jingal

          On to the howling crew.

        The Jemadar’s flanking-party

          Butchered the folk who flew.

        Long was the morn of slaughter,

          Long was the list of slain,

        Five score heads were taken,

          Five score heads and twain;

        And the men of the First Shikaris

          Went back to their grave again,

        Each man bearing a basket

          Red as his palms that day,

        Red as the blazing village —

          The village of Pabengmay,

        And the “drip-drip-drip” from the baskets

          Reddened the grass by the way.

        They made a pile of their trophies

          High as a tall man’s chin,

        Head upon head distorted,

          Set in a sightless grin,

        Anger and pain and terror

          Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin.

        Subadar Prag Tewarri

          Put the head of the Boh

        On the top of the mound of triumph,

          The head of his son below,

        With the sword and the peacock-banner

          That the world might behold and know.

        Thus the samadh was perfect,

          Thus was the lesson plain

        Of the wrath of the First Shikaris —

          The price of a white man slain;

        And the men of the First Shikaris

          Went back into camp again.

        Then a silence came to the river,

          A hush fell over the shore,

        And Bohs that were brave departed,

          And Sniders squibbed no more;

            For the Burmans said

            That a kullah’s head

        Must be paid for with heads five score.

        There’s a widow in sleepy Chester

          Who weeps for her only son;

        There’s a grave on the Pabeng River,

          A grave that the Burmans shun,

        And there’s Subadar Prag Tewarri

          Who tells how the work was done.