LITMIR.BIZ

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centuries, plus a hundred fights,

       Made them slow to disregard one another's rights.

      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;

       Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer oiled his Tonk jezail;

       Yar Mahommed Yusufzai spat and grinned with glee

       As he ground the butcher-knife of the Khyberee.

      Jowar Singh the Sikh procured sabre, quoit, and mace,

       Abdul Huq, Wahabi, jerked his dagger from its place,

       While amid the jungle-grass danced and grinned and jabbered

       Little Boh Hla-oo and cleared his dah-blade from the scabbard.

      What became of Mookerjee? Soothly, who can say?

       Yar Mahommed only grins in a nasty way,

       Jowar Singh is reticent, Chimbu Singh is mute.

       But the belts of all of them simply bulge with loot.

      What became of Ballard's guns? Afghans black and grubby

       Sell them for their silver weight to the men of Pubbi;

       And the shiny bowie-knife and the town-made sword are

       Hanging in a Marri camp just across the Border.

      What became of Mookerjee? Ask Mahommed Yar

       Prodding Siva's sacred bull down the Bow Bazaar.

       Speak to placid Nubbee Baksh—question land and sea—

       Ask the Indian Congressmen—only don't ask me!

Pink Dominoes

       Table of Contents

      They are fools who kiss and tell"—

       Wisely has the poet sung.

       Man may hold all sorts of posts

       If he'll only hold his tongue.

      Jenny and Me were engaged, you see,

       On the eve of the Fancy Ball;

       So a kiss or two was nothing to you

       Or any one else at all.

      Jenny would go in a domino—

       Pretty and pink but warm;

       While I attended, clad in a splendid

       Austrian uniform.

      Now we had arranged, through notes exchanged

       Early that afternoon,

       At Number Four to waltz no more,

       But to sit in the dusk and spoon.

      I wish you to see that Jenny and Me

       Had barely exchanged our troth;

       So a kiss or two was strictly due

       By, from, and between us both.

      When Three was over, an eager lover,

       I fled to the gloom outside;

       And a Domino came out also

       Whom I took for my future bride.

      That is to say, in a casual way,

       I slipped my arm around her;

       With a kiss or two (which is nothing to you),

       And ready to kiss I found her.

      She turned her head and the name she said

       Was certainly not my own;

       But ere I could speak, with a smothered shriek

       She fled and left me alone.

      Then Jenny came, and I saw with shame

       She'd doffed her domino;

       And I had embraced an alien waist—

       But I did not tell her so.

      Next morn I knew that there were two

       Dominoes pink, and one

       Had cloaked the spouse of Sir Julian House,

       Our big Political gun.

      Sir J. was old, and her hair was gold,

       And her eye was a blue cerulean;

       And the name she said when she turned her head

       Was not in the least like "Julian."

The Man Who Could Write

       Table of Contents

      Shun—shun the Bowl! That fatal, facile drink

       Has ruined many geese who dipped their quills in 't;

       Bribe, murder, marry, but steer clear of Ink

       Save when you write receipts for paid-up bills in 't.

      There may be silver in the "blue-black"—all

       I know of is the iron and the gall.

      Boanerges Blitzen, servant of the Queen,

       Is a dismal failure—is a Might-have-been.

       In a luckless moment he discovered men

       Rise to high position through a ready pen.

       Boanerges Blitzen argued therefore—"I,

       With the selfsame weapon, can attain as high."

       Only he did not possess when he made the trial,

       Wicked wit of C-lv-n, irony of L—l.

      [Men who spar with Government need, to back their blows,

       Something more than ordinary journalistic prose.]

      Never young Civilian's prospects were so bright,

       Till an Indian paper found that he could write:

       Never young Civilian's prospects were so dark,

       When the wretched Blitzen wrote to make his mark.

       Certainly he scored it, bold, and black, and firm,

       In that Indian paper—made his seniors squirm,

       Quoted office scandals, wrote the tactless truth—

       Was there ever known a more misguided youth?

       When the Rag he wrote for praised his plucky game,

       Boanerges Blitzen felt that this was Fame;

       When the men he wrote of shook their heads and swore,

       Boanerges Blitzen only wrote the more:

      Posed as Young Ithuriel, resolute and grim,

       Till he found promotion didn't come to him;

       Till he found that reprimands weekly were his lot,

       And his many Districts curiously hot.

      Till he found his furlough strangely hard to win,

       Boanerges Blitzen didn't care to pin:

       Then it seemed to dawn on him something wasn't right—

       Boanerges Blitzen put it down to "spite";

      Languished in a District desolate and dry;

       Watched the Local Government yearly pass him by;

       Wondered where the hitch was; called it most unfair.

      *

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