Verses 1889-1896

Thereat, as when a sand-bar breaks in clotted spume and spray —
When rain of later autumn sweeps the Jumna water-head,
Before their charge from flank to flank our riven ranks gave way;
But of the waters of that flood the Jumna fords ran red.

I held by Scindia, my lord, as close as man might hold;
A Soobah of the Deccan asks no aid to guard his life;
But Holkar’s Horse were flying, and our chiefest chiefs were cold,
And like a flame among us leapt the long lean Northern knife.

I held by Scindia – my lance from butt to tuft was dyed,
The froth of battle bossed the shield and roped the bridle-chain —
What time beneath our horses’ feet a maiden rose and cried,
And clung to Scindia, and I turned a sword-cut from the twain.

(He set a spell upon the maid in woodlands long ago,
A hunter by the Tapti banks she gave him water there:
He turned her heart to water, and she followed to her woe.
What need had he of Lalun who had twenty maids as fair?)

Now in that hour strength left my lord; he wrenched his mare aside;
He bound the girl behind him and we slashed and struggled free.
Across the reeling wreck of strife we rode as shadows ride
From Paniput to Delhi town, but not alone were we.

‘Twas Lutuf-Ullah Populzai laid horse upon our track,
A swine-fed reiver of the North that lusted for the maid;
I might have barred his path awhile, but Scindia called me back,
And  I – O woe for Scindia! – I listened and obeyed.

League after league the formless scrub took shape and glided by —
League after league the white road swirled behind the white mare’s feet —
League after league, when leagues were done, we heard the Populzai,
Where sure as Time and swift as Death the tireless footfall beat.

Noon’s eye beheld that shame of flight, the shadows fell, we fled
Where steadfast as the wheeling kite he followed in our train;
The black wolf warred where we had warred, the jackal mocked our dead,
And terror born of twilight-tide made mad the labouring brain.

I gasped: – “A kingdom waits my lord; her love is but her own.
A day shall mar, a day shall cure for her, but what for thee?
Cut loose the girl:  he follows fast.  Cut loose and ride alone!”
Then Scindia ‘twixt his blistered lips: – “My Queens’ Queen shall she be!

“Of all who ate my bread last night ‘twas she alone that came
To seek her love between the spears and find her crown therein!
One shame is mine to-day, what need the weight of double shame?
If once we reach the Delhi gate, though all be lost, I win!”

We rode – the white mare failed – her trot a staggering stumble grew, —
The cooking-smoke of even rose and weltered and hung low;
And still we heard the Populzai and still we strained anew,
And Delhi town was very near, but nearer was the foe.

Yea, Delhi town was very near when Lalun whispered: – “Slay!
Lord of my life, the mare sinks fast – stab deep and let me die!”
But Scindia would not, and the maid tore free and flung away,
And turning as she fell we heard the clattering Populzai.

Then Scindia checked the gasping mare that rocked and groaned for breath,
And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a hand’s-breadth in her side —
The hunter and the hunted know how that last pause is death —
The blood had chilled about her heart, she reared and fell and died.

Our Gods were kind.  Before he heard the maiden’s piteous scream
A log upon the Delhi road, beneath the mare he lay —
Lost mistress and lost battle passed before him like a dream;
The darkness closed about his eyes – I bore my King away.

THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE

This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,

Erst a Pretender to Theebaw’s throne

Who harried the district of Alalone:

How he met with his fate and the V.P.P.[5 - Value Payable Parcels Post: in which the Government collects the money for the sender.]

At the hand of Harendra Mukerji,

Senior Gomashta, G.B.T.

Boh Da Thone was a warrior bold:
His sword and his Snider were bossed with gold,

And the Peacock Banner his henchmen bore
Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore.

He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weak
From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak:

He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean,
He filled old ladies with kerosene:

While over the water the papers cried,
“The patriot fights for his countryside!”

But little they cared for the Native Press,