Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room Ballads

BALLADS AND BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

THE BALLAD OF FISHER’S BOARDING-HOUSE

That night, when through the mooring-chainsThe wide-eyed corpse rolled free,To blunder down by Garden ReachAnd rot at Kedgeree,The tale the Hughli told the shoalThe lean shoal told to me.  ‘T was Fultah Fisher’s boarding-house,    Where sailor-men reside,  And there were men of all the ports    From Mississip to Clyde,  And regally they spat and smoked,    And fearsomely they lied.  They lied about the purple Sea    That gave them scanty bread,  They lied about the Earth beneath,    The Heavens overhead,  For they had looked too often on    Black rum when that was red.  They told their tales of wreck and wrong,    Of shame and lust and fraud,  They backed their toughest statements with    The Brimstone of the Lord,  And crackling oaths went to and fro    Across the fist-banged board.  And there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,    Bull-throated, bare of arm,  Who carried on his hairy chest    The maid Ultruda’s charm —  The little silver crucifix    That keeps a man from harm.  And there was Jake Without-the-Ears,    And Pamba the Malay,  And Carboy Gin the Guinea cook,    And Luz from Vigo Bay,  And Honest Jack who sold them slops    And harvested their pay.  And there was Salem Hardieker,    A lean Bostonian he —  Russ, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn,    Yank, Dane, and Portuguee,  At Fultah Fisher’s boarding-house    They rested from the sea.  Now Anne of Austria shared their drinks,    Collinga knew her fame,  From Tarnau in Galicia    To Juan Bazaar she came,  To eat the bread of infamy    And take the wage of shame.  She held a dozen men to heel —    Rich spoil of war was hers,  In hose and gown and ring and chain,    From twenty mariners,  And, by Port Law, that week, men called    her Salem Hardieker’s.  But seamen learnt – what landsmen know —    That neither gifts nor gain  Can hold a winking Light o’ Love    Or Fancy’s flight restrain,  When Anne of Austria rolled her eyes    On Hans the blue-eyed Dane.  Since Life is strife, and strife means knife,    From Howrah to the Bay,  And he may die before the dawn    Who liquored out the day,  In Fultah Fisher’s boarding-house    We woo while yet we may.  But cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane,    Bull-throated, bare of arm,  And laughter shook the chest beneath    The maid Ultruda’s charm —  The little silver crucifix    That keeps a man from harm.  “You speak to Salem Hardieker;    “You was his girl, I know.  “I ship mineselfs tomorrow, see,    “Und round the Skaw we go,  “South, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm,    “To Besser in Saro.”  When love rejected turns to hate,    All ill betide the man.  “You speak to Salem Hardieker” —    She spoke as woman can.  A scream – a sob – “He called me – names!”     And then the fray began.  An oath from Salem Hardieker,    A shriek upon the stairs,  A dance of shadows on the wall,    A knife-thrust unawares —  And Hans came down, as cattle drop,    Across the broken chairs.* * * * * *  In Anne of Austria’s trembling hands    The weary head fell low: —  “I ship mineselfs tomorrow, straight    “For Besser in Saro;  “Und there Ultruda comes to me    “At Easter, und I go —  “South, down the Cattegat – What’s here?    “There – are – no – lights – to guide!”   The mutter ceased, the spirit passed,    And Anne of Austria cried  In Fultah Fisher’s boarding-house    When Hans the mighty died.  Thus slew they Hans the blue-eyed Dane,    Bull-throated, bare of arm,  But Anne of Austria looted first    The maid Ultruda’s charm —  The little silver crucifix    That keeps a man from harm.

AS THE BELL CLINKS

  As I left the Halls at Lumley, rose the vision of a comely  Maid last season worshipped dumbly, watched with fervor from afar;  And I wondered idly, blindly, if the maid would greet me kindly.  That was all – the rest was settled by the clinking tonga-bar.  Yea, my life and hers were coupled by the tonga coupling-bar.  For my misty meditation, at the second changin’-station,  Suffered sudden dislocation, fled before the tuneless jar  Of a Wagner obbligato, scherzo, doublehand staccato,  Played on either pony’s saddle by the clacking tonga-bar —  Played with human speech, I fancied, by the jigging, jolting bar.  “She was sweet,” thought I, “last season, but ‘twere surely wild unreason  Such tiny hope to freeze on as was offered by my Star,  When she whispered, something sadly: ‘I – we feel your going badly!’”   “And you let the chance escape you?” rapped the rattling tonga-bar.  “What a chance and what an idiot!” clicked the vicious tonga-bar.  Heart of man – oh, heart of putty! Had I gone by Kakahutti,  On the old Hill-road and rutty, I had ‘scaped that fatal car.  But his fortune each must bide by, so I watched the milestones slide by,  To “You call on Her tomorrow!” – fugue with cymbals by the bar —  “You must call on Her tomorrow!” – post-horn gallop by the bar.  Yet a further stage my goal on – we were whirling down to Solon,  With a double lurch and roll on, best foot foremost, ganz und gar —  “She was very sweet,” I hinted. “If a kiss had been imprinted?” —  “‘Would ha’ saved a world of trouble!” clashed the busy tonga-bar.  “‘Been accepted or rejected!” banged and clanged the tonga-bar.  Then a notion wild and daring, ‘spite the income tax’s paring,  And a hasty thought of sharing – less than many incomes are,  Made me put a question private, you can guess what I would drive at.  “You must work the sum to prove it,” clanked the careless tonga-bar.  “Simple Rule of Two will prove it,” lilted back the tonga-bar.  It was under Khyraghaut I mused. “Suppose the maid be haughty —  (There are lovers rich – and rotty) – wait some wealthy Avatar?  Answer monitor untiring, ‘twixt the ponies twain perspiring!”   “Faint heart never won fair lady,” creaked the straining tonga-bar.  “Can I tell you ere you ask Her?” pounded slow the tonga-bar.  Last, the Tara Devi turning showed the lights of Simla burning,  Lit my little lazy yearning to a fiercer flame by far.  As below the Mall we jingled, through my very heart it tingled —  Did the iterated order of the threshing tonga-bar —  “Try your luck – you can’t do better!” twanged the loosened tonga-bar.

AN OLD SONG

  So long as ‘neath the Kalka hills    The tonga-horn shall ring,  So long as down the Solon dip    The hard-held ponies swing,  So long as Tara Devi sees    The lights of Simla town,  So long as Pleasure calls us up,    Or Duty drives us down,      If you love me as I love you      What pair so happy as we two?  So long as Aces take the King,    Or backers take the bet,  So long as debt leads men to wed,    Or marriage leads to debt,  So long as little luncheons, Love,    And scandal hold their vogue,  While there is sport at Annandale    Or whisky at Jutogh,      If you love me as I love you      What knife can cut our love in two?  So long as down the rocking floor    The raving polka spins,  So long as Kitchen Lancers spur    The maddened violins,  So long as through the whirling smoke    We hear the oft-told tale —  “Twelve hundred in the Lotteries,”     And Whatshername for sale?      If you love me as I love you      We’ll play the game and win it too.  So long as Lust or Lucre tempt    Straight riders from the course,  So long as with each drink we pour    Black brewage of Remorse,  So long as those unloaded guns    We keep beside the bed,  Blow off, by obvious accident,    The lucky owner’s head,      If you love me as I love you      What can Life kill or Death undo?  So long as Death ‘twixt dance and dance    Chills best and bravest blood,  And drops the reckless rider down    The rotten, rain-soaked khud,  So long as rumours from the North    Make loving wives afraid,  So long as Burma takes the boy    Or typhoid kills the maid,      If you love me as I love you      What knife can cut our love in two?  By all that lights our daily life    Or works our lifelong woe,  From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs    And those grim glades below,  Where, heedless of the flying hoof    And clamour overhead,  Sleep, with the grey langur for guard    Our very scornful Dead,      If you love me as I love you      All Earth is servant to us two!  By Docket, Billetdoux, and File,    By Mountain, Cliff, and Fir,  By Fan and Sword and Office-box,    By Corset, Plume, and Spur  By Riot, Revel, Waltz, and War,    By Women, Work, and Bills,  By all the life that fizzes in    The everlasting Hills,      If you love me as I love you      What pair so happy as we two?

CERTAIN MAXIMS OF HAFIZ

I  If It be pleasant to look on, stalled in the packed serai,  Does not the Young Man try Its temper and pace ere he buy?  If She be pleasant to look on, what does the Young Man say?  “Lo! She is pleasant to look on, give Her to me today!”II  Yea, though a Kafir die, to him is remitted Jehannum  If he borrowed in life from a native at sixty per cent. per annum.III  Blister we not for bursati? So when the heart is vexed,  The pain of one maiden’s refusal is drowned in the pain of the next.IV  The temper of chums, the love of your wife, and a new piano’s tune —  Which of the three will you trust at the end of an Indian June?V  Who are the rulers of Ind – to whom shall we bow the knee?  Make your peace with the women, and men will make you L. G.VI  Does the woodpecker flit round the young ferash?  Does grass clothe a new-built wall?  Is she under thirty, the woman who holds a boy in her thrall?VII  If She grow suddenly gracious – reflect. Is it all for thee?  The black-buck is stalked through the bullock, and Man through jealousy.VIII  Seek not for favor of women. So shall you find it indeed.  Does not the boar break cover just when you’re lighting a weed?IX  If He play, being young and unskilful, for shekels of silver and gold,  Take his money, my son, praising Allah. The kid was ordained to be sold.X  With a “weed” among men or horses verily this is the best,  That you work him in office or dog-cart lightly – but give him no rest.XI  Pleasant the snaffle of Courtship, improving the manners and carriage;  But the colt who is wise will abstain from the terrible thorn-bit of Marriage.XII  As the thriftless gold of the babul, so is the gold that we spend  On a derby Sweep, or our neighbor’s wife, or the horse that we buy from a  friend.XIII  The ways of man with a maid be strange, yet simple and tame  To the ways of a man with a horse, when selling or racing that same.XIV  In public Her face turneth to thee, and pleasant Her smile when ye meet.  It is ill. The cold rocks of El-Gidar smile thus on the waves at their feet.  In public Her face is averted, with anger. She nameth thy name.  It is well. Was there ever a loser content with the loss of the game?XV  If She have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed,  And the Brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed.  If She have written a letter, delay not an instant, but burn it.  Tear it to pieces, O Fool, and the wind to her mate shall return it!  If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear,  Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.XVI  My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give o’er,  Yet lip meets with lip at the last word – get out!    She has been there before.  They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose who are lacking in lore.XVII  If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred on the  course.  Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth forever Remorse.XVIII  “By all I am misunderstood!” if the Matron shall say, or the Maid:  “Alas! I do not understand,” my son, be thou nowise afraid.  In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed.XIX  My son, if I, Hafiz, the father, take hold of thy knees in my pain,  Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour – refrain.  Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest another man’s chain?

THE GRAVE OF THE HUNDRED HEAD

  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.  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.

THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS

  Beneath the deep veranda’s shade,    When bats begin to fly,  I sit me down and watch – alas! —    Another evening die.  Blood-red behind the sere ferash    She rises through the haze.  Sainted Diana! can that be    The Moon of Other Days?  Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith,    Sweet Saint of Kensington!  Say, was it ever thus at Home    The Moon of August shone,  When arm in arm we wandered long    Through Putney’s evening haze,  And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath    The Moon of Other Days?  But Wandle’s stream is Sutlej now,    And Putney’s evening haze  The dust that half a hundred kine    Before my window raise.  Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist    The seething city looms,  In place of Putney’s golden gorse    The sickly babul blooms.  Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust,    And bid the pie-dog yell,  Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ,    From each bazaar its smell;  Yea, suck the fever from the tank    And sap my strength therewith:  Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face    To little Kitty Smith!THE OVERLAND MAIL  (Foot-Service to the Hills)  In the name of the Empress of India, make way,    O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.  The woods are astir at the close of the day —    We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.  Let the robber retreat – let the tiger turn tail —

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