—————
It was night and the tired villagers were wrapped in sleep;
Only within her lonely hut did a mother her vigil keep.
All day she had toiled and labored, carrying bricks and stone,
While her child lay sick with fever, and uttered his weary moan.
Oft she had paused in her work, and in soft, caressing tone
Had soothed his plaintive crying, then gone back to her work alone,
And now, though tired and weary, and heavy her eyes with sleep,
She sat and nursed her baby with a mother love true and deep;
And when with a last little cry he turned in her arms and was still,
She knew that no more would his baby love the place in her hard life fill.
She was only a coolie mother, but her heart was heavy with pain,
For she knew that she never would clasp her child in her lonely arms again.
What had mattered the daily toil in the heat of the burning sun,
When she knew that she had her little one to caress when the day was done?
To you he was only a coolie child with his baby limbs dimpled and bare,
But now he is one of those favored ones who are safe in their Saviour's care.
—————
The highway was hot and dusty, oppressive the air;
The sun on the tired bullocks beat down with pitiless glare.
Mere living skeletons were they, their worn-out hides scarce covering their aching bones;
Hunger and thirst were their daily lot, while many a cruel blow
Forced them to drag their heavy load, though weary their gait and slow;
The look in their eyes was pitiful, so full of helpless pain,
While ever the cruel driver showered his blows like rain.
Have ye no heart, ye men of the East, that ye treat dumb creatures so?
Does it help you to bear your own weary lot to add to their tale of woe?
Bruised and maim, half-blind, and halt, you drive them until they drop!
Oh, had I the power I would wield it, such cruelty to stop;
When I see you prod them with pointed stick, my soul cries in answering pain;
Oh, why will you treat your oxen so, and give to your land this stain?
—————
Tired out with the heat and the burden of day,
And the miles I have walked 'neath the sun's fierce ray,
I think with delight of the bungalow dim,
And how I shall fill my long glass to the brim;
But when I arrive all is empty and bare,
The khansamah has gone to his evening prayer.