“God made me Viceroy of India, and thou knowest what I made thee,
You rule by my will and pleasure, I care not to flatter or bribe,
One pledge or promise I ask of thee; I pardon if all men know
That up to this time thou hast not done much to prove thee our friend or foe.
For the Russian is closing upon you, our faith in his promise is dead,
He is massing his troops on your border, and is eager to push on ahead.
Sharp is the word with the Muscovite, whose will is to plunder and spoil,
His covetous eye is on India, and eke on your God-granted soil.
Now while he stands for a moment still, there is only one thing to be done,
I must send a commission to meet him, to show where your boundaries run,