'Twas half past six last Tuesday eve
When Mr. Jones of his Station took his leave.
He travelled per cart—his usual plan—
With a lantern-bearer and handyman.
As the road was smooth, and uncommonly sandy,
Mr. Jones fell fast asleep in his bandy.
The bandyman snoozed. And alas! no stones
Gave a warning jolt to him or to Jones.
Now came the critical moment, in which
The lantern went out, as they near'd a ditch,—
A slushy, prodigious, hideous pit
With no end of black mud at the bottom of it!
(Over which a bridge, as might be expected,
The D. P. W. had not erected!)
A roll—then a rattle—then Jones cried out "stop!"
Then the bandy and bullocks went clean over—plop!
Alas, I omitted to mention before
What sort of luggage the bandy bore,
How under his mattrass poor Jones had packed
Many a book and many a tract.
For Jones was wont, where'er he might go,
To be a sort of travelling Depôt.
There were pamphlets in English,—heap on heap,
Badly printed, but very cheap.
There were newspapers, too, for mild Hindoos
With everything in them, excepting news.
There were bundles and bundles, and layers and layers,
Of very wise sayings by very wise sayers.
Tracts in Canarese, tracts in Tamil,
Enough to have broken the back of a camel.
It would have been lucky for Jones that night
If only this literature had been light;
Or if only he had omitted to place
Under his pillow his travelling case.
For now his bandy, ah woe is me!
Had fallen with its roof where its wheels ought to be:
And thus it was not a very great wonder
That his luggage was up, and poor Jones was under.
Pray what could the Reverend gentleman do?
The deep black mud was as sticky as glue.
There was mud at his night-cap, and mud at his socks,
On his back were his books, on his head was his box.
In the ditch the bandyman struggled and splutter'd,
But not a word the poor gentleman utter'd:
But, imbedded in mud some three feet deep,
Calmly and quietly went to sleep.
The handyman then with care unpacked
Book and newspaper, pamphlet and tract;
And found——if he could, he would have turned pale—
His good old master as dead as a nail!
So died Mr. Jones. Oh! D. P. W.
Have you no conscience, or doesn't it trouble you?
Are your funds all expended, or do you not care
That the roads are shockingly bad everywhere?
Here on the stones we rattle our bones,
There meet with great pits, such as did for poor Jones.
Well, shall I say more? Shall my verse repeat
Some truths which I know are too true to be sweet?
Your healths, good sirs,—R. E.'s and O. E.'s!
You are mighty hands at spending rupees!
You build fine bridges, you spend many a lac,
And for zeal and discretion get clapped on the back;
Till down roll the rivers in flood some day,
And sweep your gingerbread structures away.
Then come explanations. It is easy, you know,
To say this, or that arch, was too narrow or low.
That a flaw was here, or a fault was there,
Or the mortar was somehow not mixed with care,
Or that some unaccountable swirl of the tide
Did this, when it should have done something beside.
Oh Sirs, you are wise! But wondrous to say
Your wisdom comes always too late in the day.
Here in India, forsooth! our barracks must crumble,
Embankments give way, and light-houses tumble.
In another clime they have bridged the pride
Of ice-charg'd St. Lawrence's terrible tide!
They curb the sea in Holland, but here
A tank is too strong for our Engineer!
Then hail, merry gentlemen, R. and C. E.'s!
Spend on the generous Public's rupees!
May you ne'er meet some end, like that, by which
The light of Jones was snuff'd out in a ditch!
"Urgent Private Affairs."
Dear Captain Green,—This morning, I see,
The Gazette good news for you bears:—
"On leave for six months to proceed to sea
On urgent private affairs."
"To sea" forsooth! Pray what does this mean?
There's surely some mystery here?
"On urgent private affairs."—O Green,
This sounds uncommonly queer!
Affairs at sea? Ha!—I see through it now!
Sly dog, you're in luck without doubt!—
Some coy little mermaid you chanced to know
And hooked on your voyage out?
O happy Green, is she blonde or brunette?
Has she golden or raven tresses?
But will walking on land suit the tail of your pet?
I hope she judiciously dresses!
Her name? Is she young? Of course she can speak?
Does she wear her long hair in curls?
I trust she has got no scales on her cheek?
Are you marrying for love or for pearls?
I suppose Father Neptune will give her away?
I assure you, you have my best wishes.
I remain, yours,—C.
P.S.—By the way,
My Salaams to all your Friend-Fishes.