I've said the sweet moon looked down from the sky.—
She revealed a tank that rippled hard by.
Rushes and weeds grew round its brim,
'Twas a pretty place for a midnight swim!
Neems and Portias grew on its bank,
That rose some eight feet over the tank.
Now hither, to this embankment's top,
His captors dragg'd Rummybhoy, neck and crop.
"Heave-yo!" cried Cruncher. A splash, and a thud!
And the Parsee splutter'd in water and mud!
A group of Hindoos had gathered around.
They saw to the Parsee's not being drown'd.
He soberly homewards then quietly stole,
Steady of foot, and heavy of soul.
Resolved, as long as he chanced to live,
Never again a GRAND BALL, to give.
Enough, O my readers. 'Tis not my intention,
To give you a MORAL. I'll only mention,
That, as hours roll'd by, and the dances were done,
And the dancers drove homewards one by one,
That each to the other, and one and all,
Declared it 'a most successful Ball!'
Captain Brown of the Police.
Boy! The big tub from my bath-room, with a dozen chatties bring,
That, whilst seated in the water, o'er me may this punkah swing.
Pour the chatties gently o'er me; let me sit awhile in peace,
For one blissful hour forgetful, I am BROWN OF THE POLICE:—
Brown at whom Dacoits have trembled, Brown at whom the public looks
As the active Superintendent of a dozen great Taluqs—
Great Taluqs in which each morning some dread deed of murder's done,
And a score of arson cases flare before each rising sun!
But enough! Why should I boast me? Have not I this day been taught
That, to Woman's greater folly, all our greatness is as naught?
Foolish Woman! Foolish Alice!—Ah, how can my tongue repeat
That one name, which is so bitter, yet was once so very sweet,—
Sweeter still than breath of lilies, yes than music sweeter yet,—
Sweet as when you read PROMOTED to your name in the Gazette!
Alice, Alice! thou hast scorned me, though I woo'd thee many a day,
Jilted me for that goose Jenkins of the Revenue Survey!
Yet I thought that I had won thee. How I praised thy eyes, thy hair!
Told thee what the glass must tell thee,—false one, thou art very fair.
Curse thy beauty! Brown the dauntless, Brown the dread of Wahabees,
To a woman, a weak woman, bent, in vain, his suppliant knees!
Shall I e'er forget this morning? How my heart leapt in my breast
As I rode up to her compound, in full regimentals dressed:
Redder than my scarlet facings rose the blush upon her cheek,
When I took her hand, and, kneeling, cleared my choking throat to speak.
"Alice!" said I, "Pearl of Women," (heedless of her sudden frown)
"Alice, ducky-darling, hear me, hear your own devoted Brown!"
"Sir," she answer'd, "Say no more please, I,—hem,—only yesterday,
"Was engaged to Mr. Jenkins, of the Revenue Survey!"
Blood and thunder, fire and furies! From my knees I leapt in wrath,
Knock'd my shins against a foot-stool, crushed a kitten in my path.
Leapt into the saddle wildly, madly homewards dashed away,
Gnash'd my teeth and swore at Jenkins of the Revenue Survey.
Boy, pour yet another chatty, for my head is getting hot,
Ha! There's virtue in the coolness of the water in that pot!
Let the water trickle, trickle, dropping like a gracious rain
To revive the wither'd fancies of my poor love-blasted brain!
Love? What word is this I utter! Lips of Brown, that word eschew!
Leave it to the spluttering idiot, or barbarian Yahoo!
Love? My watch-word shall be MURDER! Every thug
shall hear my name.
Blackest niggers blanch with terror at the thunder of my fame.
Ho! each bloated Brahmin rascal, who my visage stern may see,
Trembling with a vague amazement, shall perspire great drops of ghee.
Yes! the Governor shall hear it, and my worth shall be confessed,
Till at length the Star of India blazes on my loyal breast.
Then, ah then, shall I take vengeance. Foolish Alice, thou shalt own,—
Alice Jenkins,—what a treasure thou once lost in Captain Brown.
Terrible shall be my vengeance! I will wed a pariah maid!
Future Browns shall yet wax browner, till at length in black they fade.
I will rear a score of children, teach them to be true Hindoos,
They shall worship cows or devils, or whatever they shall choose—
They shall chew the finest betel: on nice stale salt fish subsist,
And in their own bandies driving, learn their bullocks' tails to twist.
But enough! I'm getting chilly. There's a tickling in my nose.
Have I caught a cold, I wonder? Boy—atschi! quick, get my clothes!
Alice Jenkins, tschi! false Alice—there's a buzzing in my ear—
Tschi! Confound it, in the water I have stay'd too long I fear.
Vengeance? Tschi! But why defer it? Yes, I'll go this very day,
And smash the head of that goose Jenkins of the Revenue Survey!
The Catastrophe
(Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea.)
TENNYSON.