Where never a tear-drop dims the eye, and sorrows are stifled young,
And the Anglo-Indians snigger and sneer with the jest of a bitter tongue.
Where the tribesmen mock at the Bengalee and shiver their spears in vain,
And officers steep their souls chin-deep in brandy and dry champagne;
Where the Rudyard river runs, flecked with foam, far forth to the Kipling seas,
And the maker of man takes walks abroad with Pagan deities.
Where AZRAEL talks to the Graces Three, and the Muses Nine stand by,
And ask Greek riddles of BUDDHA, who never makes reply.
(Gentlemen all and ladies too as smart as a brand-new pin),
And nobody wonders how on earth so mixed a lot got in—