Chapter I: Front Matter

Rhymes of the East

AND

Re-collected Verses

BY D U M-D U M

AUTHOR OF
'AT ODD MOMENTS'
'IN THE HILLS'

LONDON
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE
AND COMPANY, LTD.
1905

* * * * *

TO

MY MOTHER

* * * * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Nearly all the verses that now make their first appearance in book form are reprinted from _Punch_, by kind permission of Messrs. Bradbury and Agnew. The rest I have taken from two little books that were published in Bombay during my last (and, I suppose, final) tour of service in India. They contained a good deal of work that was too local or topical in interest to stand reproduction, and--especially the elder, which is out of print--some that I would sooner bury than perpetuate. The rest I have overhauled, and included in this re-collection.

Readers in, or of, India have been kind enough to regard my previous efforts with favour. I hope that this little volume will find them no less benevolently disposed, and that at the same time it may not be without interest to those whose knowledge of the Shiny East is derived from hearsay.

* * * * *

CONTENTS

NOCTURNE WRITTEN IN AN INDIAN GARDEN,

TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND WITHIN-DOORS,

VALEDICTION TO THE SS. 'ARABIA,' WHEN RETURNING WITH HER PASSENGERS FROM THE DELHI DURBAR,

A SOLDIER OF WEIGHT,

ODE TO THE TIME-GUN OF GURRUMBAD,

OMAR OUT OF DATE,

ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF EVER GETTING TO THE HILLS,

A SOMBRE RETROSPECT,

TO MANDALAY--GREETING,

SONG OF BELLS,

A BALLAD OF BUTTONRY,

THE IRON HAND,

THE WOOIN' O' TUMMAS,

CHRISTMAS GREETINGS,

'KAL!'

TO AN ELEPHANT,

VISIONARY, ON THE ADVANTAGES OF AN 'ASTRAL BODY,'

SUMMER PORTENTS, ELYSIUM,

TO MY LADY OF THE HILLS,

THE SHORES OF NOTHING,

THE LAST HOCKEY,

'FAREWELL'

A HAPPY NEW YEAR,

SAIREY,

ADAM,

ELEGY ON A RHINOCEROS,

IN SEVERAL KEYS. NO. 1--'MARIE,'

IN SEVERAL KEYS. NO. 2--THE BALLAD OF MORBID MOTHERS,

THE STORY OF RUD.,

THE HAPPY ENDING

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION,

THE FINEST VIEW,

HAVEN,

* * * * *

NOCTURNE WRITTEN IN AN INDIAN GARDEN

'Where ignorance is bliss,
'Tis folly to be wise.'

The time-gun rolls his nerve-destroying bray;
The toiling moon rides slowly o'er the trees;
The weary diners cast their cares away,
And seek the lawn for coolness and for ease.

Now spreads the gathering stillness like a pall,
And melancholy silence rules the scene,
Save where the bugler sounds his homing call,
And thirsty THOMAS leaves the wet canteen;

Save that from yonder lines in deepest gloom
Th' ambiguous mule does of the stick[1] bewail,
Whose _dunder_ craft forbids him to consume
His proper blanket, or his neighbour's tail.

[Footnote 1: The _dunder-stick_--an ingenious instrument devised to defeat this extraordinary appetite.]

Beneath those jagged tiles, that low-built roof
(Whose inmost secret deeps let none divine!),
Each to his master's cry supremely proof,
The Aryan Brothers of our household dine.

Let not Presumption mock their joyless pile,--
The cold boiled rice, in native butter greased;
Nor scorn, with rising gorge and painful smile,
The cheap but filling flapjacks of the East.

Full many a gem of highest Art-cuisine
Those dark unfathomed dogmatists eschew;
Full many a 'dish to set before the Queen'
Would waste its sweetness on the mild Hindoo.

Nor you, their lords, expect of these the toil,
When o'er their minds a soft oblivion steals,
And through the long-drawn hookah's pliant coil
They soothe their senses, and digest their meals.

For Knowledge to their ears her ample store,
Rich with the latest news, does then impart,
Whose source, when known, shall chill you to the core,
And freeze the genial cockles of the heart.

For once, to dumb Neglectfulness a prey,
Resentment led me undetected near,
To know the reason of this cool delay,
And teach my trusty pluralist to hear.

There to my vassals' ruminating throng
Some total stranger, seated on a pail,
Perused, translating as he went along,
My private letters by the current mail.

One moment, horror baulked my strong intent;
Next o'er the compound wall we saw him go,
While uncouth moan, with hapless gesture blent,
Deplored the pressing tribute of the toe.

THE MORAL

To you, fresh youths, with round unblushing cheeks,
Some moral tag this closing verse applies;
E'en from the old the voice of Wisdom speaks--
Even the youngest are not always wise!

No further seek to probe the Best Unknown,
From Exploration's curious arts refrain;
Lest Melancholy mark you for her own,
And you should learn--nor ever smile again.

TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND WITHIN-DOORS

_After R. H._

A strong discomfort in the dress
Dwindling the clothes to nothingness
Saving, for due decorum placed,
A huckaback about the waist,
Or wanton towel-et, whose touch
Haply may spare to chafe o'ermuch:
A languid frame, from head to feet
Prankt in the arduous prickle-heat:
An erring fly, that here and there
Enwraths the crimsoned sufferèr:
An upward toe, whose skill enjoys
The slipper's curious equipoise:
A punkah wantoning, whereby
Papers do flow confoundedly:
By such comportment, and th' offence
Of thy fantastic eloquence,
Dost thou, my WILLIAM, make it known
That thou art warm, and best alone.

VALEDICTION

TO THE SS. 'ARABIA,' WHEN RETURNING WITH HER PASSENGERS FROM THE DELHI DURBAR

Now the busy screw is churning,
Now the horrid sirens blow;
Now are India's guests returning
Home from India's Greatest Show;
Now the gleeful Asiatic
Speeds them on their wild career,
And, though normally phlegmatic,
Gives a half-unconscious cheer.

India's years were years of leanness,
Till the Late Performance drew
These, whose confidential greenness
She has run for all she knew.
Gladly rose the land to bid them
Welcome for a fleeting spell--
Nobly took them in and did them--
And has done extremely well.

Peace be theirs, important Packet,
Genial skies and happy calms--
No derogatory racket,
No humiliating qualms!
Gales, I charge you, shun to rouse and
Lash the seas to angry foam,
While Britannia's Great Ten Thousand
Sweep, with huge enjoyment, home!

Let the spiced and salty zephyr
Build them up in frame and mind,
Till they feel as fresh and effer-
vescent as their hearts are kind,
And in triumph close their Indian
Tour on far Massilia's quay,
Never having known too windy an
Offing, too disturbed a sea.

So, when English snows are falling,
When the fogs are growing dense,
They shall hear the East a-calling,
And shall come, and blow expense.
Every year shall bring his Argo;
Every year a grateful East
Shall receive her golden Cargo,
And restore the Gilded--Fleeced!

A SOLDIER OF WEIGHT

In the dim and distant ages, in the half-forgotten days,
Ere the East became the fashion and an Indian tour the craze,
Lived a certain Major-General, renowned throughout the State
As a soldier of distinction and considerable weight.

But though weightiness of mind is an invaluable trait,
When applied to adiposity it's all the other way;
And our hero was confronted with an ever-growing lack
Of the necessary charger and the hygienic hack.

He had bought them by the dozen, he had tried them by the score,
But not one of them was equal to the burden that he bore;
They were conscious of the honour, they were sound in wind and limb,
They could carry a cathedral, but they drew the line at _him_.

But he stuck to it, till finally his pressing needs were filled
By the mammoth of his species, a Leviathan in build,
A superb upstanding brown, of unexceptionable bone,
And phenomenally qualified to carry twenty stone.

And the General was happy; for the noble creature showed
An unruffled acquiescence with the nature of his load;
Till without the slightest warning, that superb upstanding brown
Thought it time to make a protest, which he did by lying down.

They appealed to him, reproached him, gave him sugar, cut his feed,
But in vain; for almost daily that inexorable steed,
When he heard his master coming, looked insultingly around,
And with cool deliberation laid him down upon the ground.

But they fought it out between them, till the undefeated brute
Made a humorous obeisance at the General Salute!
Then his owner kicked him wildly in the stomach for his pranks,
Said he'd stand the beast no longer, and returned him to the ranks.

(_An interval of about three years._)

Time has dulled our hero's anguish; time has raised our man of weight
To an even higher office in the service of the State;
And we find him at his yearly tour, inspecting at his ease
A distinguished corps of cavalry, the Someone's Own D. G.'s.

And our fat but famous man of war, accoutred to the nines,
Was engaged in making rude remarks, and going round the lines,
When he suddenly beheld across an intervening space
A Leviathan of horseflesh, the Behemoth of his race.

'Colonel Robinson,' he shouted, with enthusiastic force,
'A remarkably fine horse, sir!' The remarkably fine horse
Gave a reminiscent shudder, looked insultingly around,
And with cold deliberation laid him down upon the ground!

ODE TO THE TIME-GUN OF GURRUMBAD

[Time-guns are of invariable pattern and extreme antiquity.
Other species come and go; their ancestor remains always. One
is to be found in each cantonment: he generally occupies a
position of unsheltered and pathetic loneliness in a corner
of the local parade-ground. The writer has never seen one
herded in the Gun-park with his kind.]

Strong scion of the sturdy past
When simpler methods ruled the fray,
At whose demoralising blast
The stoutest foe recoiled aghast,
How fall'n art thou to-day!

Thy power the little children mock;
Thy voice, that shook the serried line,
But supplements the morning cock
At--roughly speaking--one o'clock,
And--broadly--half-past nine.

(Saving when THOMAS' deep employ
Th' attendant closing hour postpones,
And he, the undefeated boy,
To gain a temporary joy,
Hath stuffed thee up with stones.)

Thy kindred of a mushroom 'Mark,'
Young guns, intolerably spruce,
Have cast thee from the social 'park';
Which, to their humbled patriarch,
Must be the very deuce.

Their little toils with leisure crowned,
They, in their turn, will seek the Vale
Of Rest that thou hast never found;
What wonder if thy daily Round
Is very like a Wail?

Yet many love thee. Though his clutch
Be heavy, Time doth still afford
That fine consolatory touch--
It hardly seems to go for much,
But cannot be ignored.

For him that braves the midday fare
Thou hast the immemorial task
Of booming forth at one--or there-
abouts--which saves the wear and tear
Of yelling out to ask.

So, when athwart the glooming flats
Thy hoarse, nocturnal whispers stray--
Much to the horror of the bats--
We're one day nearer home, and that's
A comfort, anyway!

Then courage! Guns may come and go,
But him alone we hold divine
Whose task it is to let us know
The hours of one o'clock--or so--
And--roundly--half-past nine.

OMAR OUT OF DATE

BY A RENEGADE DISCIPLE

Wake! for Reveillée scatters into flight
The flagging Rearguard of a ruined Night,
And hark! the meagre Champion of the Roost
Has flung a matins to the Throne of Light.

Here, while the first beam smites the sullen Sky,
With silent feet Hajâm comes stealing nigh,
Bearing the Brush, the Vessel, and the Blade,
These sallow cheeks of mine to scarify.

How often, oh, how often have I sworn
Myself myself to shave th' ensuing Morn!
And then--and then comes Guest-night, and Hajâm
Appears unbidden, and is gladly borne.

Come, fill the Cup! The nerve-restoring Ti
Shall woo me with the Leaf of far Bohi;
What matter that to some the Koko makes
Appeal, to some the Cingalese Kofi?

For in a minute Toil, that ever thrives,
Awaits me with her Shackles and her Gyves,
And ever crieth Folly in the streets:
'To work! for needs ye must when Shaitân drives.'

Alas! that I did yesternight disport
With certain fellows of the baser Sort,
Unheedful of the living consequence
When Drinks are long, and Pockets all too short!

With them the game of Poka did I play,
And in wild session turned the Night to Day;
And many a Chip I dropped upon the Board,
And many a Moistener poured upon the Clay.

I put my Pile against th' Improbable,
And with a Full Hand thought to make it swell;
And this was all the Profit that I reaped:
A Full of Kings is Heaven--and Fours are Hell!

Then to the Mountain Dew I turned to seek
New courage for the Vengeance I should wreak;
And once again came Fours, again the Flesh
Was willing, and the Spirits far from weak.

* * * * *

_O Friend of pseudo-philosophic Calm,
Who found within the Cup a life's Aram,
Thy counsel, howsoever fair to read,
Were passing bad to follow, friend Khayyam!_

_Was it not Suleiman the Wise that said:
Look not upon the Wine when it is red?
And Suleiman the Wise knew What was Which,
Though that great Heart of his outmatched his Head!_

* * * * *

Ah! with the Pledge a Door of Refuge ope
To wean my footsteps from the facile Slope,
And write me down, fulfilled of Self-esteem,
A Prop and Pillar of the Band of Hope;

That in the Club, should whilom Comrades try
To lure me to a Roister on the sly,
The necessary Zeal I may not lack
To turn away, nor wink the Other Eye!

ODE

ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF EVER GETTING TO THE HILLS

_After T. G._

Ye distant Hills, ye smiling glades,
In decent foliage drest,
Where green Sylvanus proudly shades
The Sirkar's haughty crest,
And ye, that in your wider reign
Like bold adventurers disdain
The limit set for common clay,
Whose luck, whose pen, whose power of song,
Distinguish from the vulgar throng
To walk the flowery way:

Ah happy Hills! Ah genial sky!
Ah Goal where all would end!
Where once, and only once, did I
Go largely on the bend;
E'en now the tales that from ye flow
A fragmentary bliss bestow,
Till, once again a doedal boy,
In dreaming dimly of the first
I seem to take a second burst,
And snatch a tearful joy.

But tell me, Jakko, dost thou see
The same old sprightly crew
Disport with unembarrassed glee,
As we were wont to do?
What youth, in brazen armour cased,
With pliant arm the yielding waist
To arduous dalliance ensnares?
Who, foremost of his peers, exalts
The labours of the devious waltz
By sitting out the squares?

Does Prudence, gentle Matron, force
On Folly in her 'teens
The value of a stalking-horse
When hunting Rank and Means?
And is the Summer Widow's mind
Aggrieved and horrified to find
That, as her male acquaintance grows,
Her female circle pass her by
With Innuendo's outraged eye,
And Virtue's injured nose?

Lo, in the Vale of Tears beneath
A grilling troop is seen
Whom Failure gnaws with rankling teeth,
While Envy turns them green.
This racks the head, that scars the pelt,
These bore beneath the ample belt,
Those in the deeper vitals burn:
Lo, Want of Leave, to fill the cup,
Hath drunken all our juices up,
And topped the whole concern.

To each his billet; some succeed,
And some are left to groan;
The latter serve their country's need,
The former serve their own.
Then let the maiden try her wing,
The youth enjoy his roomy fling,
The Single Matron dry her eyes!
As Fate is blind, and Life is short,
If Ignorance can give them sport,
'Twere folly to be wise.

A SOMBRE RETROSPECT

Long, long ago, in that heroic time
When I, a coy and modest youth, was shot
Out on this dust-heap of careers and crime
To try and learn what's what,

I had a servitor, a swarthy knave,
Who showed an almost irreligious taste
For wearing nothing but a turban, save
A rag about the waist.

This apparition gave me such a start,
That I endowed him with a cast-off pair
Of inexpressibles, and said, 'Depart,
And be no longer bare.'

He took the offering with broken thanks;
But day succeeded day, and still revealed
Those sombre and attenuated shanks
Intensely unconcealed;

Until at last the climax came when I
Resolved to bring this matter to an end,
And when I saw him passing, shouted, 'Hi!
Where are your trousers, friend?'

Halting, he gave a deferential bow;
Then, to my horror, beamingly replied,
'Master not see? I wearing trousers _now_!'
I would have said he lied,

But could not. As I shaped the glowing phrase,
I looked upon his turban--looked again--
Mine own familiar pattern met my gaze,
And all the truth was plain!

Th' unhappy creature, Eastern to the core,
Holding my gift in superstitious dread,
Had made a turban out of it, and wore
His trousers--_on his head_!

TO MANDALAY--GREETING

(BY WALTYARD WHIPMING)