RUDYARD KIPLING.

"WHAT HAPPENED"

Hari Chunder Mukerji, pride of Bow-Bazar,
Owner of a native press, Barrister at Lar,
Waited on the Government with a claim to wear
Sabres by the bucketful, rifles by the pair.

Then the Indian Government, winked a wicked wink,
Said to Chunder Mukerji :-"Stick to pen and ink,
They're the safest implements :-but if you insist,
We will let you carry arms wheresoe'er you list."

Hari Chunder Mukerji went to Rodda's, and

Bought the tubes of Lancaster, Ballard, Deane and Bland,

Bought a shiny bowie-knife, bought a town-made sword,
Jingled like an ekka-horse when he went abroad.

But the Indian Government, always keen to please,
Also gave parwanas to horrid men like these;
Yar Mahomed, Yusufzai, down to kill or steal,
Chimbu Singh from Bikanir, Tantia the Bhil.

Killa Khan the Marri Chief, Jowar Singh the Sikh,
Nabbi Baksh, Punjabi Jât, Abdul Huq Rafiq-
(He was a Wahábi) lastly little Boh Hla-Oo

Took advantage of the Act and . . a Snider too.

They were unenlightened men, Rodda's knew them not, They procured their swords and guns mostly on the

spot;

And the lore of centuries, plus a hundred fights,

Made them slow to disregard one another's rights.

Nabbi Baksh, Punjabi Jât, found a hide-bound flail,
Chimbu Singh from Bikanir, oiled his Tonk Jezail,
Yar Mahomed, Yusufzai, spat and smiled with glee,
As he ground the butcher-knife of the Khyberee.

Jowar Singh the Sikh secured tulwar, quoit and mace, Abdul Huq, Wahábi, took his peshkalz1 from its place And amid the jungle-grass, danced and grinned and jabbered,

Little Boh Hla-Oo and jerked his dah-blade from the scabbard.

With a unanimity dear to patriot hearts,

All these hairy gentlemen out of foreign parts,

Said: "The good old days are back! Let us go to war!"

Swaggered down the Grand Trunk Road into Bow Bazar.

Did they meet with Mukerji? Soothly who can say ? Yar Mahomed only grins in a nasty way,

Jowar Singh is reticent, Chimbu follows suit,

But the belts of all of them simply bulge with loot!

What became of Rodda's guns?

grubby,

Afghans, black and

Sell them for their silver weight to the men of Pubbie, And the shiny bowie-knife and the town-made sword are Hanging in a Marri hut just across the Border!

What became of Mukerji? Ask Mahomed Yar, Prodding Shiva's sacred bull down the Bow Bazar, Speak to bovine Nabbi Baksh. Question land and sea, Ask the Indian Delegates-only don't ask me.

1 Knuckledusters.

MANDALAY

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the

sea

There's a Burmah girl a-settin', and I know she thinks

o' me;

For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple bells they say:

"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay !"

Come you back to Mandalay,

Where the old Flotilla lay:

Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from
Rangoon to Mandalay?

On the road to Mandalay,

Where the flyin' fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer
China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An'er name was Supi-yaw-lat-jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen.

An' I seed her just a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on a 'eathen idol's foot:

Bloomin' idol made o' mud

Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd

Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!

On the road to Mandalay .

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,

She'd git her little banjo an' she'd sing Kulla-lo-lo!

With her arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin' my

cheek

We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak

In the sludgy, squdgy creek,

Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!

On the road to Mandalay . .

But that's all shove be'ind me-long ago an' fur away, An' there aint no busses running from the Bank to

Mandalay ;

An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier

tells,

"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."

No! you won't 'eed nothin' else

But them spicy garlic smells,

An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;

On the road to Mandalay . .

I am sick o' wasting leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;

Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,

An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?

Beefy face an' grubby 'and

Law! what do they understand?

I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner,

greener land!

On the road to Mandalay.

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like

the worst,

Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man

can raise a thirst;

For the temple-bells are callin'; and it's there that I would be

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; On the road to Mandalay,

Where the old Flotilla lay,

With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay !

O the road to Mandalay,

Where the flyin'-fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer
China 'crost the Bay!