Now Exeter Battleby Tring had laboured from boyhood to eld On the Lines of the East and the West, and eke of the North and South;

Many Lines had he built and surveyed-important the posts which he held;

And the Lords of the Iron Horse were dumb when he opened his mouth.

Black as the raven his garb, and his heresies jettier stillHinting that Railways required lifetimes of study and know

ledge

Never clanked sword by his side-Vauban he knew not nor drill

Nor was his name on the list of the men who had passed through the "College."

Wherefore the Little Tin Gods harried their little tin souls, Seeing he came not from Chatham, jingled no spurs at his

heels,

Knowing that, nevertheless, was he first on the Government rolls

For the billet of "Railway Instructor to Little Tin Gods on Wheels."

Letters not seldom they wrote him, "having the honour to state,"

It would be better for all men if he were laid on the shelf. Much would accrue to his bank-book, an he consented to wait Until the Little Tin Gods built him a berth for himself,

"Special, well paid, and exempt from the Law of the Fifty and Five,

Even to Ninety and Nine"-these were the terms of the

pact:

Thus did the Little Tin Gods (long may Their Highnesses

thrive!)

Silence his mouth with rupees, keeping their Circle intact;

Appointing a Colonel from Chatham who managed the Bhamo State Line

(The which was one mile and one furlong-a guaranteed twenty-inch gauge),

So Exeter Battleby Tring consented his claims to resign, And died, on four thousand a month, in the ninetieth year of his age!

WHAT HAPPENED

HURREE CHUNDER MOOKERJEE, pride of Bow Bazaar,

Owner of a native press, “Barrishter-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 Mookerjee: "Stick to pen and ink.
They are safer implements, but, if you insist,
We will let you carry arms wheresoe’er you list.”

Hurree Chunder Mookerjee sought the gunsmith and
Bought the tubes of Lancaster, Ballard, Dean, and Bland,
Bought a shiny bowie-knife, bought a town-made sword,
Jingled like a carriage-horse when he went abroad.

But the Indian Government, always keen to please,
Also gave permission to horrid men like these-
Yar Mahommed Yusufzai, down to kill or steal,
Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer, Tantia the Bhil;

Killar Khan the Marri chief, Jowar Singh the Sikh,
Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat, Abdul Huq Rafiq-
He was a Wahabi; last, little Boh Hla-oo
Took advantage of the Act-took a Snider too.

They were unenlightened men, Ballard knew them not.
They procured their swords and guns chiefly on the spot;
And the lore of centuries, plus a hundred fights,
Made them slow to disregard one another's rights.

With a unanimity dear to patriot hearts

All those 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 Bazaar.

Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat found a hide-bound flail;
Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer oiled his Tonk jezail;
Yar Mahommed Yusufzai spat and grinned with glee
As he ground the butcher-knife of the Khyberee.

Jowar Singh the Sikh procured sabre, quoit, and mace,
Abdul Huq, Wahabi, jerked his dagger from its place,
While amid the jungle-grass danced and grinned and jabbered
Little Boh Hla-oo and cleared his dah-blade from the scab-
bard.

What became of Mookerjee? Soothly, who can say?
Yar Mahommed only grins in a nasty way,

Jowar Singh is reticent, Chimbu Singh is mute,
But the belts of all of them simply bulge with loot.

What became of Ballard's guns? Afghans black and grubby
Sell them for their silver weight to the men of Pubbi;
And the shiny bowie-knife and the town-made sword are
Hanging in a Marri camp just across the Border.

What became of Mookerjee? Ask Mahommed Yar
Prodding Siva's sacred bull down the Bow Bazaar.
Speak to placid Nubbee Baksh-question land and sea-
Ask the Indian Congressmen-only don't ask me!

THE MAN WHO COULD WRITE

Shun-shun the Bowl! That fatal, facile drink
Has ruined many geese who dipped their quills in 't;
Bribe, murder, marry, but steer clear of Ink

Save when you write receipts for paid-up bills in 't.
There may be silver in the "blue-black"-all

I know of is the iron and the gall.

BOANERGES BLITZEN, servant of the Queen,
Is a dismal failure-is a Might-have-been.
In a luckless moment he discovered men
Rise to high position through a ready pen.

Boanerges Blitzen argued therefore-"I,
With the selfsame weapon, can attain as high.”
Only he did not possess when he made the trial,
Wicked wit of C-lv-n, irony of L—1.

[Men who spar with Government need, to back their blows, Something more than ordinary journalistic prose.]

Never young Civilian's prospects were so bright,
Till an Indian paper found that he could write:
Never young Civilian's prospects were so dark,
When the wretched Blitzen wrote to make his mark.

Certainly he scored it, bold, and black, and firm,
In that Indian paper-made his seniors squirm,
Quoted office scandals, wrote the tactless truth-
Was there ever known a more misguided youth?

When the Rag he wrote for praised his plucky game,
Boanerges Blitzen felt that this was Fame;

When the men he wrote of shook their heads and swore,
Boanerges Blitzen only wrote the more:

Posed as Young Ithuriel, resolute and grim,
Till he found promotion didn't come to him;
Till he found that reprimands weekly were his lot,
And his many Districts curiously hot.

Till he found his furlough strangely hard to win,
Boanerges Blitzen didn't care a pin:

Then it seemed to dawn on him something wasn't right--
Boanerges Blitzen put it down to “spite";

Languished in a District desolate and dry;
Watched the Local Government yearly pass him by;
Wondered where the hitch was; called it most unfair.

That was seven years ago-and he still is there!

PINK DOMINOES

"They are fools who kiss and tell"

Wisely has the poet sung.

Man may hold all sorts of posts

If he'll only hold his tongue.

JENNY and Me were engaged, you see,
On the eve of the Fancy Ball;
So a kiss or two was nothing to you
Or any one else at all.

Jenny would go in a domino

Pretty and pink but warm;

While I attended, clad in a splendid

Austrian uniform.

Now we had arranged, through notes exchanged

Early that afternoon,

At Number Four to waltz no more,

But to sit in the dusk and spoon.