Turning the grinning jingal Long was the morn of slaughter, Each man bearing a basket Red as his palms that day, Red as the blazing village — The village of Pabengmay. And the "drip-drip-drip" from the baskets Reddened the grass by the way. They made a pile of their trophies High as a tall man's chin, Head upon head distorted, Set in a sightless grin, Anger and pain and terror Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin. Subadar Prag Tewarri Put the head of the Boh On the top of the mound of triumph, With the sword and the peacock-banner Boh: Burmese village headman. The Grave of the Hundred Head Thus the samádh was perfect, Then a silence came to the river, That a kullah's head Must be paid for with heads five score. There's a widow in sleepy Chester Kullah: A foreign white man, THE OVERLAND MAIL (Foot-Service to the Hills.) In the name of the Empress of India, make way, - With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in, He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin, And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post-Office bill : "Despatched on this date, as received by the rail, Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail." Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim. Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff. Does the tempest cry "Halt"? What are tempests to him? The Service admits not a "but" or an "if." While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear with out fail, In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail. The Overland Mail From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir, From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur, Fly the soft sandaled feet, strains the brawny brown chest. From rail to ravine- to the peak from the vale- There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road THE UNDERTAKER'S HORSE How can he "To-tschin Shu is condemned to death. drink tea with the Executioner?"— Japanese Proverb. The eldest son bestrides him, And the pretty daughter rides him, An emotion chill and gruesome As I canter past the Undertaker's Horse. Neither shies he nor is restive, Trot, professional and placid, he affects; To my mind, this grim reproof beats : "Mend your pace, my friend, I'm coming. Who's the next?" Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen, I have watched the strongest go Of pith and might and muscle - men at your heels, Down the plantain-bordered highway In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels. |