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WHAT HAPPENED

Hurree Chunder Mookergee, pride of Bow Bazar,
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

Khan: Chief.

Sikh: A religious sect, specifically a fighting man.

He was a Wahabi; last, little Boh Hla-00

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 Bazar.

Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat found a hide-bound flail, Chimbu Sinkh 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 saber, quoit, and mace,

Abdul Huq, Wahabi, took the dagger from its place, While amid the jungle-grass danced and grinned and jabbered

Little Boh Hla-oo and cleared the dah-blade from the scabbard.

Wahabi: A Moslem sect.

Dah-blade The Burmese sword-blade, a sort of machete.

What Happened

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 them all 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-knite 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 Bazar. Speak to placid Nubbee Baksh question land and

sea

Ask the Indian Congressmen-only don't ask me!

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.

(I wish you to see that Jenny and me
Had barely exchanged our troth;
So a kiss or two was strictly due
By, from, and between us both.)

When Three was over, an eager lover,
I fled to the gloom outside;

And a Domino came out also

Whom I took for my future bride.

Pink Dominoes

That is to say, in a casual way,
I slipped my arm around her;

With a kiss or two (which is nothing to you),
And ready to kiss I found her.

She turned her head and the name she said
Was certainly not my own;

But ere I could speak, with a smothered shriek
She fled and left me alone.

Then Jenny came, and I saw with shame

She'd doffed her domino;

And I had embraced an alien waist

But I did not tell her so.

Next morn I knew that there were two

Dominoes pink, and one

Had cloaked the spouse of Sir Julian Vouse,

Our big political gun.

Sir J. was old, and her hair was gold,

And her eye was a blue cerulean;

And the name she said when she turned her head Was not in the least like " 'Julian."

Now was n't it nice, when want of pice
Forbade us twain to marry,
That old Sir J., in the kindest way,
Made me his Secretarry?

Pice: $0.00125 = about d of a rupee.

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