One shame is mine to-day, what need the weight of double shame?

If once we reach the Delhi gate, though all be lost, I win!"

We rode the white mare failed-her trot a staggering stumble grew,—

The cooking-smoke of even rose and weltered and hung low;

And still we heard the Populzai and still we strained

anew,

And Delhi town was very near, but nearer was the foe.

Yea, Delhi town was very near when Lalun whispered:-"Slay!

Lord of my life, the mare sinks fast-stab deep and let me die!"

But Scindia would not, and the maid tore free and flung away,

And turning as she fell we heard the clattering
Populzai.

Then Scindia checked the gasping mare that rocked and groaned for breath,

And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a hand's-breadth in her side

The hunter and the hunted know how that last pause

is death

The blood had chilled about her heart, she reared

and fell and died.

Our Gods were kind. Before he heard the maiden's piteous scream

A log upon the Delhi road, beneath the mare he lay

Lost mistress and lost battle passed before him like a dream;

The darkness closed about his eyes-I bore my

King away.

THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE

This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,
Erst a Pretender to Theebaw's throne,
Who harried the district of Alalone:
How he met with his fate and the V.P.P.1
At the hand of Harendra Mukerji,
Senior Gomashta, G.B.T.

Boh Da Thone was a warrior bold:

His sword and his Snider were bossed with gold,

And the Peacock Banner his henchmen bore
Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore.

He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weak
From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak:

He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean,
He filled old ladies with kerosene:

While over the water the papers cried,
"The patriot fights for his countryside!"

1 Value Payable Parcels Post: in which the Government collects the money for the sender.

But little they cared for the Native Press,

The worn white soldiers in Khaki dress,

Who tramped through the jungle and camped in the byre,

Who died in the swamp and were tombed in the mire,

Who gave up their lives, at the Queen's Command, For the Pride of their Race and the Peace of the Land.

Now, first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone
Was Captain O'Neil of the "Black Tyrone,"

And his was a Company, seventy strong,
Who hustled that dissolute Chief along.

There were lads from Galway and Louth and Meath Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth,

And worshipped with fluency, fervour, and zeal
The mud on the boot-heels of "Crook" O'Neil.

But ever a blight on their labours lay,
And ever their quarry would vanish away,

Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone
Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone:

And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends,
The Boh and his trackers were best of friends.

The word of a scout-a march by night—

A rush through the mist-a scattering fight

A volley from cover-a corpse in the clearing-
The glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring—

The flare of a village-the tally of slain-
And... the Boh was abroad "on the raid" again!

They cursed their luck, as the Irish will,
They gave him credit for cunning and skill,

They buried their dead, they bolted their beef,
And started anew on the track of the thief

Till, in place of the "Kalends of Greece," men said, "When Crook and his darlings come back with the head."

They had hunted the Boh from the hills to the plain

He doubled and broke for the hills again:

They had crippled his power for rapine and raid,
They had routed him out of his pet stockade,

And at last, they came, when the Day Star tired,
To a camp deserted-a village fired.

A black cross blistered the Morning-gold,
And the body upon it was stark and cold.