Eyes of blue-the Simla Hills
Silvered with the moonlight hoar;
Pleading of the waltz that thrills,
Dies and echoes round Benmore.
'Mabel,' 'Officers,' 'Good-bye,'
Glamour, wine, and witchery-
On my soul's sincerity,

'Love like ours can never die!'

Maidens, of your charity,
Pity my most luckless state.
Four times Cupid's debtor I—
Bankrupt in quadruplicate.
Yet, despite this evil case,
An a maiden showed me grace,
Four-and-forty times would I
Sing the Lovers' Litany:--
'Love like ours can never die!'

A BALLAD OF BURIAL

'Saint Praxed's ever was the Church for peace.'

[F down here I chance to die,

I'

Solemnly I beg you take

All that is left of 'I'

To the Hills for old sake's sake.
Pack me very thoroughly

In the ice that used to slake

Pegs I drank when I was dry.
This observe for old sake's sake.

To the railway station hie,
There a single ticket take
For Umballa-goods-train-I
Shall not mind delay or shake.
I shall rest contentedly

Spite of clamour coolies make;
Thus in state and dignity

Send me up for old sake's sake.

Next the sleepy Babu wake,

Book a Kalka van 'for four.'
Few, I think, will care to make
Journeys with me any more

As they used to do of yore.

I shall need a 'special' breakThing I never took before.

Get me one for old sake's sake.

After that-arrangements make,
No hotel will take me in,
And a bullock's back would break
'Neath the teak and leaden skin.
Tonga-ropes are frail and thin,
Or, did I a back seat take,
In a tonga I might spin.

Do your best for old sake's sake.

-

You will find excuse to take 'Three days' casual on the bust,' Get your fun for old sake's sake.

I could never stand the Plains.
Think of blazing June and May,
Think of those September rains
Yearly till the Judgment Day!
I should never rest in peace,

I should sweat and lie awake.
Rail me then, on my decease,
To the Hills for old sake's sake.

THE OVERLAND MAIL

[Foot-service to the Hills.]

N the name of the Empress of India, make way,
O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam,
The woods are astir at the close of the day—

We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.
Let the robber retreat-let the tiger turn tail-
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!

With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,

He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hillThe bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,

And, tucked in his waistbelt, the Post Office bill:'Despatched on this date, as received from 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 without

fail,

In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.

From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,
From level to upland, from upland to crest,

From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur, Fly the soft-sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.

From rail to ravine-to the peak from the vale-
Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.

There's a speck on the hill-side, a dot on the road-
A jingle of bells on the foot-path below-
There's a scuffle above in the monkey's abode-

The world is awake and the clouds are aglow. For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail:'In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!'