Written by
Ogden Nash |
The summer like a rajah dies,
And every widowed tree
Kindles for Congregationalist eyes
An alien suttee.
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Written by
Sir Henry Newbolt |
It fell in the year of Mutiny,
At darkest of the night,
John Nicholson by Jal?ndhar came,
On his way to Delhi fight.
And as he by Jal?ndhar came,
He thought what he must do,
And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting,
To try if he were true.
"God grant your Highness length of days,
And friends when need shall be;
And I pray you send your Captains hither,
That they may speak with me."
On the morrow through Jal?ndhar town
The Captains rode in state;
They came to the house of John Nicholson,
And stood before the gate.
The chief of them was Mehtab Singh,
He was both proud and sly;
His turban gleamed with rubies red,
He held his chin full high.
He marked his fellows how they put
Their shoes from off their feet;
"Now wherefore make ye such ado
These fallen lords to greet?
"They have ruled us for a hundred years,
In truth I know not how,
But though they be fain of mastery
They dare not claim it now."
Right haughtily before them all
The durbar hall he trod,
With rubies red his turban gleamed,
His feet with pride were shod.
They had not been an hour together,
A scanty hour or so,
When Mehtab Singh rose in his place
And turned about to go.
Then swiftly came John Nicholson
Between the door and him,
With anger smouldering in his eyes,
That made the rubies dim.
"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh," --
Oh, but his voice was low!
He held his wrath with a curb of iron
That furrowed cheek and brow.
"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh,
When that the rest are gone,
I have a word that may not wait
To speak with you alone."
The Captains passed in silence forth
And stood the door behind;
To go before the game was played
Be sure they had no mind.
But there within John Nicholson
Turned him on Mehtab Singh,
"So long as the soul is in my body
You shall not do this thing.
"Have ye served us for a hundred years
And yet ye know not why?
We brook no doubt of our mastery,
We rule until we die.
"Were I the one last Englishman
Drawing the breath of life,
And you the master-rebel of all
That stir this land to strife --
"Were I," he said, "but a Corporal,
And you a Rajput King,
So long as the soul was in my body
You should not do this thing.
"Take off, take off, those shoes of pride,
Carry them whence they came;
Your Captains saw your insolence,
And they shall see your shame."
When Mehtab Singh came to the door
His shoes they burned his hand,
For there in long and silent lines
He saw the Captains stand.
When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate
His chin was on his breast:
The captains said, "When the strong command
Obedience is best."
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Written by
Rudyard Kipling |
1892
The freed dove flew to the Rajah's tower--
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings--
And the thorns have covered the city of Guar.
Dove--dove--oh, homing dove!
Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings!
The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall;
He set in his bosom a dove of flight--
"If she return, be sure that I fall."
Dove--dove--oh, homing dove!
Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight.
" Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep--
Leave to the foeman no spoil at all.
In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep
If the dove--if the dove -- if the homing dove
Come and alone to the palace wall."
The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad--
The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all.
Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,
And the dove--the dove--oh, the homing dove!
She thought of her cote on the palace-wall.
She opened her wings and she flew away--
Fluttered away beyond recall;
She came to the palace at break of day.
Dove--dove--oh, homing dove,
Flying so fast for a kingdom's fall!
The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame
Slept in the flame of the palace old--
To save their honour from Moslem shame.
And the dove--the dove--oh, the homing dove,
She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled!
The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet,
Followed as fast as a horse could fly,
He came and the palace was black at his feet;
And the dove--the dove--the homing dove,
Circled alone in the stainless sky.
So the dove flew to the Rajah's tower--
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings;
So the thorns covered the city of Gaur,
And Dacca was lost for a white dove's wings.
Dove--dove--oh, homing dove,
Dacca is lost from the Roll of the Kings!
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Written by
Robert William Service |
I am the Cannon King, behold!
I perish on a throne of gold.
With forest far and turret high,
Renowned and rajah-rich am I.
My father was, and his before,
With wealth we owe to war on war;
But let no potentate be proud . . .
There are no pockets in a shroud.
By nature I am mild and kind,
To gentleness and ruth inclined;
And though the pheasants over-run
My woods I will not touch a gun.
Yet while each monster that I forge
Thunders destruction form its gorge.
Death's whisper is, I vow, more loud . . .
There are no pockets in a shroud.
My time is short, my ships at sea
Already seem like ghosts to me;
My millions mock me I am poor
As any beggar at my door.
My vast dominion I resign,
Six feet of earth to claim is mine,
Brooding with shoulders bitter-bowed . . .
There are no pockets in a shroud.
Dear God, let me purge my heart,
And be of heaven's hope a part!
Flinging my fortune's foul increase
To fight for pity, love and peace.
Oh that I could with healing fare,
And pledged to poverty and prayer
Cry high above the cringing crowd:
"Ye fools! Be not Mammon cowed . . .
There are no pockets in a shroud."
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Written by
Omar Khayyam |
'Tis wrong, according to the strict Koran,
To drink in Rajah, likewise in Sha'ban,
God and the Prophet claim those months as theirs;
Was Ramazan then made for thirsty man?
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