beat to a soundless tune
  And sang with a wordless pride;
Till when the Indian stars were bright,
  And bells at home would ring,
To the fetters' clank they rose and drank
  "England! God save the King!"

The years came, and the years went,
  The wheel full-circle rolled;
The tyrant's neck must yet be bent,
  The price of blood be told:
The city yet must hear the roar
  Of Baird's avenging guns,
And see him stand with lifted hand
  By Tippoo Sahib's sons.

The lads were bonny, the lads were young,
  But he claimed a pitiless debt;
Life and death in the balance hung,
  They watched it swing and set.
They saw him search with sombre eyes,
  They knew the place he sought;
They saw him feel for the hilted steel,
  They bowed before his thought.

But he—he saw the prison there
  In the old quivering heat,
Where merry hearts had met despair
  And died without defeat;
Where feeble hands had raised the cup
  For feebler lips to drain,
And one had worn with smiling scorn
  His double load of pain.

"The sleep that Tippoo Sahib sleeps
  Hears not the voice of man;
The faith that Tippoo Sahib keeps
  No earthly judge may scan;
For all the wrong your father wrought
  Your father's sons are free;
Where Lucas lay no tongue shall say
  That Mercy bound not me."

A Ballad of John Nicholson

It fell in the year of Mutiny,
  At darkest of the night,
John Nicholson by Jalándhar came,
  On his way to Delhi fight.

And as he by Jalándhar 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 Jalándhar 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 overhasty, 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."

The Guides at Cabul

(1879)

Sons of the Island race, wherever ye dwell,
  Who speak of your fathers' battles with lips that burn,
The deed of an alien legion hear me tell,
  And think not shame from the hearts ye tamed to learn,
  When succour shall fail and the tide for a season turn,
To fight with joyful courage, a passionate pride,
To die at last as the Guides of Cabul died.

For a handful of seventy men in a barrack of mud,
  Foodless, waterless, dwindling one by one,
Answered a thousand yelling for English blood
  With stormy volleys that swept them gunner from gun,
  And charge on charge in the glare of the Afghan sun,
Till the walls were shattered wherein they couched at bay,
And dead or dying half of the seventy lay.

Twice they had taken the cannon that wrecked their hold,
  Twice toiled in vain to drag it back,
Thrice they toiled, and alone, wary and bold,
  Whirling a hurricane sword to scatter the rack,
  Hamilton, last of the English, covered their track.
"Never give in!" he cried, and he heard them shout,
And grappled with death as a man that knows not doubt.

And the Guides looked down from their smouldering barrack again,
  And behold, a banner of truce, and a voice that spoke:
"Come, for we know that the English all are slain,
  We keep no feud with men of a kindred folk;
  Rejoice with us to be free of the conqueror's yolk."
Silence fell for a moment, then was heard
A sound of laughter and scorn, and an answering word.

"Is it we or the lords we serve who have earned this wrong,
  That ye call us to flinch from the battle they bade us fight?
We that live—do ye doubt that our hands are strong?
  They that are fallen—ye know that their blood was bright!
   Think ye the Guides will barter for lust of the light
The pride of an ancient people in warfare bred,
Honour of comrades living, and faith to the dead?"

Then the joy that spurs the warrior's heart
  To the last thundering gallop and sheer leap
Came on the men of the Guides: they flung apart
  The doors not all their valour could longer keep;
  They dressed their slender line; they breathed deep,
And with never a foot lagging or head bent
To the clash and clamour and dust of death they went.

The Gay Gordons

(Dargai, October 20, 1897)

Whos for the Gathering, who's for the Fair?
    (Gay goes the Gordon to a fight)
The