THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone, How he met with his fate and the V.P.P. 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 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 women with kerosene : While over the water the papers cried, But little they cared for the Native Press, 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 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 But ever a blight on their labours lay, And ever their quarry would vanish away, Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends, The word of a scout—a march by night— 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- They cursed their luck as the Irish will, They gave him credit for cunning and skill, They buried their dead, they bolted their beef, 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, The wind of the dawn went merrily past, And out of the grass, on a sudden, broke And Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone (Now a slug that is hammered from telegraph-wire Is a thorn in the flesh and a rankling fire.) The shot-wound festered-as shot-wounds may The left arm throbbed, and the Captain swore, 'I'd like to be after the Boh once more! ' The fever held him—the Captain said, The Hospital punkahs creaked and whirred, He thought of the cane-brake, green and dank, He thought of his wife and his High School son, His sleep was broken by visions dread He kept his counsel and went his way, And swindled the cartmen of half their pay. And the months went on, as the worst must do, And the Boh returned to the raid anew. But the Captain had quitted the long-drawn strife, And in far Simoorie had taken a wife. And she was a damsel of delicate mould, With hair like the sunshine and heart of gold, |