The children of the town had mocked beneath his

horse's hoofs,

The harlots of the town had hailed him 'butcher!'

from their roofs.

But as he groped against the wall, two hands upon

him fell,

The King behind his shoulder spake: 'Dead man, thou dost not well!

"'Tis ill to jest with Kings by day and seek a boon by night;

'And that thou bearest in thy hand is all too sharp to write.

'But three days hence, if God be good, and if thy strength remain,

'Thou shalt demand one boon of me and bless

me in thy pain.

'For I am merciful to all, and most of all to

thee.

'My butcher of the shambles, rest-no knife hast

thou for me!'

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, holds hard

by the South and the North;

But the Ghilzai knows, ere the melting snows, when the swollen banks break forth,

When the red-coats crawl to the sungar wall, and his Usbeg lances fail :

Ye have heard the song-How long? How

long? Wolves of the Zuka Kheyl!

They stoned him in the rubbish-field when dawn was in the sky,

According to the written word, 'See that he do not die.' They stoned him till the stones were piled above him on the plain,

And those the labouring limbs displaced they tumbled back again.

One watched beside the dreary mound that veiled the battered thing,

And him the King with laughter called the Herald

of the King.

It was upon the second night, the night of Rama

zan,

The watcher leaning earthward heard the message

of Yar Khan.

From shattered breast through shrivelled lips

broke forth the rattling breath,

'Creature of God, deliver me from agony of Death.'

They sought the King among his girls, and risked their lives thereby :

'Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that he die!'

'Bid him endure until the day,' a lagging answer

came;

'The night is short, and he can pray and learn to bless my name.'

Before the dawn three times he spoke, and on the

day once more:

'Creature of God, deliver me, and bless the King therefor!'

They shot him at the morning prayer, to ease him

of his pain,

And when he heard the matchlocks clink, he blessed the King again.

Which thing the singers made a song for all the world to sing,

So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy of

the King.

Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told,

He has opened his mouth to the North and the South, they have stuffed his mouth with gold.

Ye know the truth of his tender ruth-and

sweet his favours are:

Ye have heard the song-How long? How

long? from Balkh to Kandahar.

THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST

WHEN spring-time flushes the desert grass,
Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass.
Lean are the camels but fat the frails,

Light are the purses but heavy the bales,.

As the snowbound trade of the North comes down

To the market-square of Peshawur town.

In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill,
A kafila camped at the foot of the hill.
Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose,
And tent-peg answered to hammer-nose;
And the picketed ponies, shag and wild,
Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled;
And the bubbling camels beside the load

Sprawled for a furlong adown the road;