And still we heard the Populzai and still we strained anew,

And Delhi town was very near, but nearer was

the foe.

Yea, Delhi town was very near when Lalun whispered :-'Slay!

'Lord of my life, the mare sinks fast-stab deep

and let me die!'

But Scindia would not, and the maid tore free and flung away,

And turning as she fell we heard the clattering Populzai.

Then Scindia checked the gasping mare that rocked and groaned for breath,

And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a handsbreadth in her side

The hunter and the hunted know how that last

pause is death

The blood had chilled about her heart, she

reared and fell and died.

Our Gods were kind.

Before he heard the

maiden's piteous scream

A log upon the Delhi road, beneath the mare

he lay

Lost mistress and lost battle passed before him

like a dream;

The darkness closed about his eyes-I bore my

King away.

THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE

This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,
Erst a Pretender to Theebaw's throne,
Who harried the district of Alalone:

How he met with his fate and the V.P.P.
At the hand of Harendra Mukerji,

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
Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore.

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 ladies with kerosene :

While over the water the papers cried,
'The patriot fights for his countryside!'

But little they cared for the Native Press,
The worn white soldiers in Khaki dress,

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 foeman of Boh Da Thone
Was Captain O'Neil of the 'Black Tyrone,'

And his was a Company, seventy strong,
Who hustled that dissolute Chief along.

I

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
The mud on the boot-heels of 'Crook' O'Neil.

But ever a blight on their labours lay,
And ever their quarry would vanish away,

Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone
Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone:

And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends,
The Boh and his trackers were best of friends.

The word of a scout-a march by night-
A rush through the mist—a scattering fight-

A volley from cover-a corpse in the clearing— The glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring