TO THE CITY OF BOMBAY

TO  THE  CITY  OF  BOMBAY

The Cities are full of pride,

Challenging each to each -

This from her mountain-side,

That from her burthened beach.

 

They count their ships full tale -

Their corn and oil and wine,

Derrick and loom and bale,

And rampart’s gun-flecked line;

City by City they hail:

“Hast aught to match with mine?”

 

And the men that breed from them

They traffic up and down,

But cling to their cities’ hem

As a child to their mother’s gown.

 

When they talk with the stranger bands,

Dazed and newly alone;

When they walk in the stranger lands,

By roaring streets unknown;

Blessing her where she stands

For strength above their own.

 On high to hold her fame

That stands all fame beyond,

By oath to back the same,

Most faithful-foolish-fond;

Making her mere-breathed name

Their bond upon their bond.

 

So thank I God my birth

Fell not in isles aside -

Waste headlands of the earth,

Or warring tribes untried -

But that she lent me worth

And gave me right to pride.

 

Surely in toil or fray

Under an alien sky,

Comfort it is to say:

“Of no mean city am I!”

 

Neither by service nor fee

Come I to mine estate -

Mother of Cities to me,

But I was born in her gate,

Between the palms and the sea,

Where the world-end steamers wait.

 

Now for this debt I owe,

And for her far-borne cheer

Must I make haste and go

With tribute to her pier.

 

And she shall touch and remit

After the use of kings

Orderly, ancient, fit

My deep-sea plunderings,

And purchase in all lands.

And this we do for a sign

Her power is over mine,

And mine I hold at her hands!

 

                                    Rudyard Kipling

 

 

 

LUCILLE

LUCILLE

Of course you’ve heard of the Nancy Lee,

And how she sailed away

On her famous quest of the Arctic flea,

To the wilds of Hudson's Bay?

For it was a foreign Prince's whim

To collect this tiny cuss,

And a golden quid was no more to him

Than a copper to coves like us.

 

So we sailed away and our hearts were gay

As we gazed on the gorgeous scene;

And we laughed with glee as we caught the flea

Of the wolf and the wolverine;

 

Yea, our hearts were light as the parasite

Of the ermine rat we slew,

And the great musk ox, and the silver fox,

And the moose and the caribou.

And we laughed with zest as the insect pest

Of the marmot crowned our zeal,

And the wary mink and the wily “link”,

And the walrus and the seal.

 

And with eyes aglow on the scornful snow

We danced a rigadoon,

Round the lonesome lair of the Arctic hare,

By the light of the silver moon.

 

But the time was nigh to homeward hie,

When, imagine our despair!

For the best of the lot we hadn’t got -

The flea of the polar bear.

 

Oh, his face was long and his breath was strong,

As the Skipper he says to me:

“I wants you to linger ‘ere, my lad,

y the shores of the Hartic Sea;

 

I wants you to ‘unt the polar bear

The perishin’ winter through,

And if flea ye find of its breed and kind,

There's a ‘undred quid for you.”

 

But I shook my head: “No, Cap,” I said;

“It's yourself I’d like to please,

But I tells ye flat I wouldn't do that

If ye went on yer bended knees.”

 

Then the Captain spat in the seething brine,

nd he says: “Good luck to you,

If it can't be did for a ‘undred quid,

Supposin’ we call it two?”

 

So that was why they said good-by,

And they sailed and left me there -

Alone, alone in the Arctic Zone

To hunt for the polar bear.

 

Oh, the days were slow and packed with woe,

Till I thought they would never end;

And I used to sit when the fire was lit,

With my pipe for my only friend.

 

And I tried to sing some rollicky thing,

But my song broke off in a prayer,

And I'd drowse and dream by the driftwood gleam;

I'd dream of a polar bear;

I'd dream of a cloudlike polar bear

That blotted the stars on high,

With ravenous jaws and flenzing claws,

And the flames of hell in his eye.

 

And I'd trap around on the frozen ground,

As a proper hunter ought,

And beasts I'd find of every kind,

But never the one I sought.

 

Never a track in the white ice-pack

That humped and heaved and flawed,

Till I came to think: “Why, strike me pink!

If the creature ain't a fraud.”

 

And then one night in the waning light,

As I hurried home to sup,

 hears a roar by the cabin door,

And a great white hulk heaves up.

 

So my rifle flashed, and a bullet crashed;

Dead, dead as a stone fell he,

And I gave a cheer, for there in his ear -

Gosh ding me! - a tiny flea.

 

At last, at last! Oh, I clutched it fast,

And I gazed on it with pride;

And I thrust it into a biscuit-tin,

And I shut it safe inside;

 

With a lid of glass for the light to pass,

And space to leap and play;

Oh, it kept alive; yea, seemed to thrive,

As I watched it night and day.

And I used to sit and sing to it,

And I shielded it from harm,

And many a hearty feed it had

On the heft of my hairy arm.

 

For you'll never know in that land of snow

How lonesome a man can feel;

So I made a fuss of the little cuss,

And I christened it “Lucille”.

 

But the longest winter has its end,

And the ice went out to sea,

And I saw one day a ship in the bay,

And there was the Nancy Lee.

 

So a boat was lowered and I went aboard,

And they opened wide their eyes -

Yes, they gave a cheer when the truth was clear,

And they saw my precious prize.

 

And then it was all like a giddy dream;

But to cut my story short,

We sailed away on the fifth of May

To the foreign Prince's court;

 

To a palmy land and a palace grand,

And the little Prince was there,

And a fat Princess in a satin dress

With a crown of gold on her hair.

 

And they showed me into a shiny room,

Just him and her and me,

And the Prince he was pleased and friendly-like,

And he calls for drinks for three.

 

And I shows them my battered biscuit-tin,

And I makes my modest spiel,

And they laughed, they did, when I opened the lid,

And out there popped Lucille.

 

Oh, the Prince was glad, I could soon see that,

And the Princess she was too;

And Lucille waltzed round on the tablecloth

As she often used to do.

 

And the Prince pulled out a purse of gold,

And he put it in my hand;

And he says: “It was worth all that, I'm told,

To stay in that nasty land.”

 

And then he turned with a sudden cry,

And he clutched at his royal beard;

And the Princess screamed, and well she might -

For Lucille had disappeared.

“She must be here,” said his Noble Nibbs,

So we hunted all around;

Oh, we searched that place, but never a trace

Of the little beast we found.

 

So I shook my head, and I glumly said:

“Gol darn the saucy cuss!

It's mighty queer, but she isn't here;

So . . . she must be on one of us.

You'll pardon me if I make so free,

But - there's just one thing to do:

If you'll kindly go for a half a mo’

I'll search me garments through.”

 

Then all alone on the shiny throne

I stripped from head to heel;

In vain, in vain; it was very plain

That I hadn't got Lucille.

 

So I garbed again, and I told the Prince,

And he scratched his august head;

“I suppose if she hasn’t selected you,

It must be me,” he said.

 

So he retired; but he soon came back,

And his features showed distress:

“Oh, it isn't you and it isn't me.” . . .

Then we looked at the Princess.

 

So she retired; and we heard a scream,

And she opened wide the door;

And her fingers twain were pinched to pain,

But a radiant smile she wore:

 

“It's here,” she cries, “our precious prize.

Oh, I found it right away. . . .”

Then I ran to her with a shout of joy,

But I choked with a wild dismay.

 

I clutched the back of the golden throne,

And the room began to reel . . .

What she held to me was, ah yes! a flea,

But . . . it wasn't my Lucille.

 

                          Robert  Service

THE OUTLAW

THE  OUTLAW

A wild and woeful race he ran

Of lust and sin by land and sea;

Until, abhorred of God and man,

They swung him from the gallows-tree.

And then he climbed the Starry Stair,

And dumb and naked and alone,

With head unbowed and brazen glare,

He stood before the Judgment Throne.

 

The Keeper of the Records spoke:

“This man, O Lord, has mocked Thy Name.

The weak have wept beneath his yoke,

The strong have fled before his flame.

The blood of babes is on his sword;

His life is evil to the brim:

Look down, decree his doom, O Lord !

Lo ! there is none will speak for him.”

The golden trumpets blew a blast

That echoed in the crypts of Hell,

For there was Judgment to be passed,

And lips were hushed and silence fell.

The man was mute; he made no stir,

Erect before the Judgment Seat . . .

When all at once a mongrel cur

Crept out and cowered and licked his feet.

 

It licked his feet with whining cry.

Come Heav'n, come Hell, what did it care?

It leapt, it tried to catch his eye;

Its master, yea, its God was there.

Then, as a thrill of wonder sped

Through throngs of shining seraphim,

The Judge of All looked down and said:

“Lo ! here is ONE who pleads for him.”

 

“And who shall love of these the least,

And who by word or look or deed

Shall pity show to bird or beast,

By Me shall have a friend in need.

Aye, though his sin be black as night,

And though he stand ‘mid men alone,

He shall be softened in My sight,

And find a pleader by My Throne.”

 

“So let this man to glory win;

From life to life salvation glean;

By pain and sacrifice and sin,

Until he stand before Me - clean.

For he who loves the least of these

(And here I say and here repeat)

Shall win himself an angel's pleas

For Mercy at My Judgment Seat.”

 

                                   Robert Service

 

AUTHOR’S  NOTE

After old men and children I am greatly interested in dogs. I will go out of my way to caress one who shows any desire to be friendly. There is a very filthy fellow who collects cigarette stubs on the Boul’ Mich’ , and who is always followed by a starved yellow cur. The other day I came across them in a little side street. The man was stretched on the pavement brutishly drunk and dead to the world. The dog, lying by his side, seemed to look at me with sad, imploring eyes. Though all the world despise that man, I thought, this poor brute loves him and will be faithful unto death. From this incident I wrote the verses above.

I'M GOING TO BOMBAY

I'M  GOING  TO  BOMBAY

“ Nothing venture, nothing have." - Old Proverb

.“ Every Indiaman has at least two mates." - Falconer’s Marine Guide

My hair is brown, my eyes are blue,

And reckoned rather bright ;

I 'm shapely, if they tell me true,

And just the proper height ;

My skin has been admired in verse,

And called as fair as day -

If I am fair, so much the worse,

I 'm going to Bombay !

At school I passed with some eclat ;

I learned my French in France ;

De Wint gave lessons how to draw,

And D'Egville how to dance -

Crevelli taught me how to sing,

And Cramer how to play-

It really is the strangest thing -

I 'm going to Bombay !

I 've been to Bath and Cheltenham Wells,

But not their springs to sip -

To Ramsgate - not to pick up shells -

To Brighton - not to dip.

I 've toured the Lakes, and scoured the coast

From Scarboro' to Torquay -

But tho' of time I 've made the most,

I 'm going to Bombay !

By Pa and Ma I 'm daily told

To marry now 's my time,

For though I 'm very far from old,

I 'm rather in my prime.

They say while we have any sun

We ought to make our hay -

And India has so hot an one,

I 'm going to Bombay !

My cousin writes from Hyderapot,

My only chance to snatch,

And says the climate is so hot,

It 's sure to light a match.

She 's married to a son of Mars,

With very handsome pay,

And swears I ought to thank my stars

I 'm going to Bombay !

She says that I shall much delight

To taste their Indian treats;

But what she likes may turn me quite,

Their strange outlandish meats.

If I can eat rupees, who knows ?

Or dine, the Indian way,

On doolies and on bungalows -

I 'm going to Bombay !

She says that I shall much enjoy -

I don't know what she means -

To take the air and buy some toy,

In my own palankeens -

I' like to drive my pony-chair,

Or ride our dapple gray -

But elephants are horses there -

I 'm going to Bombay !

Farewell, farewell, my parents dear,

My friends, farewell to them !

And oh, what costs a sadder tear,

Good-bye, to Mr. M. ! -

If I should find an Indian vault,

Or fall a tiger's prey,

Or steep in salt, it 's all his fault,

I 'm going to Bombay !

That fine new teak-built ship, The Fox,

A. I. - Commander Bird,

Now lying in the London Docks,

Will sail on May the third;

Apply for passage or for freight

To Nichol, Scott, & Gray -

Pa has applied and sealed my fate -

I’m going to Bombay !

My heart is full - my trunks as well;

My mind and caps made up,

My corsets, shaped by Mrs. Bell,

Are promised ere I sup;

With boots and shoes, Rivarta’s best

And dresses by Duce,

And a special licence in my chest -

I’m going to Bombay !

                          Thomas  Hood  1799 - 1845

NOTES

THE  MEMSAHIBS

During the reign of Queen Victoria, thousands of British women went out to India to live, work and to die, as wives, mothers and sisters and later as teachers, doctors or missionaries. Many were army wives, following their husbands to a land, which became for them a second home. Historians, like Correlli Barnett, have blamed these Memsahibs for exacerbating racial prejudices and dividing Indian society buy their failure to understand India's, speak any of their languages and by maintaining their inappropriate customs, arguing that 'in the early 19th century, Indian mistresses brought officers and men closer to Indian life: later stern Memsahibs, stiffly corseted with Victorian morality and etiquette, and resentful of the voluptuous competition of sari-clad brown bodies, stopped all this, with lasting damage to British relations with Indians. Writers, such as Rudyard Kipling who was born in Bombay in 1865, have written realistically of army life in India, portraying the typical memsahib as a snobbish and selfish butterfly, flirting, and flitting from bridge, tennis and garden parties to dinners and dances in the delightful hill stations, while her husband slaved at his job in the heat of the plains. 'From pedestals of sober respectability, Englishwomen have passed judgment on us', wrote Maude Diver. 'That have denounced us as idle, frivolous and luxury loving.' Nevertheless, many of these women, loyally and stoically accepted their share of the white man's burden and lightened it with their quiet humor, their grace and often with their youth.

THE  FISHING  FLEET

With the opening of the Suez Canal, officers were able to spend their year's leave in England and return with a wife or fiancée, instead of waiting for the arrival of the "fishing fleet", with its annual shipload of marriageable young girls, hoping to find husbands among the European civil servants and army officers. Those traveling alone were advised to stay in their cabins, Bible in hand, to avoid the temptations of the East and the shipboard romances-not for nothing was the British India Shipping Line known as the "bibi" line, the Hindustani word for "woman" or "mistress" coinciding with the Company's "B.B.' monogram. For a girl of Victorian England, without dowry, rich relations or beauty to make a suitable match, India offered, as soon as she landed, proposals of marriage 'from old and young, military and civil, nobles and commoners. She was counseled not to dance with anyone below a very senior civilian or a military officer with a staff appointment.' Thomas Hood satirized these ambitious husband-hunters with his poem “ I’m Going to Bombay”.

The arrival of a young lady in the station was likely to cause the uttermost excitement amongst officers and wives alike. 'No soon is it know that Miss So and So is coming to the station than everyone begins to speculate who she will accept', wrote Doctor Gilbert Hadlow/ 'For it is taken as a matter of course that all the bachelors will propose without loss of time (irrespective of suitability and antecedents). There is something very absurd in the race for a wife of here.' At least, while the race lasted, it helped to relieve the boring sameness of the days, and to provide a diversion for officers from pig-sticking and big game hunting in the foothills of the Himalayas or drinking and womanizing in the hill stations of Southern India.

The interest of the ladies was equally intense but for different reasons, as Lady Angela Falkland, wife of the Governor and a daughter of William IV and Mrs. Jordan noted in 1848:-"The arrival of a cargo of young damsels from England is one of the most exciting events that mark the advent of the cold season (in mid October) with its 4 months of concentrated gaiety of dances, balls and picnics. It can be well imagined that their age, height, features, dress and manners become topics of conversation, as they bring the latest fashions fro Europe, they are objects of interest to their own sex."

This note is from the book “ Judy O'Grady and the Colonel's Lady : The Army Wife and Camp Follower since 1660 “ by Noel St. John Williams