Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall :: :: University of Virginia Library

Men of the Indian cities who call on the Prophets name,
By our brotherhood in Islam ye besought me and I came,
From a country hard and barren to a softly watered land,
To a round sky line of harvest from a wilderness of sand;

From our bare and barren homesteads, from our feast of dates and milk
To your palaces, your flesh pots, and your raiment of the silk;
From a land of fenced citadels, where blood is lightly shed,
Where a clan must hold its borders, and a man must keep his head;
Where the wayfarer benighted, as he nears a village late
Spies the red spark from the matches of the guard about the gate,
Where the faithful watch in vain, except the Lord their city keep—
Here the infidels protect you, and with open door ye sleep.

You have sought my aid and counsel, I must lead you, I must pray

That the God of Islam may restore your old imperial sway,
In the towns your fathers founded, in the provinces they named
May revive a faith forgotten, and the rites that ye have maimed;
That he prosper your conspiracy and send his spirit forth
On the Arab of the Dekhan and the Afghán of the North;
So the bayonet be dashed aside by the swing of a curved sword
And ye reap a bloody harvest with the sickle of the Lord.
Can I bid you hope and prosper? Verily such things may be
Men have conquered (nothing doubting) greater odds than you shall see;
Yea, you Musalmáns are many; and their fighting men are few.

Prayer is good—but practice better—What is it that ye can do?
Will ye fight for this fair heritage, this empire that ye lost?
Yea, our God is God of battles, and the martyrs are his host,
Will ye join that noble army? Will ye rather death than shame?
Will ye play for all ye pray for when your heads are on the game?

No—your brains are dull with eating, and your hearts are choked with lust,
And your seat is loose in saddle, and your scimitars are rust.
Ye are cankered by the luxury that keeps you rich and weak,
Ye trade in wine and usury—Nay hear, for I must speak—

Shall I care for noisy menace, or the weight of an Indian blow?
I who stormed the English picket on the skirt of Siah Koh,
When the wild Bajour mountain men lay choking with their blood
And the Káfirs held their footing, for I slew one where he stood.
They are cursed, but so are cowards; and when ye can fight as they did
God succours all such Musalmáns; and then shall ye be aided
When ye gird your loins to harness, and renounce your gainful ease,
When ye quit your painted Tázeahs and pagan heresies—
Ye who bow to graven sepulchres, and adore a martyr's stone,
Who pray to a dead hermit, that should pray to God alone—

When ye shun the Hindu festivals, the tinkling of the bell,
The dancing, the idolatries, the harlotry of hell;
When ye kneel to God in penitence, and cringe no more to men,
Ye shall smite the stiff-necked infidel, and rule, but not till then.
Then be of courage, oh men; yea though here in the darkness is burning
Faintly the light of our faith, by your sins and your ignorance dimmed,
Once it was lit by the Lord, and he knoweth no shadow of turning,
He shall pour oil at his time, and in season the lamp shall be trimmed.
Then shall ye hark to his voice, and start from your sleep at the warning
Pealing afar through the land, that spent is the last watch of night,

Sound as of bugle in camp, how it rings through the chill air of morning
Bidding the soldier arise, he must wake and be armed ere the light.
Strong must your heart and your hand be, no time for soft dreams is before you,
Woe to the coward who sleeps, when the darkness that bound him has flown,
Firm be your faith and your feet, when the sun's burning rays shall be o'er you,
When the rifles are ranging in line, and the clear note of battle is blown.

So ye are stirred by my words, ye pardon my scorn and upbraiding,
Eagerly circle me round and ask, will I lead an attack?

Nay, though your spirits be willing, your flesh is but weak for crusading,
When I face Englishmen's cannon I want better hearts at my back.