Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall Revised and Slightly Enlarged from "Verses Written in India" (Sixth Edition) |
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| VI. | VI.
RAJPOOT REBELS |
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| XVI. |
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 | Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall |  |
32
VI. RAJPOOT REBELS
On the Sardah, 1858.
Where the mighty cliffs are frowning
Far o'er the torrents fall,
And the pine and the oak stand crowning
The ridges of high Nepaul,
Far o'er the torrents fall,
And the pine and the oak stand crowning
The ridges of high Nepaul,
Sat twenty Rajpoot rebels,
Haggard and pale and thin,
Lazily chucking the pebbles
Into the foaming lynn.
Haggard and pale and thin,
Lazily chucking the pebbles
Into the foaming lynn.
Their eyes were sunken and weary,
With a sort of listless woe
They looked from their desolate eyrie
Over the plains below.
With a sort of listless woe
They looked from their desolate eyrie
Over the plains below.
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They turned from the mountain breezes
And shivered with cold and damp,
They were faint with the fierce diseases
Of the deadly jungle swamp.
And shivered with cold and damp,
They were faint with the fierce diseases
Of the deadly jungle swamp.
Two had wounds from a sabre
And one from an Enfield ball,
But no one cared for his neighbour,
There was sickness or wounds on all.
And one from an Enfield ball,
But no one cared for his neighbour,
There was sickness or wounds on all.
The Rajpoot leader rose then
Stiffly and slow from the ground,
He looked at the camp of his foes then,
And he looked at his brethren round;
Stiffly and slow from the ground,
He looked at the camp of his foes then,
And he looked at his brethren round;
And he said: ‘From my country driven
‘With the last of my hunted band,
‘My home to another given,
‘On a foreign soil I stand.
‘With the last of my hunted band,
‘My home to another given,
‘On a foreign soil I stand.
34
‘They have burnt every roof in the village,
‘They have slain the best of my kin,
They have ruined and burnt and pillaged,
‘And yet we had done no sin;
‘They have slain the best of my kin,
They have ruined and burnt and pillaged,
‘And yet we had done no sin;
‘Our clans were heady and rude,
‘Our robbers many and tall,
‘But our fighting never shed English blood,
‘Nor harried an English hall.
‘Our robbers many and tall,
‘But our fighting never shed English blood,
‘Nor harried an English hall.
‘The king took tithe if he might;
‘He was paid by a knave or a fool;
‘For we held our lands on a firmer right
‘Than is given by parchment rule;
‘He was paid by a knave or a fool;
‘For we held our lands on a firmer right
‘Than is given by parchment rule;
‘Our fathers of old had cleared it
‘From the jungle with axe and sword,
‘Our ancient rights had endeared it
‘To him who was chief and lord.
‘From the jungle with axe and sword,
‘Our ancient rights had endeared it
‘To him who was chief and lord.
35
Our father's curse with our father's land,
‘Like the wrath of a great god's blow
‘May it fall on the head and the iron hand
‘And the heart of our English foe.
‘Like the wrath of a great god's blow
‘May it fall on the head and the iron hand
‘And the heart of our English foe.
‘As our fathers fought, we fight;
‘But a sword and a matchlock gun
‘'Gainst the serried line of bayonets bright
‘A thousand moving like one!
‘But a sword and a matchlock gun
‘'Gainst the serried line of bayonets bright
‘A thousand moving like one!
‘From the banks of Ganges holy,
‘From the towers of fair Lucknow,
They have driven us surely and slowly,
‘They have crushed us blow on blow.
‘From the towers of fair Lucknow,
They have driven us surely and slowly,
‘They have crushed us blow on blow.
‘When the army has slain its fill,
‘When they bid the hangman cease;
They will beckon us down from the desert hill
‘To go to our homes in peace.
‘When they bid the hangman cease;
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‘To go to our homes in peace.
‘To plough with a heavy heart,
‘And, of half our fields bereft,
‘'Gainst the usurer's oath, and the lawyer's art
‘To battle that some be left.
‘And, of half our fields bereft,
‘'Gainst the usurer's oath, and the lawyer's art
‘To battle that some be left.
‘At the sight of an English face
‘Loyally bow the head,
‘And cringe like slaves to the surly race
‘For pay and a morsel of bread;
‘Loyally bow the head,
‘And cringe like slaves to the surly race
‘For pay and a morsel of bread;
‘Toil like an ox or a mule
‘To earn the stranger his fee—
‘Our sons may brook the Feringhee's rule,
‘There is no more life for me!’
‘To earn the stranger his fee—
‘Our sons may brook the Feringhee's rule,
‘There is no more life for me!’
| Poems by Sir Alfred C. Lyall | |