---

Скачать книгу

---

chill and gruesome

       As I canter past the Undertaker's Horse.

      Neither shies he nor is restive,

       But a hideously suggestive

       Trot, professional and placid, he affects;

       And the cadence of his hoof-beats

       To my mind this grim reproof beats:—

       "Mend your pace, my friend, I'm coming. Who's the next?"

      Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen,

       I have watched the strongest go—men

       Of pith and might and muscle—at your heels,

       Down the plantain-bordered highway,

       (Heaven send it ne'er be my way!)

       In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.

      Answer, sombre beast and dreary,

       Where is Brown, the young, the cheery,

       Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force?

       You were at that last dread dak

       We must cover at a walk,

       Bring them back to me, O Undertaker's Horse!

      With your mane unhogged and flowing,

       And your curious way of going,

       And that businesslike black crimping of your tail,

       E'en with Beauty on your back, Sir,

       Pacing as a lady's hack, Sir,

       What wonder when I meet you I turn pale?

      It may be you wait your time, Beast,

       Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast—

       Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the glass—

       Follow after with the others,

       Where some dusky heathen smothers

       Us with marigolds in lieu of English grass.

      Or, perchance, in years to follow,

       I shall watch your plump sides hollow,

       See Carnifex (gone lame) become a corse—

       See old age at last o'erpower you,

       And the Station Pack devour you,

       I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker's Horse!

      But to insult, jibe, and quest, I've

       Still the hideously suggestive

       Trot that hammers out the unrelenting text,

       And I hear it hard behind me

       In what place soe'er I find me:—

       "'Sure to catch you sooner or later. Who's the next?"

The Fall of Jock Gillespie

       Table of Contents

      This fell when dinner-time was done—

       'Twixt the first an' the second rub—

       That oor mon Jock cam' hame again

       To his rooms ahist the Club.

      An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang,

       An' syne we thocht him fou,

       An' syne he trumped his partner's trick,

       An' garred his partner rue.

      Then up and spake an elder mon,

       That held the Spade its Ace—

       "God save the lad! Whence comes the licht

       "That wimples on his face?"

      An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled,

       An' ower the card-brim wunk:—

       "I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg,

       "May be that I am drunk."

      "There's whusky brewed in Galashils

       "An' L. L. L. forbye;

       "But never liquor lit the lowe

       "That keeks fra' oot your eye.

      "There's a third o' hair on your dress-coat breast,

       "Aboon the heart a wee?"

       "Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye

       "That slobbers ower me."

      "Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts,

       "An' terrier dogs are fair,

       "But never yet was terrier born,

       "Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!

      "There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast,

       "Below the left lappel?"

       "Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar,

       "Whenas the stump-end fell."

      "Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse,

       "For ye are short o' cash,

       "An' best Havanas couldna leave

       "Sae white an' pure an ash.

      "This nicht ye stopped a story braid,

       "An' stopped it wi' a curse.

       "Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel'—

       "An' capped it wi' a worse!

      "Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou!

       "But plainly we can ken

       "Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band

       "O' cantie single men!"

      An' it fell when sirris-shaws were sere,

       An' the nichts were lang and mirk,

       In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring,

       Oor Jock gaed to the Kirk!

Arithmetic on the Frontier

       Table of Contents

      A great and glorious thing it is

       To learn, for seven years or so,

       The Lord knows what of that and this,

       Ere reckoned fit to face the foe—

       The flying bullet down the Pass,

       That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass."

      Three hundred pounds per annum spent

       On making brain and body meeter

       For all the murderous intent

       Comprised in "villainous saltpetre!"

       And after—ask the Yusufzaies

       What comes of all our 'ologies.

      A scrimmage in a Border Station—

       A canter down some dark defile—

       Two thousand pounds of education

       Drops to a ten-rupee jezail—

       The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,

       Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

      No proposition Euclid wrote,

       No formulae the text-books know,

       Will turn the bullet from your coat,

       Or ward the tulwar's downward blow

       Strike hard who cares—shoot straight who can—

       The odds are on the cheaper man.

      One sword-knot stolen from the camp

       Will pay for all the school

---

Скачать книгу