And out of that cart, with a bellow of woe,
The Babu fell—flat on the top of the Boh!
For years had Harendra served the State,
To the growth of his purse and the girth of his pêt—
They were twenty stone, as the tally-man knows,
On the broad of the chest of this best of Bohs.
And twenty stone from a height discharged
Are bad for a Boh with a spleen enlarged.
Oh, short was the struggle—severe was the shock—
He dropped like a bullock—he lay like a block;
And the Babu above him, convulsed with fear,
Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear.
And thus in a fashion undignified
The princely pest of the Chindwin died.
Turn now to Simoorie where, lapped in his ease,
The Captain is petting the Bride on his knees,