Where the whit of the bullet, the wounded man's scream,
Are mixed as the mist of some devilish dream—
Forgotten, forgotten the sweat of the shambles
Where the hill-daisy blooms and the grey monkey gambols,
From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel,
The Peace of the Lord is with Captain O'Neil.
Up the hill to Simoorie—most patient of drudges—
The bags on his shoulder, the mail-runner trudges.
"For Captain O'Neil, Sahib. One hundred and ten
Rupees to collect on delivery."
(Their breakfast was stopped while the screw-jack and hammer
Tore wax-cloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer;)
Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow,
With a crash and a thud, rolled—the Head of the Boh!