It's not that I care for the money, or expect a dog to be clean,
If I were lord of the ryots, they'd starve ere I grew lean;
But I'd sooner be robbed by a tall man who showed me a yard of steel,
Than be fleeced by a sneaking Baboo, with a belted knave at his heel.
There goes my lord the Feringhee, who talks so civil and bland.
Till he raves like a soul in Jehannum if I don't quite understand;
He begins by calling me Sahib, and ends by calling me Fool;
He has taken my old sword from me, and tells me to set up a school;
Set up a school in the village! "And my wishes are," says he,
"That you make the boys learn reg'lar, or you'll get a lesson from me";
Well, Ramlal the oilman spites me, and pounded my cow last rains;
He's got three greasy young urchins; I'll see that they take pains.
Then comes a Settlement Hakim, to teach us to plough and to weed,
(I sowed the cotton he gave me, but first I boiled the seed):
He likes us humble farmers, and speaks so gracious and wise
As he asks of our manners and customs; I tell him a parcel of lies.
"Look," says the school Feringhee, "what a silly old man you be,
"You can't read, write, nor cypher, and your grandsons do all three;
"They total the shopman's figures, and reckon the tenant's corn,
"And read good books about London and the world before you were born."
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SIR ALFRED COMYN LYALL.