The Song of the Exiles
In steamy mists of moist Bombay,
Or dreary Dum-dum "lines,"
Or where Karachi dust-storms play,
An O.U.S.C. pines.
Some watch the tender tea-plant grow
In gardens of Cachar;
Some wait at Quetta for the slow
Sure-coming frontier war.
By Naga Hills our feet are set,
Or swamps of North Bengal;
Some spend their leave in far Thibet,
Some get no leave at all.
Some lead the R.A. guns afield
(At least upon parade),
Some watch lest Kutcha[1] dams may yield
To rifts the rains have made.
Some write voluminous reports
On "forest land increase,"
Some work at survey in the Ghats,
And some in the Police.
Some prance beside their gorah-log[2]
On bony beasts and strange,
Some test, at Murree or Jutogh,
The flashing signal's range.
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