The chutney lyrics: A collection of comic pieces in verse on Indian subjects — Text and Context

uiries were made. It was seen, When the stuff was put to the test, That DR. PYRETIC SALINE Had discovered a fine mare's nest.

For holes in the cliff were spied Where bat and pigeon abode, From whence, in an odorous tide, This wondrous "petroleum" flow'd.

Of this they analyzed some;-- And discover'd--oh horrible!--that The Doctor's "petroleum" Was the DUNG OF PIGEON AND BAT!

Dr. Little's Grand Antidote for Snake-Bites

Sapient Dr. Little to the public papers wrote,-- "At length, for bites of Cobras, I found an antidote. On all my native servants this remedy I've tried, And though they've oft been bitten, not one of them has died. This remedy is simple, empyric, and complete,-- One pint of brandy hourly, and taken almost neat."

Thus wrote Dr. Little. But his letter had Been perfect, had he added, the Post Scripts that I add.--

"Such treatment is effective. A drowsiness sets in: O'er the features of the patient there spreads a languid grin. With low and gentle hiccups, he croones an Indian lay, Then with a final stagger, falls down, and snores away. Not till the following morning, when high has climb'd the sun, Is his slumber broken, or his snoring done. The poison then is conquer'd. But it often leaves behind A thirstiness, a head-ache, a depression of the mind. But this to cure is easy. The head-ache quickly flies If the patient round his forehead a well-wet towel ties. His mind's prostration likewise, likewise his thirstiness, Are quickly counteracted by a dose of B. and S."

(_Post Script, No. II._) "But very strange to say Those who've been once bitten, and treated in this way, Within a week are certain, to come, with groans of pain, To tell me that a cobra has bitten them again!"

The Good Sir Gammon Row.

O who has not heard of that wonderful man, SIR GAMMON ROW, the great Dewan, Who has ruled for the last ten years, or more, The Protected State of Cocoanutcore? This State, if judged from "Reports" you read, Is a very wonderful State indeed;-- A "_Model State_," in which you may see Every thing is just as it should be. Where dwells a worthy and well-oil'd nation, Blest with a faultless administration; The brightest land, with the lightest tax, And an annual surplus of fifty lacs: Where happy ryots, ne'er pester'd by famines, Till fields, in subjection to blessed Brahmins. A land of peace, a land of delight, Where everyone, everywhere, always does right. Where whitemen, living in meek minority, Acknowledge Brahminical superiority. In short, and I'm sure I cannot say more, 'Tis a heaven upon earth, this Cocoanutcore!

And in this terrestrial elysium, the man Who is most like an angel, is the Dewan. From Comorin's foam to Himmaleh's snows, A man that's his match, sure nobody knows! In his gay free mien, and his honied laugh, He is perfect,--yes almost too perfect by half! How courtly his bow, his smile how sweet, And how soft is the tread of his cat-like feet! Then how frank his look! you might think you could view The soul through the eye of this good Hindoo. How chaste his manners, his English how choice! How liquid, how mellow, the tones of his voice! His whole demeanour seems to import That _doing good_ is his one great forte. But since 'tis beyond the powers of my pen To pourtray, as I should, this most perfect of men, I'll relate, instead, a remarkable story Which will picture Sir Gammon in all his glory, His goodness, the justice he loves, and the claim His deeds have to noto--I mean, to fame!

In the heart of the country of Cocoanutcore Lies the Brahmin city of Brahminipore. Though you search'd through India up and down, You could never discover a holier town. For the blessed Twice-born, who chance to live there, By deigning to breathe it, have hallowed the air-- The houses are holy, and holy each street, And even the dust has been blessed by their feet. Each pot in each hut, of brass or of clay, Has been sanctified in some wonderful way. And the sacred carpets in every house Are the daily gift of Brahminical cows!

A blessed brahmin, named Rowdy Row, Once lived in this city. He lives there now. A man whose success in life was complete; He had the best house in the very best street. He throve well on ghee; he was worth, I am told, A couple of lacs in lands and gold. His youngest wife, sweet Betelammâl, Was rich, and fair, and, for thirteen, tall. As his morals were so-so, but rigid his creed, Men thought him a very good Brahmin indeed. He said long _Mantras_; he strictly kept caste: Each pariah slunk from the road till he passed. Nothing was strange about his person;-- You might see a better, you might see a worse one. In short, our Rowdy was happy, and bore A very good name in Brahminipore.

Now Ichabod Green, a Quaker, one day Happened to travel along that way. A harmless soul, with a fat little frame, Along the street he leisurely came. At the very first glance could be easily seen What sort of person was Mr. Green. In his mild, meek eyes his heart you could trace, And PEACH was writ on his placid face. On he sauntered, not thinking his feet Would defile the mud of that sacred street, A street that seemed public to beast and to man, For right along it the highway ran. So on he came, and came at last To Rowdy Row's house, and would have passed; But the holy Brahmin rushed forth with a shout, "You white cow-eater, get out, get out! Go back! Quick! Run! your low caste feet Will defile the mud of this sacred street!" But since poor Green, with a startled stare, Said; "Sir, I thought this a thoroughfare," The righteous Brahmin gave him a kick, And knocked him about the head with a stick. Then while his applauding friends drew round, He kicked him again as he lay on the ground. He gave him a whack, he gave him a crack, He smack'd his face, and sat on his back. He thump'd him, he bump'd him, he tugged at his hair, He tumbled him here, he pummelled him there. He used his slipper, he used his fist, Gave a tweak to his nose, to his ear a twist; He laughed as he heard poor Ichabod's cries, And filled with sand poor Ichabod's eyes. Then set him again on his tottering feet, And hooted him out of the sacred street.

With many a moan, with many a groan, Poor Ichabod trudged on his way alone. For his servants, when they beheld the fray, Had one and all skedaddled away. That night on the road poor Ichabod spent; Next day to the Dewan Peischar went; Stated his case,--where, when, and how, He had got such a thrashing from Rowdy Row: And showed, as witness, his tattered clothes, His blackened eyes and his damaged nose.

Now when the Peishcar, with solemn face, Had gone right through this remarkable case, To his chief, the Dewan, for sentence due He sent Mr. Green, and Rowdy too. Sir Gammon Row, with his grandest bow, Received Mr. Green and Rowdy Row. Mr. Green had a chair,--but I really think He gave friend Rowdy a nod and a wink. Then he read through the case; and as he read Adjusted the turban upon his head: Now turned his eyes up, now turned his eyes down, Now smiled a sweet smile, now frown'd a stern frown: Now sighed; now his head sagaciously shook;-- And look'd--in short--as wise as a book. Then, after many a _hum_ and _haw_ Summ'd up,--and thus declared the law.

"You, Mr. Green, were very wrong In daring that street to venture along. You ought to have known that your low-caste feet Would defile the mud of that sacred street. As a "_neecha jâthi káran_" you Should render the Brahmins reverence due. For all know that Brahmins, in every place, Are a quiet, peaceful, respectable race, Whilst Quakers--(Sir Gammon here heav'd a sigh, And turned up the greenish white of his eye!)

"In the second place, that street you declare Was merely,--you thought,--a thoroughfare; Since straight along it the highway ran, Open to beast, and public to man. You thought this, did you? Who ever heard Of a thought so palpably absurd! Good Heavens, Mr. Green! a Brahmin street Public to every Englishman's feet!

"Thirdly, you thought it a _highway_? Then can You wonder they thought you a _highwayman_? They acknowledge they gave you a thrashing. Hence I infer they did so--in self-defence!

"Fourthly, who authorised you, I pray In daring to travel along that way? 'Twas a street of Brahmins, a sacred spot; It might have been public, yet it might not. You heeded this not: you prejudged the case; And boldly ventured into the place;-- And frightened poor Rowdy, a mild Hindoo, Into thrashing--yes, into half-killing--you, which in him, since he thought he ought to use force, Was somewhat excusable conduct of course. So this is my final sentence--that he Should pay the fine of _one Rupee_."

Thus ended this wonderful case: and now You may judge, my readers, of 'Good Gammon Row:' --Oh hark to gay Rowdy's jeer and scoff, At poor Green, as from Court he sadly moves off, Moves off through an oily and turban'd crowd, Of Brahmins that laugh in their triumph aloud. --They shout "We may thrash these white men, for we Shall be fined but lightly for such a grand spree." It is good to laugh! Say, is it not sport To see such a glorious scene in a Court!-- Fair JUSTICE perverted, PUBLIC RIGHT Shamed and insulted in all men's sight. Ha, Ha! Let us laugh! To respect what claim Has an Englishman's honour, an Englishman's name? A MORAL let us, like a foolscap, draw O'er the bald grand head of ancient Law: It is this:--All truth, all justice is fudge When a Brahmin is judged by a Brahmin Judge!

Anna Maria Mantrap Don't set your cap at me, For do I not know your age is Precisely forty-three? For when I was twenty, Anna, Then you were twenty, too. Do you think I didn't find that out Before I proposed to you? Go to your mirror, Anna, Shake those false curls, and say-- 'The beauty which once lured Chutney Is faded indeed away!'

Three and twenty Aprils Have fled since that April night, When you and I were together All under the sweet star-light. The fireflies flitted round us, The air was cool and calm; We could see the broad moon rising, Through the stems of a grove of palm. The garden trees around us Sigh'd, as the wind swept by; And the road-side casuarinas Sent back a softer sigh. You stoop'd, and pick'd me a posy,-- Ah me, I have it yet! 'Twas a little rose-bud, circled By sprigs of mignonette. The dewy myrtles glistened, As my eyes--with other dew; The trelliced jasmine trembled, As my heart in its love for you! 'Twas then, as the rising moonlight. On your sweet face softly glow'd,-- 'Twas then that the words of my passion, And tears of my yearning flowed. I think you liked me, Anna? But my pay was a little too low, So "ask Papa," was your answer, --Which led to a final NO.

Anna, I know I've altered. But do not you forget That when I sought your favours You were a young brunette: Your form, through the ball-room flitting, Had an exquisite, infinite grace; And your splendid tresses o'ershadow'd A tender and eloquent face. But now? Ah Anna Maria, Is it nothing for ladies to see The dawn of an April morning Which welcomes them forty-three?

I've grown much stouter--I know it, But I can't have fall'n off like you:-- Anna, do you know your complexion Has taken a muddy hue? I see that you paint and powder: I think padded dresses you wear? And I know those luxurious ringlets, And plaits, are simply false hair! That your hands are skinny, I notice;-- They are shrivell'd under the rings. Yes, and lately you told me, "low dresses Are very indecent things!" I quite understand you, Anna: I trust you understand me? Mayhap, love's blind at twenty,-- He isn't at forty-three!

So it's no use now, I assure you, To sigh whenever we meet; To beckon to me at the Bandstand, To ogle at me in the street;-- To seat you in Church close by me, And by many a look and sign To hint you've forgotten your prayer-book, So would like to look over mine;-- To press my hand when you shake it, To quote my own verses to me;-- Heavens! Anna, my dear, do remember We are both of us forty-three!

I know you've had your offers In the days that are no more; There was SWELLINGTON at Trichy, There was CRABBE at Bangalore: But CRABBE was old and crusty, And SWELLINGTON, you knew, Was deep in debt, and wanted Your money, and not you. Next D. P. W. HARDUP, Next SWIG, with the D. T. Next wild JACK HARE, the Planter, Then miserable ME. And then your love's soft witchery Old COLONEL LIVER caged,-- But when engaged to marry Stern death his thoughts engaged! The next and last proposal Came from a reverend gent, When grave ARCHDEACON TRIPLET Before your beauty bent. 'Take me,' he sigh'd, 'ten cherubs My former help-meet bore,-- And three times running, lately I dreamt I had a score!' But him, too, you rejected And scorn'd his pious flame, And sent the startled suitor Back, quicker than he came. And now--Ah Anna, Anna,-- You strive again to hook This little worthless minnow You flung back into the brook!

I walk in my garden, Anna; The lilies glisten with dew: My heart grows softer towards you; There's a tear in my eye for you. I am thinking, sadly thinking, Of that night, so long ago; Of the living hopes that were mine, dear, Ere slain by that felon NO. I am dreaming, sadly dreaming, Had we been married, Ann, Would not _you_'ve been a better woman, And _I_ a better man? God knows, but that something to pray for-- The children about the knees-- Might have made you think less of dresses, And made me think less of rupees; That something to work for, to hope for, Ay, and to _weep_ for, too, Might have made me of self less careless, And have raised and strengthen'd you.

Enough! These are moonlight fancies: The reality--look at that! You are old and thin, dear Anna, And I am old and fat. Can birds build nests in winter? Or make honey, in winter, the bee? Come then--don't ogle. Remember We are both of us forty-three!

_Translated from the Kural of Tirukuller._

Blessed the man who never lacks "Assafoetida, ghee, and jacks.

Cursed the man, whatever his worth, Who is poor in purse and low in birth.

The unity of the Tamilian nation Is cemented by caste and litigation.

What "master pleases" be careful to do, And be cheating him while he's beating you.

'Tis good to eat: but keep your pice, And if you can manage it, steal the rice.

When you hear the cry "Murder" run away: The Police will take _you_ up, if you stay.

If you beat a man, swear he beat you: And to his one witness bring up two.

That man is a fool, whoever he be, Who would not do _anything_ for a rupee.

If you don't wish them to annihilate you, Conciliate devils--and white men too!

A botheration--a useless vexation, To the Tamil nation, is Sanitation.

Municipalities always tell lies:-- The Census is only a Tax in disguise.

Why tax us for bridges and roads? In our lives We but need three things,--Gold, Lands, and Wives.(1)

To cook for man, woman chiefly was meant: Ignorance is her best ornament.(2)

NOTE 1.--The great Tamil poet Tayumânâr classes all worldly matters under the three heads, Gold, Women, Lands.

NOTE 2.--This is almost the literal translation of the Tamil Proverb, "_Ariyámei mátharukku Abaranam:_"--"Ignorance is an ornament to women." And a Hindoo _Woman_, the poetess Auvaiyar, has a verse to the same effect in one of her poems!--viz.--"_Pêthumei enbathu mátharukku anikalam._"

Pat O'Brien to his brother Mike.

Arrah, Mike, me honey, Shure a peck ov money I'd give to git back to ould Oireland! It's fryin' I be In this thirsty counthry,-- Begorrah, it's simply a Foire land,

What wid naygur fellas, And Cobra capellas, A loively sort ov land this is! As ye pass by a bush. There's a rustle--a rush-- And ye're chased by a varmint that hisses!

In the mornin' ye walk Wid yer swateheart, and talk Whin a Sun-sthroke from hivin down-flashes, And the gurl, clane and nate, Lies kilt at yer fate, A hape ov shmoulderin' ashes!

What wid scorp yins, and chayters, Loikewoise man-aters, Bloodsuckers, and foxes that floi, sur, Insicts wid stings, And ants wid long wings, And flois that git into yer oi, sur;

And buzzin' muskayters, And bould Alligayters That grab ye on interin' a river, And cholera sazin' ye, And dysentery tazin' ye, And pains from inlargemint ov liver;--

Ochone! There's a tear in Me oi for ould Erin, That imerald jewil ov natur'! As here I sit thinkin' Ov you, Mike,--and drinkin' Some rale iligant "Kinnahan's" cratur'.

The Engineer's Love-Song.

O the days were bleak and dark, Sweet Miss Annie Cut, Ere thy charms I chanced to mark. Sweet Miss Annie Cut. O the days were lone and drear Ere I chanced to wander here As thy blissful Engineer, Sweet Miss Annie Cut.

Ne'er shall I forget the hour, Sweet Miss Annie Cut, When my heart first owned thy power, Sweet Miss Annie Cut; When, while turbidly and wide Boiled the Kristna's swollen tide, Thee, O lovely nymph, I spied, Sweet Miss Annie Cut.

Amorous waters o'er thee swept, Sweet Miss Annie Cut, Flash'd and surged and whirl'd and leapt Sweet Miss Annie Cut. Thou, O queenly maid, the while Seated on thy throne-like pile, Awed them with thy granite smile, Sweet Miss Annie Cut.

O silent nymph, through shower through shine, Sweet Miss Annie Cut, Bought by that smile, this heart is thine, Sweet Miss Annie Cut. Day by day I watch thy face, Watch thy slender form of grace, Watch thee growing in thy place, Sweet Miss Annie Cut.

When waves, drought-wasted, languidly, Sweet Miss Annie Cut, Creep to thee for one kiss,--then die, Sweet Miss Annie Cut, Or when the rash Monsoon comes down With hurrying eddies tumbling brown That blanch to foam before thy frown, Sweet Miss Annie Cut,--

Thy changeful beauty makes me glad! Sweet Miss Annie Cut, O marble-browed, O apron-clad, Sweet Miss Annie Cut! Charmed into meekness at thy sight Proud streams dispense their wealth aright; The land rejoices in thy might, Sweet Miss Annie Cut!

Their blue-eyed loves let others sing, Sweet Miss Annie Cut, And deem thee but a stony thing, Sweet Miss Annie Cut,-- Ever to me shalt thou be dear, Thee will I sing from year to year; O love thy loving Engineer, Sweet Miss Annie Cut!

A flash! A puff of smoke! A crash, A general smash! Doors splinter'd: windows broke: A roof uplifted, clean and neat, Some fifty or sixty feet: Walls falling: Men running, or sprawling: An occasional, subsequent rumbling Of brickbats promiscuously tumbling: A crying, and calling, A squalling and bawling,-- Don't think this, pray, Any thing strange, or appalling,-- I assure you, it's quite in our usual way!

For it chanced to-day, As we were returning From Church, where the Rev. Dhoney, M.A., Had discours'd with solemnity, unction, and learning Of death and the tomb, And demons and doom, And the final universal burning, That straight in front of our faces, Not distant three hundred paces, We saw that sudden flare, That roof in the air, And those brickbats falling, like stars, in various places.