Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
The Lament of the Border Cattle Thief
O
I led beyond the Bar,
And a treble woe for my winsome wife
That weeps at Shalimar.
My shield and sabre fine,
And heaved me into the Central Jail
For lifting of the kine.
The Jat may tend his grain,
But there’ll be neither loot nor fire
Till I come back again.
When once my fetters fall,
And Heaven defend the farmer’s hut
When I am loosed from thrall.
Above the grinching quern,
It’s woe to hear the leg-bar clack
And jingle when I turn!
The brand on me and mine,
I’ll pay you back in leaping flame
And loss of the butchered kine.
In charity set free—
If I may reach my hold once more
I’ll reive an honest three.
That scared the dusty plain,
By sword and cord, by torch and tow
I’ll light the land with twain!
Young Sahib with the yellow hair—
Lie close, lie close as Khuttucks lie,
Fat herds below Bonair!
At dawn I’ll drive the other;
The black shall mourn for hoof and hide,
The white man for his brother.
War till my sinews fail;
For the wrong you have done to a chief of men,
And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl.
I give you leave for the sin,
That you cram my throat with the foul pig’s flesh,
And swing me in the skin!