The Kiplings and India: A Collection of Writings from British India, 1870-1900

From the Hills (Rudyard Kipling)

Orion Golightly, B.C.S., sings:—

Skin may be scorching, and brain may be batter;
  Head may be swimming, and tongue may be white;
Liver uneasy—but what does it matter?
  The mail brings Her into the station to-night!

Sadly the heat from July to September
  Has soddened and shaken a fever-racked frame:
Complexions may change but She will remember
  That, even in India, the Heart is the same.

Scant time indeed have I to be merry, 
  Little of leave and less of delight, 
Stewing all day in that frowsy Kutcherry
 What do I care?— She is coming to-night!

Tennis be hanged!  I am off to the Station, 
  "Tum-tum men tattu hamara rukkho!"
Ages it seems since in deep tribulation
  I watched Her departure, just five months ago.  

Back from Olympus to damp-laden, steamy
  Plains, and her lover who longs for the sight, 
My Darling returns; and Creation may seem to me
 The happiest man in the Province to-night.  

My bearer's a drunkard; my sais cribs the gram;
  My one polo-pony's as lame as a post: 
know I shall mull my next Persian exam.
  My pay is a scanty five-fifty at most.  

I'm only a Stunt-sahib employed in the "Revenue;"
  But yet I am dearer in Somebody's sight
Than all the big bosses at Simla She ever knew;
  And I'm off to the station to meet her to-night.  

(Climbs into tum-tum and exit tumultuously.)   


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