(p) Ay, paint our swarthy billions
The richest of vermillions
Ere two well-led cotillions
Have danced themselves away.
What is the state of the Nation? What is its occupation?
Hi! get along, get along, get along—lend us the information!
(dim.) Census the byle[1] and the yabu—capture a first-class Babu,
Set him to file Gazetteers—Gazetteers...
(ff) What is the state of the Nation, etc., etc.
Our cattle reel beneath the yoke they bear—
The earth is iron and the skies are brass—
And faint with fervour of the flaming air
The languid hours pass.
The well is dry beneath the village tree—
The young wheat withers ere it reach a span,
And belts of blinding sand show cruelly
Where once the river ran.
Pray, brothers, pray, but to no earthly King—
Lift up your hands above the blighted grain,
Look westward—if they please, the Gods shall bring
Their mercy with the rain.
Look westward—bears the blue no brown cloud-bank?
Nay, it is written—wherefore should we fly?
On our own field and by our cattle's flank
Lie down, lie down to die!
- ↑ The ox and the pony.
