Robert C. Caldwell

“ Gnash'd my teeth and swore at Jenkins of the Revenue Survey.
Boy, pour yet another chatty, for my head is getting hot,
Ha! There's virtue in the coolness of the water in that pot!
Let the water trickle, trickle, dropping like a gracious rain
To revive the wither'd fancies of my poor love-blasted brain!
Love? What word is this I utter! Lips of Brown, that word eschew!
Leave it to the spluttering idiot, or barbarian Yahoo!
Love? My watch-word shall be MURDER! Every thug
shall hear my name.
Blackest niggers blanch with terror at the thunder of my fame. ”

“ Shrive me, good Reader!—oft
I've loved. My heart's too soft.
"I love not man the less, but woman more."
In each new form and face
I see some special grace:
I've loved too many girls——Confiteor!
Confiteor!—One sees
Those little humbugs, bees,
Flit fast from flower to flower, their honey hiving;
It has been mine to seek
Rose lip and lily cheek.
Confound it, yes! I need no end of shriving!
Why, I was scarce fourteen,
And only once had seen
Sweet Caroline, the pride of Bangalore,
When straight to her I wrote
On pink, a gushing note,
In which my love, by all the stars, I swore! ”

“ Round the room he had entered he glanced with pride,
At the viands and wines he himself had supplied.
Then took a decanter that stood hard by,
Put its neck to his lips, and drained it dry.
Then thereby with sudden decision embued,
And fast grown elated (in other words, screwed,)
Took another small peg—deck'd his face with a grin—
Peep'd once more through the door—then straight stalk'd in.
Grim Major Cruncher, tall Captain Fusee,
Were 'Stewards' that night, and spied the Parsee.
They strode up and said to him gruffly, "Hullo!
Who the deuce, pray, are you? We don't want you here! ”

“ Oh Sirs, you are wise! But wondrous to say
Your wisdom comes always too late in the day.
Here in India, forsooth! our barracks must crumble,
Embankments give way, and light-houses tumble.
In another clime they have bridged the pride
Of ice-charg'd St. Lawrence's terrible tide!
They curb the sea in Holland, but here
A tank is too strong for our Engineer!
Then hail, merry gentlemen, R. and C. E.'s!
Spend on the generous Public's rupees!
May you ne'er meet some end, like that, by which
The light of Jones was snuff'd out in a ditch! ”

“ And smash the head of that goose Jenkins of the Revenue Survey!
The Catastrophe
(Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea.)
TENNYSON.
Shake, shake, shake,
In thy shoes, O unfortunate Boy,
For you've somehow managed to break
Your Mistress's best Teapoy!
O well for the lazy cook,
Who sleeps in the kitchen all day;
O well for the horse-keeper's wife,
Who snores, with her head in the hay.
And the laden bandies jog on,
With their bullocks sweating in pairs—
But O, who will mend the teapoy again,
Or pay for the needful repairs? ”

“ Been so puffed up with pride, so elated with joy.
Grin after grin on his features glow'd:
Hither and thither he bustled and strode:
Dressed in his best, with bran new things on,
And the largest of all his diamond rings on.
Then off he went to the Public Hall
To see for himself the Jollipore Ball.
But first to the Supper-Room went the Parsee,
From whence, through the half-open door, he could see
The ladies fleetly and faerily pass,—
(What nautch-girls they'd make, thought Funnydass!) ”

“ 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! ”

“ In the ditch the bandyman struggled and splutter'd,
But not a word the poor gentleman utter'd:
But, imbedded in mud some three feet deep,
Calmly and quietly went to sleep.
The handyman then with care unpacked
Book and newspaper, pamphlet and tract;
And found——if he could, he would have turned pale—
His good old master as dead as a nail!
So died Mr. Jones. Oh! D. P. W.
Have you no conscience, or doesn't it trouble you?
Are your funds all expended, or do you not care
That the roads are shockingly bad everywhere? ”

“ 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. ”

“ It is surely some black phantom come from Dreamland's shadowy shore;
'Tis a Ghoul, or Shape of evil,
Lemure, Spectre, Imp, or Devil,
Wont to hold fantastic revel in the brain's distracted core:
Nothing squats upon that floor,
'Tis my fancy,—nothing more!"
Turning then, the Shape unheeding,
Straight I sat me down to reading,
Reading Balance Sheets, whereover 'twas my duty then to pore:
But:—'twas strange—methought the figures
Took to dancing sudden jiggers,
Like a troupe of dancing niggers, whirling, twirling, more and more ”

“ 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. ”

“ 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." ”

“ I cried, "Bring me some cognac!"—and the Boy some cognac bore:
But, from me, I know that never
Spirits shall that Spirit sever,
Though adown my throat for ever, peg on peg I wildly pour.
Still that phantom, o'er and o'er,
DEFICIT! writes evermore.
The Jollipore Ball
At Jollipore lived a sleek Parsee,—
RUNNYDASS, RUMMYBHOY, CURSETJEE.
With keeping the only shop of the Station,
He united a Sowcar's occupation.
A plump little man, with a waddling walk,
In mien most mild, most courteous in talk ”

“ A girl you might call 'nice.'
Jones thought so—spoon'd—was hook'd! They're poor,
Both of them, as church mice.
How they will manage, goodness knows!
Ah Frank, it's a serious thing—
But if you pull the ropes, you must
Expect the bells to ring!
And then there's D. P. W. Smith,
He married Alice Gray. ”

“ After passing out of College, he returned to India and worked zealously and assiduously in the Mission field in Trichinopoly and Tanjore. For some reasons, perhaps known to himself alone, Mr. Caldwell did not take Orders but elected to become a journalist as being more congenial to his tastes. Mr. Caldwell was known in England as a frequent contributor to the English Journals,—the London Daily News, the Athenæum, the Contemporary Review, the Illustrated London News and even Punch. ”

“ Some Ballads and Songs he had then written were set to music by one of the most popular composers of the day and produced on the stage. His "Chutney Lyrics"—some twelve of which were originally contributed to the Madras Athenæum and Daily News,—first prominently brought him to notice in India. On leaving the Mission Mr. Caldwell took up for a short time the co-editorship of the Madras Times and then transferred his services to the Athenæum and Daily News of which he was for a short period sole editor. ”