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Poem by Henry Newbolt


A Ballad of John Nicholson


It fell in the year of Mutiny,
  At darkest of the night,
John Nicholson by Jalándhar came,
  On his way to Delhi fight.

And as he by Jalándhar came,
  He thought what he must do,
And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting,
  To try if he were true.

"God grant your Highness length of days,
  And friends when need shall be;
And I pray you send your Captains hither,
  That they may speak with me."

On the morrow through Jalándhar town
  The Captains rode in state;
They came to the house of John Nicholson,
  And stood before the gate.

The chief of them was Mehtab Singh,
  He was both proud and sly;
His turban gleamed with rubies red,
  He held his chin full high.

He marked his fellows how they put
  Their shoes from off their feet;
"Now wherefore make ye such ado
  These fallen lords to greet?

"They have ruled us for a hundred years,
  In truth I know not how,
But though they be fain of mastery
  They dare not claim it now."

Right haughtily before them all
  The durbar hall he trod,
With rubies red his turban gleamed,
  His feet with pride were shod.

They had not been an hour together,
  A scanty hour or so,
When Mehtab Singh rose in his place
  And turned about to go.

Then swiftly came John Nicholson
  Between the door and him,
With anger smouldering in his eyes,
  That made the rubies dim.

"You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh,"---
  Oh, but his voice was low!
He held his wrath with a curb of iron
  That furrowed cheek and brow.

"You are overhasty, Mehtab Singh,
  When that the rest are gone,
I have a word that may not wait
  To speak with you alone."

The Captains passed in silence forth
  And stood the door behind;
To go before the game was played
  Be sure they had no mind.

But there within John Nicholson
  Turned him on Mehtab Singh,
"So long as the soul is in my body
  You shall not do this thing.

"Have ye served us for a hundred years
  And yet ye know not why?
We brook no doubt of our mastery,
  We rule until we die.

"Were I the one last Englishman
  Drawing the breath of life,
And you the master-rebel of all
  That stir this land to strife---

"Were I," he said, "but a Corporal,
  And you a Rajput King,
So long as the soul was in my body
  You should not do this thing.

"Take off, take off, those shoes of pride,
  Carry them whence they came;
Your Captains saw your insolence,
  And they shall see your shame."

When Mehtab Singh came to the door
  His shoes they burned his hand,
For there in long and silent lines
  He saw the Captains stand.

When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate
  His chin was on his breast:
The Captains said, "When the strong command
  Obedience is best."



Henry Newbolt


Henry Newbolt's other poems:
  1. The Quarter-Gunner's Yarn
  2. The Non-Combatant
  3. Northumberland
  4. Waggon Hill
  5. The School at War


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