But as he groped against the wall, two hands upon
him fell,
The King behind his shoulder spake: “Dead
man, thou dost not well!
’Tis ill to jest with Kings by day and seek
a boon by night;
And that thou bearest in thy hand is all too sharp
to write.
“But three days hence, if God be good, and if
thy strength remain,
Thou shalt demand one boon of me and bless me in thy
pain.
For I am merciful to all, and most of all to thee.
“My butcher of the shambles, rest—no
knife hast thou for me!”
Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief,
holds hard by the South and
the North;
But the Ghilzai knows, ere the melting
snows,
when the swollen banks break
forth,
When the red-coats crawl to the sungar
wall,
and his Usbeg lances fail:
Ye have heard the song—How
long? How long?
Wolves of the Zuka Kheyl!
They stoned him in the rubbish-field when dawn was
in the sky,
According to the written word, “See that he
do not die.”
They stoned him till the stones were piled above him
on the plain,
And those the labouring limbs displaced they tumbled
back again.
One watched beside the dreary mound that veiled the
battered thing, And him the King with laughter called
the Herald of the King.
It was upon the second night, the night of Ramazan,
The watcher leaning earthward heard the message of
Yar Khan.
From shattered breast through shrivelled lips broke
forth the rattling breath,
“Creature of God, deliver me from agony of Death.”
They sought the King among his girls, and risked their
lives thereby:
“Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that
he die!”
“Bid him endure until the day,” a lagging
answer came;
“The night is short, and he can pray and learn
to bless my name.”
Before the dawn three times he spoke, and on the day
once more: “Creature of God, deliver me,
and bless the King therefor!”
They shot him at the morning prayer, to ease him of
his pain, And when he heard the matchlocks clink,
he blessed the King again.
Which thing the singers made a song for all the world
to sing, So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy
of the King.
Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief,
of him is the story told,
He has opened his mouth to the North and
the South,
they have stuffed his mouth
with gold.
Ye know the truth of his tender ruth—
and sweet his favours are:
Ye have heard the song—How
long? How long?
from Balkh to Kandahar.
When spring-time flushes the desert grass,
Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass.
Lean are the camels but fat the frails,
Light are the purses but heavy the bales,
As the snowbound trade of the North comes down
To the market-square of Peshawur town.
