THE CHUTNEY LYRICS

A COLLECTION OF COMIC PIECES IN VERSE, ON INDIAN SUBJECTS.

SECOND EDITION (REPRINT.)

Madras: HIGGINBOTHAM AND CO., By appointment in India to His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales 1889.

MADRAS: PRINTED BY HIGGINBOTHAM AND CO., 1/164, 2/164 & 165, MOUNT ROAD.

PUBLISHERS' PREFACE.

Mr. R. C. Caldwell, the lamented author of these humourous papers, was the eldest son of Dr. Caldwell, the great Missionary Bishop of Tinnevelly. He was originally intended for the Ministry, and went through a course of Theological study at St. Augustine's College, Canterbury. 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. He conducted the latter journal most successfully, but the general complaint against him was too much personality in his writings. His weekly "Chit Chat" gave offence to not a few, though all willingly conceded that these papers afforded much amusement and effected considerable good in exposing many of the evils that then existed in Madras. Mr. Caldwell was subsequently employed by the Newspaper press of the Bombay and Bengal Presidencies and by the wit and humour of his writings gained extensive popularity. He died in harness in April or May 1878.

We reproduce "Chutney Lyrics" with the eight other comic pieces published in 1871 as their popularity has not diminished and they are frequently enquired for. We trust that this present edition will meet with a renewal of the favor so readily accorded to the previous edition.

H. & CO. October, 1889.

PREFACE.

My Book, adieu! Good luck to you! Sail forth. May you be fated Unscath'd to ride O'er every tide,— With merry ditties freighted. May fav'ring gales Swell out your sails, And bear you on your mission To reach at last— All dangers past— Your port—a New Edition!

O mighty Mail Lay by your flail, That all Madras quakes under! O Times, do thou Unbend thy brow, And lay aside thy thunder! My lightsome rhymes In thee, oftimes, Have sunn'd them, Athenæum: What thou hast nurst— Shall they be curst? Thy children—shalt thou d— 'em?

In legends old Hath oft been told How Mariner benighted Ne'er pray'd in vain To those bright, Twain By whom all waves are lighted: And thus to ye O awful Three Prefer I my petition! My bark protect! Its course direct Safe—to a New Edition!

O Brama-Times Receive these rhymes, Sedate and ancient Being! O Siva-Mail Thy foes grow pale Thy blood-red pen-spear seeing! O stern yet sweet, I kiss thy feet— Great Vishnu-Athenæum! South Indian Three O bless ye me Who sing you this Te Deum!

CONTENTS.

Sir R-ch-rd T-mpl-'s Ghost The Jollipore Ball Captain Brown of the Police The Catastrophe The Poet's Mistake The Griffin's Love-Song The Wonderful Discovery Dr. Little's Grand Antidote for Snake-bites The Good Sir Gammon Row Miss Mantrap Hindoo Maxims Pat O'Brien to his brother Mike The Engineer's Love-Song Banghy Parcels The death of the Rev. Melchizedec Jones Urgent Private Affairs The old Buffer's Advice My Whiskers Mr. Chutney's Confession A specimen of an Indian "Poetical Puff"

CHUTNEY LYRICS.

Sir R-ch-rd T-mpl-'s Ghost.

It was midnight dark and dreary; I was sitting lone and weary, And, on public projects brooding, my poor head was aching sore: When into my chamber striding Came a sable stranger gliding, Then, without pretence at hiding, squatted on the matted floor, Squatted calmly on the floor, Squatted; grinned,—and nothing more.

Starting up, I eyed the native With an aspect legislative, Saying sternly, "Off thou caitiff! know'st thou ME, vile blackamoor?" But the intruder, nought replying, Nought asserting, nought denying, Silent sat, my motions eyeing, chewing betel as before; Squatting on the matted floor, Chewing, grinning,—nothing more!

"Wretch!" I cried, with wrath rampageous, "This your conduct's quite outrageous. Get thee gone, or I will thump thee, thou audacious blackamoor!" But the stranger, nothing caring, With his daring ghostly bearing, With his grinning, and his staring, madden'd me still more and more, Squatting on the matted floor, Chewing betel,—nothing more.

Now there rose in me a terror, Thought I, "Are my eyes in error? 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; While the phantom from the floor Rose and watched them,—nothing more.

"Bogie!" said I, "You're right gracious! Will you think me too audacious If I ask you what your name is, since we've never met before? Do you hail from hell or heaven? Do you know a certain raven That appeared, like you, one even, to the Poet of Lenore? Tell me, Mr. Blackamoor,— Tell me this, and nothing more!"

Grinning still, but still naught heeding, Stood that silent Stranger reading, Reading to himself the figures my Financial Statement bore. "Fool!" I cried exasperated, "Is your curious humour sated? You will not seem so elated when I kick you through that door! Speak, or quit my matted floor! What's your business, blackamoor!"

Turning now, that spectre sable Snatched The Budget from my table; Through THE SURPLUS with his finger drew a broad phosphoric score, Then, while steamed a sulph'rous vapour, Wrote in phosphorus on the paper— DEFICIT!—then with a caper, straight evanished through the floor, Vanished through the matted floor, Breathing brimstone,—nothing more!

Filled and thrilled with trembling wonder, Forthwith, with a voice of thunder, "Boy!" 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; If you caught him cheating, you'd only smile, He did it in such a pleasant style,— As if he were only striving to please By accepting from you a few rupees! Ah not without meaning did Nature place That keen little eye in that smooth sleek face, That restless, inquisitive, hungry eye, Which nothing could pass unscrutinized by!

Alone midst Hindoos, he lived like Hindoos, Dressed in turband, and cloths, and light-yellow shoes, Ruby and diamond rings gleamed on his hands: He was rich in gold, and houses, and lands: Massive chains on his person he wore, And all knew his Phaeton in Jollipore. When at evening he drove his pair of Pegus He received low salaams from all the Hindoos; And a nod from the Sahibs, as if to say, 'That's a good sort of fellow in his small way.' Now Rummybhoy had his own aims in view As stouter and sleeker and richer he grew. "By Master's favour I'll rise," thought he, "And be called by the Sahibs the Model Parsee. And then—who knows—I may rise and rise, And receive some tremendous, unlook'd for prize. There's SIR SALAH JONG, there's SIR MADAVA ROW, I dare say I'm richer than both of them now, Then why should I not, too, rise to be The great SIR RUMMYBHOY CURSETJEE? Ha!—Good!—Let me think!—as the first step of all, I'll give—yes—next week—a great GRAND BALL!"

He announced his scheme. To each gent in the station He made a little verandah-oration. To the Collector he said, "If Master please, I will give for this Ball one thousand rupees." A committee was formed of three or four Of the leading gentry of Jollipore. In their hands the Parsee entrusted all The arrangements required for the forthcoming Ball, They tasted the Champagne beforehand to see It was real Simpkin, not gooseberry. (Afterwards Rummybhoy used to say Six dozens disappeared in this mild way!) They issued the 'invites.' At length the night came Which should inaugurate Rummybhoy's fame.

O what a rare sight was the "Public Hall" On the night of the famous Jollipore Ball! From above colour'd lamps their lustre flung; And around gay flags and curtains were hung. From the roof silk cloths, white, crimson, and gold, Here tastefully droop'd in some elegant fold: Whilst there some leafy device might be seen, Whence grapes in cluster fell purple and green. Each window'd recess of the Hall was a bower Of pomegranates in fruit, and pomegranates in flower. The doors were festoon'd with hollyhocks, Rose, tuberose, myrtle, verbena, and phlox. And creepers in flower, with tendrils of vine, Around the pillars were taught to twine. And now on the well-wax'd boarded floor Throng'd the fair and the elite of Jollipore: Twenty-six gentlemen, ladies eighteen, Lent a life and a soul to the pleasant scene. Merry music, fair forms in movement light, And lovely faces aglow with delight. There supporting the fragile Emily Moore Whirl'd Snaffle, the pride of his cavalry corps. Here Miss Flashleigh's dark-eye shot its fieriest glance, As young Spoonington span her along in the dance.

Even old Judge Sneerwell was heard to confess That the Parsee's Ball was a perfect success. And sweet Alice Grey was heard to sigh, As she sped in the arms of her lover by, —"O George, how pleasant! I wish you could be, To give such nice Balls, a wealthy Parsee!" Ah little they knew what was coming to pass Just that very moment to Funnydass!

For never before had Rummybhoy 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 cluster of gentlemen stood near the door, Round Rice the Collector of Jollipore:— Said Colonel McDreepweel, "Rice, ma boy, Wha's this canny body—'this What's-his-name-bhoy? He's gin us a varra successfu' hop! Is it true the auld nigger keeps a wee shop?" The Parsee listened. His heart leapt high With exultation and ecstasy. 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! Go!" To which the Parsee, determined to stick up For his rights, replied with a dignified hiccup,— "I gave dis Ball, sare, I've come (hic) to see B'ut'ful Ladies, bare necks, (hic) white arms!—He, he! Dance up, dance down, go round, (hic) much charms, Clasp'd very tight—like this—in Sahib's arms!" —Hereat with a giggle the merry Parsee Put his arms round the waist of th' astonish'd Fusee!

Need I say, in a trice, they half-pushed, half-bore The struggling Rummybhoy back through the door? He roar'd as loud as his lungs were able, He tried to clutch hold of the supper-table, Kick'd, gnashed his teeth, swore, pull'd Cruncher's hair, And fell, with poor Fusee, over a chair. Then while as yet he was down on all fours, He was dragg'd by the Major, heels-up, out of doors. Then spake fierce Cruncher to fiery Fusee, "Let's teach him a lesson—let's duck the Parsee!"

The stars were bright: 'twas a lovely night: In the tamarind glitter'd the firefly's light. Not a cloudlet went through the firmament, From whence the moon her sweet face bent. Not a sound the balmy stillness broke, Save a frog's luxurious, languid croak— A frog that sat in his moist mud-hole And in music gave vent to the joy in his soul! And strange to relate (so mysterious is fate) 'Twas doom'd that the Parsee's luckless pate, In that very site, that very night, Should fearfully, suddenly, swiftly alight!

I've said the sweet moon looked down from the sky.— She revealed a tank that rippled hard by. Rushes and weeds grew round its brim, 'Twas a pretty place for a midnight swim! Neems and Portias grew on its bank, That rose some eight feet over the tank. Now hither, to this embankment's top, His captors dragg'd Rummybhoy, neck and crop. "Heave-yo!" cried Cruncher. A splash, and a thud! And the Parsee splutter'd in water and mud!

A group of Hindoos had gathered around. They saw to the Parsee's not being drown'd. He soberly homewards then quietly stole, Steady of foot, and heavy of soul. Resolved, as long as he chanced to live, Never again a GRAND BALL, to give.

Enough, O my readers. 'Tis not my intention, To give you a MORAL. I'll only mention, That, as hours roll'd by, and the dances were done, And the dancers drove homewards one by one, That each to the other, and one and all, Declared it 'a most successful Ball!'

Captain Brown of the Police.

Boy! The big tub from my bath-room, with a dozen chatties bring, That, whilst seated in the water, o'er me may this punkah swing. Pour the chatties gently o'er me; let me sit awhile in peace, For one blissful hour forgetful, I am BROWN OF THE POLICE:— Brown at whom Dacoits have trembled, Brown at whom the public looks As the active Superintendent of a dozen great Taluqs— Great Taluqs in which each morning some dread deed of murder's done, And a score of arson cases flare before each rising sun! But enough! Why should I boast me? Have not I this day been taught That, to Woman's greater folly, all our greatness is as naught? Foolish Woman! Foolish Alice!—Ah, how can my tongue repeat That one name, which is so bitter, yet was once so very sweet,— Sweeter still than breath of lilies, yes than music sweeter yet,— Sweet as when you read PROMOTED to your name in the Gazette! Alice, Alice! thou hast scorned me, though I woo'd thee many a day, Jilted me for that goose Jenkins of the Revenue Survey! Yet I thought that I had won thee. How I praised thy eyes, thy hair!

Told thee what the glass must tell thee,—false one, thou art very fair. Curse thy beauty! Brown the dauntless, Brown the dread of Wahabees, To a woman, a weak woman, bent, in vain, his suppliant knees!

Shall I e'er forget this morning? How my heart leapt in my breast As I rode up to her compound, in full regimentals dressed: Redder than my scarlet facings rose the blush upon her cheek, When I took her hand, and, kneeling, cleared my choking throat to speak. "Alice!" said I, "Pearl of Women," (heedless of her sudden frown) "Alice, ducky-darling, hear me, hear your own devoted Brown!" "Sir," she answer'd, "Say no more please, I,—hem,—only yesterday, "Was engaged to Mr. Jenkins, of the Revenue Survey!" Blood and thunder, fire and furies! From my knees I leapt in wrath, Knock'd my shins against a foot-stool, crushed a kitten in my path. Leapt into the saddle wildly, madly homewards dashed away, 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. Ho! each bloated Brahmin rascal, who my visage stern may see, Trembling with a vague amazement, shall perspire great drops of ghee. Yes! the Governor shall hear it, and my worth shall be confessed, Till at length the Star of India blazes on my loyal breast. Then, ah then, shall I take vengeance. Foolish Alice, thou shalt own,— Alice Jenkins,—what a treasure thou once lost in Captain Brown. Terrible shall be my vengeance! I will wed a pariah maid! Future Browns shall yet wax browner, till at length in black they fade. I will rear a score of children, teach them to be true Hindoos,

They shall worship cows or devils, or whatever they shall choose— They shall chew the finest betel: on nice stale salt fish subsist, And in their own bandies driving, learn their bullocks' tails to twist.

But enough! I'm getting chilly. There's a tickling in my nose. Have I caught a cold, I wonder? Boy—atschi! quick, get my clothes! Alice Jenkins, tschi! false Alice—there's a buzzing in my ear— Tschi! Confound it, in the water I have stay'd too long I fear. Vengeance? Tschi! But why defer it? Yes, I'll go this very day, 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?

Quake, quake, quake! O Boy, thy howls shall be vain, For each tender part of thy body shall smart To-night, from thy Master's cane!

The Poet's Mistake

"O grim and ghastly Mussulman, Why art thou wailing so? Is there a pain within thy brain, Or in thy little toe? The twilight shades are shutting fast The golden gates of Day, Then shut up, too, your hullabaloo,—- Or what's the matter, say!"

That stern and sombre Mussulman, He heeded not my speech, But raised again his howl of pain,— A most unearthly screech! "He dies!"—I thought, and forthwith rushed To aid the wretched man, When, with a shout, he yell'd—"Get out! I'm singing the Koran!"

The Griffin's Love Song

(Air:—"Come into the Garden, Maud.")

Come into the pawnee, love, For the dark pagodas have flown, Come into the pawnee, love, I am here at the dhoby alone; And the catamarans are wafted abroad, And the musk of the Tahsildar blown.

A beautiful petal has fallen From the spray of the purple peon; The crystal mofussil is rippling In the smile of the jutka moon; And the distant cheetahs are warbling A pensive cardamom tune.

Arise, O my tattie, my love! Awake, O my tiffin, my dear! Come into the pawnee, love, For thy faithful chuckrum is here. The tappal sighs, 'She is late, she is late!' The banghy whispers, 'She's near!'