Rudyard Kipling The Grave of the Hundred Heads There's a widow in sleepy Chester A Snider squibbed in the jungle- Somebody laughed and fled, Picked up their Subaltern dead, And the back blown out of his head. Subadar Prag Tewarri, Jemidar Hira Lal, Twenty rifles in all, As the day was beginning to fall. They burried the boy by the river, A blanket over his face- The men of an alien race- A mark for his resting-place. For they swore by the Holy Water, They swore by the salt they ate, Should go to his God in state, To open him Heaven's Gate. The men of the First Shikaris Marched to the break of day, The village of Pabengmay- Calthrops hampered the way. Bidding them load with ball, Under the village wall; With Jemadar Hira Lal. The men of the First Shikaris Shouted and smote and slew, On to the howling crew. Butchered the folk who flew. Long was the morn of slaughter, Long was the list of slain, Five score heads and twain; Went back to their grave again, Each man bearing a basket Red as his palms that day, The village of Pabengmay, Reddened the grass by the way. They made a pile of their trophies High as a tall man's chin, Set in a sightless grin, Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin. Subadar Prag Tewarri Put the head of the Boh The head of his son below- That the world might behold and know. Thus the samadh was perfect, Thus was the lesson plain The price of a white man slain; Went back into camp again. A hush fell over the shore, And Sniders squibbed no more; That a white man's head There's a widow in sleepy Chester |