This was the lighter side of what was taking place during the early part of Lord Ripon’s reign. He, meanwhile, was giving anxious thought to the conclusion of the second Afghan campaign, having been sent out with instructions to reverse Lord Lytton’s policy and terminate the war as speedily as possible. Kandahar, which the latter had intended to hold, was given up, and the whole of Afghanistan secured to the Amir Abdul Rahman.
The following, poem shall I call it, appeared about this time in one of the Indian papers signed “Bala.” A cutting of it was given to me, but I do not know from what paper, so cannot ask for permission to reproduce it, and can only trust I may be forgiven.
THE VICEROY’S MESSAGE AND THE AMIR’S REPLY
George Samuel, Marquis of Ripon, to the Afghan Chief wrote he, “God made me Viceroy of India, and thou knowest what I made thee, You rule by my will and pleasure, I care not to flatter or bribe, One pledge or promise I ask of thee; I pardon if all men know That up to this time thou hast not done much to prove thee our friend or foe. For the Russian is closing upon you, our faith in his promise is dead, He is massing his troops on your border, and is eager to push on ahead. Sharp is the word with the Muscovite, whose will is to plunder and spoil, His covetous eye is on India, and eke on your God-granted soil. Now while he stands for a moment still, there is only one thing to be done, I must send a commission to meet him, to show where your boundaries run, And you must promise safe escort (we know what the Afghans are!) And prove yourself friend to the English, and foe to the Russian Czar. So choose thou of all my civilians, or choose thou of all my host, One man to lead the commission, whom ever thou trustest most. Whom thy tribes have known and trusted, to pass through in safety and peace, And so shall thy borders be measured, and our feud with the Russians shall cease.”
The Afghan Chief wrote answer: “You English are cunning and deep! But I’d ask if you’ve ever succeeded in catching a weasel asleep? I know what will come of commissions--just what became of your Embassy, You harried us well four years ago, and I keep good memory. Here stands my Cabul city, here I dwell by your favour at rest, But the tribes of my frontier are evil, and know no respect for a guest: If your commission needs a safe escort on the oath of a trusted friend, I have not the means to protect them. But whom will the Viceroy send? Wilt thou send the poet, Sir A. F. D., the man who advised the last war? He is safer, I ween, on the Naini Tal lake than he would be near Kandahar. Wilt thou send little Bobs--the Bahadur? He is trusted and honoured, I know, But he’s cooling his heels at Ootacamund, and doesn’t seem anxious to go. Shall I ask for the man with the ringlets? the virtuous lovely L--p--l, He is living at home at his ease, writing books, and he has grown a great swell. Where is the chief McG----gr to pledge me the word of his clan? He is there on the pine-clad highlands, a highly-paid, well-placed man. He is shelved with the rest, all promoted they enjoy the reward of the great. Will they come now those I have chosen? I watch for their face and wait, For the bright light shines on promotion, and dark is the downward track, And the Simla hills ring an echo of voices that hold them back. Let the commission stay on the mountain and start as thy message said, When the Amir sends a safe escort--when the Kalends of Greece are sped.” “BALA.”