Coochbehar King Jitendranarayan’s 2nd Poetry.

2nd poetry by King Jitendranarayan of Coochbehar state which was published on 4th May, 1917 by J.B., Coochbehar. Hope you will enjoy this antique creation during lockdown situation triggered by COVID-19.


As life is dull

Without ambition;

A plug is naught

Without ignition.

A furnace can

But burn with fuel;

No tyrant’s bad.

Unless he’s cruel.

Each fortress has

A rampart mural;

A rustic keeps

Ideas quire rural.

Each house must have

A good foundation;

Each train must use

A Railway Station.

A cricket team

Requires a bowler;

In Ind we all

Must wear a ‘solar’.

A polo man

Must ride a pony;

A bankrupt must

Be also stoney.

The reason of

This senseless ramble;

Is that I’ll have

A little gamble.

Can you tell me

(I guess you’re sticking)

Which was the first

The Egg or Chicken?

If Egg on ‘chick

Has been dependant.

Then Chicken’s not

The Egg’s descendant.


If a man wants a pal, he can’t choose him;
If he finds one, I hope he wont lose him,
Abuse him,
Accuse him.
A pal’s more than money;
Or to the bee honey:
Never chuck a pal; stick to him. Sonny.
When you’re young, and have ‘chink’.
You often may think
That you’ve pals by the score.
And comrades galore.
You’ll find you’re mistaken,
When your ‘quid’ they have taken,
And you meet them never no more

If you once find a pal, be like wax;
Never mind, if some virtues he lacks.
If he’s straight, he’s a friend,
And from start to the end
On this person you well can depend.
Once you chuck such a pal, you are lost.
Like a cork, on a stormy sea tossed;
Your brain, it may burn.
Your heart, it may ache
For your only pal’s sake;
But he’s gone, and he’ll never return.


Little lla was a lady,
Just about as sweet could be.
And beneath a sunshade shady
Was her small FACE.
She called her mother by her name.
Her name, I.N.D.I.
Her father she addressed the same
With smile quite S.H.Y.
And in her Grannie’s case, I fear,
To questions she’d reply,
I’m very well, I thank you, dear
Of course, in spite of all her cheek,
You cannot angry be;
For, she is getting week by week
Much more C.U.T.E.


There’s a maid;
I’m afraid
you saw her,
You’d simply adore her,
And implore her
To be true
Just to you;
And, I’m sure if you met her.
You’d never forget her.
And ne’er find a better.
She’s a ‘cute little lady.
And in a place shady.
She’ll meet you.
And greet you.
And always defeat you.
For she is the one, the onliest one
In the widest of worlds for me!
If you think
You can wink.
You’re mistaken;
Your hopes she will shaken
You’ll awaken.
And I know
What a blow
You would get, if you kissed her.
Twere better you missed her,
Or tried to resist her.
For this ‘cute little girlie,
With teeth white and pearlie,
Is clever,
And ever
To be soil endeavour.
For she is the one, the onliest one
In the widest of worlds for me!


Maiden timid,

Man shy.

Nothing doing,

Life dry.

Maiden forward,

Man bold.

Speedy marriage,

Tale told.


I lay in my bed;

The thought came to me.

If not just myself.

Then who I would be.

I thought of a King,

I thought of a Czar,

Thought of a Premier,

Thought of a “Star”;

Thought of Rockfeller,

Of millions I thought;

Thought of a pauper,

Whose money is naught.

Thought of a tenor.

And thought of a bass;

Thought of a Duchess,

All covered with lace.

Thought of civilians.

Of soldiers I thought;

Thought of the sailors.

With wives in each port.

Thought of a waiter.

Thought of a ‘jock’.

Thought of a farmer

With ploughshare and smock.

Thought about people.

Who can’t smoke or drink.

I shall remain what

I am. What d’ye think?


(To S.N.R.)

John Gilpin was a citizen

Of credit and renown.

I’ll write about another )ohn’.

But not of London town.

This person tried to sit his horse,

Like famous Toddy Sloan.

He rode a white, he rode a grey,

A chesnut, and a roan.

My story is about the time

He rode upon a black;

And how he galloped up the course,

And how he galloped back.

He’d had a little practice on

A pony Bhutanese:

From Jenkins School to Torsa he

Was dodging men and trees,

The day arrived, he donned his silk;

He looked a reglar rip.

Behold a ‘pro’ in every sense

With pig-skin and with whip!

The course was gaily decked with flags,

The paddock full of cars;

Spectators leant against the rails;

The “Doc House” ran the bars.

The only ‘Bookie’ mopped his brow

With hanky, brilliant red;

A cartridge bag for money and

A top hat on his head.

The “Bookie” shouted out the odds,

And wagering was rife:

If only Kabuli had won, he’d

Have bolted for his life.

A gong is struck; the great event

Twixt John and Balumere.

Now, who d’ye think his quadruped

To victory will steer?

They’re off! Binoculars are fixed

Upon each tiny dot.

Now John, now Balumere, now John,

The slightest lead has got.

Thus neck and neck, all up the straight

They gallop on and on.

But by good horsemanship alone,

The race is won by John!

They both flash past the Judge’s box;

(A glorious race to see!)

And Balumere returns to scale;

But John! Oh, where is he?

Nor does he stop, but gallops on

‘Neath tree and over drain,

Through flower beds, o’er railway lines.

And down a shady lane.

He scatters folk on every side

Down banks and over logs,

And in his wild career he jumps

A goai and several dogs.

His mount, however, kindness shows;

It takes him to his room.

Deposits him upon the ground.

And trots off to the groom.

Poor John! He was a sorry sight.

And in a fearful mess.

He sinks quite tired on his bed.

And gulps a “B and S”.

Poor John, he says he’ll ride no more;

He’s getting over old.

And should you smile, he’ll burst with

wrath –

But, now my story’s told.


The battle of great Waterloo

Was won on Eton’s fields.

Twas won by those, whin former days

Had won their College Shields.

Twas won by those, who’d done their share

At ‘footer* and at “Wall”,

Who’d played all day on Agar’s Plough

With willow and with ball.

And now, Etonians, we’re proud because

You’re wiping out the Hun.

And proving you are equally

At home with bat or gun.

Floreat Etona. You’re worth much

More than a ‘wee bit’.

Floreat Etona. Also

Floreat, florebit.


In a certain little State of Ind,

A novel club had started;

From ordinary rules I find

The members have departed.

The members nominated are:

No voting, no election.

The Patroness can make or mar;

She makes her own selection.

Black dominoes and tiddlewinks.

And draughts, with lots of huffing,

Or even fox and geese; me thinks

The geese require no stuffing.

The members of the Club are few,

But all aristocratic.

No brains required. That is true;

For this is emblematic.

The Patroness has patience great;

She teaches every member.

Nor does she tire at noon or late,

Or Jan, or else December.

Now let me think! There’s Dr D.

There’s clever Mr Bhulo:

There’s also Mr. K Chinee,

Whose eyes will not hold “dhulo”

And then we have the Kaviraj,

With medicines so mystic;

And when he is not doing kaj’.

He is quite pugilistic.

Behold frail Kumri is her cloak,

The latest Paris fashion.

For highest heels she does evoke

A very growing passion.

Just mark the hair/ Situ’s brow

With furrow and with wrinkle;

His head upon his hand he’ll bow;

His eye, it has a twinkle.

Another member’s Togo Roy;

All rules he likes upsetting.

By Jove! Of course the Dalim boy

I nearly was forgetting.

Old Bullet-knob’s another one,

Of draughts a great exponent;

Nandini too enjoys the fun,

A very shrewd opponent.

The Secretary of the club

Is Archibald, while Gunny

And Mrs. Willy run the grub,

‘And Jadu Nath the money.

The Club is growing day by day;

The membership’s increasing.

‘And I expect in June or May

A house they will be leasing.


As years roll on, and wander by,

We look around in vain

For faces we have seen before.

We look, and look again.

We search for friends of yesterday.

The search is all in vain.

Those friends have disappeared, alas!

Where friends will go again.

But, Fate, thy dispensation is

E’er mercifully set.

In the glamour of the present

The past we all forget.


(To S.B.C.)

As I sit before the fire,

And the logs are all. ablaze,

And the smoke curls up the cnimney,

While I doze, and dream and gaze.

Old faces seem to peer at me,

Familiar and so dear;

The past becomes the present, and

The faces seem so near.

There’s Mabel and Lucinda too:

There’s Angeline and Sue;

There’s Clementine with golden hair,

And dreamy eyes of blue.

Matilda with her haughty look,

And Mary with her pout,

Sweet Agatha, so tall and slim,

And Beatrice, short and stout.

The tears roll down; my eyes grow dim:

The picture is a blur.

Another picture fills the spot;

I try, but cannot stir.

Before me is a restaurant

In merry London Town.

I see a stalwart, handsome youth,

A girl with eyes of brown.

I gaze intently look again.

Of course, I know that face.

Tis I; I recognize myself;

Besides me is Grace.

Then once again the picture fades;

A promenade, quite cool.

A man is being knocked about;

It serves him right, the foo!!

Good Heavens! Why that man is ‘I’.

Come on and fight! Who dares?

They take me by the trousers, and

They chuck me down the stairs.

It seems to me I fly through space,

Bump, bump, downstairs, bump, bump

I wake, I’d fallen in the grate,

And on my head’s a lump.

Continue Reading…

Share this:

Leave a comment

Enable notifications on latest Posts & updates? Yes >Go to Home Page or Non Amp version Page and \"Allow\"