2nd poetry of King Jitendranarayan of Coochbehar state was published on 4th May, 1917 by J.B., Coochbehar. Hope you will enjoy this antique creation during lockdown situation triggered by COVID-19. Maharaja Jitendra Narayan wrote several poems during his leisure time.
Poetry of King Jitendranarayan
As life is dull
A plug is naught
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,
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.
MULTUM IN PARVO
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?
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
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
THE LUXSMI CLUB
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.
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.
I wouldn’t much like to be killed by a tiger,
Or die of malaria, close to the Niger.
I’m perfectly sure l’m not anxious to die on
The banks of the Nile, killed by H. M. the Lion.
Through small-pox or plague I never could relish
The thoughts of a journey to regions, quite Hellish
I know that starvation I never could cherish;
Nor yet on the North or the South Pole to perish.
I’ve heard that through kindness a person can die;
If this is correct, then that person is ‘I’
The three great men were silent and
The three great men were solemn;
They sadly gazed upon their band,
And sadly on their column.
Their days of power, intrigue, and gain
Were over now and ever;
Their deepest schemes were laid in vain;
Gone was their life’s endeavour.
Tis true as well as certain that
Their pride a fall hath taken;
The lean is theirs and not the fat:
Their faith is badly shaken.
No more can they their levies hold
In glory, quite contented.
For copper reigns, where once was gold;
And rags, where garments scented.
And now their band has disappeared;
Their power grows no stronger.
No more are they obeyed or feared;
Their voice is heard no longer.
It does no good for brass to try
To be of golden metal.
Nor can a leaf of cactus vie
With any rose’s petal.
Nor can a splendid thoroughbred
Be turned into a Waler;
Nor can a prisoner instead
Become a trusty jailer.
Let us, as fate has e’er decreed,
Ascend ambition’s ladder.
But, go no further than we need,
Or our descent is sadder.
A pretty maid, of naught afraid;
A handsome lad, nor shy, nor sad:
They meet by chance; a hurried glance.
In shady lane they meet again;
With father’s ‘No’, and mother’s “Woe’
A motor car; a journey far;
But Fate has willed! A month is filled
They both repent this rash event
I’m not afraid of leopards,
Nor tigers do I fear:
But, like the village shepherds,
I’d stray or wander near.
I fear no shot from cannon;
A Yogue’ is naught to me;
Not even if he ran on
Towards me, would I flee.
One person makes me frightened;
I feel quite at a loss.
(You wish to be enlightened?)
I’ll tell you. Tis my boss.
When you’re feeling rather tired,
And your senses seem to lag,
There’s nothing better for you than
The Woodlands Wag.
It is full of fun and frolic;
And ’tis full of mirth and rag;
And ’tis also full of nonsense;
The Woodlands Wag.
Some people write of shooting;
Of riding others brag,
And various other pastimes in
The Woodlands Wag.
Come, pay your contributions small;
May your interest ne’er flag.
Remember, ’tis for charity,
The Woodlands Wag.
RESOLUTIONS OF A KNUT
When you wake up in the morning,
With a ‘head’ and shaky hand,
Your mouth just like a blotting pad,
Your eyes all full of sand,
You make a vow, you’ll never touch
Another drop of drink,
But go to bed, Yore twelve o’clock.
(‘Tis easy, so you think!)
You dress, and walk towards your club,
And saunter slowly in;
You say you’ll have a final drink,
A cocktail made of gin.
You meet some pals, and have some more;
Then off to lunch you drive.
You drink some cup, a few liqueurs;
You’re glad that you’re alive!
Then back again unto your flat
With Johnnie, Claire, and Meg;
The piano, singing, cigarettes,
And many a Whisky peg.
It’s getting late; you say Adieu’;
It’s time for you to dress.
You munch a little sandwich, and
A pint of *fizz’ caress.
You have a stall at Daly’s, which
You reach about the end:
It’s rather late, so to the bar
Your footsteps you will wend.
The curtain drops: you stroll around,
And at the stage door wait.
You send a message to your girl
To say, ‘Now don’t be late!’.
You’ve got a private room for sup,
Where ‘Bubbly’ flows in streams.
“Tis three o’clock, and time for bed.
And lovely peaceful drejins.
Next morn you wake; you’re feeling bad:
New resolutions frame.
But once again you soon forget,
And each day is the same.
Mother dear, what can we give?
There’s naught that you require
Our fervent prayer is, ‘May you live
The life we both admire’.
Though many a shadow, many a cloud,
Your eyes have dimmed with tears;
‘Both Indira and Jit feel proud,
You’ve borne it thus for years.
grant you strength to do your task,
Your Father’s task unfinished.
Give hope to those, who ‘hope’ may ask
With favour undiminished.
And when your call shall come at last,
Within that Heavenly Portal,
With pride you’ll stand, ‘midst those
Revered by ever/ mortal.
Your love upon us did you press;
May God your life preserve,
And grant you every happiness,
Which, Mother, you deserve.
From palanquins to horses,
From equines unto trains;
From railways unto motors,
From cars to aeroplanes.
From rafts to sailing vessels;
Next, ships of steam were seen.
From steamers unto turbines,
And now the submarine.
From messages by hand or mouth
To messages by pony;
From that to telegraphs and phones;
Then system of Marconi.
Some marriages once took a month;
(A week was later reckoned.)
From week to day, from day to hour.
And now it takes a second.
Each day we try to quicker go.
Each minute travel faster;
Where will it end? I think I know;
Twill finish in disaster.
Under the cloak of ‘Love’ many
Crimes have been committed;
Under the cloak of ‘Love’, any
Scandal is permitted.
Is ‘Love’ the power paramount?
Is ‘Love’ the Queen of all?
Can ‘Love’ each pinnacle surmount,
And cause or rise or fall?
Are we all slaves of ‘Love’ alone,
To row within her galley?
And must we always be her own,
And round her banner rally?
The weak have mildly all succumbed;
The strong have murmured ‘No’.
But in the end, their senses numbed,
In ‘Love’s’ tracks they will go.
Who are you, ‘Love? Who gave you power?
And whence claim you your birth?
You, who at your pleasure shower
Joy upon this earth?
You, who seem to have the right
Of curing or of killing:
You, who have the immortal might
Of warming or of chilling?
‘ Love’, will you no answer give?
Tis well! Remember, you!
As long as in your land I live,
I’ll never say, ‘Adieu’.
When it’s hot you object to the heat,
And you wonder when winter’ll commence.
You shiver in winter, and swear at the cold.
As you swore at the heat so intense,
When in India you fret and you sigh;
You say Europe’s pleasures you lack;
Yet when you are there, you don’t seem to care,
As long as you’re soon coming back.
If you’re given a horse, you want two;
If a car, then another you’ll buy.
There is nothing on earth that will satisfy you;
Should you laugh over much, you will cry.
Why not be content with your lot?
What’s the use of your grumbling all day?
Be thankful for what you find you have got.
In the end you will find it will pay..
When you find yourself thrown on the Ocean of Sorrow,
And you feel that you’ll ne’er see the sun of a morrow,
Do you think
You should sink.
Tis surely much better to swim or to float.
Till you find at your side a rescuing boat;
If you do all you can.
It proves you’re a Man,
Bred and born.
So, should we give in to Life’s little troubles.
And see all our happiness burst in small bubbles.
And leave us?
Hope on for good luck, which must come soon or later:
Think of brighter hours.
No, no; for each bubble that bursts, blow a greater;
Nor let passing showers
(To I. M)
They’re a lot of things you’d like to do,
If you were not in debt.
They’re a heap of horses you could back,
Provided you could bet.
You might write a thousand sonnets, if
You only had the brain;
You could bow out any batsman, if
You did not bowl in vain.
You could write a Music Comedy,
At music if you’re great;
Or be a brilliant author, if
Twas so decreed by fate.
You might win some steeple-chases or
Be first upon the ‘flat’:
You might be a filbert or a knut,
With glossy silken hat.
You might be a mighty General,
Field Marshal’s A.D.C.,
And lead your troops victorious
To Berlin on the ‘spree’.
You could build a stately mansion.
If you only had the chink;
If you’re not married, at the girls
What matter if you wink?
You might be a champion on your skates,
And pretty figures cut,
Or do a million other things
But – (Yes, now, comes the ‘but’.)
You’re an ordinary mortal man,
Who lives upon this earth,
With the ordinary kind of height,
And ordinary girth.
So, just be what you are, no more,
Lest pride should have a fall;
Just wear your ‘dhoty’ and your coat,
And eat your bhat’ and ‘dal’
Like water in a desert
To a wonderer, quite parched.
Like a collar that is limp, because
It never has been starched.
Like jungle to a tiger,
Like soil unto a tree,
Like money to a miser,
THAT’S what you are to me.
Is it true that of silver each cloud has a lining;
That bliss beyond trouble is always reclining;
That mist only hides for a moment the sun;
That life will be happy, if happy begun?
Often I think, and yet more often wonder,
Can happiness spring from or lightning or thunder?
Misery seems e’er with joy to elope;
And yet we are taught to ever have ‘hope’.
In a moment our dearest ambitions will perish,
And all we hold dear, and all that we cherish.
If you try to do good, and find you do bad,
You are sure to feel gloomy, and bound to feel sad.
And still, while Fate worry on worry is piling,
One has to loot cheerful, one has to keep smiling.
Perhaps I am wrong, perchance am mistaken;
But, trust in my faith can never be shaken.
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