Page:Poets of John Company.djvu/63



Punkah! thou long hast merited an ode,
 * Giving thyself, as well as others airs;

Thou swing'st aloft in every man's abode,
 * As if in scorn of him and his affairs;

Viewing him, "grunt and sweat," as Shakespeare says, (Coarse language, used in ancient days.)
 * Still puffing on.

Whilst he cries "Aura Veni"—breezes, come!
 * But soon a rush of heat alters his tone.

And "zor se tan" re-echoes through the room. Then fringed or unfringed dost thou fly,
 * Jerk'd back and forward by old Doss,

The bearer. Straight, and now awry;
 * Croaking on plaintive hooks the beams across,

Tortured by many an awkward pull, And threatening to come down, and split thy master's skull!

Punkah! 'tis thine to bless
 * Man, sick or well;

Thou soother of distress,
 * Who can thy virtues tell?

When a cold glass of soda water throws The skin into a bath, and smarting glows The prickly heat, thy wonderous power Checks the distracting itch in half an hour. On couch recumbent rolls the invalid;
 * Thermometer at ninety, ninety-five,

Yellow as saffron, and the heat, indeed.
 * Too hot by far for any thing alive.

What is there then to give a moment's ease? Nothing in all the world but thy refreshing breeze.