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Now the resting-place of Charnock, 'neath the palms, Asks an alms, And the burden of its lamentation is, Briefly, this:— "Because, for certain months, we boil and stew,                                  "So should you. "Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire                                  "In our fire!" And for answer to the argument, in vain                                   We explain That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot cry:—                                  "All must fry!" That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain                                   For gain. Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,                                   From its kitchen.

Let the Babu drop inflammatory hints In his prints; And mature—consistent soul—his plan for stealing To Darjeeling: Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile, England's isle; Let the City Charnock pitched on—evil day!— Go Her way. Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors Heap their stores, Though her enterprise and energy secure Income sure, Though "out-station orders punctually obeyed" Swell Her trade— Still, for rule, administration, and the rest, Simla's best!