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!