Punch/Volume 147/Issue 3832/Little Brother

by C. Hilton Brown

LITTLE BROTHER.

(The Indian Jackal.)

Panther, tiger, wolf and bear,
 They live where the hills are high.
Where the eagle swings in the upper air
 And the gay dacoit is nigh;
But we live down in the delta lands,
 A decenter place to be—
The frogs and the bats and Little Brother,
 The pariah dogs and me.

He was a Rajah once on a time
 Who is Little Brother now;
And I know it is all for monstrous crime
 Or shamefully broken vow
That he slinks in the dust and eats alone
 With a pious tongue and free;
For a holy man is Little Brother,
 As beggars ought to be.

But whether he lurks in the morning light
 Where the tall plantations grow,
Or wanders the village fields by nights
 Telling on ancient woe;
Or whether he's making a sporting run
 For me and a dog or two,
An uncanny beast is Little Brother
 For Christian eyes to view.

For there comes an hour at the full o' the moon
 When the Boh-tree blossoms fall,
And a devil comes out of the afternoon
 And has him a night in thrall;
And he hunts till dawn like a questing hound
 For souls that have lost their way;
And it's well to be clear of Little Brother
 Till the good gods bring the day.

Wherefore I think I will end my song
 Wishing him fair good night,
For Little Brother's got something wrong
 That'll never on earth come right;
And this perhaps is the honest truth,
 And the wisest folk agree,
The less I know about Little Brother
 The better by far for me.