Pray, brothers, pray, but to no earthly King--
Lift up your hands above the blighted grain,
Look westward--if they please, the Gods shall bring
Their mercy with the rain.

Look westward--bears the blue no brown cloud-bank?
Nay, it is written--wherefore should we fly?
On our own field and by our cattle's flank
Lie down, lie down to die!

Semi-Chorus

By the plumed heads of Kings
Waving high,
Where the tall corn springs
O'er the dead.

If they rust or rot we die,
If they ripen we are fed.

Very mighty is the power of our Kings!

Triumphal return to Simla of the Investigators, attired after
the manner of Dionysus, leading a pet tiger-cub in wreaths
of rhubarb-leaves, symbolical of India under medical treatment.

They sing:--

We have seen, we have written--behold it, the proof of our manifold toil!
In their hosts they assembled and told it--the tale of the Sons of the Soil.