King Jitendranarayan 2nd Poetry.

jitendranarayan 2nd poetry

2nd poetry of King Jitendranarayan of Coochbehar state was published on 4th May, 1917 by J.B., Coochbehar. Hope you will enjoy this antique creation during lockdown situation triggered by COVID-19. Maharaja Jitendra Narayan wrote several poems during his leisure time.

Poetry of King Jitendranarayan


As life is dull

Without ambition;

A plug is naught

Without ignition.

A furnace can

But burn with fuel;

No tyrant’s bad.

Unless he’s cruel.

Each fortress has

A rampart mural;

A rustic keeps

Ideas quire rural.

Each house must have

A good foundation;

Each train must use

A Railway Station.

A cricket team

Requires a bowler;

In Ind we all

Must wear a ‘solar’.

A polo man

Must ride a pony;

A bankrupt must

Be also stoney.

The reason of

This senseless ramble;

Is that I’ll have

A little gamble.

Can you tell me

(I guess you’re sticking)

Which was the first

The Egg or Chicken?

If Egg on ‘chick

Has been dependant.

Then Chicken’s not

The Egg’s descendant.


If a man wants a pal, he can’t choose him;
If he finds one, I hope he wont lose him,
Abuse him,
Accuse him.
A pal’s more than money;
Or to the bee honey:
Never chuck a pal; stick to him. Sonny.
When you’re young, and have ‘chink’.
You often may think
That you’ve pals by the score.
And comrades galore.
You’ll find you’re mistaken,
When your ‘quid’ they have taken,
And you meet them never no more

If you once find a pal, be like wax;
Never mind, if some virtues he lacks.
If he’s straight, he’s a friend,
And from start to the end
On this person you well can depend.
Once you chuck such a pal, you are lost.
Like a cork, on a stormy sea tossed;
Your brain, it may burn.
Your heart, it may ache
For your only pal’s sake;
But he’s gone, and he’ll never return.


Little lla was a lady,
Just about as sweet could be.
And beneath a sunshade shady
Was her small FACE.
She called her mother by her name.
Her name, I.N.D.I.
Her father she addressed the same
With smile quite S.H.Y.
And in her Grannie’s case, I fear,
To questions she’d reply,
I’m very well, I thank you, dear
Of course, in spite of all her cheek,
You cannot angry be;
For, she is getting week by week
Much more C.U.T.E.


There’s a maid;
I’m afraid
you saw her,
You’d simply adore her,
And implore her
To be true
Just to you;
And, I’m sure if you met her.
You’d never forget her.
And ne’er find a better.
She’s a ‘cute little lady.
And in a place shady.
She’ll meet you.
And greet you.
And always defeat you.
For she is the one, the onliest one
In the widest of worlds for me!
If you think
You can wink.
You’re mistaken;
Your hopes she will shaken
You’ll awaken.
And I know
What a blow
You would get, if you kissed her.
Twere better you missed her,
Or tried to resist her.
For this ‘cute little girlie,
With teeth white and pearlie,
Is clever,
And ever
To be soil endeavour.
For she is the one, the onliest one
In the widest of worlds for me!



Man shy.


Life dry.


Man bold.


Tale told.


I lay inmy bed;

Thethought came to me.

If notjust myself.

Then who Iwould be.

I thoughtof a King,

I thoughtof a Czar,

Thought ofa Premier,

Thought ofa “Star”;

Thought ofRockfeller,

Ofmillions I thought;

Thought ofa pauper,

Whosemoney is naught.

Thought ofa tenor.

Andthought of a bass;

Thought ofa Duchess,

Allcovered with lace.

Thought ofcivilians.

Ofsoldiers I thought;

Thought ofthe sailors.

With wivesin each port.

Thought ofa waiter.

Thought ofa ‘jock’.

Thought ofa farmer

Withploughshare and smock.

Thoughtabout people.

Who can’tsmoke or drink.

I shallremain what

I am. What d’ye think?


(To S.N.R.)

John Gilpin wasa citizen

Of credit andrenown.

I’ll writeabout another )ohn’.

But not ofLondon town.

This persontried to sit his horse,

Like famousToddy Sloan.

He rode awhite, he rode a grey,

A chesnut, anda roan.

My story isabout the time

He rode upon ablack;

And how hegalloped up the course,

And how hegalloped back.

He’d had alittle practice on

A ponyBhutanese:

From JenkinsSchool to Torsa he

Was dodging menand trees,

The dayarrived, he donned his silk;

He looked areglar rip.

Behold a ‘pro’in every sense

With pig-skinand with whip!

The course wasgaily decked with flags,

The paddockfull of cars;

Spectatorsleant against the rails;

The “DocHouse” ran the bars.

The only‘Bookie’ mopped his brow

With hanky,brilliant red;

A cartridge bagfor money and

A top hat onhis head.

The“Bookie” shouted out the odds,

And wageringwas rife:

If only Kabulihad won, he’d

Have bolted forhis life.

A gong isstruck; the great event

Twixt John andBalumere.

Now, who d’yethink his quadruped

To victory willsteer?

They’re off!Binoculars are fixed

Upon each tinydot.

Now John, nowBalumere, now John,

The slightestlead has got.

Thus neck andneck, all up the straight

They gallop onand on.

But by goodhorsemanship alone,

The race is wonby John!

They both flashpast the Judge’s box;

(A gloriousrace to see!)

And Balumerereturns to scale;

But John! Oh,where is he?

Nor does hestop, but gallops on

‘Neath tree andover drain,

Through flowerbeds, o’er railway lines.

And down ashady lane.

He scattersfolk on every side

Down banks andover logs,

And in his wildcareer he jumps

A goai andseveral dogs.

His mount,however, kindness shows;

It takes him tohis room.

Deposits himupon the ground.

And trots offto the groom.

Poor John! Hewas a sorry sight.

And in afearful mess.

He sinks quitetired on his bed.

And gulps a“B and S”.

Poor John, hesays he’ll ride no more;

He’s gettingover old.

And should yousmile, he’ll burst with

wrath –

But, now mystory’s told.


The battleof great Waterloo

Was won onEton’s fields.

Twas wonby those, whin former days

Had wontheir College Shields.

Twas wonby those, who’d done their share

At‘footer* and at “Wall”,

Who’dplayed all day on Agar’s Plough

Withwillow and with ball.

And now,Etonians, we’re proud because

You’rewiping out the Hun.

Andproving you are equally

At homewith bat or gun.

FloreatEtona. You’re worth much

More thana ‘wee bit’.

FloreatEtona. Also



In acertain little State of Ind,

A novelclub had started;

Fromordinary rules I find

Themembers have departed.

Themembers nominated are:

No voting,no election.

ThePatroness can make or mar;

She makesher own selection.

Blackdominoes and tiddlewinks.

Anddraughts, with lots of huffing,

Or evenfox and geese; me thinks

The geeserequire no stuffing.

Themembers of the Club are few,

But allaristocratic.

No brainsrequired. That is true;

For thisis emblematic.

ThePatroness has patience great;

Sheteaches every member.

Nor doesshe tire at noon or late,

Or Jan, orelse December.

Now let methink! There’s Dr D.

There’sclever Mr Bhulo:

There’salso Mr. K Chinee,

Whose eyeswill not hold “dhulo”

And thenwe have the Kaviraj,

Withmedicines so mystic;

And whenhe is not doing kaj’.

He isquite pugilistic.

Beholdfrail Kumri is her cloak,

The latestParis fashion.

Forhighest heels she does evoke

A verygrowing passion.

Just markthe hair/ Situ’s brow

Withfurrow and with wrinkle;

His headupon his hand he’ll bow;

His eye,it has a twinkle.

Anothermember’s Togo Roy;

All ruleshe likes upsetting.

By Jove!Of course the Dalim boy

I nearlywas forgetting.

OldBullet-knob’s another one,

Ofdraughts a great exponent;

Nandinitoo enjoys the fun,

A veryshrewd opponent.

TheSecretary of the club

IsArchibald, while Gunny

And Mrs.Willy run the grub,

‘And JaduNath the money.

The Clubis growing day by day;

Themembership’s increasing.

‘And Iexpect in June or May

A housethey will be leasing.


As yearsroll on, and wander by,

We lookaround in vain

For faceswe have seen before.

We look,and look again.

We searchfor friends of yesterday.

The searchis all in vain.

Thosefriends have disappeared, alas!

Wherefriends will go again.

But, Fate,thy dispensation is

E’er mercifullyset.

In theglamour of the present

The past we all forget.



As I sitbefore the fire,

And thelogs are all. ablaze,

And thesmoke curls up the cnimney,

While Idoze, and dream and gaze.

Old facesseem to peer at me,

Familiarand so dear;

The pastbecomes the present, and

The facesseem so near.

There’sMabel and Lucinda too:

There’sAngeline and Sue;

There’sClementine with golden hair,

And dreamyeyes of blue.

Matildawith her haughty look,

And Marywith her pout,

SweetAgatha, so tall and slim,

AndBeatrice, short and stout.

The tearsroll down; my eyes grow dim:

Thepicture is a blur.

Anotherpicture fills the spot;

I try, butcannot stir.

Before meis a restaurant

In merryLondon Town.

I see astalwart, handsome youth,

A girlwith eyes of brown.

I gazeintently look again.

Of course,I know that face.

Tis I; Irecognize myself;

Besides meis Grace.

Then onceagain the picture fades;

Apromenade, quite cool.

A man isbeing knocked about;

It serveshim right, the foo!!

GoodHeavens! Why that man is ‘I’.

Come onand fight! Who dares?

They takeme by the trousers, and

They chuckme down the stairs.

It seemsto me I fly through space,

Bump,bump, downstairs, bump, bump

I wake,I’d fallen in the grate,

And on my head’s a lump.


I wouldn’tmuch like to be killed by a tiger,

Or die ofmalaria, close to the Niger.

I’mperfectly sure l’m not anxious to die on

The banksof the Nile, killed by H. M. the Lion.

Throughsmall-pox or plague I never could relish

Thethoughts of a journey to regions, quite Hellish

I knowthat starvation I never could cherish;

Nor yet onthe North or the South Pole to perish.

I’ve heardthat through kindness a person can die;

If this iscorrect, then that person is ‘I’


The threegreat men were silent and

The threegreat men were solemn;

They sadlygazed upon their band,

And sadlyon their column.

Their daysof power, intrigue, and gain

Were overnow and ever;

Theirdeepest schemes were laid in vain;

Gone wastheir life’s endeavour.

Tis trueas well as certain that

Theirpride a fall hath taken;

The leanis theirs and not the fat:

Theirfaith is badly shaken.

No morecan they their levies hold

In glory,quite contented.

For copperreigns, where once was gold;

And rags,where garments scented.

And nowtheir band has disappeared;

Theirpower grows no stronger.

No moreare they obeyed or feared;

Theirvoice is heard no longer.

It does nogood for brass to try

To be ofgolden metal.

Nor can aleaf of cactus vie

With anyrose’s petal.

Nor can asplendid thoroughbred

Be turnedinto a Waler;

Nor can aprisoner instead

Become atrusty jailer.

Let us, asfate has e’er decreed,

Ascendambition’s ladder.

But, go nofurther than we need,

Or ourdescent is sadder.


A prettymaid, of naught afraid;

A meeting.

A handsomelad, nor shy, nor sad:


They meetby chance; a hurried glance.


In shadylane they meet again;


Withfather’s ‘No’, and mother’s “Woe’


A motorcar; a journey far;


But Fatehas willed! A month is filled


They bothrepent this rash event



I’m notafraid of leopards,

Nor tigersdo I fear:

But, likethe village shepherds,

I’d strayor wander near.

I fear noshot from cannon;

A Yogue’is naught to me;

Not evenif he ran on

Towardsme, would I flee.

One personmakes me frightened;

I feelquite at a loss.

(You wishto be enlightened?)

I’ll tellyou. Tis my boss.


Whenyou’re feeling rather tired,

And yoursenses seem to lag,

There’snothing better for you than

TheWoodlands Wag.

It is fullof fun and frolic;

And ’tisfull of mirth and rag;

And ’tisalso full of nonsense;

TheWoodlands Wag.

Somepeople write of shooting;

Of ridingothers brag,

Andvarious other pastimes in

The WoodlandsWag.

Come, payyour contributions small;

May yourinterest ne’er flag.

Remember,’tis for charity,

TheWoodlands Wag.


When youwake up in the morning,

With a‘head’ and shaky hand,

Your mouthjust like a blotting pad,

Your eyesall full of sand,

You make avow, you’ll never touch

Anotherdrop of drink,

But go tobed, Yore twelve o’clock.

(‘Tiseasy, so you think!)

You dress,and walk towards your club,

Andsaunter slowly in;

You sayyou’ll have a final drink,

A cocktailmade of gin.

You meetsome pals, and have some more;

Then offto lunch you drive.

You drinksome cup, a few liqueurs;

You’reglad that you’re alive!

Then backagain unto your flat

WithJohnnie, Claire, and Meg;

The piano,singing, cigarettes,

And many aWhisky peg.

It’sgetting late; you say Adieu’;

It’s timefor you to dress.

You muncha little sandwich, and

A pint of*fizz’ caress.

You have astall at Daly’s, which

You reachabout the end:

It’srather late, so to the bar

Yourfootsteps you will wend.

The curtaindrops: you stroll around,

And at thestage door wait.

You send amessage to your girl

To say,‘Now don’t be late!’.

You’ve gota private room for sup,

Where‘Bubbly’ flows in streams.

“Tisthree o’clock, and time for bed.

And lovelypeaceful drejins.

Next mornyou wake; you’re feeling bad:

Newresolutions frame.

But onceagain you soon forget,

And eachday is the same.


Motherdear, what can we give?

There’snaught that you require

Ourfervent prayer is, ‘May you live

The lifewe both admire’.

Thoughmany a shadow, many a cloud,

Your eyeshave dimmed with tears;

‘BothIndira and Jit feel proud,

You’veborne it thus for years.

grant youstrength to do your task,

YourFather’s task unfinished.

Give hopeto those, who ‘hope’ may ask

With favourundiminished.

And whenyour call shall come at last,

Withinthat Heavenly Portal,

With prideyou’ll stand, ‘midst those


Revered byever/ mortal.

Your loveupon us did you press;

May Godyour life preserve,

And grantyou every happiness,

Which,Mother, you deserve.


Frompalanquins to horses,

Fromequines unto trains;

Fromrailways unto motors,

From carsto aeroplanes.

From raftsto sailing vessels;

Next,ships of steam were seen.

Fromsteamers unto turbines,

And nowthe submarine.

Frommessages by hand or mouth

Tomessages by pony;

From thatto telegraphs and phones;

Thensystem of Marconi.

Somemarriages once took a month;

(A weekwas later reckoned.)

From weekto day, from day to hour.

And now ittakes a second.

Each daywe try to quicker go.

Eachminute travel faster;

Where willit end? I think I know;

Twillfinish in disaster.


Under thecloak of ‘Love’ many

Crimeshave been committed;

Under thecloak of ‘Love’, any

Scandal ispermitted.

Is ‘Love’the power paramount?

Is ‘Love’the Queen of all?

Can ‘Love’each pinnacle surmount,

And causeor rise or fall?

Are we allslaves of ‘Love’ alone,

To rowwithin her galley?

And mustwe always be her own,

And roundher banner rally?

The weakhave mildly all succumbed;

The stronghave murmured ‘No’.

But in theend, their senses numbed,

In‘Love’s’ tracks they will go.

Who areyou, ‘Love? Who gave you power?

And whenceclaim you your birth?

You, whoat your pleasure shower

Joy uponthis earth?

You, whoseem to have the right

Of curingor of killing:

You, whohave the immortal might

Of warmingor of chilling?

‘ Love’,will you no answer give?

Tis well!Remember, you!

As long asin your land I live,

I’ll neversay, ‘Adieu’.


When it’shot you object to the heat,

And youwonder when winter’ll commence.

You shiverin winter, and swear at the cold.

As youswore at the heat so intense,

When inIndia you fret and you sigh;

You sayEurope’s pleasures you lack;

Yet whenyou are there, you don’t seem to care,

As long asyou’re soon coming back.

If you’regiven a horse, you want two;

If a car,then another you’ll buy.

There isnothing on earth that will satisfy you;

Should youlaugh over much, you will cry.

Why not becontent with your lot?

What’s theuse of your grumbling all day?

Bethankful for what you find you have got.

In the endyou will find it will pay..


When youfind yourself thrown on the Ocean of Sorrow,

And youfeel that you’ll ne’er see the sun of a morrow,

Do youthink

You shouldsink.


Tis surelymuch better to swim or to float.

Till youfind at your side a rescuing boat;

If you doall you can.

It provesyou’re a Man,

Bred andborn.

So, shouldwe give in to Life’s little troubles.

And seeall our happiness burst in small bubbles.

And leaveus?

Hope onfor good luck, which must come soon or later:

Think ofbrighter hours.

No, no;for each bubble that bursts, blow a greater;

Nor letpassing showers

Deceive us.


(To I. M)

They’re alot of things you’d like to do,

If youwere not in debt.

They’re aheap of horses you could back,

Providedyou could bet.

You mightwrite a thousand sonnets, if

You onlyhad the brain;

You couldbow out any batsman, if

You didnot bowl in vain.

You couldwrite a Music Comedy,

At musicif you’re great;

Or be abrilliant author, if

Twas sodecreed by fate.

You mightwin some steeple-chases or

Be firstupon the ‘flat’:

You mightbe a filbert or a knut,

Withglossy silken hat.

You mightbe a mighty General,

FieldMarshal’s A.D.C.,

And leadyour troops victorious

To Berlinon the ‘spree’.

You couldbuild a stately mansion.

If youonly had the chink;

If you’renot married, at the girls

Whatmatter if you wink?

You mightbe a champion on your skates,

And prettyfigures cut,

Or do amillion other things

But –(Yes, now, comes the ‘but’.)

You’re anordinary mortal man,

Who livesupon this earth,

With theordinary kind of height,

Andordinary girth.

So, justbe what you are, no more,

Lest prideshould have a fall;

Just wearyour ‘dhoty’ and your coat,

And eatyour bhat’ and ‘dal’


Like waterin a desert

To awonderer, quite parched.

Like acollar that is limp, because

It neverhas been starched.

Likejungle to a tiger,

Like soilunto a tree,

Like moneyto a miser,

THAT’S what you are to me.


Is it truethat of silver each cloud has a lining;

That blissbeyond trouble is always reclining;

That mistonly hides for a moment the sun;

That lifewill be happy, if happy begun?

Often Ithink, and yet more often wonder,

Canhappiness spring from or lightning or thunder?

Miseryseems e’er with joy to elope;

And yet weare taught to ever have ‘hope’.

In amoment our dearest ambitions will perish,

And all wehold dear, and all that we cherish.

If you tryto do good, and find you do bad,

You aresure to feel gloomy, and bound to feel sad.

And still,while Fate worry on worry is piling,

One has toloot cheerful, one has to keep smiling.

Perhaps Iam wrong, perchance am mistaken;

But, trustin my faith can never be shaken.

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