Withbert W. Payne, CPA (CA, USA), FCA (England & Wales)
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                                                             THE SORROW OF THE EAST INDIAN
                                                             by MORENO


             He cannot be a soldier
             There's no room as a clerk
             He is not wanted by the merchants
             His skin is rather dark
                      He is not pure European
                      Nor is he a Babu
                      He is termed what's called East Indian
                      As a blending of the two
                               'Tis true he fought for England
                               In the days of Fifty Seven
                               But he has traces of the tar-brush
                                        His rise was our own father
                                        Who gained for us the land
                                        But to be one with the darky son
                                        We will not understand
                                               To the colours of our country
                                               He'd be loyal firm and true
                                               But won't say `Ap' call us `Ma Bap'
                                               O! meekly pray `Huzoor'
                                                      Nor can he with the Hindu
                                                      Stand equally on swearing
                                                      But eats his full and like John Bull
                                                      Has English ways and airing
                                                             Let him go and be a loafer
                                                             Let him die in a `Serai'
                                                             Meanwhile we'll train the native brain
                                                             But no quarter for E.I.
                                                                    Why don't the good-for-nothings
                                                                    Pack up and emigrate
                                                                    And leave the run to Babudom
                                                                    And go to Utah State
                                                      The land needs no East Indians
                                                      The nature's open to scorn
                                                      While for our sake, its a mistake
                                                      That they were ever born.

                                                                    *Published in the Anglo-Indian - Oct. 17, 1908