The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God, J. Milton Hayes (1884−1940)

THERE’S a one-eyed yel­low idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There’s a lit­tle mar­ble cross below the town;
There’s a bro­ken-heart­ed woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yel­low God for­ev­er gazes down.

He was known as “Mad Carew” by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hot­ter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his fool­ish pranks, he was wor­shipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel’s daugh­ter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a pas­sion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was near­ly twen­ty-one and arrange­ments had begun
To cel­e­brate her birth­day with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dis­missed a squad;
And jest­ing­ly she told him then that noth­ing else would do
But the green eye of the lit­tle Yel­low God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars;
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his tem­ple drip­ping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel’s daugh­ter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pock­et say­ing, “That’s from Mad Carew,”
And she found the lit­tle green eye of the god.

She upbraid­ed poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strange­ly hot and wet;
But she would­n’t take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jew­el that he’d chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and trop­ic night,
She thought of him and has­tened to his room;
As she crossed the bar­rack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune soft­ly steal­ing thro’ the gloom.

His door was open wide, with sil­ver moon­light shin­ing through;
The place was wet and slip­p’ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
‘Twas the “Vengeance of the Lit­tle Yel­low God.”

There’s a one-eyed yel­low idol to the north of Khatmandu
There’s a lit­tle mar­ble cross below the town;
There’s a bro­ken-heart­ed woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yel­low God for­ev­er gazes down.

(Text from the Project Guten­berg Con­sor­tia Cen­ter. So far as I know, this is out of copy­right and in the pub­lic domain.)