A TALE OF A THEFT
The voice of your complaining At the little ills you know, The crumpled leaf that's paining, At the soil that's yours to sow, At the exile from your caste-mates,
At the toil, the sweat, the heat, Bears down our cry against the Fates ! We sufPrers round your feet !
To us the hardest lot you bear,
Ere you pass Home again, Were free and happy, bright and fair,
If scaled against our pain. We toil while others reap the fruit,
We suffer nameless ills j Our lives are withered to the root, By cruelty that kills.
Our very homes are not our own j
Our children and our wives Are riven from us, while we moan
And labour out our lives. They prison us in filthy sties
Would shame your Christian Hell j No ear there is to heed our cries, No tongue our pains to tell.
The Very Bitter Cry of the Unprotected.
I HAVE said that the Malays, taken by and large, have no bowels. The story I am about to tell, illustrates this somewhat forcibly. The incident related hap-