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 suff'rers 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;
Our lives are withered to the root,
By cruelty that kills.Our very homes are not our own;
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;
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 happened on
the East Coast, and I know it to be a fact. It is not a pleasant story, and any one
who has a proud stomach, would do well not to read it, as it is calculated to
make the gorge rise rebelliously.