IS TIPU DEAD?

Tired and tamed, he made the tree his shield,

His heart seemed a worser battlefield,

His soldiers against him, a miracle of coins,

Shaming noble wombs, shaming noble loins,

One man alone against an empire,

The Company Bahadur crushing woes,

Thirsty for his blood,

A soldier, an honorable foe,

Sultan Tipu, Hyder Ali’s son,

An enormous army fighting this one,

His own people now in the enemy’s assembly,

His Lord with him, otherwise no one,

In the field of bloodshed and gore,

One bullet fired at the Lion of Mysore,

And swords finally did the job,

Fell he on the ground, his wounds soar,

Heavy breaths made way for quiet,

The warrior lost to death in fight,

The Officer In charge saw the fall,

Pleased yet horrified at the sight,

Thought sure of the fighter’s death,

The Sahib poked a gun from far,

Afraid that Tipu might again rise,

Afraid he may again wage a war,

‘Is he dead?’ He asked his subordinate,

Who said, ‘Dead indeed is the fanatic mad!’

But still in doubt he asked again,

‘Are you sure, Tipu is dead?’

India wept at her son’s fall,

Cried Broach, cried Madras, Cawnpore,

From Punjab to Bengal all earth sad,

The mother said, ‘He is not dead,

They die not who fight for truth,

Martyrs they are. Their mother’s lads.’