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.

If you recognise the Kipling-esque lines above you may be one of the following: a) Over 100 years old, b) A fan of Codemasters' excellent Dizzy series of games (The poem featured heavily in the original Dizzy), or, c) A friend/acquaintance of my late grandmother (see 'a').

For those unfamiliar with the fevered poesy allow me to introduce J. Milton Hayes's "The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God" (1911, full version here). Like many women of her vintage my granny had (according to the style of the 1920s) been given a flower-based nickname (Violet) and she carried it with her to the end of her days. She also had, as was customary in dem days, a party-piece, and "The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God" was it.

I only heard it in her later years, when frustrated memory lapses made the delivery halting, but its breathless melodrama, exotic setting, and pulsating narrative of ill-advised derring-do certainly affected my youthful sensibilities. Later, during my Amstrad CPC 464 playing days, I was taken aback to find the exploits of Mad Carew given pride of place in the aforementioned Dizzy (a game with a boxing glove-wearing, egg protagonist). I tried explaining this exciting find to my grandmother but, while she expressed delighted amazement, I'm sure half of what I said sounded like so much gobbledygook.

While no-one would seriously claim that "The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God" is great poetry, it is an above average and entertaining example of a kind of popular verse that has (perhaps) no direct equivalent today. When vaudeville, music hall and elocution were all the rage, stirring, "ripping yarn" type stuff like this put bums on seats. In fairness to J. Milton Hayes, he was realistic about the function and appeal of such works:

I wrote The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God in five hours, but I had it all planned out. It isn't poetry and it does not pretend to be, but it does what it sets out to do. It appeals to the imagination from the start: those colours, green and yellow, create an atmosphere. Then India, everyone has his own idea of India. Don't tell the public too much. Strike chords. It is no use describing a house; the reader will fix the scene in some spot he knows himself. All you've got to say is 'India' and a man sees something. Then play on his susceptibilities.

My grandmother was a voracious reader (I never remember her without a library book on the bedside cabinet) and quite a fan of just the kind of hopelessly exotic (and doomed) romanticism that Hayes managed to capture. Not only that, but she was a prolific maker-upper of games and odd songs/verse. One of her most peculiar, but most popular, compositions was a two verse song that may have been (as I think about it now) loosely based on Puss in Boots. It was frequently sung when walking the floor with bawling grandchildren and always (perhaps surprisingly) had a soothing effect. Here it is in its entirety (or as entirely as I can remember it).

Poor little pussy cat,
Had no home at all-ee-tall,
He had no home,
He had no friends,
He had no one at all-ee-tall.

Poor little pussy cat,
Went to see the big bold giant,
The big, bold, old giant,
Wanted to eat him up-ee-up.

As you'll no doubt have noticed, the whole thing is drenched in melancholy. The accompanying (dirge-like) air took this melancholy, and cranked it up (or down) to the level of outright tragedy. What became of the pussy cat after his visit to the big and bold giant was left unsaid. Perhaps he was eaten. Perhaps they reconciled their differences and became friends. Perhaps he managed (a la Puss in Boots) to convince the giant to turn into a mouse before devouring him. The abrupt ending tended to make you suspect that the first outcome was the most likely…

Like most children though, my siblings and I were pretty comfortable with this dark and sad undercurrent. In many ways, we actually liked it. Whether through the misadventures of Mad Carew, or the dangerous, lonely, unresolved exploits of a poor pussy cat, we were, I suppose, confronting/exploring our feelings about (and fears of) death, abandonment, cruelty etc. All of this took place in a secure bubble, however, as the voice telling the tales and singing the songs was one we loved and trusted.

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.

The End.