popular songs has been made by a Frenchman, the late James
Darmesteter, who remarks that 'English people in India care little for
Indian songs'; though one may reply that he has made use of English
writers and collectors of frontier folklore, and indeed he
acknowledges his debt to Mr. Thorburn's excellent book on _Bannu or
our Afghan Frontier_. However that may be, we have here, in these
unwritten lays, the stuff out of which is developed, first, the
established tradition, and, secondly, not only poetry but also the
beginnings of history, for these lays are the oral records of
contemporary events--'c'est le cri meme de l'histoire.' They tell of
the last Afghan War, and of the most famous border forays made by the
English lords on the Afghan marches: they preserve the names and deeds
of English officers and of the leading warriors of the Afghan tribes:
they tell how Cavagnari 'drank the stirrup-cup of the great journey'
when the English mission was slaughtered at Kabul in 1879, and how
General Roberts, his heart shot through with grief, set out in fiery
speed on his avenging march against the Afghan capital. Here then is
for the modern historian a rare opportunity of comparing the
contemporary popular version of events with exact authentic official
record; and the result ought to aid him in deciding, by analogy, what
value is to be placed on similar material that has been handed down
in the ancient songs and stories of other countries. He will be
fortified, I think, in the sound conclusion that all far-sounding
legend has a solid substratum of fact. As poetry, these songs render
forcibly the temper and feelings of the people; they illustrate their
virtues and vices, their worship of courage and devotion to the clan,
their fanaticism and ferocity. The sense of Afghan honour, in the
matter of sheltering a guest, is shown in the ballad which relates how
a son killed his father for violating this law of hospitality. Like
all popular verse, the Afghan songs have their recurrent phrases and
familiar commonplaces; yet, says Darmesteter,

'in spite of the limited range of ideas and interests, and a rather
low ideal, all such defects find their excuse in the passion, the
simplicity, the direct spontaneous outspeaking, that supreme gift
which has been lost in our intellectual decadence.'

The stirring events of the time have been immediately put into verse;
the scenes and feelings are struck off in the die of