Selected Poems Read Online

30

Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,

When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,

So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

35

I will scent ’em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,

And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between

The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o’ Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,

40

But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light

Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,

But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o’-the-Wisp of Love.

45

Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire?

Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?

Open the old cigar-box – let me consider anew –

Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;

50

And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba – I hold to my first-sworn vows.

If Maggie will have no rival, I’ll have no Maggie for Spouse!

The Winners

What is the moral? Who rides may read.

When the night is thick and the tracks are blind

A friend at a pinch is a friend indeed,

But a fool to wait for the laggard behind.

5

Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,

He travels the fastest who travels alone.

White hands cling to the tightened rein,

Slipping the spur from the booted heel,

Tenderest voices cry ‘Turn again!’

10

Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel.

High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone –

He travels the fastest who travels alone.

One may fall, but he falls by himself –

Falls by himself with himself to blame.

15

One may attain and to him is pelf,

Loot of the city in Gold or Fame.

Plunder of earth shall be all his own

Who travels the fastest and travels alone.

Wherefore the more ye be holpen and stayed,

20

Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil,

Sing the heretical song I have made –

His be the labour and yours be the spoil.

Win by his aid, and the aid disown –

He travels the fastest who travels alone!

‘I have eaten your bread and salt’

I have eaten your bread and salt.

I have drunk your water and wine.

The deaths ye died I have watched beside,

And the lives ye led were mine.

5

Was there aught that I did not share

In vigil or toil or ease, –

One joy or woe that I did not know,

Dear hearts across the seas?

I have written the tale of our life

10

For a sheltered people’s mirth,

In jesting guise – but ye are wise,

And ye know what the jest is worth.

Danny Deever

‘What are the bugles blowin’ for?’ said Files-on-Parade.

‘To turn you out, to turn you out,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.

‘What makes you look so white, so white?’ said Files-on-Parade.

‘I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.

5

For they’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,

The Regiment’s in ’ollow square – they’re hangin’ ’im to-day;

They’ve taken of his buttons off an’ cut ’is stripes away,

An’ they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

‘What makes the rear-rank breathe so ’ard?’ said Files-on-Parade.

10

‘It’s bitter cold, it’s bitter cold,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.

‘What makes that front-rank man fall down?’ said Files-on-Parade.

‘A touch o’ sun, a touch o’ sun,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.

They are hangin’ Danny Deever, they are marchin’ of ’im round,

They ’ave ’alted Danny Deever by ’is coffin on the ground;

15

An’ ’e’ll swing in ’arf a minute for a sneakin’ shootin’ hound –

Oh, they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!

‘’Is cot was right-’and cot to mine,’ said Files-on-Parade.

‘’E’s sleepin’ out an’ far to-night,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.

‘I’ve drunk ’is beer a score o’ times,’ said Files-on Parade.

20

‘’E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.

They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark ’im to ’is place,

For ’e shot a comrade sleepin’ – you must look ’im in the face;

Nine ’undred of ’is county an’ the Regiment’s disgrace,

While they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

25

‘What’s that so black agin the sun?’ said Files-on Parade.

‘It’s Danny fightin’ ’ard for life,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.

‘What’s that that whimpers over’ead?’ said Files-on-Parade.

‘It’s Danny’s soul that’s passin’ now,’ the Colour-Sergeant said.

For they’re done with Danny Deever, you can ’ear the quick-step play,

30

The Regiment’s in column, an’ they’re marchin’ us away;

Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they’ll want their beer to-day,

After hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!

Tommy

I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,

The publican ’e up an’ sez, ‘We serve no red-coats ’ere.’

The girls be’ind the bar they laughed and giggled fit to die,

I outs into the street again, an’ to myself sez I:

5

Oh, it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Tommy, go away’;

But it’s ‘Thank you, Mister Atkins,’ when the band begins to play –

The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,

Oh, it’s ‘Thank you, Mister Atkins,’ when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,

10

They gave a drunk civilian room, but ’adn’t none for me;

They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,

But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Tommy, wait outside’;

But it’s ‘Special train for Atkins’ when the trooper’s on the tide –

15

The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,

Oh, it’s ‘Special train for Atkins’ when the trooper’s on the tide.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep

Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;

An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit

20

Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.

Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Tommy, ’ow’s yer soul?’

But it’s ‘Thin red line of ’eroes’ when the drums begin to roll –

The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,

Oh, it’s ‘Thin red line of ’eroes’ when the drums begin to roll.

25

We aren’t no thin red ’eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,

But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;

An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,

Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;

While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Tommy, fall be’ind,’

30

But it’s ‘Please to walk in front, sir,’ when there’s trouble in the wind –

There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,

Oh, it’s ‘Please to walk in front, sir,’ when there’s trouble in the wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:

We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.

35

Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face

The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.

For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Chuck him out, the brute!’

But it’s ‘Saviour of ’is country’ when the guns begin to shoot;

An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;

40

An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool – you bet that Tommy sees!

Private Ortheris’s Song

My girl she give me the go onest,

When I was a London lad;

An’ I went on the drink for a fortnight,

An’ then I went to the bad.

5

The Queen she give me a shillin’

To fight for ’er over the seas;

But Guv’ment built me a fever-trap,

An’ Injia give me disease.

(Chorus) Ho! don’t you ’eed what a girl says,

10

An’ don’t you go for the beer;

But I was an ass when I was at grass,

An’ that is why I’m ’ere.

I fired a shot at a Afghan,

The beggar ’e fired again,

15

An’ I lay on my bed with a ’ole in my ’ed,

An’ missed the next campaign!

I up with my gun at a Burman

Who carried a bloomin’ dah,

But the cartridge stuck and the bay’nit bruk,

20

An’ all I got was the scar.

(Chorus) Ho! don’t you aim at a Afghan,

When you stand on the skyline clear;

An’ don’t you go for a Burman

If none o’ your friends is near.

25

I served my time for a Corp’ral,

An’ wetted my stripes with pop,

For I went on the bend with a intimate friend,

An’ finished the night in the ‘shop’.

I served my time for a Sergeant;

30

The Colonel ’e sez ‘No!

The most you’ll see is a full C.B.’

An’ … very next night ’twas so!

(Chorus) Ho! don’t you go for a Corp’ral

Unless your ’ed is clear;

35

But I was an ass when I was at grass,

An’ that is why I’m ’ere.

I’ve tasted the luck o’ the Army

In barrack an’ camp an’ clink,

An’ I lost my tip through the bloomin’ trip

40

Along o’ the women an’ drink.

I’m down at the heel o’ my service,

An’ when I am laid on the shelf,

My very worst friend from beginning to end

By the blood of a mouse was myself!

45

(Chorus) Ho! don’t you ’eed what a girl says,

An’ don’t you go for the beer;

But I was an ass when I was at grass,

An’ that is why I’m ’ere!

Soldier, Soldier

‘Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

Why don’t you march with my true love?’

‘We’re fresh from off the ship an’ ’e’s, maybe, give the slip,

An’ you’d best go look for a new love.’

5

New love! True love!

Best go look for a new love,

The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,

An’ you’d best go look for a new love.

‘Soldier, soldier, come from the wars,

10

What did you see o’ my true love?’

‘I seen ’im serve the Queen in a suit o’ rifle-green,

An’ you’d best go look for a new love.’

‘Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

Did ye see no more o’ my true love?’

15

‘I seen ’im runnin’ by when the shots begun to fly –

But you’d best go look for a new love.’

‘Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

Did aught take ’arm to my true love?’

‘I couldn’t see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white –

20

An’ you’d best go look for a new love.’

‘Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

I’ll up an’ tend to my true love!’

‘’E’s lying on the dead with a bullet through ’is ’ead,

An’ you’d best go look for a new love.’

25

‘Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

I’ll down an’ die with my true love!’

‘The pit we dug’ll ’ide ’im an’ the twenty more beside ’im –

An’ you’d best go look for a new love.’

‘Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

30

Do you bring no sign from my true love?’

‘I bring a lock of ’air that ’e allus used to wear,

An’ you’d best go look for a new love.’

‘Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

Oh, then I know it’s true I’ve lost my true love!’

35

‘An’ I tell you truth again – when you’ve lost the feel o’ pain

You’d best take me for your new love.’

True love! New love!

Best take ’im for a new love,

The dead they cannot rise, so you’d better dry your eyes,

40

An’ you’d best take ’im for your new love!

The Widow at Windsor

’Ave you ’eard o’ the Widow at Windsor

With a hairy gold crown on ’er ’ead?

She ’as ships on the foam – she ’as millions at ’ome,

An’ she pays us poor beggars in red.

5

(Ow, poor beggars in red!)

There’s ’er nick on the cavalry ’orses,

There’s ’er mark on the medical stores –

An’ ’er troopers you’ll find with a fair wind be’ind

That takes us to various wars.

10

(Poor beggars! – barbarious wars!)

Then ’ere’s to the Widow at Windsor,

An’ ’ere’s to the stores an’ the guns,

The men an’ the ’orses what makes up the forces

O’ Missis Victorier’s sons.

15

(Poor beggars! Victorier’s sons!)

Walk wide o’ the Widow at Windsor,

For ’alf o’ Creation she owns:

We ’ave bought ’er the same with the sword an’ the flame,

An’ we’ve salted it down with our bones.

20

(Poor beggars! – it’s blue with our bones!)

Hands off o’ the sons o’ the Widow,

Hands off o’ the goods in ’er shop,

For the Kings must come down an’ the Emperors frown

When the Widow at Windsor says ‘Stop!’

25

(Poor beggars! – we’re sent to say ‘Stop!’)

Then ’ere’s to the Lodge o’ the Widow,

From the Pole to the Tropics it runs –

To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an’ the file,

An’ open in form with the guns.

30

(Poor beggars! – it’s always they guns!)

We ’ave ’eard o’ the Widow at Windsor,

It’s safest to leave ’er alone:

For ’er sentries we stand by the sea an’ the land

Wherever the bugles are blown.

35

(Poor beggars! – an’ don’t we get blown!)

Take ’old o’ the Wings o’ the Mornin’,

An’ flop round the earth till you’re dead;

But you won’t get away from the tune that they play

To the bloomin’ old rag over’ead.

40

(Poor beggars! – it’s ’ot over’ead!)

Then ’ere’s to the Sons o’ the Widow,

Wherever, ’owever they roam.

’Ere’s all they desire, an’ if they require,

A speedy return to their ’ome.

45

(Poor beggars! – they’ll never see ’ome!)

Gunga Din

You may talk o’ gin and beer

When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,

An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;

But when it comes to slaughter

5

You will do your work on water,

An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.

Now in Injia’s sunny clime,

Where I used to spend my time

A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,

10

Of all them blackfaced crew

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

’E was ‘Din! Din! Din!

You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!

15

Hi! Slippy hitherao!

Water, get it! Panee lao,

You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’

The uniform ’e wore

Was nothin’ much before,

20

An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,

For a piece o’ twisty rag

An’ a goatskin water-bag

Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.

When the sweatin’ troop-train lay

25

In a sidin’ through the day,

Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,

We shouted ‘Harry By!’

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.

30

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!

You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?

You put some juldee in it

Or I’ll marrow you this minute

If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’

35

’E would dot an’ carry one

Till the longest day was done;

An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin’ nut,

40

’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.

With ’is mussick on ’is back,

’E would skip with our attack,

An’ watch us till the bugles made ‘Retire,’

An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide

45

’E was white, clear white, inside

When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’

With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.

When the cartridges ran out,

50

You could hear the front-ranks shout,

‘Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!’

I shan’t forgit the night

When I dropped be’ind the fight

With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.

55

I was chokin’ mad with thirst,

An’ the man that spied me first

Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.

‘E lifted up my ’ead,

An’ ’e plugged me where I bled,

60

An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green.

It was crawlin’ an’ it stunk,

But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,

I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!

65

’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;

’E’s chawin’ up the ground,

An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:

For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’

’E carried me away

70

To where a dooli lay,

An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.

’E put me safe inside,

An’ just before ’e died,

‘I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.

75

So I’ll meet ’im later on

At the place where ’e is gone

Where it’s always double drills an’ no canteen.

‘E’ll be squattin’ on the coals

Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,

80

An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!

Yes, Din! Din! Din!

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,

By the livin’ Gawd that made you,

85

You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Mandalay

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ eastward to the sea,

There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, an’ I know she thinks o’ me;

For the wind is in the palm-trees, an’ the temple-bells they say:

‘Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!’

5

Come you back to Mandalay,

Where the old Flotilla lay:

Can’t you ’ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon to Mandalay?

On the road to Mandalay,

Where the flyin’-fishes play,

10

An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!

‘Er petticoat was yaller an’ ’er little cap was green,

An’ ’er name was Supi-yaw-lat – jes’ the same as Theebaw’s Queen,

An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white cheroot,

An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ’eathen idol’s foot:

15

Bloomin’ idol made o’ mud –

Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd –

Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ’er where she stud!

On the road to Mandalay …

When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was droppin’ slow,

20

She’d git ’er little banjo an’ she’d sing ‘Kulla-lo-lo!’

With ’er arm upon my shoulder an’ ’er cheek agin my cheek

We useter watch the steamers an’ the hathis pilin’ teak.

Elephints a-pilin’ teak

In the sludgy, squdgy creek,

25

Where the silence ’ung that ’eavy you was ’arf afraid to speak!

On the road to Mandalay …

But that’s all shove be’ind me – long ago an’ fur away,

An’ there ain’t no ’buses runnin’ from the Bank to Mandalay;

An’ I’m learnin’ ’ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:

30

‘If you’ve ’eard the East a-callin’, you won’t never ’eed naught else.’

No! you won’t ’eed nothin’ else

But them spicy garlic smells,

An’ the sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly temple bells;

On the road to Mandalay …

35

I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gritty pavin’-stones,

An’ the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;

Tho’ I walks with fifty ’ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,

An’ they talks a lot o’ lovin’, but wot do they understand?

Beefy face an’ grubby ’and –

40

Law! wot do they understand?

I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!

On the road to Mandalay …

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,

Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a thirst;

45

For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be –

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;

On the road to Mandalay,

Where the old Flotilla lay,

With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!

50

Oh, the road to Mandalay,

Where the flyin’-fishes play,

An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China ’crost the Bay!

The Young British Soldier

When the ’arf-made recruity goes out to the East

‘E acts like a babe an’ ’e drinks like a beast,

An’ ’e wonders because ’e is frequent deceased

Ere ’e’s fit for to serve as a soldier.

5

Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,

Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,

Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,

So-oldier of the Queen!

Now all you recruities what’s drafted to-day,

10

You shut up your rag-box an’ ’ark to my lay,

An’ I’ll sing you a soldier as far as I may:

A soldier what’s fit for a soldier.

Fit, fit, fit for a soldier …

First mind you steer clear o’ the grog-sellers’ huts,

15

For they sell you Fixed Bay’nets that rots out your guts –

Ay, drink that ’ud eat the live steel from your butts –

An’ it’s bad for the young British soldier.

Bad, bad, bad, for the soldier …

When the cholera comes – as it will past a doubt –

20

Keep out of the wet an’ don’t go on the shout,

For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,

An’ it crumples the young British soldier.

Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier …

But the worst o’ your foes is the sun over’ead:

25

You must wear your ’elmet for all that is said:

If ’e finds you uncovered ’e’ll knock you down dead,

An’ you’ll die like a fool of a soldier.

Fool, fool, fool of a soldier …

If you’re cast for fatigue by a Sergeant unkind,

30

Don’t grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;

Be handy an’ civil, an’ then you will find

That it’s beer for the young British soldier.

Beer, beer, beer for the soldier …

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old –

35

A Troop-Sergeant’s widow’s the nicest I’m told,

For beauty won’t help if your rations is cold,

Nor love ain’t enough for a soldier.

’Nough, ’nough, ’nough for a soldier …

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loth

40

To shoot when you catch ’em – you’ll swing, on my oath! –

Make ’im take ’er an’ keep ’er: that’s Hell for them both,

An’ you’re shut o’ the curse of a soldier.

Curse, curse, curse of a soldier …

When first under fire an’ you’re wishful to duck,

45

Don’t look nor take ’eed at the man that is struck.

Be thankful you’re livin’, and trust to your luck

An’ march to your front like a soldier.

Front, front, front like a soldier …

When ’arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,

50

Don’t call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;

She’s as human as you are – you treat her as sich,

An’ she’ll fight for the young British soldier.

Fight, fight, fight for the soldier …

When, shakin’ their bustles like ladies so fine,

55

The guns o’ the enemy wheel into line,

Shoot low at the limbers an’ don’t mind the shine,

For noise never startles the soldier.

Start-, start-, startles the soldier …

If your Officer’s dead and the Sergeants look white.

60

Remember it’s ruin to run from a fight:

So take open order, lie down, an’ sit tight,

An’ wait for supports like a soldier.

Wait, wait, wait like a soldier …

When you’re wounded an’ left on Afghanistan’s plains,

65

An’ the women come out to cut up what remains,

Jest roll to your rifle an’ blow out your brains

An’ go to your Gawd like a soldier.

Go, go, go like a soldier,

Go, go, go like a soldier,

70

Go, go, go like a soldier,

So-oldier of the Queen!

The Conundrum of the Workshops

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,

Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,

Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, ‘It’s pretty, but is it Art?’

5

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew –

The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;

And he left his lore to the use of his sons – and that was a glorious gain

When the Devil chuckled, ‘Is it Art?’ in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,

10

Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: ‘It’s striking, but is it Art?’

The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,

While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South; they talked and they fought in the West,

Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest –

15

Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the Dove was preened to start,

And the Devil bubbled below the keel: ‘It’s human, but is it Art?’

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree – and new as the new-cut tooth –

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;

And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,

20

The Devil drum on the darkened pane: ‘You did it, but was it Art?’

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,

We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,

We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;

But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: ‘It’s clever, but is it Art?’

25

When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Clubroom’s green and gold,

The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould –

They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,

For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: ‘It’s pretty, but is it Art?’

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,

30

And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,

And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,

By the favour of God we might know as much – as our father Adam knew!

‘Ford o’ Kabul River’

Kabul town’s by Kabul river –

Blow the bugle, draw the sword –

There I lef’ my mate for ever,

Wet an’ drippin’ by the ford.

5

Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,

Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!

There’s the river up and brimmin’, an’ there’s ’arf a squadron swimmin’

‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.

Kabul town’s a blasted place –

10

Blow the bugle, draw the sword –

’Strewth, I shan’t forget ’is face

Wet an’ drippin’ by the ford!

Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,

Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!

15

Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an’ they will surely guide you

‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.

Kabul town is sun an’ dust –

Blow the bugle, draw the sword –

I’d ha’ sooner drownded fust

20

’Stead of ’im beside the ford.

Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,

Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!

You can ’ear the ’orses threshin’; you can ’ear the men a-splashin’,

’Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.

25

Kabul town was ours to take –

Blow the bugle, draw the sword –

I’d ha’ left it for ’is sake –

’Im that left me by the ford.

Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,

30

Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!

It’s none so bloomin’ dry there; ain’t you never comin’ nigh there,

‘Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark?

Kabul town’ll go to hell –

Blow the bugle, draw the sword –

35

’Fore I see him ’live an’ well –

’Im the best beside the ford.

Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,

Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!

Gawd ’elp ’em if they blunder, for their boots’ll pull ’em under,

40

By the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark.

Turn your ’orse from Kabul town –

Blow the bugle, draw the sword –

’Im an’ ’arf my troop is down,

Down an’ drownded by the ford.

45

Ford, ford, ford o’ Kabul river,

Ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!

There’s the river low an’ fallin’, but it ain’t no use a-callin’

’Cross the ford o’ Kabul river in the dark!

The English Flag

‘Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing the Union Jack, remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but ultimately when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts, and seemed to see significance in the incident.’

Daily Papers

Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro –

And what should they know of England who only England know? –

The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag,

They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag!

5

Must we borrow a clout from the Boer – to plaster anew with dirt?

An Irish liar’s bandage, or an English coward’s shirt?

We may not speak of England; her Flag’s to sell or share.

What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare!

The North Wind blew: – ‘From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go;

10

I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe.

By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God,

And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.

I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame,

Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came.

15

I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast,

And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed.

The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic nights,

The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Lights:

What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare,

20

Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!’

The South Wind sighed: – ‘From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta’ en

Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main,

Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon

Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.

25

Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys,

I waked the palms to laughter – I tossed the scud in the breeze.

Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone,

But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown.

I have wrenched it free from the halliards to hang for a wisp on the Horn;

30

I have chased it north to the Lizard – ribboned and rolled and torn;

I have spread its fold o’er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea;

I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free.

My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross,

Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross.

35

What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare,

Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!’

The East Wind roared: – ‘From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come,

And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home.

Look – look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon

40

I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon!

The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before,

I raped your richest roadstead – I plundered Singapore!

I set my hand on the Hugli; as a hooded snake she rose;

And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows.

45

Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake,

But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England’s sake –

Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid –

Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed.

The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows,

50

The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows.

What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare,

Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!’

The West Wind called: ‘In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly

That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die.

55

They make my might their porter, they make my house their path,

Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath.

I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole.

They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll;

For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath,

60

And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death.

But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day,

I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away,

First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky,

Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.

65

The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it – the frozen dews have kissed –

The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist.

What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare,

Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!’

‘The beasts are very wise’

The beasts are very wise,

Their mouths are clean of lies,

They talk one to the other,

Bullock to bullock’s brother,

5

Resting after their labours,

Each in stall with his neighbours.

But man with goad and whip

Breaks up their fellowship,

Shouts in their silky ears,

10

Filling their souls with fears.

When he has ploughed the land,

He says: ‘They understand.’

But the beasts in stall together,

Freed from the yoke and tether,

15

Say as the torn flanks smoke:

‘Nay, ’twas the whip that spoke.’

Cells

I’ve a head like a concertina: I’ve a tongue like a button-stick,

I’ve a mouth like an old potato, and I’m more than a little sick,

But I’ve had my fun o’ the Corp’ral’s Guard: I’ve made the cinders fly,

And I’m here in the Clink for a thundering drink and blacking the Corporal’s eye.

With a second-hand overcoat under my head,

And a beautiful view of the yard,

Oh, it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.

For ‘drunk and resisting the Guard!’

Mad drunk and resisting the Guard –

10

’Strewth, but I socked it them hard!

So it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.

For ‘drunk and resisting the Guard.’

I started o’ canteen porter, I finished o’ canteen beer,

But a dose o’ gin that a mate slipped in, it was that that brought me here.

15

’Twas that and an extry double Guard that rubbed my nose in the dirt –

But I fell away with the Corp’ral’s stock and the best of the Corp’ral’s shirt.

I left my cap in a public-house, my boots in the public road,

And Lord knows where – and I don’t care – my belt and my tunic goed.

They’ll stop my pay, they’ll cut away the stripes I used to wear,

20

But I left my mark on the Corp’ral’s face, and I think he’ll keep it there!

My wife she cries on the barrack-gate, my kid in the barrack-yard.

It ain’t that I mind the Ord’ly Room – it’s that that cuts so hard.

I’ll take my oath before them both that I will sure abstain,

But as soon as I’m in with a mate and gin, I know I’ll do it again!

With a second-hand overcoat under my head,

And a beautiful view of the yard,

Yes, it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.

For ‘drunk and resisting the Guard!’

Mad drunk and resisting the Guard –

30

’Strewth, but I socked it them hard!

So it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.

For ‘drunk and resisting the Guard.’

The Widow’s Party

‘Where have you been this while away,

Johnnie, Johnnie?’

Out with the rest on a picnic lay.

Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!

5

They called us out of the barrack-yard

To Gawd knows where from Gosport Hard,

And you can’t refuse when you get the card,

And the Widow gives the party.

(Bugle: Ta-rara-ra-ra-rara!)

10

‘What did you get to eat and drink,

Johnnie, Johnnie?’

Standing water as thick as ink,

Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!

A bit o’ beef that were three year stored,

15

A bit o’ mutton as tough as a board,

And a fowl we killed with a Sergeant’s sword,

When the Widow give the party.

‘What did you do for knives and forks,

Johnnie, Johnnie?’

20

We carries ’em with us wherever we walks,

Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!

And some was sliced and some was halved,

And some was crimped and some was carved,

And some was gutted and some was starved,

25

When the Widow give the party.

‘What ha’ you done with half your mess,

Johnnie, Johnnie?’

They couldn’t do more and they wouldn’t do less,

Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!

30

They ate their whack and they drank their fill,

And I think the rations has made them ill,

For half my comp’ny’s lying still

Where the Widow give the party.

‘How did you get away-away,

35

Johnnie, Johnnie?’

On the broad o’ my back at the end o’ the day,

Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!

I comed away like a bleedin’ toff,

For I got four niggers to carry me off,

40

As I lay in the bight of a canvas trough,

When the Widow give the party.

‘What was the end of all the show,

Johnnie, Johnnie?’

Ask my Colonel, for I don’t know,

45

Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!

We broke a King and we built a road –

A court-house stands where the Reg’ment goed.

And the river’s clean where the raw blood flowed

When the Widow give the party.

50

(Bugle: Ta-rara-ra-ra-rara!)

The Exiles’ Line

Now the New Year reviving old desires,

The restless soul to open sea aspires,

Where the Blue Peter flickers from the fore,

And the grimed stoker feeds the engine-fires.

5

Coupons, alas, depart with all their rows,

And last year’s sea-met loves where Grindlay knows;

But still the wild wind wakes off Gardafui,

And hearts turn eastward with the P. & O.’s.

Twelve knots an hour, be they more or less –

10

Oh, slothful mother of much idleness,

Whom neither rivals spur nor contracts speed!

Nay, bear us gently! Wherefore need we press?

The Tragedy of all our East is laid

On those white decks beneath the awning shade –

15

Birth, absence, longing, laughter, love and tears,

And death unmaking ere the land is made.

And midnight madnesses of souls distraught

Whom the cool seas call through the open port,

So that the table lacks one place next morn,

20

And for one forenoon men forgo their sport.

The shadow of the rigging to and fro

Sways, shifts, and flickers on the spar-deck’s snow,

And like a giant trampling in his chains,

The screw-blades gasp and thunder deep below;

25

And, leagued to watch one flying-fish’s wings,

Heaven stoops to sea, and sea to Heaven clings;

While, bent upon the ending of his toil,

The hot sun strides, regarding not these things:

For the same wave that meets our stem in spray

30

Bore Smith of Asia eastward yesterday,

And Delhi Jones and Brown of Midnapore

To-morrow follow on the self-same way.

Linked in the chain of Empire, one by one,

Flushed with long leave, or tanned with many a sun,

35

The Exiles’ Line brings out the exiles’ line,

And ships them homeward when their work is done.

Yea, heedless of the shuttle through the loom,

The flying keels fulfil the web of doom.

Sorrow or shouting – what is that to them?

40

Make out the cheque that pays for cabin-room!

And howso many score of times ye flit

With wife and babe and caravan of kit,

Not all thy travels past shall lower one fare,

Not all thy tears abate one pound of it.

45

And howso high thine earth-born dignity,

Honour and state, go sink it in the sea,

Till that great One upon the quarter-deck,

Brow-bound with gold, shall give thee leave to be.

Indeed, indeed from that same Line we swear

50

Off for all time, and mean it when we swear;

And then, and then we meet the Quartered Flag,

And, surely for the last time, pay the fare.

And Green of Kensington, estrayed to view

In three short months the world he never knew,

55

Stares with blind eyes upon the Quartered Flag

And sees no more than yellow, red and blue.

But we, the gipsies of the East, but we –

Waifs of the land and wastrels of the sea –

Come nearer home beneath the Quartered Flag

60

Than ever home shall come to such as we.

The camp is struck, the bungalow decays,

Dead friends and houses desert mark our ways,

Till sickness send us down to Prince’s Dock

To meet the changeless use of many days.

65

Bound in the wheel of Empire, one by one,

The chain-gangs of the East from sire to son,

The Exiles’ Line takes out the exiles’ line

And ships them homeward when their work is done.

How runs the old indictment? ‘Dear and slow,’

70

So much and twice so much. We gird, but go.

For all the soul of our sad East is there,

Beneath the house-flag of the P. & O.!

When Earth’s Last Picture is Painted

When Earth’s last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it – lie down for an aeon or two,

Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew.

5

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets’ hair;

They shall find real saints to draw from – Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only The Master shall praise us, and only The Master shall blame;

10

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,

But each for the joy of working, and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!

In the Neolithic Age

In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage

For food and fame and woolly horses’ pelt.

I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man,

And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt.

5

Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring

Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove;

And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg

Were about me and beneath me and above.

But a rival of Solutré, told the tribe my style was outré –

10

’Neath a tomahawk, of diorite, he fell.

And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart

Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.

Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting-dogs fed full,

And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;

15

And I wiped my mouth and said, ‘It is well that they are dead,

For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong.’

But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole-shrine he came,

And he told me in a vision of the night: –

‘There are nine-and-sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,

20

And every single one of them is right!’

Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me

Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail;

And I stepped beneath Time’s finger, once again a tribal singer,

And a minor poet certified by Traill!

25

Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow,

When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn;

When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses,

And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne.

Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage,

30

Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk;

Still we let our business slide – as we dropped the half-dressed hide –

To show a fellow-savage how to work.

Still the world is wondrous large, – seven seas from marge to marge –

And it holds a vast of various kinds of man;

35

And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu,

And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.

Here’s my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose

And the reindeer roamed where Paris roars to-night:–

‘There are nine-and-sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,

40

And-every-single-one-of-them-is-right!’

The Last Chantey

‘And there was no more sea.’

Revelation 21:1

Thus said the Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim,

Calling to the Angels and the Souls in their degree:

‘Lo! Earth has passed away

On the smoke of Judgement Day.

5

That Our word may be established shall We gather up the Sea?’

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly Mariners:

‘Plague upon the hurricane that made us furl and flee!

But the war is done between us,

In the deep the Lord hath seen us –

10

Our bones we’ll leave the barracout’, and God may sink the Sea!’

Then said the soul of Judas that betrayèd Him:

‘Lord, hast Thou forgotten Thy covenant with me?

How once a year I go

To cool me on the floe?

15

And Ye take my day of mercy if Ye take away the Sea!’

Then said the soul of the Angel of the Off-shore Wind:

(He that bits the thunder when the bull-mouthed breakers flee):

‘I have watch and ward to keep

O’er Thy wonders on the deep,

20

And Ye take mine honour from me if Ye take away the Sea!’

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly Mariners:

‘Nay, but we were angry, and a hasty folk are we.

If we worked the ship together

Till she foundered in foul weather,

25

Are we babes that we should clamour for a vengeance on the Sea?’

Then said the souls of the Slaves that men threw overboard:

‘Kennelled in the picaroon a weary band were we;

But Thy arm was strong to save,

And it touched us on the wave,

30

And we drowsed the long tides idle till Thy Trumpets tore the Sea.’

Then cried the soul of the stout Apostle Paul to God:

‘Once we frapped a ship, and she laboured woundily.

There were fourteen score of these,

And they blessed Thee on their knees,

35

When they learned Thy Grace and Glory under Malta by the Sea!’

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly Mariners,

Plucking at their harps, and they plucked unhandily:

‘Our thumbs are rough and tarred,

And the tune is something hard –

40

May we lift a Deepsea Chantey such as seamen use at sea?’

Then said the souls of the Gentlemen-Adventurers –

Fettered wrist to bar all for red iniquity:

‘Ho, we revel in our chains

O’er the sorrow that was Spain’s!

45

Heave or sink it, leave or drink it, we were masters of the Sea!’

Up spake the soul of a grey Gothavn ’speckshioner –

(He that led the flenching in the fleets of fair Dundee):

‘Oh, the ice-blink white and near,

And the bowhead breaching clear!

50

Will Ye whelm them all for wantonness that wallow in the Sea?’

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly Mariners,

Crying: ‘Under Heaven, here is neither lead nor lee!

Must we sing for evermore

On the windless, glassy floor?

55

Take back your golden fiddles and we’ll beat to open sea!’

Then stooped the Lord, and He called the good Sea up to Him,

And ’stablishèd its borders unto all eternity,

That such as have no pleasure

For to praise the Lord by measure,

60

They may enter into galleons and serve Him on the Sea.

Sun, wind, and cloud shall fail not from the face of it,

Stinging, ringing spindrift, nor the fulmar flying free;

And the ships shall go abroad

To the Glory of the Lord

65

Who heard the silly sailor-folk and gave them back their Sea!

‘For to Admire’

The Injian ocean sets an’ smiles

So sof’, so bright, so bloomin’ blue;

There aren’t a wave for miles an’ miles

Excep’ the jiggle from the screw.

5

The ship is swep’, the day is done,

The bugle’s gone for smoke and play;

An’ black ag’in the settin’ sun

The Lascar sings, ‘Hum deckty hai!’

For to admire an’ for to see,

10

For to be’old this world so wide –

It never done no good to me,

But I can’t drop it if I tried!

I see the sergeants pitchin’ quoits,

I ’ear the women laugh an’ talk,

15

I spy upon the quarter-deck

The orficers an’ lydies walk.

I thinks about the things that was,

An’ leans an’ looks acrost the sea,

Till, spite of all the crowded ship,

20

There’s no one lef’ alive but me.

The things that was which I ’ave seen,

In barrick, camp, an’ action too,

I tells them over by myself,

An’ sometimes wonders if they’re true;

25

For they was odd – most awful odd –

But all the same, now they are o’er,

There must be ’eaps o’ plenty such,

An’ if I wait I’ll see some more.

Oh, I ’ave come upon the books,

30

An’ frequent broke a barrick-rule,

An’ stood beside an’ watched myself

Be’avin’ like a bloomin’ fool.

I paid my price for findin’ out,

Nor never grutched the price I paid,

35

But sat in Clink without my boots,

Admirin’ ’ow the world was made.

Be’old a cloud upon the beam,

An’ ’umped above the sea appears

Old Aden, like a barrick-stove

40

That no one’s lit for years an’ years.

I passed by that when I began,

An’ I go ’ome the road I came,

A time-expired soldier-man

With six years’ service to ’is name.

45

My girl she said, ‘Oh, stay with me!’

My mother ’eld me to ’er breast.

They’ve never written none, an’ so

They must ’ave gone with all the rest –

With all the rest which I ’ave seen

50

An’ found an’ known an’ met along.

I cannot say the things I feel,

And so I sing my evenin’ song:

For to admire an’ for to see,

For to be’ old this world so wide –

55

It never done no good to me,

But I can’t drop it if I tried!

The Law of the Jungle

Now this is the Law of the Jungle – as old and as true as the sky;

And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.

As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back –

For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

5

Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep;

And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep.

The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,

Remember the Wolf is a hunter – go forth and get food of thine own.

Keep peace with the Lords of the Jungle – the Tiger, the Panther, the Bear;

10

And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair.

When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail,

Lie down till the leaders have spoken – it may be fair words shall prevail.

When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar,

Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war.

15

The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home,

Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come.

The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain,

The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again.

If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay,

20

Lest ye frighten the deer from the crops, and the brothers go empty away.

Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can;

But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man!

If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride;

Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide.

25

The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies;

And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies.

The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will,

But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill.

Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim

30

Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same.

Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim

One haunch of each kill for her litter; and none may deny her the same.

Cave-Right is the right of the Father – to hunt by himself for his own:

He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone.

35

Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw,

In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of the Head Wolf is Law.

Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they;

But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is – Obey!

The Three-Decker

1894

‘The three-volume novel is extinct.’

Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail.

It took a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail;

But, ’spite all modern notions, I’ve found her first and best –

The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest.

5

Fair held the breeze behind us – ’twas warm with lovers’ prayers.

We’d stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs.

They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked Nurse confessed,

And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest.

By ways no gaze could follow, a course unspoiled of Cook,

10

Per Fancy, fleetest in man, our titled berths we took,

With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessed,

And a Church of England parson for the Islands of the Blest.

We asked no social questions – we pumped no hidden shame –

We never talked obstetrics when the Little Stranger came:

15

We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in Hell.

We weren’t exactly Yussufs, but – Zuleika didn’t tell.

No moral doubt assailed us, so when the port we neared,

The villain had his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered.

’Twas fiddle in the foc’sle – ’twas garlands on the mast,

20

For every one got married, and I went ashore at last.

I left ’em all in couples a-kissing on the decks.

I left the lovers loving and the parents signing cheques.

In endless English comfort, by county-folk caressed,

I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the Blest! …

25

That route is barred to steamers: you’ll never lift again

Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain.

They’re just beyond your skyline, however far you cruise

In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws.

Swing round your aching searchlight – ’twill show no haven’s peace.

30

Ay, blow your shrieking sirens at the deaf, grey-bearded seas!

Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep’s unrest –

And you aren’t one knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest!

But when you’re threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail,

At a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale,

35

Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taffrail dressed,

You’ll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest.

You’ll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread;

You’ll hear the long-drawn thunder ’neath her leaping figurehead;

While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine

40

Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine.

Hull down – hull down and under – she dwindles to a speck,

With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck.

All’s well – all’s well aboard her – she’s left you far behind,

With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind.

45

Her crew are babes or madmen? Her port is all to make?

You’re manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming’s sake?

Well, tinker up your engines – you know your business best –

She’s taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!

‘Back to the Army Again’

I’m ’ere in a ticky ulster an’ a broken billycock ’at,

A-laying on to the Sergeant I don’t know a gun from a bat;

My shirt’s doin’ duty for jacket, my sock’s stickin’ out o’ my boots,

An’ I’m learnin’ the damned old goose-step along o’ the new recruits!

5

Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

Back to the Army again.

Don’t look so ’ard, for I ’aven’t no card,

I’m back to the Army again!

I done my six years’ service. ’Er Majesty sez: ‘Good day –

10

You’ll please to come when you’re rung for, an’ ’ere’s your ole back-pay;

An’ fourpence a day for baccy – an’ bloomin’ gen’rous, too;

An’ now you can make your fortune – the same as your orf’cers do.’

Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

Back to the Army again.

15

’Ow did I learn to do right-about-turn?

I’m back to the Army again!

A man o’ four-an’-twenty that ’asn’t learned of a trade –

Beside ‘Reserve’ agin’ him – ’e’d better be never made.

I tried my luck for a quarter, an’ that was enough for me,

20

An’ I thought of ’Er Majesty’s barricks, an’ I thought I’d go an’ see.

Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

Back to the Army again.

’Tisn’t my fault if I dress when I ’alt –

I’m back to the Army again!

25

The Sergeant arst no questions, but ’e winked the other eye,

’E sez to me, ‘’Shun!’ an’ I shunted, the same as in days gone by;

For ’e saw the set o’ my shoulders, an’ I couldn’t ’elp ’oldin’ straight

When me an’ the other rookies come under the barrick-gate.

Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

30

Back to the Army again.

’Oo would ha’ thought I could carry an’ port?

I’m back to the Army again!

I took my bath, an’ I wallered – for, Gawd, I needed it so!

I smelt the smell o’ the barricks, I ’eard the bugles go.

35

I ’eard the feet on the gravel – the feet o’ the men what drill –

An’ I sez to my flutterin’ ‘eart-strings, I sez to ’em, ‘Peace, be still!’

Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

Back to the Army again.

’Oo said I knew when the troopship was due?

40

I’m back to the Army again!

I carried my slops to the tailor; I sez to ’im, ‘None o’ your lip!

You tight ’em over the shoulders, an’ loose ’em over the ’ip,

For the set o’ the tunic’s ’orrid.’ An’ ’e sez to me, ‘Strike me dead,

But I thought you was used to the business!’ an’ so ’e done what I said.

45

Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

Back to the Army again.

Rather too free with my fancies? Wot – me?

I’m back to the Army again!

Next week I’ll ’ave ’em fitted; I’ll buy me a swagger-cane;

50

They’ll let me free o’ the barricks to walk on the Hoe again,

In the name o’ William Parsons, that used to be Edward Clay,

An’ – any pore beggar that wants it can draw my fourpence a day!

Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

Back to the Army again.

55

Out o’ the cold an’ the rain, Sergeant,

Out o’ the cold an’ the rain.

’Oo’s there?

A man that’s too good to be lost you,

A man that is ’andled an’ made –

60

A man that will pay what ’e cost you

In learnin’ the others their trade – parade!

You’re droppin’ the pick o’ the Army

Because you don’t ’elp ’em remain,

But drives ’em to cheat to get out o’ the street

65

An’ back to the Army again!

Road-Song of the Bandar-Log

Here we go in a flung festoon,

Half-way up to the jealous moon!

Don’t you envy our pranceful bands?

Don’t you wish you had extra hands?

5

Wouldn’t you like if your tails were – so –

Curved in the shape of a Cupid’s bow?

Now you’re angry, but – never mind,

Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

Here we sit in a branchy row,

10

Thinking of beautiful things we know;

Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,

All complete, in a minute or two –

Something noble and grand and good,

Won by merely wishing we could.

15

Now we’re going to – never mind,

Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

All the talk we ever have heard

Uttered by bat or beast or bird –

Hide or fin or scale or feather –

20

Jabber it quickly and all together!

Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!

Now we are talking just like men.

Let’s pretend we are … Never mind!

Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

25

This is the way of the Monkey-kind!

Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,

That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings.

By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,

Be sure – be sure, we’re going to do some splendid things!

McAndrew’s Hymn

Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,

An’, taught by time, I tak’ it so – exceptin’ always Steam.

From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God –

Predestination in the stride o’ yon connectin’-rod.

5

John Calvin might ha’ forged the same – enormous, certain, slow –

Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame – my ‘Institutio.’

I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please;

I’ll stand the middle watch up here – alone wi’ God an’ these

My engines, after ninety days o’ race an’ rack an’ strain

10

Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin’ home again.

Slam-bang too much – they knock a wee – the crosshead-gibs are loose,

But thirty thousand mile o’ sea has gied them fair excuse…

Fine, clear an’ dark – a full-draught breeze, wi’ Ushant out o’ sight,

An’ Ferguson relievin’ Hay. Old girl, ye’ll walk to-night!

15

His wife’s at Plymouth … Seventy – One – Two – Three since he began –

Three turns for Mistress Ferguson … and who’s to blame the man?

There’s none at any port for me, by drivin’ fast or slow,

Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago.

(The year the Sarah Sands was burned. Oh, roads we used to tread,

20

Fra’ Maryhill to Pollokshaws – fra’ Govan to Parkhead!)

Not but they’re ceevil on the Board. Ye’ll hear Sir Kenneth say:

‘Good morrn, McAndrew! Back again? An’ how’s your bilge to-day?’

Miscallin’ technicalities but handin’ me my chair

To drink Madeira wi’ three Earls – the auld Fleet Engineer

25

That started as a boiler-whelp – when steam and he were low.

I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi’ tow!

Ten pound was all the pressure then – Eh! Eh! – a man wad drive;

An’ here, our workin’ gauges give one hunder sixty-five!

We’re creepin’ on wi’ each new rig – less weight an’ larger power;

30

There’ll be the loco-boiler next an’ thirty mile an hour!

Thirty an’ more. What I ha’ seen since ocean-steam began

Leaves me na doot for the machine: but what about the man?

The man that counts, wi’ all his runs, one million mile o’sea:

Four time the span from earth to moon … How far, O Lord, from Thee

35

That wast beside him night an’ day? Ye mind my first typhoon?

It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi’ the saloon.

Three feet were on the stokehold-floor – just slappin’ to an’ fro –

An’ cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show.

Marks! I ha’ marks o’ more than burns – deep in my soul an’ black,

40

An’ times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back.

The sins o’ four an’ forty years, all up an’ down the seas,

Clack an’ repeat like valves half-fed … Forgie’s our trespasses!

Nights when I’d come on deck to mark, wi’ envy in my gaze,

The couples kittlin’ in the dark between the funnel-stays;

45

Years when I raked the Ports wi’ pride to fill my cup o’ wrong –

Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong!

Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin, when I abode –

Jane Harrigan’s an’ Number Nine, The Reddick an’ Grant Road!

An’ waur than all – my crownin’ sin – rank blasphemy an’ wild.

50

I wasna four and twenty then – Ye wadna judge a child?

I’d seen the Tropics first that run – new fruit, new smells, new air –

How could I tell – blind-fou wi’ sun – the Deil was lurkin’ there?

By day like playhouse-scenes the shore slid past our sleepy eyes;

By night those soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies,

55

In port (we used no cargo-steam) I’d daunder down the streets –

An ijjit grinnin’ in a dream – for shells an’ parrakeets,

An’ walkin’-sticks o’ carved bamboo an’ blowfish stuffed an’ dried –

Fillin’ my bunk wi’ rubbishry the Chief put overside,

Till, off Sambawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a land-breeze ca’,

60

Milk-warm wi’ breath o’ spice an’ bloom: ‘McAndrew, come awa’!’

Firm, clear an’ low – no haste, no hate – the ghostly whisper went,

Just statin’ eevidential facts beyon’ all argument:

‘Your mither’s God’s a graspin’ deil, the shadow o’ yoursel’,

Got out o’ books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an’ Hell.

65

They mak’ him in the Broomielaw, o’ Glasgie cold an’ dirt,

A jealous, pridefu’ fetish, lad, that’s only strong to hurt.

Ye’ll not go back to Him again an’ kiss His red-hot rod,

But come wi’ Us’ (Now, who were They?) ‘an’ know the Leevin’ God,

That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest,

70

But swells the ripenin’ cocoanuts an’ ripes the woman’s breast.’

An’ there it stopped – cut off – no more – that quiet, certain voice –

For me, six months o’ twenty-four, to leave or take at choice.

’Twas on me like a thunderclap – it racked me through an’ through –

Temptation past the show o’ speech, unnameable an’ new –

75

The Sin against the Holy Ghost? … An’ under all, our screw.

That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin’ swell.

Thou knowest all my heart an’ mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell –

Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell!

Yet was Thy Hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy Care –

80

Fra’ Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o’ despair,

But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer! …

We daredna run that sea by night but lay an’ held our fire,

An’ I was drowsin’ on the hatch – sick – sick wi’ doubt an’ tire:

‘Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin’ o’ desire!’

85

Ye mind that word? Clear as our gongs – again, an’ once again,

When rippin’ down through coral-trash ran out our moorin’-chain:

An’, by Thy Grace, I had the Light to see my duty plain.

Light on the engine-room – no more – bright as our carbons burn.

I’ve lost it since a thousand times, but never past return!

90

Obsairve! Per annum we’ll have here two thousand souls aboard –

Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord,

But – average fifteen hunder souls safe-borne fra’ port to port –

I am o’ service to my kind. Ye wadna blame the thought?

Maybe they steam from Grace to Wrath – to sin by folly led –

95

It isna mine to judge their path – their lives are on my head.

Mine at the last – when all is done it all comes back to me,

The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon the sea.

We’ll tak’ one stretch – three weeks an’ odd by ony road ye steer –

Fra’ Cape Town east to Wellington – ye need an engineer.

100

Fail there – ye’ve time to weld your shaft – ay, eat it, ere ye’re spoke;

Or make Kerguelen under sail – three jiggers burned wi’ smoke!

An’ home again – the Rio run: it’s no child’s play to go

Steamin’ to bell for fourteen days o’ snow an’ floe an’ blow.

The bergs like kelpies overside that girn an’ turn an’ shift

105

Whaur, grindin’ like the Mills o’ God, goes by the big South drift.

(Hail, Snow and Ice that praise the Lord. I’ve met them at their work,

An’ wished we had anither route or they anither kirk.)

Yon’s strain, hard strain, o’ head an’ hand, for though Thy Power brings

All skill to naught, Ye’ll understand a man must think o’ things.

110

Then, at the last, we’ll get to port an’ hoist their baggage clear –

The passengers, wi’ gloves an’ canes – an’ this is what I’ll hear:

‘Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage. The tender’s comin’ now.’

While I go testin’ follower-bolts an’ watch the skipper bow.

They’ve words for every one but me – shake hands wi’ half the crew,

115

Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew.

An’ yet I like the wark for all we’ve dam’-few pickin’s here –

No pension, an’ the most we’ll earn’s four hunder pound a year.

Better myself abroad? Maybe. I’d sooner starve than sail

Wi’ such as call a snifter-rod ross … French for nightingale.

120

Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I cannot afford

To lie like stewards wi’ patty-pans. I’m older than the Board.

A bonus on the coal I save? Ou ay, the Scots are close,

But when I grudge the strength Ye gave I’ll grudge their food to those.

(There’s bricks that I might recommend – an’ clink the fire-bars cruel.

125

No! Welsh – Wangarti at the worst – an’ damn all patent fuel!)

Inventions? Ye must stay in port to mak’ a patent pay.

My Deeferential Valve-Gear taught me how that business lay.

I blame no chaps wi’ clearer heads for aught they make or sell.

I found that I could not invent an’ look to these as well.

130

So, wrestled wi’ Apollyon – Nah! – fretted like a bairn –

But burned the workin’-plans last run, wi’ all I hoped to earn.

Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an’ what that meant to me –

E’en tak’ it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee …

Below there! Oiler! What’s your wark? Ye find it runnin’ hard?

135

Ye needn’t swill the cup wi’ oil – this isn’t the Cunard!

Ye thought? Ye are not paid to think. Go, sweat that off again!

Tck! Tck! It’s deeficult to sweer nor tak’ The Name in vain!

Men, ay, an’ women, call me stern. Wi’ these to oversee,

Ye’ll note I’ve little time to burn on social repartee.

140

The bairns see what their elders miss; they’ll hunt me to an’ fro,

Till for the sake of – well, a kiss – I tak’ ’em down below.

That minds me of our Viscount loon – Sir Kenneth’s kin – the chap

Wi’ Russia-leather tennis-shoon an’ spar-decked yachtin’-cap.

I showed him round last week, o’er all – an’ at the last says he:

145

‘Mister McAndrew, don’t you think steam spoils romance at sea?’

Damned ijjit! I’d been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws,

Manholin’, on my back – the cranks three inches off my nose.

Romance! Those first-class passengers they like it very well,

Printed an’ bound in little books; but why don’t poets tell?

150

I’m sick of all their quirks an’ turns – the loves an’ doves they dream –

Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o’ Steam!

To match wi’ Scotia’s noblest speech yon orchestra sublime

Whaurto – uplifted like the Just – the tail-rods mark the time.

The crank-throws give the double-bass, the feed-pump sobs an’ heaves,

155

An’ now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves:

Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides,

Till – hear that note? – the rod’s return whings glimmerin’ through the guides.

They’re all awa’! True beat, full power, the clangin’ chorus goes

Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin’ dynamoes.

160

Interdependence absolute, foreseen, ordained, decreed,

To work, Ye’ll note, at ony tilt an’ every rate o’ speed.

Fra’ skylight-lift to furnace-bars, backed, bolted, braced an’ stayed,

An’ singin’ like the Mornin’ Stars for joy that they are made;

While, out o’ touch o’ vanity, the sweatin’ thrust-block says:

165

‘Not unto us the praise, or man – not unto us the praise!’

Now, a’ together, hear them lift their lesson – theirs an’ mine:

‘Law, Orrder, Duty an’ Restraint, Obedience, Discipline!’

Mill, forge an’ try-pit taught them that when roarin’ they arose,

An’ whiles I wonder if a soul was gied them wi’ the blows.

170

Oh for a man to weld it then, in one trip-hammer strain,

Till even first-class passengers could tell the meanin’ plain!

But no one cares except mysel’ that serve an’ understand

My seven thousand horse-power here. Eh, Lord! They’re grand – they’re grand!

Uplift am I? When first in store the new-made beasties stood,

175

Were Ye cast down that breathed the Word declarin’ all things good?

Not so! O’ that warld-liftin’ joy no after-fall could vex,

Ye’ve left a glimmer still to cheer the Man – the Arrtifex!

That holds, in spite o’ knock and scale, o’ friction, waste an’ slip,

An’ by that light – now, mark my word – we’ll build the Perfect Ship.

180

I’ll never last to judge her lines or take her curve – not I.

But I ha’ lived an’ I ha’ worked. Be thanks to Thee, Most High!

An’ I ha’ done what I ha’ done – judge Thou if ill or well –

Always Thy Grace preventin’ me …

Losh! Yon’s the ‘Stand-by’ bell.

185

Pilot so soon? His flare it is. The mornin’-watch is set.

Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin’, I’m no Pelagian yet.

Now I’ll tak’ on …

’Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought

What your good leddy costs in coal? … I’ll burn ’em down to port.

‘The Men that fought at Minden’

(IN THE LODGE OF INSTRUCTION)

The men that fought at Minden, they was rookies in their time –

So was them that fought at Waterloo!

All the ’ole command, yuss, from Minden to Maiwand,

They was once dam’ sweeps like you!

5

Then do not be discouraged, ’Eaven is your ’elper,

We’ll learn you not to forget;

An’ you mustn’t swear an’ curse, or you’ll only catch it worse,

For we’ll make you soldiers yet!

The men that fought at Minden, they ’ad stocks beneath their chins,

10

Six inch ’igh an’ more;

But fatigue it was their pride, an’ they would not be denied

To clean the cook-’ouse floor.

The men that fought at Minden, they had anarchistic bombs

Served to ’em by name of ’and grenades;

15

But they got it in the eye (same as you will by an’ by)

When they clubbed their field-parades.

The men that fought at Minden, they ’ad buttons up an’ down,

Two-an’-twenty dozen of ’em told;

But they didn’t grouse an’ shirk at an hour’s extry work,

20

They kept ’em bright as gold.

The men that fought at Minden, they was armed with musketoons,

Also, they was drilled by ’alberdiers.

I don’t know what they were, but the sergeants took good care

They washed be’ind their ears.

25

The men that fought at Minden, they ’ad ever cash in ’and

Which they did not bank nor save,

But spent it gay an’ free on their betters – such as me –

For the good advice I gave.

The men that fought at Minden, they was civil – yuss, they was –

30

Never didn’t talk o’ rights an’ wrongs,

But they got it with the toe (same as you will get it – so!) –

For interrupting songs.

The men that fought at Minden, they was several other things

Which I don’t remember clear;

35

But that’s the reason why, now the six-year men are dry,

The rooks will stand the beer!

Then do not be discouraged, ’Eaven is your ’elper,

We’ll learn you not to forget;

An’ you mustn’t swear an’ curse, or you’ll only catch it worse,

40

An’ we’ll make you soldiers yet!

Soldiers yet, if you’ve got it in you –

All for the sake of the Core;

Soldiers yet, if we ’ave to skin you –

Run an’ get the beer, Johnny Raw – Johnny Raw!

45

Ho! run an’ get the beer, Johnny Raw!

‘The stream is shrunk – the pool is dry’

The stream is shrunk – the pool is dry,

And we be comrades, thou and I;

With fevered jowl and dusty flank

Each jostling each along the bank;

5

And, by one drouthy fear made still,

Forgoing thought of quest or kill.

Now ’neath his dam the fawn may see

The lean Pack-wolf as cowed as he,

And the tall buck, unflinching, note

10

The fangs that tore his father’s throat.

The pools are shrunk – the streams are dry,

And we be playmates, thou and I,

Till yonder cloud – Good Hunting! – loose

The rain that breaks our Water Truce.

‘The ’Eathen’

The ’eathen in ’is blindness bows down to wood an’ stone;

’E don’t obey no orders unless they is ’is own;

’E keeps ’is side-arms awful: ’e leaves ’em all about,

An’ then comes up the Regiment an’ pokes the ’eathen out.

5

All along o’ dirtiness, all along o’ mess,

All along o’ doin’ things rather-more-or-less,

All along of abby-nay, kul, an’ hazar-ho,

Mind you keep your rifle an’ yourself jus’ so!

The young recruit is ’aughty – ’e draf’s from Gawd knows where;

10

They bid ’im show ’is stockin’s an’ lay ’is mattress square;

’E calls it bloomin’ nonsense – ’e doesn’t know no more –

An’ then up comes ’is Company an’ kicks ’im round the floor!

The young recruit is ’ammered – ’e takes it very ’ard;

’E ’angs ’is ’ead an’ mutters – ’e sulks about the yard;

15

’E talks o’ ‘cruel tyrants’ which ’e’ll swing for by-an’-by,

An’ the others ’ears an’ mocks ’im, an’ the boy goes orf to cry.

The young recruit is silly – ’e thinks o’ suicide.

’E’s lost ’is gutter-devil; ’e ’asn’t got ’is pride;

But day by day they kicks ’im, which ’elps ’im on a bit,

20

Till ’e finds ’isself one mornin’ with a full an’ proper kit.

Gettin’ clear o’ dirtiness, gettin’ done with mess,

Gettin’ shut o’ doin’ things rather-more-or-less;

Not so fond of abby-nay, kul, nor hazar-ho,

Learns to keep ’is rifle an’ ’isself jus’ so!

25

The young recruit is ’appy – ’e throws a chest to suit;

You see ’im grow mustaches; you ’ear ’im slap ’is boot.

’E learns to drop the ‘bloodies’ from every word ’e slings,

An’ ’e shows an ’ealthy brisket when ’e strips for bars an’ rings.

The cruel-tyrant-Sergeants they watch ’im ’arf a year;

30

They watch ’im with ’is comrades, they watch ’im with ’is beer;

They watch ’im with the women at the Regimental dance,

An’ the cruel-tyrant-Sergeants send ’is name along for ‘Lance.’

An’ now ’e’s ’arf o’ nothin’, an’ all a private yet,

’Is room they up an’ rags ’im to see what they will get.

35

They rags ’im low an’ cunnin’, each dirty trick they can,

But ’e learns to sweat ’is temper an’ ’e learns to sweat ’is man.

An’, last, a Colour-Sergeant, as such to be obeyed,

’E schools ’is men at cricket, ’e tells ’em on parade;

They sees ’im quick an’ ’andy, uncommon set an’ smart,

40

An’ so ’e talks to orficers which ’ave the Core at ’eart.

’E learns to do ’is watchin’ without it showin’ plain;

’E learns to save a dummy, an’ shove ’im straight again;

’E learns to check a ranker that’s buyin’ leave to shirk;

An ’e learns to make men like ’im so they’ll learn to like their work.

45

An’ when it comes to marchin’ he’ll see their socks are right,

An’ when it comes to action ’e shows ’em how to sight.

’E knows their ways of thinkin’ and just what’s in their mind;

’E knows when they are takin’ on an’ when they’ve fell be’ind.

’E knows each talkin’ corp’ral that leads a squad astray;

50

’E feels ’is innards ’eavin’, ’is bowels givin’ way;

’E sees the blue-white faces all tryin’ ’ard to grin,

An ’e stands an’ waits an’ suffers till it’s time to cap ’em in.

An’ now the hugly bullets come peckin’ through the dust,

An’ no one wants to face ’em, but every beggar must;

55

So, like a man in irons, which isn’t glad to go,

They moves ’em off by companies uncommon stiff an’ slow.

Of all ’is five years’ schoolin’ they don’t remember much

Excep’ the not retreatin’, the step an’ keepin’ touch.

It looks like teachin’ wasted when they duck an’ spread an’ ’op –

60

But if ’e ’adn’t learned ’em they’d be all about the shop!

An’ now it’s ‘’Oo goes backward?’ an’ now it’s ‘’Oo comes on?’

And now it’s ‘Get the doolies,’ an’ now the Captain’s gone;

An’ now it’s bloody murder, but all the while they ’ear

’Is voice, the same as barrick-drill, a-shepherdin’ the rear.

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’E’s just as sick as they are, ’is ’eart is like to split.

But ’e works ’em, works ’em, works ’em till he feels ’em take the bit;

The rest is ’oldin’ steady till the watchful bugles play,

An’ ’e lifts ’em, lifts ’em, lifts ’em through the charge that wins the day!

The ’eathen in ’is blindness bows down to wood an’ stone;

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’E don’t obey no orders unless they is ’is own.

The ’eathen in ’is blindness must end where ’e began,

But the backbone of the Army is the Non-commissioned man!

Keep away from dirtiness – keep away from mess,

Don’t get into doin’ things rather-more-or-less!

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Let’s ha’ done with abby-nay, kul, and hazar-ho;

Mind you keep your rifle an’ yourself jus’ so!

The King

‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Cave-men said;

‘With bone well carved He went away.

Flint arms the ignoble arrowhead,

And jasper tips the spear to-day.

5

Changed are the Gods of Hunt and Dance,

And He with these. Farewell, Romance!’

‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Lake-folk sighed;

‘We lift the weight of flatling years;

The caverns of the mountain-side

10

Hold Him who scorns our hutted piers.

Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell,

Guard ye His rest.