diff options
Diffstat (limited to '323-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | 323-h/323-h.htm | 9417 |
1 files changed, 9417 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/323-h/323-h.htm b/323-h/323-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d140d5e --- /dev/null +++ b/323-h/323-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9417 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <title> + The Writings in Prose and Verse Of Kipling + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-family: times new roman; font-size: 100%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses 1889-1896, by Rudyard Kipling + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Verses 1889-1896 + +Author: Rudyard Kipling + +Release Date: June 29, 2008 [EBook #323] +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES 1889-1896 *** + + + + +Produced by Judith Boss and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE WRITINGS IN PROSE AND VERSE OF + </h1> + <h1> + RUDYARD KIPLING + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + VOLUME XI + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h1> + VERSES 1889-1896 + </h1> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_TOC"> <b>CONTENTS FOLLOWED BY FIRST LINES</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS AND OTHERS</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> TOMMY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> “FUZZY-WUZZY” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> SOLDIER, SOLDIER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> SCREW-GUNS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> CELLS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> GUNGA DIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> OONTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> LOOT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> “SNARLEYOW” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> BELTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> MANDALAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> TROOPIN' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> THE WIDOW'S PARTY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> FORD O' KABUL RIVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> GENTLEMEN-RANKERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> ROUTE MARCHIN' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> SHILLIN' A DAY </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> <b>OTHER VERSES</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE LAST SUTTEE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE THIEF </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> THE BALLAD OF THE “BOLIVAR” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> THE SACRIFICE OF ER-HEB </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> THE EXPLANATION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> THE GIFT OF THE SEA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> EVARRA AND HIS GODS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> THE LEGEND OF EVIL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> THE ENGLISH FLAG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> “CLEARED” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> TOMLINSON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> L'ENVOI TO “LIFE'S HANDICAP” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> L'ENVOI </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> <b>THE SEVEN SEAS</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> DEDICATION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> THE SEVEN SEAS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> A SONG OF THE ENGLISH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> THE FIRST CHANTEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> THE LAST CHANTEY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> THE MERCHANTMEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> M'ANDREW'S HYMN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> THE MIRACLES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> THE NATIVE-BORN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> THE KING </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> THE RHYME OF THE THREE SEALERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> THE DERELICT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> THE ANSWER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> THE SONG OF THE BANJO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> THE LINER SHE'S A LADY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> MULHOLLAND'S CONTRACT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> ANCHOR SONG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> THE LOST LEGION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> THE SEA-WIFE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> HYMN BEFORE ACTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> TO THE TRUE ROMANCE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> THE FLOWERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> THE LAST RHYME OF TRUE THOMAS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> THE STORY OF UNG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> THE THREE-DECKER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> AN AMERICAN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> THE “MARY GLOSTER” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> SESTINA OF THE TRAMP-ROYAL </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> <b>BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> “BACK TO THE ARMY AGAIN” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> “BIRDS OF PREY” MARCH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> “SOLDIER AN' SAILOR TOO” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> SAPPERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> THAT DAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> “THE MEN THAT FOUGHT AT MINDEN” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> CHOLERA CAMP </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> THE LADIES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> BILL 'AWKINS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> THE MOTHER-LODGE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> “FOLLOW ME 'OME” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> THE SERGEANT'S WEDDIN' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> THE JACKET </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> THE 'EATHEN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> THE SHUT-EYE SENTRY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> “MARY, PITY WOMEN!” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> FOR TO ADMIRE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> L'ENVOI </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_TOC" id="link2H_TOC"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONTENTS FOLLOWED BY FIRST LINES + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS <br /> 1889-1891 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +TO WOLCOTT BALESTIER + Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled — +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +To T. A. + I have made for you a song, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +DANNY DEEVER + “What are the bugles blowin' for?” said Files-on-Parade. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +TOMMY + I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“FUZZY-WUZZY” + We've fought with many men acrost the seas, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +SOLDIER, SOLDIER + “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +SCREW-GUNS + Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +CELLS + I've a head like a concertina: I've a tongue like a button-stick: +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +GUNGA DIN + You may talk o' gin and beer +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +OONTS + Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +LOOT + If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“SNARLEYOW” + This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR + 'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +BELTS + There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER + When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +MANDALAY + By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +TROOPIN' + Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE WIDOW'S PARTY + “Where have you been this while away?” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +FORD O' KABUL RIVER + Kabul town's by Kabul river, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +GENTLEMEN-RANKERS + To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +ROUTE MARCHIN' + We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +SHILLIN' A DAY + My name is O'Kelly, I've heard the Revelly, +</pre> + <p> + OTHER VERSES + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST + Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE LAST SUTTEE + Udai Chand lay sick to death, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY + Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST + When spring-time flushes the desert grass, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI + The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE + This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE THIEF + O woe is me for the merry life, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS + . . . At the close of a winter day, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN” + It was our war-ship <i>Clampherdown</i>, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE BALLAD OF THE “BOLIVAR” + Seven men from all the world back to Docks again, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE SACRIFICE OF ER-HEB + Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE EXPLANATION + Love and Death once ceased their strife, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE GIFT OF THE SEA + The dead child lay in the shroud, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +EVARRA AND HIS GODS + Read here: This is the story of Evarra — man —, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS + When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE LEGEND OF EVIL + This is the sorrowful story, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE ENGLISH FLAG + Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“CLEARED” + Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT + Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +TOMLINSON + Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +L'ENVOI TO “LIFE'S HANDICAP” + My new-cut ashlar takes the light, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +L'ENVOI + There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, + + +</pre> + <p> + [In India, the swastika is an ancient symbol of good fortune. Kipling + frequently used the swastika in this context.] + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE SEVEN SEAS + 1891-1896 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +DEDICATION + The Cities are full of pride, +</pre> + <p> + THE SEVEN SEAS + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +A SONG OF THE ENGLISH + Fair is our lot — O goodly is our heritage! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Coastwise Lights + Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Song of the Dead + Hear now the Song of the Dead — in the North by the torn berg-edges, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Deep-Sea Cables + The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar —, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Song of the Sons + One from the ends of the earth — gifts at an open door —, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +The Song of the Cities + Royal and Dower-royal, I the Queen, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +England's Answer + Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than to ban, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE FIRST CHANTEY + Mine was the woman to me, darkling I found her, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE LAST CHANTEY + Thus said The Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE MERCHANTMEN + King Solomon drew merchantmen, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +M'ANDREW'S HYMN + Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE MIRACLES + I sent a message to my dear, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE NATIVE-BORN + We've drunk to the Queen — God bless her! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE KING + “Farewell, Romance!” the Cave-men said, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE RHYME OF THE THREE SEALERS + Away by the lands of the Japanee, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE DERELICT + I was the staunchest of our fleet, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE ANSWER + A Rose, in tatters, on the garden path, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE SONG OF THE BANJO + You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE LINER SHE'S A LADY + The Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +MULHOLLAND'S CONTRACT + The fear was on the cattle, for the gale was on the sea, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +ANCHOR SONG + Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again! + FROM “MANY INVENTIONS”. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE LOST LEGION + There's a Legion that never was 'listed, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE SEA-WIFE + There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +HYMN BEFORE ACTION + The earth is full of anger, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +TO THE TRUE ROMANCE + Thy face is far from this our war, + FROM “MANY INVENTIONS”. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE FLOWERS + Buy my English posies! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE LAST RHYME OF TRUE THOMAS + The king has called for priest and cup, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE + In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE STORY OF UNG + Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE THREE-DECKER + Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +AN AMERICAN + If the Led Striker call it a strike, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE “MARY GLOSTER” + I've paid for your sickest fancies; I've humoured your crackedest whim, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +SESTINA OF THE TRAMP-ROYAL + Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all, +</pre> + <p> + BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“BACK TO THE ARMY AGAIN” + I'm 'ere in a ticky ulster an' a broken billycock 'at, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“BIRDS OF PREY” MARCH + March! The mud is cakin' good about our trousies, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“SOLDIER AN' SAILOR TOO” + As I was spitting into the Ditch aboard o' the <i>Crocodile</i>, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +SAPPERS + When the Waters were dried an' the Earth did appear, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THAT DAY + It got beyond all orders an' it got beyond all 'ope, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“THE MEN THAT FOUGHT AT MINDEN” + The men that fought at Minden, they was rookies in their time, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +CHOLERA CAMP + We've got the cholerer in camp — it's worse than forty fights, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE LADIES + I've taken my fun where I've found it, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +BILL 'AWKINS + “'As anybody seen Bill 'Awkins?” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE MOTHER-LODGE + There was Rundle, Station Master, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“FOLLOW ME 'OME” + There was no one like 'im, 'Orse or Foot, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE SERGEANT'S WEDDIN' + 'E was warned agin 'er, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE JACKET + Through the Plagues of Egyp' we was chasin' Arabi, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE 'EATHEN + The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE SHUT-EYE SENTRY + Sez the Junior Orderly Sergeant, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +“MARY, PITY WOMEN!” + You call yourself a man, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +FOR TO ADMIRE + The Injian Ocean sets an' smiles, +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +L'ENVOI + When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried, +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1889-1891 +</pre> + <p> + TO WOLCOTT BALESTIER + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled — + Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled — + Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world. + + They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays, + They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days, + It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth our Father's praise. + + 'Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael's outposts are, + Or buffet a path through the Pit's red wrath when God goes out to war, + Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star. + + They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth — + they dare not grieve for her pain — + They know of toil and the end of toil, they know God's law is plain, + So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that Sin is vain. + + And ofttimes cometh our wise Lord God, master of every trade, + And tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made; + And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid. + + To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame — + Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame, + Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother's spirit came. + + He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth — + E'en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth, + In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth. + + So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high + And made him place at the banquet board — the Strong Men ranged thereby, + Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die. + + Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled, + Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled, + Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To T. A. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have made for you a song, + And it may be right or wrong, + But only you can tell me if it's true; + I have tried for to explain + Both your pleasure and your pain, + And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you! + + O there'll surely come a day + When they'll give you all your pay, + And treat you as a Christian ought to do; + So, until that day comes round, + Heaven keep you safe and sound, + And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you! + R. K. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +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. + For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play, + The regiment's in 'ollow square — they're hangin' him to-day; + They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, + An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. + + “What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?” said Files-on-Parade. + “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; + An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound — + O 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. + “'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'. + + “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 quickstep play, + 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'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TOMMY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, + The publican 'e up an' sez, “We serve no red-coats here.” + The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, + I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: + O 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, + O it's “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play. + + I went into a theatre as sober as could be, + 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, + The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, + O 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 + 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, + O it's “Thin red line of 'eroes” when the drums begin to roll. + + 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”, + 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, + O 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. + 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; + An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool — you bet that Tommy sees! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “FUZZY-WUZZY” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Soudan Expeditionary Force) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We've fought with many men acrost the seas, + An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not: + The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese; + But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot. + We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im: + 'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses, + 'E cut our sentries up at Sua<i>kim</i>, + An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces. + So 'ere's <i>to</i> you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; + You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; + We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed + We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined. + + We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills, + The Boers knocked us silly at a mile, + The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills, + An' a Zulu <i>impi</i> dished us up in style: + But all we ever got from such as they + Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller; + We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say, + But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller. + Then 'ere's <i>to</i> you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid; + Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did. + We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair; + But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square. + + 'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own, + 'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards, + So we must certify the skill 'e's shown + In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords: + When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush + With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear, + An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush + Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year. + So 'ere's <i>to</i> you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more, + If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore; + But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair, + For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square! + + 'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive, + An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead; + 'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive, + An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead. + 'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb! + 'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree, + 'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn + For a Regiment o' British Infantree! + So 'ere's <i>to</i> you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; + You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; + An' 'ere's <i>to</i> you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air — + You big black boundin' beggar — for you broke a British square! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SOLDIER, SOLDIER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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.” + 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, + What did you see o' my true love?” + “I seed '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?” + “I seed '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 — + 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.” + + “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 men beside 'im — + An' you'd best go look for a new love.” + + “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, + 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, + O then I know it's true I've lost my true love!” + “An' I tell you truth again — when you've lost the feel o' pain + You'd best take me for your true love.” + True love! New love! + Best take 'im for a new love, + The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, + An' you'd best take 'im for your true love. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCREW-GUNS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, + I walks in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule, + With seventy gunners be'ind me, an' never a beggar forgets + It's only the pick of the Army + that handles the dear little pets — 'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns — the screw-guns they all love you! + So when we call round with a few guns, + o' course you will know what to do — hoo! hoo! + Jest send in your Chief an' surrender — + it's worse if you fights or you runs: + You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees, + but you don't get away from the guns! + + They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where they ain't: + We'd climb up the side of a sign-board an' trust to the stick o' the paint: + We've chivied the Naga an' Looshai, we've give the Afreedeeman fits, + For we fancies ourselves at two thousand, + we guns that are built in two bits — 'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns . . . + + If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'im an' teaches 'im 'ow to behave; + If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'im an' rattles 'im into 'is grave. + You've got to stand up to our business an' spring without snatchin' or fuss. + D'you say that you sweat with the field-guns? + By God, you must lather with us — 'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns . . . + + The eagles is screamin' around us, the river's a-moanin' below, + We're clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub, + we're out on the rocks an' the snow, + An' the wind is as thin as a whip-lash what carries away to the plains + The rattle an' stamp o' the lead-mules — + the jinglety-jink o' the chains — 'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns . . . + + There's a wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin', + an' a wheel on the edge o' the Pit, + An' a drop into nothin' beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit: + With the sweat runnin' out o' your shirt-sleeves, + an' the sun off the snow in your face, + An' 'arf o' the men on the drag-ropes + to hold the old gun in 'er place — 'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns . . . + + Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, + I climbs in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule. + The monkey can say what our road was — + the wild-goat 'e knows where we passed. + Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin's! + Out drag-ropes! With shrapnel! Hold fast — 'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns — the screw-guns they all love you! + So when we take tea with a few guns, + o' course you will know what to do — hoo! hoo! + Jest send in your Chief an' surrender — + it's worse if you fights or you runs: + You may hide in the caves, they'll be only your graves, + but you can't get away from the guns! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CELLS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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, + O it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B. + For “drunk and resisting the Guard!” + Mad drunk and resisting the Guard — + '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. + '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, + 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 <i>that</i> 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 — + '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.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GUNGA DIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 + 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, + Of all them blackfaced crew + The finest man I knew + Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. + He was “Din! Din! Din! + You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! + Hi! slippery <i>hitherao</i>! + Water, get it! <i>Panee lao</i>! [Bring water swiftly.] + You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.” + + The uniform 'e wore + Was nothin' much before, + 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 + In a sidin' through the day, + Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, + We shouted “Harry By!” [Mr. Atkins's equivalent for “O brother.”] + Till our throats were bricky-dry, + Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. + It was “Din! Din! Din! + You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? + You put some <i>juldee</i> in it [Be quick.] + Or I'll <i>marrow</i> you this minute [Hit you.] + If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!” + + '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, + 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. + With 'is <i>mussick</i> on 'is back, [Water-skin.] + 'E would skip with our attack, + An' watch us till the bugles made “Retire”, + An' for all 'is dirty 'ide + '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, + You could hear the front-files 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. + 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' he plugged me where I bled, + An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green: + It was crawlin' and it stunk, + But of all the drinks I've drunk, + I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. + It was “Din! Din! Din! + '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 + 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. + So I'll meet 'im later on + At the place where 'e is gone — + Where it's always double drill and no canteen; + 'E'll be squattin' on the coals + Givin' drink to poor damned souls, + 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, + You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OONTS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Northern India Transport Train) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire? + It isn't standin' up to charge nor lyin' down to fire; + But it's everlastin' waitin' on a everlastin' road + For the commissariat camel an' 'is commissariat load. + O the oont*, O the oont, O the commissariat oont! + With 'is silly neck a-bobbin' like a basket full o' snakes; + We packs 'im like an idol, an' you ought to 'ear 'im grunt, + An' when we gets 'im loaded up 'is blessed girth-rope breaks. + + * Camel: — <i>oo</i> is pronounced like <i>u</i> in “bull”, but + by Mr. Atkins to rhyme with “front”. + + Wot makes the rear-guard swear so 'ard when night is drorin' in, + An' every native follower is shiverin' for 'is skin? + It ain't the chanst o' being rushed by Paythans from the 'ills, + It's the commissariat camel puttin' on 'is bloomin' frills! + O the oont, O the oont, O the hairy scary oont! + A-trippin' over tent-ropes when we've got the night alarm! + We socks 'im with a stretcher-pole an' 'eads 'im off in front, + An' when we've saved 'is bloomin' life 'e chaws our bloomin' arm. + + The 'orse 'e knows above a bit, the bullock's but a fool, + The elephant's a gentleman, the battery-mule's a mule; + But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said an' done, + 'E's a devil an' a ostrich an' a orphan-child in one. + O the oont, O the oont, O the Gawd-forsaken oont! + The lumpy-'umpy 'ummin'-bird a-singin' where 'e lies, + 'E's blocked the whole division from the rear-guard to the front, + An' when we get him up again — the beggar goes an' dies! + + 'E'll gall an' chafe an' lame an' fight — 'e smells most awful vile; + 'E'll lose 'isself for ever if you let 'im stray a mile; + 'E's game to graze the 'ole day long an' 'owl the 'ole night through, + An' when 'e comes to greasy ground 'e splits 'isself in two. + O the oont, O the oont, O the floppin', droppin' oont! + When 'is long legs give from under an' 'is meltin' eye is dim, + The tribes is up be'ind us, and the tribes is out in front — + It ain't no jam for Tommy, but it's kites an' crows for 'im. + + So when the cruel march is done, an' when the roads is blind, + An' when we sees the camp in front an' 'ears the shots be'ind, + Ho! then we strips 'is saddle off, and all 'is woes is past: + 'E thinks on us that used 'im so, and gets revenge at last. + O the oont, O the oont, O the floatin', bloatin' oont! + The late lamented camel in the water-cut 'e lies; + We keeps a mile be'ind 'im an' we keeps a mile in front, + But 'e gets into the drinkin'-casks, and then o' course we dies. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOOT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back, + If you've ever snigged the washin' from the line, + If you've ever crammed a gander in your bloomin' 'aversack, + You will understand this little song o' mine. + But the service rules are 'ard, an' from such we are debarred, + For the same with English morals does not suit. + (<i>Cornet</i>: Toot! toot!) + W'y, they call a man a robber if 'e stuffs 'is marchin' clobber + With the — + (<i>Chorus</i>) Loo! loo! Lulu! lulu! Loo! loo! Loot! loot! loot! + Ow the loot! + Bloomin' loot! + That's the thing to make the boys git up an' shoot! + It's the same with dogs an' men, + If you'd make 'em come again + Clap 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! + (<i>ff</i>) Whoopee! Tear 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! + + If you've knocked a nigger edgeways when 'e's thrustin' for your life, + You must leave 'im very careful where 'e fell; + An' may thank your stars an' gaiters if you didn't feel 'is knife + That you ain't told off to bury 'im as well. + Then the sweatin' Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars under + Why lootin' should be entered as a crime; + So if my song you'll 'ear, I will learn you plain an' clear + 'Ow to pay yourself for fightin' overtime. + (<i>Chorus</i>) With the loot, . . . + + Now remember when you're 'acking round a gilded Burma god + That 'is eyes is very often precious stones; + An' if you treat a nigger to a dose o' cleanin'-rod + 'E's like to show you everything 'e owns. + When 'e won't prodooce no more, pour some water on the floor + Where you 'ear it answer 'ollow to the boot + (<i>Cornet</i>: Toot! toot!) — + When the ground begins to sink, shove your baynick down the chink, + An' you're sure to touch the — + (<i>Chorus</i>) Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! + Ow the loot! . . . + + When from 'ouse to 'ouse you're 'unting, you must always work in pairs — + It 'alves the gain, but safer you will find — + For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs, + An' a woman comes and clobs 'im from be'ind. + When you've turned 'em inside out, an' it seems beyond a doubt + As if there weren't enough to dust a flute + (<i>Cornet</i>: Toot! toot!) — + Before you sling your 'ook, at the 'ousetops take a look, + For it's underneath the tiles they 'ide the loot. + (<i>Chorus</i>) Ow the loot! . . . + + You can mostly square a Sergint an' a Quartermaster too, + If you only take the proper way to go; + <i>I</i> could never keep my pickin's, but I've learned you all I knew — + An' don't you never say I told you so. + An' now I'll bid good-bye, for I'm gettin' rather dry, + An' I see another tunin' up to toot + (<i>Cornet</i>: Toot! toot!) — + So 'ere's good-luck to those that wears the Widow's clo'es, + An' the Devil send 'em all they want o' loot! + (<i>Chorus</i>) Yes, the loot, + Bloomin' loot! + In the tunic an' the mess-tin an' the boot! + It's the same with dogs an' men, + If you'd make 'em come again + (<i>fff</i>) Whoop 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! + Heeya! Sick 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “SNARLEYOW” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps + Which is first among the women an' amazin' first in war; + An' what the bloomin' battle was I don't remember now, + But Two's off-lead 'e answered to the name o' <i>Snarleyow</i>. + Down in the Infantry, nobody cares; + Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears; + But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog + Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog! + + They was movin' into action, they was needed very sore, + To learn a little schoolin' to a native army corps, + They 'ad nipped against an uphill, they was tuckin' down the brow, + When a tricky, trundlin' roundshot give the knock to <i>Snarleyow</i>. + + They cut 'im loose an' left 'im — 'e was almost tore in two — + But he tried to follow after as a well-trained 'orse should do; + 'E went an' fouled the limber, an' the Driver's Brother squeals: + “Pull up, pull up for <i>Snarleyow</i> — 'is head's between 'is 'eels!” + + The Driver 'umped 'is shoulder, for the wheels was goin' round, + An' there ain't no “Stop, conductor!” when a batt'ry's changin' ground; + Sez 'e: “I broke the beggar in, an' very sad I feels, + But I couldn't pull up, not for <i>you</i> — your 'ead between your 'eels!” + + 'E 'adn't 'ardly spoke the word, before a droppin' shell + A little right the batt'ry an' between the sections fell; + An' when the smoke 'ad cleared away, before the limber wheels, + There lay the Driver's Brother with 'is 'ead between 'is 'eels. + + Then sez the Driver's Brother, an' 'is words was very plain, + “For Gawd's own sake get over me, an' put me out o' pain.” + They saw 'is wounds was mortial, an' they judged that it was best, + So they took an' drove the limber straight across 'is back an' chest. + + The Driver 'e give nothin' 'cept a little coughin' grunt, + But 'e swung 'is 'orses 'andsome when it came to “Action Front!” + An' if one wheel was juicy, you may lay your Monday head + 'Twas juicier for the niggers when the case begun to spread. + + The moril of this story, it is plainly to be seen: + You 'avn't got no families when servin' of the Queen — + You 'avn't got no brothers, fathers, sisters, wives, or sons — + If you want to win your battles take an' work your bloomin' guns! + Down in the Infantry, nobody cares; + Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears; + But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog + Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + '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. + (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. + (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. + (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. + (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”! + (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. + (Poor beggars! — it's always they guns!) + + We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor, + It's safest to let 'er alone: + For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land + Wherever the bugles are blown. + (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. + (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. + (Poor beggars! — they'll never see 'ome!) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BELTS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay, + Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree; + It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark: + The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park. + For it was: — “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!” + An' it was “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!” + O buckle an' tongue + Was the song that we sung + From Harrison's down to the Park! + + There was a row in Silver Street — the regiments was out, + They called us “Delhi Rebels”, an' we answered “Threes about!” + That drew them like a hornet's nest — we met them good an' large, + The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge. + Then it was: — “Belts . . . + + There was a row in Silver Street — an' I was in it too; + We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru! + I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm + A <i>Freeman's Journal Supplemint</i> was all my uniform. + O it was: — “Belts . . . + + There was a row in Silver Street — they sent the Polis there, + The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care; + But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose, + Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es. + For it was: — “Belts . . . + + There was a row in Silver Street — it might ha' raged till now, + But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how; + 'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run: + An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun. + While it was: — “Belts . . . + + There was a row in Silver Street — but that put down the shine, + Wid each man whisperin' to his next: “'Twas never work o' mine!” + We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him, + The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him. + When it was: — “Belts . . . + + There was a row in Silver Street — it isn't over yet, + For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get; + 'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie: + There was a row in Silver Street — begod, I wonder why! + But it was: — “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!” + An' it was “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!” + O buckle an' tongue + Was the song that we sung + From Harrison's down to the Park! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, + Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, + Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, + So-oldier <i>OF</i> the Queen! + + Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day, + 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, + 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 — + Keep out of the wet and 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: + You <i>must</i> 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, + Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; + Be handy and civil, and 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 — + 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 loath + To shoot when you catch 'em — you'll swing, on my oath! — + Make 'im take 'er and 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, + Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, + Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck + And march to your front like a soldier. + Front, front, front like a soldier . . . + + When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, + Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; + She's 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, + 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, + Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: + So take open order, lie down, and sit tight, + And wait for supports like a soldier. + Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . . + + When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, + And the women come out to cut up what remains, + Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains + An' go to your Gawd like a soldier. + Go, go, go like a soldier, + Go, go, go like a soldier, + Go, go, go like a soldier, + So-oldier <i>of</i> the Queen! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MANDALAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, + There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; + For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: + “Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!” + 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, + 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: + 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, + She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing “<i>Kulla-lo-lo!</i>” + With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek + We useter watch the steamers an' the <i>hathis</i> pilin' teak. + Elephints a-pilin' teak + In the sludgy, squdgy creek, + 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 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; + An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: + “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 . . . + + I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, + An' the blasted Henglish 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 — + 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; + 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! + On the road to Mandalay, + Where the flyin'-fishes play, + An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TROOPIN' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (Our Army in the East) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea: + 'Ere's September come again — the six-year men are free. + O leave the dead be'ind us, for they cannot come away + To where the ship's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome to-day. + We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome, + Our ship is at the shore, + An' you must pack your 'aversack, + For we won't come back no more. + Ho, don't you grieve for me, + My lovely Mary-Ann, + For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit + As a time-expired man. + + The <i>Malabar</i>'s in 'arbour with the <i>Jumner</i> at 'er tail, + An' the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders for to sail. + Ho! the weary waitin' when on Khyber 'ills we lay, + But the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders 'ome to-day. + + They'll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an' wet an' rain, + All wearin' Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain; + They'll kill us of pneumonia — for that's their little way — + But damn the chills and fever, men, we're goin' 'ome to-day! + + Troopin', troopin', winter's round again! + See the new draf's pourin' in for the old campaign; + Ho, you poor recruities, but you've got to earn your pay — + What's the last from Lunnon, lads? We're goin' there to-day. + + Troopin', troopin', give another cheer — + 'Ere's to English women an' a quart of English beer. + The Colonel an' the regiment an' all who've got to stay, + Gawd's mercy strike 'em gentle — Whoop! we're goin' 'ome to-day. + We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome, + Our ship is at the shore, + An' you must pack your 'aversack, + For we won't come back no more. + Ho, don't you grieve for me, + My lovely Mary-Ann, + For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit + As a time-expired man. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WIDOW'S PARTY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Where have you been this while away, + Johnnie, Johnnie?” + 'Long with the rest on a picnic lay, + Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha! + 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. + (<i>Bugle</i>: Ta—rara—ra-ra-rara!) + + “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, + 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?” + 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, + 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! + 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, + 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, + 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>I</i> don't know, + 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. + (<i>Bugle</i>: Ta—rara—ra-ra-rara!) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FORD O' KABUL RIVER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + 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 — + Blow the bugle, draw the sword — + 'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is face + Wet an' drippin' by the ford! + Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, + Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! + 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 and dust — + Blow the bugle, draw the sword — + I'd ha' sooner drownded fust + '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. + + 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, + 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 — + '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, + 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. + 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 o' callin' + 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GENTLEMEN-RANKERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned, + To my brethren in their sorrow overseas, + Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed, + And a trooper of the Empress, if you please. + Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses, + And faith he went the pace and went it blind, + And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin, + But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind. + We're poor little lambs who've lost our way, + Baa! Baa! Baa! + We're little black sheep who've gone astray, + Baa—aa—aa! + Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree, + Damned from here to Eternity, + God ha' mercy on such as we, + Baa! Yah! Bah! + + Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops, + And it's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell, + To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops + And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well. + Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be “Rider” to your troop, + And branded with a blasted worsted spur, + When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being cleanly + Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you “Sir”. + + If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep, + And all we know most distant and most dear, + Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep, + Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer? + When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters + And the horror of our fall is written plain, + Every secret, self-revealing on the aching white-washed ceiling, + Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain? + + We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth, + We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung, + And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth. + God help us, for we knew the worst too young! + Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence, + Our pride it is to know no spur of pride, + And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us + And we die, and none can tell Them where we died. + We're poor little lambs who've lost our way, + Baa! Baa! Baa! + We're little black sheep who've gone astray, + Baa—aa—aa! + Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree, + Damned from here to Eternity, + God ha' mercy on such as we, + Baa! Yah! Bah! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROUTE MARCHIN' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains, + A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains; + Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed, + There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road; + With its best foot first + And the road a-sliding past, + An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last; + While the Big Drum says, + With 'is “<i>rowdy-dowdy-dow!</i>” — + “<i>Kiko kissywarsti</i> don't you <i>hamsher argy jow?</i>”* + + * Why don't you get on? + + Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see, + There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree, + An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind, + An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind. + While it's best foot first, . . . + + At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come, + Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome. + But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts, + While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts. + An' it's best foot first, . . . + + Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings, + An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things, + An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at, + An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the <i>bat</i>.* + An' it's best foot first, . . . + + * Language. Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that + he is a profound Orientalist and a fluent speaker of Hindustani. + As a matter of fact, he depends largely on the sign-language. + + It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease, + To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees, + For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards, + So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards. + Till it's best foot first, . . . + + So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore, + There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore; + An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell, + You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well. + For it's best foot first, . . . + + We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand, + Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band; + Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed, + There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road; + With its best foot first + And the road a-sliding past, + An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last; + While the Big Drum says, + With 'is “<i>rowdy-dowdy-dow!</i>” — + “<i>Kiko kissywarsti</i> don't you <i>hamsher argy jow?</i>” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SHILLIN' A DAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My name is O'Kelly, I've heard the Revelly + From Birr to Bareilly, from Leeds to Lahore, + Hong-Kong and Peshawur, + Lucknow and Etawah, + And fifty-five more all endin' in “pore”. + Black Death and his quickness, the depth and the thickness, + Of sorrow and sickness I've known on my way, + But I'm old and I'm nervis, + I'm cast from the Service, + And all I deserve is a shillin' a day. + (<i>Chorus</i>) Shillin' a day, + Bloomin' good pay — + Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day! + + Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days I + Went slap for the Ghazi, my sword at my side, + When we rode Hell-for-leather + Both squadrons together, + That didn't care whether we lived or we died. + But it's no use despairin', my wife must go charin' + An' me commissairin' the pay-bills to better, + So if me you be'old + In the wet and the cold, + By the Grand Metropold, won't you give me a letter? + (<i>Full chorus</i>) Give 'im a letter — + 'Can't do no better, + Late Troop-Sergeant-Major an' — runs with a letter! + Think what 'e's been, + Think what 'e's seen, + Think of his pension an' —— + + GAWD SAVE THE QUEEN. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OTHER VERSES + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, + Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; + But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, + When two strong men stand face to face, + tho' they come from the ends of the earth! + + Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side, + And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride: + He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, + And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. + Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides: + “Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?” + Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar: + “If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. + At dusk he harries the Abazai — at dawn he is into Bonair, + But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, + So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, + By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai. + But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, + For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men. + There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, + And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.” + The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, + With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell + and the head of the gallows-tree. + The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat — + Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. + He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, + Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, + Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back, + And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. + He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. + “Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “Show now if ye can ride.” + It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go, + The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. + The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, + But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. + There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, + And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. + They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, + The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. + The dun he fell at a water-course — in a woful heap fell he, + And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. + He has knocked the pistol out of his hand — small room was there to strive, + “'Twas only by favour of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive: + There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, + But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. + If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, + The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row: + If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, + The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.” + Lightly answered the Colonel's son: “Do good to bird and beast, + But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. + If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, + Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. + They will feed their horse on the standing crop, + their men on the garnered grain, + The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. + But if thou thinkest the price be fair, — thy brethren wait to sup, + The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, — howl, dog, and call them up! + And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, + Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!” + Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. + “No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet. + May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; + What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?” + Lightly answered the Colonel's son: “I hold by the blood of my clan: + Take up the mare for my father's gift — by God, she has carried a man!” + The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast; + “We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger best. + So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein, + My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.” + The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, + “Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he; + “will ye take the mate from a friend?” + “A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb. + Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!” + With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest — + He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. + “Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides, + And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. + Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, + Thy life is his — thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. + So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, + And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line, + And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power — + Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.” + + They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, + They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: + They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, + On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God. + The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun, + And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. + And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear — + There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. + “Ha' done! ha' done!” said the Colonel's son. + “Put up the steel at your sides! + Last night ye had struck at a Border thief — + to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!” + + Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, + Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; + But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, + When two strong men stand face to face, + tho' they come from the ends of the earth! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAST SUTTEE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not many years ago a King died in one of the Rajpoot States. + His wives, disregarding the orders of the English against Suttee, + would have broken out of the palace had not the gates been barred. + But one of them, disguised as the King's favourite dancing-girl, + passed through the line of guards and reached the pyre. There, + her courage failing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court, + to kill her. This he did, not knowing who she was. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Udai Chand lay sick to death + In his hold by Gungra hill. + All night we heard the death-gongs ring + For the soul of the dying Rajpoot King, + All night beat up from the women's wing + A cry that we could not still. + + All night the barons came and went, + The lords of the outer guard: + All night the cressets glimmered pale + On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail, + Mewar headstall and Marwar mail, + That clinked in the palace yard. + + In the Golden room on the palace roof + All night he fought for air: + And there was sobbing behind the screen, + Rustle and whisper of women unseen, + And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen + On the death she might not share. + + He passed at dawn — the death-fire leaped + From ridge to river-head, + From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars: + And wail upon wail went up to the stars + Behind the grim zenana-bars, + When they knew that the King was dead. + + The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth + And robe him for the pyre. + The Boondi Queen beneath us cried: + “See, now, that we die as our mothers died + In the bridal-bed by our master's side! + Out, women! — to the fire!” + + We drove the great gates home apace: + White hands were on the sill: + But ere the rush of the unseen feet + Had reached the turn to the open street, + The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat — + We held the dovecot still. + + A face looked down in the gathering day, + And laughing spoke from the wall: + “Oh]/e, they mourn here: let me by — + Azizun, the Lucknow nautch-girl, I! + When the house is rotten, the rats must fly, + And I seek another thrall. + + “For I ruled the King as ne'er did Queen, — + To-night the Queens rule me! + Guard them safely, but let me go, + Or ever they pay the debt they owe + In scourge and torture!” She leaped below, + And the grim guard watched her flee. + + They knew that the King had spent his soul + On a North-bred dancing-girl: + That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god, + And kissed the ground where her feet had trod, + And doomed to death at her drunken nod, + And swore by her lightest curl. + + We bore the King to his fathers' place, + Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand: + Where the gray apes swing, and the peacocks preen + On fretted pillar and jewelled screen, + And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen + On the drift of the desert sand. + + The herald read his titles forth, + We set the logs aglow: + “Friend of the English, free from fear, + Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer, + Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer, + King of the Jungle, — go!” + + All night the red flame stabbed the sky + With wavering wind-tossed spears: + And out of a shattered temple crept + A woman who veiled her head and wept, + And called on the King — but the great King slept, + And turned not for her tears. + + Small thought had he to mark the strife — + Cold fear with hot desire — + When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame, + And thrice she beat her breast for shame, + And thrice like a wounded dove she came + And moaned about the fire. + + One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze, + The silent streets between, + Who had stood by the King in sport and fray, + To blade in ambush or boar at bay, + And he was a baron old and gray, + And kin to the Boondi Queen. + + He said: “O shameless, put aside + The veil upon thy brow! + Who held the King and all his land + To the wanton will of a harlot's hand! + Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand? + Stoop down, and call him now!” + + Then she: “By the faith of my tarnished soul, + All things I did not well, + I had hoped to clear ere the fire died, + And lay me down by my master's side + To rule in Heaven his only bride, + While the others howl in Hell. + + “But I have felt the fire's breath, + And hard it is to die! + Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord + To sully the steel of a Thakur's sword + With base-born blood of a trade abhorred,” — + And the Thakur answered, “Ay.” + + He drew and struck: the straight blade drank + The life beneath the breast. + “I had looked for the Queen to face the flame, + But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame — + Sister of mine, pass, free from shame, + Pass with thy King to rest!” + + The black log crashed above the white: + The little flames and lean, + Red as slaughter and blue as steel, + That whistled and fluttered from head to heel, + Leaped up anew, for they found their meal + On the heart of — the Boondi Queen! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told. + His mercy fills the Khyber hills — his grace is manifold; + He has taken toll of the North and the South — + his glory reacheth far, + And they tell the tale of his charity from Balkh to Kandahar</i>. + + Before the old Peshawur Gate, where Kurd and Kaffir meet, + The Governor of Kabul dealt the Justice of the Street, + And that was strait as running noose and swift as plunging knife, + Tho' he who held the longer purse might hold the longer life. + + There was a hound of Hindustan had struck a Euzufzai, + Wherefore they spat upon his face and led him out to die. + It chanced the King went forth that hour when throat was bared to knife; + The Kaffir grovelled under-hoof and clamoured for his life. + + Then said the King: “Have hope, O friend! Yea, Death disgraced is hard; + Much honour shall be thine”; and called the Captain of the Guard, + Yar Khan, a bastard of the Blood, so city-babble saith, + And he was honoured of the King — the which is salt to Death; + And he was son of Daoud Shah, the Reiver of the Plains, + And blood of old Durani Lords ran fire in his veins; + And 'twas to tame an Afghan pride nor Hell nor Heaven could bind, + The King would make him butcher to a yelping cur of Hind. + + “Strike!” said the King. “King's blood art thou — + his death shall be his pride!” + Then louder, that the crowd might catch: “Fear not — his arms are tied!” + Yar Khan drew clear the Khyber knife, and struck, and sheathed again. + “O man, thy will is done,” quoth he; “a King this dog hath slain.” + + <i>Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, to the North and the South is sold. + The North and the South shall open their mouth + to a Ghilzai flag unrolled, + When the big guns speak to the Khyber peak, and his dog-Heratis fly: + Ye have heard the song — How long? How long? + Wolves of the Abazai!</i> + + That night before the watch was set, when all the streets were clear, + The Governor of Kabul spoke: “My King, hast thou no fear? + Thou knowest — thou hast heard,” — his speech died at his master's face. + And grimly said the Afghan King: “I rule the Afghan race. + My path is mine — see thou to thine — to-night upon thy bed + Think who there be in Kabul now that clamour for thy head.” + + That night when all the gates were shut to City and to throne, + Within a little garden-house the King lay down alone. + Before the sinking of the moon, which is the Night of Night, + Yar Khan came softly to the King to make his honour white. + The children of the town had mocked beneath his horse's hoofs, + The harlots of the town had hailed him “butcher!” from their roofs. + But as he groped against the wall, two hands upon him fell, + The King behind his shoulder spake: “Dead man, thou dost not well! + 'Tis ill to jest with Kings by day and seek a boon by night; + And that thou bearest in thy hand is all too sharp to write. + But three days hence, if God be good, and if thy strength remain, + Thou shalt demand one boon of me and bless me in thy pain. + For I am merciful to all, and most of all to thee. + My butcher of the shambles, rest — no knife hast thou for me!” + + <i>Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, + holds hard by the South and the North; + But the Ghilzai knows, ere the melting snows, + when the swollen banks break forth, + When the red-coats crawl to the sungar wall, + and his Usbeg lances fail: + Ye have heard the song — How long? How long? + Wolves of the Zuka Kheyl!</i> + + They stoned him in the rubbish-field when dawn was in the sky, + According to the written word, “See that he do not die.” + + They stoned him till the stones were piled above him on the plain, + And those the labouring limbs displaced they tumbled back again. + + One watched beside the dreary mound that veiled the battered thing, + And him the King with laughter called the Herald of the King. + + It was upon the second night, the night of Ramazan, + The watcher leaning earthward heard the message of Yar Khan. + From shattered breast through shrivelled lips broke forth the rattling breath, + “Creature of God, deliver me from agony of Death.” + + They sought the King among his girls, and risked their lives thereby: + “Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that he die!” + + “Bid him endure until the day,” a lagging answer came; + “The night is short, and he can pray and learn to bless my name.” + + Before the dawn three times he spoke, and on the day once more: + “Creature of God, deliver me, and bless the King therefor!” + + They shot him at the morning prayer, to ease him of his pain, + And when he heard the matchlocks clink, he blessed the King again. + + Which thing the singers made a song for all the world to sing, + So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy of the King. + + <i>Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told, + He has opened his mouth to the North and the South, + they have stuffed his mouth with gold. + Ye know the truth of his tender ruth — and sweet his favours are: + Ye have heard the song — How long? How long? + from Balkh to Kandahar.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When spring-time flushes the desert grass, + Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass. + Lean are the camels but fat the frails, + Light are the purses but heavy the bales, + As the snowbound trade of the North comes down + To the market-square of Peshawur town. + + In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill, + A kafila camped at the foot of the hill. + Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose, + And tent-peg answered to hammer-nose; + And the picketed ponies, shag and wild, + Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled; + And the bubbling camels beside the load + Sprawled for a furlong adown the road; + And the Persian pussy-cats, brought for sale, + Spat at the dogs from the camel-bale; + And the tribesmen bellowed to hasten the food; + And the camp-fires twinkled by Fort Jumrood; + And there fled on the wings of the gathering dusk + A savour of camels and carpets and musk, + A murmur of voices, a reek of smoke, + To tell us the trade of the Khyber woke. + + The lid of the flesh-pot chattered high, + The knives were whetted and — then came I + To Mahbub Ali the muleteer, + Patching his bridles and counting his gear, + Crammed with the gossip of half a year. + But Mahbub Ali the kindly said, + “Better is speech when the belly is fed.” + So we plunged the hand to the mid-wrist deep + In a cinnamon stew of the fat-tailed sheep, + And he who never hath tasted the food, + By Allah! he knoweth not bad from good. + + We cleansed our beards of the mutton-grease, + We lay on the mats and were filled with peace, + And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south, + With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth. + Four things greater than all things are, — + Women and Horses and Power and War. + We spake of them all, but the last the most, + For I sought a word of a Russian post, + Of a shifty promise, an unsheathed sword + And a gray-coat guard on the Helmund ford. + Then Mahbub Ali lowered his eyes + In the fashion of one who is weaving lies. + Quoth he: “Of the Russians who can say? + When the night is gathering all is gray. + But we look that the gloom of the night shall die + In the morning flush of a blood-red sky. + Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise + To warn a King of his enemies? + We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, + But no man knoweth the mind of the King. + That unsought counsel is cursed of God + Attesteth the story of Wali Dad. + + “His sire was leaky of tongue and pen, + His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen; + And the colt bred close to the vice of each, + For he carried the curse of an unstanched speech. + Therewith madness — so that he sought + The favour of kings at the Kabul court; + And travelled, in hope of honour, far + To the line where the gray-coat squadrons are. + There have I journeyed too — but I + Saw naught, said naught, and — did not die! + He harked to rumour, and snatched at a breath + Of `this one knoweth' and `that one saith', — + Legends that ran from mouth to mouth + Of a gray-coat coming, and sack of the South. + These have I also heard — they pass + With each new spring and the winter grass. + + “Hot-foot southward, forgotten of God, + Back to the city ran Wali Dad, + Even to Kabul — in full durbar + The King held talk with his Chief in War. + Into the press of the crowd he broke, + And what he had heard of the coming spoke. + + “Then Gholam Hyder, the Red Chief, smiled, + As a mother might on a babbling child; + But those who would laugh restrained their breath, + When the face of the King showed dark as death. + Evil it is in full durbar + To cry to a ruler of gathering war! + Slowly he led to a peach-tree small, + That grew by a cleft of the city wall. + And he said to the boy: `They shall praise thy zeal + So long as the red spurt follows the steel. + And the Russ is upon us even now? + Great is thy prudence — await them, thou. + Watch from the tree. Thou art young and strong, + Surely thy vigil is not for long. + The Russ is upon us, thy clamour ran? + Surely an hour shall bring their van. + Wait and watch. When the host is near, + Shout aloud that my men may hear.' + + “Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise + To warn a King of his enemies? + A guard was set that he might not flee — + A score of bayonets ringed the tree. + The peach-bloom fell in showers of snow, + When he shook at his death as he looked below. + By the power of God, who alone is great, + Till the seventh day he fought with his fate. + Then madness took him, and men declare + He mowed in the branches as ape and bear, + And last as a sloth, ere his body failed, + And he hung as a bat in the forks, and wailed, + And sleep the cord of his hands untied, + And he fell, and was caught on the points and died. + + “Heart of my heart, is it meet or wise + To warn a King of his enemies? + We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, + But no man knoweth the mind of the King. + Of the gray-coat coming who can say? + When the night is gathering all is gray. + Two things greater than all things are, + The first is Love, and the second War. + And since we know not how War may prove, + Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>More than a hundred years ago, in a great battle fought near Delhi, + an Indian Prince rode fifty miles after the day was lost + with a beggar-girl, who had loved him and followed him in all his camps, + on his saddle-bow. He lost the girl when almost within sight of safety. + A Maratta trooper tells the story:—</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck, + Our hands and scarfs were saffron-dyed for signal of despair, + When we went forth to Paniput to battle with the <i>Mlech</i>, — + Ere we came back from Paniput and left a kingdom there. + + Thrice thirty thousand men were we to force the Jumna fords — + The hawk-winged horse of Damajee, mailed squadrons of the Bhao, + Stark levies of the southern hills, the Deccan's sharpest swords, + And he the harlot's traitor son the goatherd Mulhar Rao! + + Thrice thirty thousand men were we before the mists had cleared, + The low white mists of morning heard the war-conch scream and bray; + We called upon Bhowani and we gripped them by the beard, + We rolled upon them like a flood and washed their ranks away. + + The children of the hills of Khost before our lances ran, + We drove the black Rohillas back as cattle to the pen; + 'Twas then we needed Mulhar Rao to end what we began, + A thousand men had saved the charge; he fled the field with ten! + + There was no room to clear a sword — no power to strike a blow, + For foot to foot, ay, breast to breast, the battle held us fast — + Save where the naked hill-men ran, and stabbing from below + Brought down the horse and rider and we trampled them and passed. + + To left the roar of musketry rang like a falling flood — + To right the sunshine rippled red from redder lance and blade — + Above the dark <i>Upsaras</i>* flew, beneath us plashed the blood, + And, bellying black against the dust, the Bhagwa Jhanda swayed. + + * The Choosers of the Slain. + + I saw it fall in smoke and fire, the banner of the Bhao; + I heard a voice across the press of one who called in vain: — + “Ho! Anand Rao Nimbalkhur, ride! Get aid of Mulhar Rao! + Go shame his squadrons into fight — the Bhao — the Bhao is slain!” + + Thereat, as when a sand-bar breaks in clotted spume and spray — + When rain of later autumn sweeps the Jumna water-head, + Before their charge from flank to flank our riven ranks gave way; + But of the waters of that flood the Jumna fords ran red. + + I held by Scindia, my lord, as close as man might hold; + A Soobah of the Deccan asks no aid to guard his life; + But Holkar's Horse were flying, and our chiefest chiefs were cold, + And like a flame among us leapt the long lean Northern knife. + + I held by Scindia — my lance from butt to tuft was dyed, + The froth of battle bossed the shield and roped the bridle-chain — + What time beneath our horses' feet a maiden rose and cried, + And clung to Scindia, and I turned a sword-cut from the twain. + + (He set a spell upon the maid in woodlands long ago, + A hunter by the Tapti banks she gave him water there: + He turned her heart to water, and she followed to her woe. + What need had he of Lalun who had twenty maids as fair?) + + Now in that hour strength left my lord; he wrenched his mare aside; + He bound the girl behind him and we slashed and struggled free. + Across the reeling wreck of strife we rode as shadows ride + From Paniput to Delhi town, but not alone were we. + + 'Twas Lutuf-Ullah Populzai laid horse upon our track, + A swine-fed reiver of the North that lusted for the maid; + I might have barred his path awhile, but Scindia called me back, + And I — O woe for Scindia! — I listened and obeyed. + + League after league the formless scrub took shape and glided by — + League after league the white road swirled behind the white mare's feet — + League after league, when leagues were done, we heard the Populzai, + Where sure as Time and swift as Death the tireless footfall beat. + + Noon's eye beheld that shame of flight, the shadows fell, we fled + Where steadfast as the wheeling kite he followed in our train; + The black wolf warred where we had warred, the jackal mocked our dead, + And terror born of twilight-tide made mad the labouring brain. + + I gasped: — “A kingdom waits my lord; her love is but her own. + A day shall mar, a day shall cure for her, but what for thee? + Cut loose the girl: he follows fast. Cut loose and ride alone!” + Then Scindia 'twixt his blistered lips: — “My Queens' Queen shall she be! + + “Of all who ate my bread last night 'twas she alone that came + To seek her love between the spears and find her crown therein! + One shame is mine to-day, what need the weight of double shame? + If once we reach the Delhi gate, though all be lost, I win!” + + We rode — the white mare failed — her trot a staggering stumble grew, — + The cooking-smoke of even rose and weltered and hung low; + And still we heard the Populzai and still we strained anew, + And Delhi town was very near, but nearer was the foe. + + Yea, Delhi town was very near when Lalun whispered: — “Slay! + Lord of my life, the mare sinks fast — stab deep and let me die!” + But Scindia would not, and the maid tore free and flung away, + And turning as she fell we heard the clattering Populzai. + + Then Scindia checked the gasping mare that rocked and groaned for breath, + And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a hand's-breadth in her side — + The hunter and the hunted know how that last pause is death — + The blood had chilled about her heart, she reared and fell and died. + + Our Gods were kind. Before he heard the maiden's piteous scream + A log upon the Delhi road, beneath the mare he lay — + Lost mistress and lost battle passed before him like a dream; + The darkness closed about his eyes — I bore my King away. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone, + Erst a Pretender to Theebaw's throne, + Who harried the district of Alalone: + How he met with his fate and the V.P.P.* + At the hand of Harendra Mukerji, + Senior Gomashta, G.B.T.</i> + + <i>* Value Payable Parcels Post: in which the Government + collects the money for the sender.</i> + + Boh Da Thone was a warrior bold: + His sword and his Snider were bossed with gold, + + And the Peacock Banner his henchmen bore + Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore. + + He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weak + From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak: + + He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean, + He filled old ladies with kerosene: + + While over the water the papers cried, + “The patriot fights for his countryside!” + + But little they cared for the Native Press, + The worn white soldiers in Khaki dress, + + Who tramped through the jungle and camped in the byre, + Who died in the swamp and were tombed in the mire, + + Who gave up their lives, at the Queen's Command, + For the Pride of their Race and the Peace of the Land. + + Now, first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone + Was Captain O'Neil of the “Black Tyrone”, + + And his was a Company, seventy strong, + Who hustled that dissolute Chief along. + + There were lads from Galway and Louth and Meath + Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth, + + And worshipped with fluency, fervour, and zeal + The mud on the boot-heels of “Crook” O'Neil. + + But ever a blight on their labours lay, + And ever their quarry would vanish away, + + Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone + Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone: + + And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends, + The Boh and his trackers were best of friends. + + The word of a scout — a march by night — + A rush through the mist — a scattering fight — + + A volley from cover — a corpse in the clearing — + The glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring — + + The flare of a village — the tally of slain — + And. . .the Boh was abroad “on the raid” again! + + They cursed their luck, as the Irish will, + They gave him credit for cunning and skill, + + They buried their dead, they bolted their beef, + And started anew on the track of the thief + + Till, in place of the “Kalends of Greece”, men said, + “When Crook and his darlings come back with the head.” + + They had hunted the Boh from the hills to the plain — + He doubled and broke for the hills again: + + They had crippled his power for rapine and raid, + They had routed him out of his pet stockade, + + And at last, they came, when the Day Star tired, + To a camp deserted — a village fired. + + A black cross blistered the Morning-gold, + And the body upon it was stark and cold. + + The wind of the dawn went merrily past, + The high grass bowed her plumes to the blast. + + And out of the grass, on a sudden, broke + A spirtle of fire, a whorl of smoke — + + And Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone + Was blessed with a slug in the ulnar-bone — + The gift of his enemy Boh Da Thone. + + (Now a slug that is hammered from telegraph-wire + Is a thorn in the flesh and a rankling fire.) + + . . . . . + + The shot-wound festered — as shot-wounds may + In a steaming barrack at Mandalay. + + The left arm throbbed, and the Captain swore, + “I'd like to be after the Boh once more!” + + The fever held him — the Captain said, + “I'd give a hundred to look at his head!” + + The Hospital punkahs creaked and whirred, + But Babu Harendra (Gomashta) heard. + + He thought of the cane-brake, green and dank, + That girdled his home by the Dacca tank. + + He thought of his wife and his High School son, + He thought — but abandoned the thought — of a gun. + + His sleep was broken by visions dread + Of a shining Boh with a silver head. + + He kept his counsel and went his way, + And swindled the cartmen of half their pay. + + . . . . . + + And the months went on, as the worst must do, + And the Boh returned to the raid anew. + + But the Captain had quitted the long-drawn strife, + And in far Simoorie had taken a wife. + + And she was a damsel of delicate mould, + With hair like the sunshine and heart of gold, + + And little she knew the arms that embraced + Had cloven a man from the brow to the waist: + + And little she knew that the loving lips + Had ordered a quivering life's eclipse, + + And the eye that lit at her lightest breath + Had glared unawed in the Gates of Death. + + (For these be matters a man would hide, + As a general rule, from an innocent Bride.) + + And little the Captain thought of the past, + And, of all men, Babu Harendra last. + + . . . . . + + But slow, in the sludge of the Kathun road, + The Government Bullock Train toted its load. + + Speckless and spotless and shining with <i>ghee</i>, + In the rearmost cart sat the Babu-jee. + + And ever a phantom before him fled + Of a scowling Boh with a silver head. + + Then the lead-cart stuck, though the coolies slaved, + And the cartmen flogged and the escort raved; + + And out of the jungle, with yells and squeals, + Pranced Boh Da Thone, and his gang at his heels! + + Then belching blunderbuss answered back + The Snider's snarl and the carbine's crack, + + And the blithe revolver began to sing + To the blade that twanged on the locking-ring, + + And the brown flesh blued where the bay'net kissed, + As the steel shot back with a wrench and a twist, + + And the great white bullocks with onyx eyes + Watched the souls of the dead arise, + + And over the smoke of the fusillade + The Peacock Banner staggered and swayed. + + Oh, gayest of scrimmages man may see + Is a well-worked rush on the G.B.T.! + + The Babu shook at the horrible sight, + And girded his ponderous loins for flight, + + But Fate had ordained that the Boh should start + On a lone-hand raid of the rearmost cart, + + And out of that cart, with a bellow of woe, + The Babu fell — flat on the top of the Boh! + + For years had Harendra served the State, + To the growth of his purse and the girth of his <i>p]^et</i>. + + There were twenty stone, as the tally-man knows, + On the broad of the chest of this best of Bohs. + + And twenty stone from a height discharged + Are bad for a Boh with a spleen enlarged. + + Oh, short was the struggle — severe was the shock — + He dropped like a bullock — he lay like a block; + + And the Babu above him, convulsed with fear, + Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear. + + And thus in a fashion undignified + The princely pest of the Chindwin died. + + . . . . . + + Turn now to Simoorie where, lapped in his ease, + The Captain is petting the Bride on his knees, + + Where the <i>whit</i> of the bullet, the wounded man's scream + Are mixed as the mist of some devilish dream — + + Forgotten, forgotten the sweat of the shambles + Where the hill-daisy blooms and the gray monkey gambols, + + From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel, + The Peace of the Lord is with Captain O'Neil. + + . . . . . + + Up the hill to Simoorie — most patient of drudges — + The bags on his shoulder, the mail-runner trudges. + + “For Captain O'Neil, <i>Sahib</i>. One hundred and ten + Rupees to collect on delivery.” + Then + + (Their breakfast was stopped while the screw-jack and hammer + Tore waxcloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer;) + + Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow, + With a crash and a thud, rolled — the Head of the Boh! + + And gummed to the scalp was a letter which ran: — + “IN FIELDING FORCE SERVICE. + <i>Encampment</i>, + 10th Jan. + + “Dear Sir, — I have honour to send, <i>as you said</i>, + For final approval (see under) Boh's Head; + + “Was took by myself in most bloody affair. + By High Education brought pressure to bear. + + “Now violate Liberty, time being bad, + To mail V.P.P. (rupees hundred) Please add + + “Whatever Your Honour can pass. Price of Blood + Much cheap at one hundred, and children want food; + + “So trusting Your Honour will somewhat retain + True love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train, + + “And show awful kindness to satisfy me, + I am, + Graceful Master, + Your + H. MUKERJI.” + + . . . . . + + As the rabbit is drawn to the rattlesnake's power, + As the smoker's eye fills at the opium hour, + + As a horse reaches up to the manger above, + As the waiting ear yearns for the whisper of love, + + From the arms of the Bride, iron-visaged and slow, + The Captain bent down to the Head of the Boh. + + And e'en as he looked on the Thing where It lay + 'Twixt the winking new spoons and the napkins' array, + + The freed mind fled back to the long-ago days — + The hand-to-hand scuffle — the smoke and the blaze — + + The forced march at night and the quick rush at dawn — + The banjo at twilight, the burial ere morn — + + The stench of the marshes — the raw, piercing smell + When the overhand stabbing-cut silenced the yell — + + The oaths of his Irish that surged when they stood + Where the black crosses hung o'er the Kuttamow flood. + + As a derelict ship drifts away with the tide + The Captain went out on the Past from his Bride, + + Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year, + When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer. + + As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water, + In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter, + + And men who had fought with O'Neil for the life + Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife. + + For she who had held him so long could not hold him — + Though a four-month Eternity should have controlled him — + + But watched the twin Terror — the head turned to head — + The scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red — + + The spirit that changed from her knowing and flew to + Some grim hidden Past she had never a clue to. + + But It knew as It grinned, for he touched it unfearing, + And muttered aloud, “So you kept that jade earring!” + + Then nodded, and kindly, as friend nods to friend, + “Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end.” + + . . . . . + + The visions departed, and Shame followed Passion: — + “He took what I said in this horrible fashion, + + “<i>I'll</i> write to Harendra!” With language unsainted + The Captain came back to the Bride. . .who had fainted. + + . . . . . + + And this is a fiction? No. Go to Simoorie + And look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri, + + A pert little, Irish-eyed Kathleen Mavournin — + She's always about on the Mall of a mornin' — + + And you'll see, if her right shoulder-strap is displaced, + This: <i>Gules</i> upon <i>argent</i>, a Boh's Head, <i>erased!</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE THIEF + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O woe is me for the merry life + I led beyond the Bar, + And a treble woe for my winsome wife + That weeps at Shalimar. + + They have taken away my long jezail, + My shield and sabre fine, + And heaved me into the Central jail + For lifting of the kine. + + The steer may low within the byre, + The Jat may tend his grain, + But there'll be neither loot nor fire + Till I come back again. + + And God have mercy on the Jat + When once my fetters fall, + And Heaven defend the farmer's hut + When I am loosed from thrall. + + It's woe to bend the stubborn back + Above the grinching quern, + It's woe to hear the leg-bar clack + And jingle when I turn! + + But for the sorrow and the shame, + The brand on me and mine, + I'll pay you back in leaping flame + And loss of the butchered kine. + + For every cow I spared before + In charity set free, + If I may reach my hold once more + I'll reive an honest three. + + For every time I raised the low + That scared the dusty plain, + By sword and cord, by torch and tow + I'll light the land with twain! + + Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai, + Young <i>Sahib</i> with the yellow hair — + Lie close, lie close as khuttucks lie, + Fat herds below Bonair! + + The one I'll shoot at twilight-tide, + At dawn I'll drive the other; + The black shall mourn for hoof and hide, + The white man for his brother. + + 'Tis war, red war, I'll give you then, + War till my sinews fail; + For the wrong you have done to a chief of men, + And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl. + + And if I fall to your hand afresh + I give you leave for the sin, + That you cram my throat with the foul pig's flesh, + And swing me in the skin! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>This ballad appears to refer to one of the exploits of the notorious + Paul Jones, the American pirate. It is founded on fact.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . At the close of a winter day, + Their anchors down, by London town, the Three Great Captains lay; + And one was Admiral of the North from Solway Firth to Skye, + And one was Lord of the Wessex coast and all the lands thereby, + And one was Master of the Thames from Limehouse to Blackwall, + And he was Captain of the Fleet — the bravest of them all. + Their good guns guarded their great gray sides + that were thirty foot in the sheer, + When there came a certain trading-brig with news of a privateer. + Her rigging was rough with the clotted drift that drives in a Northern breeze, + Her sides were clogged with the lazy weed that spawns in the Eastern seas. + Light she rode in the rude tide-rip, to left and right she rolled, + And the skipper sat on the scuttle-butt and stared at an empty hold. + “I ha' paid Port dues for your Law,” quoth he, “and where is the Law ye boast + If I sail unscathed from a heathen port to be robbed on a Christian coast? + Ye have smoked the hives of the Laccadives as we burn the lice in a bunk, + We tack not now to a Gallang prow or a plunging Pei-ho junk; + I had no fear but the seas were clear as far as a sail might fare + Till I met with a lime-washed Yankee brig that rode off Finisterre. + There were canvas blinds to his bow-gun ports to screen the weight he bore, + And the signals ran for a merchantman from Sandy Hook to the Nore. + He would not fly the Rovers' flag — the bloody or the black, + But now he floated the Gridiron and now he flaunted the Jack. + He spoke of the Law as he crimped my crew — he swore it was only a loan; + But when I would ask for my own again, he swore it was none of my own. + He has taken my little parrakeets that nest beneath the Line, + He has stripped my rails of the shaddock-frails and the green unripened pine; + He has taken my bale of dammer and spice I won beyond the seas, + He has taken my grinning heathen gods — and what should he want o' these? + My foremast would not mend his boom, my deckhouse patch his boats; + He has whittled the two, this Yank Yahoo, to peddle for shoe-peg oats. + I could not fight for the failing light and a rough beam-sea beside, + But I hulled him once for a clumsy crimp and twice because he lied. + Had I had guns (as I had goods) to work my Christian harm, + I had run him up from his quarter-deck to trade with his own yard-arm; + I had nailed his ears to my capstan-head, and ripped them off with a saw, + And soused them in the bilgewater, and served them to him raw; + I had flung him blind in a rudderless boat to rot in the rocking dark, + I had towed him aft of his own craft, a bait for his brother shark; + I had lapped him round with cocoa husk, and drenched him with the oil, + And lashed him fast to his own mast to blaze above my spoil; + I had stripped his hide for my hammock-side, + and tasselled his beard i' the mesh, + And spitted his crew on the live bamboo + that grows through the gangrened flesh; + I had hove him down by the mangroves brown, + where the mud-reef sucks and draws, + Moored by the heel to his own keel to wait for the land-crab's claws! + He is lazar within and lime without, ye can nose him far enow, + For he carries the taint of a musky ship — the reek of the slaver's dhow!” + The skipper looked at the tiering guns and the bulwarks tall and cold, + And the Captains Three full courteously peered down at the gutted hold, + And the Captains Three called courteously from deck to scuttle-butt: — + “Good Sir, we ha' dealt with that merchantman or ever your teeth were cut. + Your words be words of a lawless race, and the Law it standeth thus: + He comes of a race that have never a Law, and he never has boarded us. + We ha' sold him canvas and rope and spar — we know that his price is fair, + And we know that he weeps for the lack of a Law as he rides off Finisterre. + And since he is damned for a gallows-thief by you and better than you, + We hold it meet that the English fleet should know that we hold him true.” + The skipper called to the tall taffrail: — “And what is that to me? + Did ever you hear of a Yankee brig that rifled a Seventy-three? + Do I loom so large from your quarter-deck that I lift like a ship o' the Line? + He has learned to run from a shotted gun and harry such craft as mine. + There is never a Law on the Cocos Keys to hold a white man in, + But we do not steal the niggers' meal, for that is a nigger's sin. + Must he have his Law as a quid to chaw, or laid in brass on his wheel? + Does he steal with tears when he buccaneers? + 'Fore Gad, then, why does he steal?” + The skipper bit on a deep-sea word, and the word it was not sweet, + For he could see the Captains Three had signalled to the Fleet. + But three and two, in white and blue, the whimpering flags began: — + “We have heard a tale of a — foreign sail, but he is a merchantman.” + The skipper peered beneath his palm and swore by the Great Horn Spoon: — + “'Fore Gad, the Chaplain of the Fleet would bless my picaroon!” + By two and three the flags blew free to lash the laughing air: — + “We have sold our spars to the merchantman — we know that his price is fair.” + The skipper winked his Western eye, and swore by a China storm: — + “They ha' rigged him a Joseph's jury-coat to keep his honour warm.” + The halliards twanged against the tops, the bunting bellied broad, + The skipper spat in the empty hold and mourned for a wasted cord. + Masthead — masthead, the signal sped by the line o' the British craft; + The skipper called to his Lascar crew, and put her about and laughed: — + “It's mainsail haul, my bully boys all — we'll out to the seas again — + Ere they set us to paint their pirate saint, or scrub at his grapnel-chain. + It's fore-sheet free, with her head to the sea, + and the swing of the unbought brine — + We'll make no sport in an English court till we come as a ship o' the Line: + Till we come as a ship o' the Line, my lads, of thirty foot in the sheer, + Lifting again from the outer main with news of a privateer; + Flying his pluck at our mizzen-truck for weft of Admiralty, + Heaving his head for our dipsey-lead in sign that we keep the sea. + Then fore-sheet home as she lifts to the foam — we stand on the outward tack, + We are paid in the coin of the white man's trade — + the bezant is hard, ay, and black. + The frigate-bird shall carry my word to the Kling and the Orang-Laut + How a man may sail from a heathen coast to be robbed in a Christian port; + How a man may be robbed in Christian port while Three Great Captains there + Shall dip their flag to a slaver's rag — to show that his trade is fair!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was our war-ship <i>Clampherdown</i> + Would sweep the Channel clean, + Wherefore she kept her hatches close + When the merry Channel chops arose, + To save the bleached marine. + + She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton, + And a great stern-gun beside; + They dipped their noses deep in the sea, + They racked their stays and stanchions free + In the wash of the wind-whipped tide. + + It was our war-ship <i>Clampherdown</i>, + Fell in with a cruiser light + That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun + And a pair o' heels wherewith to run + From the grip of a close-fought fight. + + She opened fire at seven miles — + As ye shoot at a bobbing cork — + And once she fired and twice she fired, + Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired + That lolls upon the stalk. + + “Captain, the bow-gun melts apace, + The deck-beams break below, + 'Twere well to rest for an hour or twain, + And botch the shattered plates again.” + And he answered, “Make it so.” + + She opened fire within the mile — + As ye shoot at the flying duck — + And the great stern-gun shot fair and true, + With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue, + And the great stern-turret stuck. + + “Captain, the turret fills with steam, + The feed-pipes burst below — + You can hear the hiss of the helpless ram, + You can hear the twisted runners jam.” + And he answered, “Turn and go!” + + It was our war-ship <i>Clampherdown</i>, + And grimly did she roll; + Swung round to take the cruiser's fire + As the White Whale faces the Thresher's ire + When they war by the frozen Pole. + + “Captain, the shells are falling fast, + And faster still fall we; + And it is not meet for English stock + To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock + The death they cannot see.” + + “Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B., + We drift upon her beam; + We dare not ram, for she can run; + And dare ye fire another gun, + And die in the peeling steam?” + + It was our war-ship <i>Clampherdown</i> + That carried an armour-belt; + But fifty feet at stern and bow + Lay bare as the paunch of the purser's sow, + To the hail of the <i>Nordenfeldt</i>. + + “Captain, they hack us through and through; + The chilled steel bolts are swift! + We have emptied the bunkers in open sea, + Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be.” + And he answered, “Let her drift.” + + It was our war-ship <i>Clampherdown</i>, + Swung round upon the tide, + Her two dumb guns glared south and north, + And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth, + And she ground the cruiser's side. + + “Captain, they cry, the fight is done, + They bid you send your sword.” + And he answered, “Grapple her stern and bow. + They have asked for the steel. They shall have it now; + Out cutlasses and board!” + + It was our war-ship <i>Clampherdown</i> + Spewed up four hundred men; + And the scalded stokers yelped delight, + As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight + Stamp o'er their steel-walled pen. + + They cleared the cruiser end to end, + From conning-tower to hold. + They fought as they fought in Nelson's fleet; + They were stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet, + As it was in the days of old. + + It was the sinking <i>Clampherdown</i> + Heaved up her battered side — + And carried a million pounds in steel, + To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel, + And the scour of the Channel tide. + + It was the crew of the <i>Clampherdown</i> + Stood out to sweep the sea, + On a cruiser won from an ancient foe, + As it was in the days of long ago, + And as it still shall be. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF THE “BOLIVAR” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Seven men from all the world, back to Docks again, + Rolling down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain: + Give the girls another drink 'fore we sign away — + We that took the <i>Bolivar</i> out across the Bay! + + We put out from Sunderland loaded down with rails; + We put back to Sunderland 'cause our cargo shifted; + We put out from Sunderland — met the winter gales — + Seven days and seven nights to the Start we drifted. + Racketing her rivets loose, smoke-stack white as snow, + All the coals adrift adeck, half the rails below, + Leaking like a lobster-pot, steering like a dray — + Out we took the <i>Bolivar</i>, out across the Bay! + + One by one the Lights came up, winked and let us by; + Mile by mile we waddled on, coal and fo'c'sle short; + Met a blow that laid us down, heard a bulkhead fly; + Left the <i>Wolf</i> behind us with a two-foot list to port. + Trailing like a wounded duck, working out her soul; + Clanging like a smithy-shop after every roll; + Just a funnel and a mast lurching through the spray — + So we threshed the <i>Bolivar</i> out across the Bay! + + 'Felt her hog and felt her sag, betted when she'd break; + Wondered every time she raced if she'd stand the shock; + Heard the seas like drunken men pounding at her strake; + Hoped the Lord 'ud keep his thumb on the plummer-block. + Banged against the iron decks, bilges choked with coal; + Flayed and frozen foot and hand, sick of heart and soul; + Last we prayed she'd buck herself into judgment Day — + Hi! we cursed the <i>Bolivar</i> knocking round the Bay! + + O her nose flung up to sky, groaning to be still — + Up and down and back we went, never time for breath; + Then the money paid at Lloyd's caught her by the heel, + And the stars ran round and round dancin' at our death. + Aching for an hour's sleep, dozing off between; + 'Heard the rotten rivets draw when she took it green; + 'Watched the compass chase its tail like a cat at play — + That was on the <i>Bolivar</i>, south across the Bay. + + Once we saw between the squalls, lyin' head to swell — + Mad with work and weariness, wishin' they was we — + Some damned Liner's lights go by like a long hotel; + Cheered her from the <i>Bolivar</i> swampin' in the sea. + Then a grayback cleared us out, then the skipper laughed; + “Boys, the wheel has gone to Hell — rig the winches aft! + Yoke the kicking rudder-head — get her under way!” + So we steered her, pulley-haul, out across the Bay! + + Just a pack o' rotten plates puttied up with tar, + In we came, an' time enough, 'cross Bilbao Bar. + Overloaded, undermanned, meant to founder, we + Euchred God Almighty's storm, bluffed the Eternal Sea! + + Seven men from all the world, back to town again, + Rollin' down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain: + Seven men from out of Hell. Ain't the owners gay, + 'Cause we took the “Bolivar” safe across the Bay? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SACRIFICE OF ER-HEB + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai + Bears witness to the truth, and Ao-Safai + Hath told the men of Gorukh. Thence the tale + Comes westward o'er the peaks to India. + + The story of Bisesa, Armod's child, — + A maiden plighted to the Chief in War, + The Man of Sixty Spears, who held the Pass + That leads to Thibet, but to-day is gone + To seek his comfort of the God called Budh + The Silent — showing how the Sickness ceased + Because of her who died to save the tribe. + + Taman is One and greater than us all, + Taman is One and greater than all Gods: + Taman is Two in One and rides the sky, + Curved like a stallion's croup, from dusk to dawn, + And drums upon it with his heels, whereby + Is bred the neighing thunder in the hills. + + This is Taman, the God of all Er-Heb, + Who was before all Gods, and made all Gods, + And presently will break the Gods he made, + And step upon the Earth to govern men + Who give him milk-dry ewes and cheat his Priests, + Or leave his shrine unlighted — as Er-Heb + Left it unlighted and forgot Taman, + When all the Valley followed after Kysh + And Yabosh, little Gods but very wise, + And from the sky Taman beheld their sin. + + He sent the Sickness out upon the hills, + The Red Horse Sickness with the iron hooves, + To turn the Valley to Taman again. + + And the Red Horse snuffed thrice into the wind, + The naked wind that had no fear of him; + And the Red Horse stamped thrice upon the snow, + The naked snow that had no fear of him; + And the Red Horse went out across the rocks, + The ringing rocks that had no fear of him; + And downward, where the lean birch meets the snow, + And downward, where the gray pine meets the birch, + And downward, where the dwarf oak meets the pine, + Till at his feet our cup-like pastures lay. + + That night, the slow mists of the evening dropped, + Dropped as a cloth upon a dead man's face, + And weltered in the Valley, bluish-white + Like water very silent — spread abroad, + Like water very silent, from the Shrine + Unlighted of Taman to where the stream + Is dammed to fill our cattle-troughs — sent up + White waves that rocked and heaved and then were still, + Till all the Valley glittered like a marsh, + Beneath the moonlight, filled with sluggish mist + Knee-deep, so that men waded as they walked. + + That night, the Red Horse grazed above the Dam, + Beyond the cattle-troughs. Men heard him feed, + And those that heard him sickened where they lay. + + Thus came the Sickness to Er-Heb, and slew + Ten men, strong men, and of the women four; + And the Red Horse went hillward with the dawn, + But near the cattle-troughs his hoof-prints lay. + + That night, the slow mists of the evening dropped, + Dropped as a cloth upon the dead, but rose + A little higher, to a young girl's height; + Till all the Valley glittered like a lake, + Beneath the moonlight, filled with sluggish mist. + + That night, the Red Horse grazed beyond the Dam, + A stone's-throw from the troughs. Men heard him feed, + And those that heard him sickened where they lay. + Thus came the Sickness to Er-Heb, and slew + Of men a score, and of the women eight, + And of the children two. + + Because the road + To Gorukh was a road of enemies, + And Ao-Safai was blocked with early snow, + We could not flee from out the Valley. Death + Smote at us in a slaughter-pen, and Kysh + Was mute as Yabosh, though the goats were slain; + And the Red Horse grazed nightly by the stream, + And later, outward, towards the Unlighted Shrine, + And those that heard him sickened where they lay. + + Then said Bisesa to the Priests at dusk, + When the white mist rose up breast-high, and choked + The voices in the houses of the dead: — + “Yabosh and Kysh avail not. If the Horse + Reach the Unlighted Shrine we surely die. + Ye have forgotten of all Gods the Chief, + Taman!” Here rolled the thunder through the Hills + And Yabosh shook upon his pedestal. + “Ye have forgotten of all Gods the Chief + Too long.” And all were dumb save one, who cried + On Yabosh with the Sapphire 'twixt His knees, + But found no answer in the smoky roof, + And, being smitten of the Sickness, died + Before the altar of the Sapphire Shrine. + + Then said Bisesa: — “I am near to Death, + And have the Wisdom of the Grave for gift + To bear me on the path my feet must tread. + If there be wealth on earth, then I am rich, + For Armod is the first of all Er-Heb; + If there be beauty on the earth,” — her eyes + Dropped for a moment to the temple floor, — + “Ye know that I am fair. If there be love, + Ye know that love is mine.” The Chief in War, + The Man of Sixty Spears, broke from the press, + And would have clasped her, but the Priests withstood, + Saying: — “She has a message from Taman.” + Then said Bisesa: — “By my wealth and love + And beauty, I am chosen of the God + Taman.” Here rolled the thunder through the Hills + And Kysh fell forward on the Mound of Skulls. + + In darkness, and before our Priests, the maid + Between the altars cast her bracelets down, + Therewith the heavy earrings Armod made, + When he was young, out of the water-gold + Of Gorukh — threw the breast-plate thick with jade + Upon the turquoise anklets — put aside + The bands of silver on her brow and neck; + And as the trinkets tinkled on the stones, + The thunder of Taman lowed like a bull. + + Then said Bisesa, stretching out her hands, + As one in darkness fearing Devils: — “Help! + O Priests, I am a woman very weak, + And who am I to know the will of Gods? + Taman hath called me — whither shall I go?” + The Chief in War, the Man of Sixty Spears, + Howled in his torment, fettered by the Priests, + But dared not come to her to drag her forth, + And dared not lift his spear against the Priests. + Then all men wept. + + There was a Priest of Kysh + Bent with a hundred winters, hairless, blind, + And taloned as the great Snow-Eagle is. + His seat was nearest to the altar-fires, + And he was counted dumb among the Priests. + But, whether Kysh decreed, or from Taman + The impotent tongue found utterance we know + As little as the bats beneath the eaves. + He cried so that they heard who stood without: — + “To the Unlighted Shrine!” and crept aside + Into the shadow of his fallen God + And whimpered, and Bisesa went her way. + + That night, the slow mists of the evening dropped, + Dropped as a cloth upon the dead, and rose + Above the roofs, and by the Unlighted Shrine + Lay as the slimy water of the troughs + When murrain thins the cattle of Er-Heb: + And through the mist men heard the Red Horse feed. + + In Armod's house they burned Bisesa's dower, + And killed her black bull Tor, and broke her wheel, + And loosed her hair, as for the marriage-feast, + With cries more loud than mourning for the dead. + + Across the fields, from Armod's dwelling-place, + We heard Bisesa weeping where she passed + To seek the Unlighted Shrine; the Red Horse neighed + And followed her, and on the river-mint + His hooves struck dead and heavy in our ears. + + Out of the mists of evening, as the star + Of Ao-Safai climbs through the black snow-blur + To show the Pass is clear, Bisesa stepped + Upon the great gray slope of mortised stone, + The Causeway of Taman. The Red Horse neighed + Behind her to the Unlighted Shrine — then fled + North to the Mountain where his stable lies. + + They know who dared the anger of Taman, + And watched that night above the clinging mists, + Far up the hill, Bisesa's passing in. + + She set her hand upon the carven door, + Fouled by a myriad bats, and black with time, + Whereon is graved the Glory of Taman + In letters older than the Ao-Safai; + And twice she turned aside and twice she wept, + Cast down upon the threshold, clamouring + For him she loved — the Man of Sixty Spears, + And for her father, — and the black bull Tor, + Hers and her pride. Yea, twice she turned away + Before the awful darkness of the door, + And the great horror of the Wall of Man + Where Man is made the plaything of Taman, + An Eyeless Face that waits above and laughs. + + But the third time she cried and put her palms + Against the hewn stone leaves, and prayed Taman + To spare Er-Heb and take her life for price. + + They know who watched, the doors were rent apart + And closed upon Bisesa, and the rain + Broke like a flood across the Valley, washed + The mist away; but louder than the rain + The thunder of Taman filled men with fear. + + Some say that from the Unlighted Shrine she cried + For succour, very pitifully, thrice, + And others that she sang and had no fear. + And some that there was neither song nor cry, + But only thunder and the lashing rain. + + Howbeit, in the morning men rose up, + Perplexed with horror, crowding to the Shrine. + And when Er-Heb was gathered at the doors + The Priests made lamentation and passed in + To a strange Temple and a God they feared + But knew not. + + From the crevices the grass + Had thrust the altar-slabs apart, the walls + Were gray with stains unclean, the roof-beams swelled + With many-coloured growth of rottenness, + And lichen veiled the Image of Taman + In leprosy. The Basin of the Blood + Above the altar held the morning sun: + A winking ruby on its heart: below, + Face hid in hands, the maid Bisesa lay. + + Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai + Bears witness to the truth, and Ao-Safai + Hath told the men of Gorukh. Thence the tale + Comes westward o'er the peaks to India. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EXPLANATION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Love and Death once ceased their strife + At the Tavern of Man's Life. + Called for wine, and threw — alas! — + Each his quiver on the grass. + When the bout was o'er they found + Mingled arrows strewed the ground. + Hastily they gathered then + Each the loves and lives of men. + Ah, the fateful dawn deceived! + Mingled arrows each one sheaved; + Death's dread armoury was stored + With the shafts he most abhorred; + Love's light quiver groaned beneath + Venom-headed darts of Death. + + Thus it was they wrought our woe + At the Tavern long ago. + Tell me, do our masters know, + Loosing blindly as they fly, + Old men love while young men die? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GIFT OF THE SEA + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The dead child lay in the shroud, + And the widow watched beside; + And her mother slept, and the Channel swept + The gale in the teeth of the tide. + + But the mother laughed at all. + “I have lost my man in the sea, + And the child is dead. Be still,” she said, + “What more can ye do to me?” + + The widow watched the dead, + And the candle guttered low, + And she tried to sing the Passing Song + That bids the poor soul go. + + And “Mary take you now,” she sang, + “That lay against my heart.” + And “Mary smooth your crib to-night,” + But she could not say “Depart.” + + Then came a cry from the sea, + But the sea-rime blinded the glass, + And “Heard ye nothing, mother?” she said, + “'Tis the child that waits to pass.” + + And the nodding mother sighed. + “'Tis a lambing ewe in the whin, + For why should the christened soul cry out + That never knew of sin?” + + “O feet I have held in my hand, + O hands at my heart to catch, + How should they know the road to go, + And how should they lift the latch?” + + They laid a sheet to the door, + With the little quilt atop, + That it might not hurt from the cold or the dirt, + But the crying would not stop. + + The widow lifted the latch + And strained her eyes to see, + And opened the door on the bitter shore + To let the soul go free. + + There was neither glimmer nor ghost, + There was neither spirit nor spark, + And “Heard ye nothing, mother?” she said, + “'Tis crying for me in the dark.” + + And the nodding mother sighed: + “'Tis sorrow makes ye dull; + Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern, + Or the wail of the wind-blown gull?” + + “The terns are blown inland, + The gray gull follows the plough. + 'Twas never a bird, the voice I heard, + O mother, I hear it now!” + + “Lie still, dear lamb, lie still; + The child is passed from harm, + 'Tis the ache in your breast that broke your rest, + And the feel of an empty arm.” + + She put her mother aside, + “In Mary's name let be! + For the peace of my soul I must go,” she said, + And she went to the calling sea. + + In the heel of the wind-bit pier, + Where the twisted weed was piled, + She came to the life she had missed by an hour, + For she came to a little child. + + She laid it into her breast, + And back to her mother she came, + But it would not feed and it would not heed, + Though she gave it her own child's name. + + And the dead child dripped on her breast, + And her own in the shroud lay stark; + And “God forgive us, mother,” she said, + “We let it die in the dark!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EVARRA AND HIS GODS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Read here: + This is the story of Evarra — man — + Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.</i> + Because the city gave him of her gold, + Because the caravans brought turquoises, + Because his life was sheltered by the King, + So that no man should maim him, none should steal, + Or break his rest with babble in the streets + When he was weary after toil, he made + An image of his God in gold and pearl, + With turquoise diadem and human eyes, + A wonder in the sunshine, known afar, + And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride, + Because the city bowed to him for God, + He wrote above the shrine: “<i>Thus Gods are made, + And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.</i>” + And all the city praised him. . . . Then he died. + + <i>Read here the story of Evarra — man — + Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.</i> + Because the city had no wealth to give, + Because the caravans were spoiled afar, + Because his life was threatened by the King, + So that all men despised him in the streets, + He hewed the living rock, with sweat and tears, + And reared a God against the morning-gold, + A terror in the sunshine, seen afar, + And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride, + Because the city fawned to bring him back, + He carved upon the plinth: “<i>Thus Gods are made, + And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.</i>” + And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died. + + <i>Read here the story of Evarra — man — + Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.</i> + Because he lived among a simple folk, + Because his village was between the hills, + Because he smeared his cheeks with blood of ewes, + He cut an idol from a fallen pine, + Smeared blood upon its cheeks, and wedged a shell + Above its brows for eyes, and gave it hair + Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown. + And all the village praised him for this craft, + And brought him butter, honey, milk, and curds. + Wherefore, because the shoutings drove him mad, + He scratched upon that log: “<i>Thus Gods are made, + And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.</i>” + And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died. + + <i>Read here the story of Evarra — man — + Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.</i> + Because his God decreed one clot of blood + Should swerve one hair's-breadth from the pulse's path, + And chafe his brain, Evarra mowed alone, + Rag-wrapped, among the cattle in the fields, + Counting his fingers, jesting with the trees, + And mocking at the mist, until his God + Drove him to labour. Out of dung and horns + Dropped in the mire he made a monstrous God, + Abhorrent, shapeless, crowned with plantain tufts, + And when the cattle lowed at twilight-time, + He dreamed it was the clamour of lost crowds, + And howled among the beasts: “<i>Thus Gods are made, + And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.</i>” + Thereat the cattle bellowed. . . . Then he died. + + Yet at the last he came to Paradise, + And found his own four Gods, and that he wrote; + And marvelled, being very near to God, + What oaf on earth had made his toil God's law, + Till God said mocking: “Mock not. These be thine.” + Then cried Evarra: “I have sinned!” — “Not so. + If thou hadst written otherwise, thy Gods + Had rested in the mountain and the mine, + And I were poorer by four wondrous Gods, + And thy more wondrous law, Evarra. Thine, + Servant of shouting crowds and lowing kine.” + Thereat, with laughing mouth, but tear-wet eyes, + Evarra cast his Gods from Paradise. + + <i>This is the story of Evarra — man — + Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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?” + + 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 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 — + 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?” + + They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart, + 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. + + 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, + 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?” + + When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room'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, + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LEGEND OF EVIL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + This is the sorrowful story + Told when the twilight fails + And the monkeys walk together + Holding their neighbours' tails: — + + “Our fathers lived in the forest, + Foolish people were they, + They went down to the cornland + To teach the farmers to play. + + “Our fathers frisked in the millet, + Our fathers skipped in the wheat, + Our fathers hung from the branches, + Our fathers danced in the street. + + “Then came the terrible farmers, + Nothing of play they knew, + Only. . .they caught our fathers + And set them to labour too! + + “Set them to work in the cornland + With ploughs and sickles and flails, + Put them in mud-walled prisons + And — cut off their beautiful tails! + + “Now, we can watch our fathers, + Sullen and bowed and old, + Stooping over the millet, + Sharing the silly mould, + + “Driving a foolish furrow, + Mending a muddy yoke, + Sleeping in mud-walled prisons, + Steeping their food in smoke. + + “We may not speak to our fathers, + For if the farmers knew + They would come up to the forest + And set us to labour too.” + + This is the horrible story + Told as the twilight fails + And the monkeys walk together + Holding their kinsmen's tails. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + 'Twas when the rain fell steady an' the Ark was pitched an' ready, + That Noah got his orders for to take the bastes below; + He dragged them all together by the horn an' hide an' feather, + An' all excipt the Donkey was agreeable to go. + + Thin Noah spoke him fairly, thin talked to him sevarely, + An' thin he cursed him squarely to the glory av the Lord: — + “Divil take the ass that bred you, and the greater ass that fed you — + Divil go wid you, ye spalpeen!” an' the Donkey went aboard. + + But the wind was always failin', an' 'twas most onaisy sailin', + An' the ladies in the cabin couldn't stand the stable air; + An' the bastes betwuxt the hatches, they tuk an' died in batches, + Till Noah said: — “There's wan av us that hasn't paid his fare!” + + For he heard a flusteration 'mid the bastes av all creation — + The trumpetin' av elephints an' bellowin' av whales; + An' he saw forninst the windy whin he wint to stop the shindy + The Divil wid a stable-fork bedivillin' their tails. + + The Divil cursed outrageous, but Noah said umbrageous: — + “To what am I indebted for this tenant-right invasion?” + An' the Divil gave for answer: — “Evict me if you can, sir, + For I came in wid the Donkey — on Your Honour's invitation.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ENGLISH FLAG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>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</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! + + 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; + 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; + 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 night, + The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light: + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare, + 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. + + “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 halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn; + 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. + 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 + 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 Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, + And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows. + + “Never the lotus 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, + 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. + 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, + 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. + + “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!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “CLEARED” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (In Memory of a Commission) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt, + Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt! + From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song, + The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong. + + Their noble names were mentioned — O the burning black disgrace! — + By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case; + They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it, + And “coruscating innocence” the learned Judges gave it. + + Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon's knife, + The honourable gentlemen deplored the loss of life! + Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burk and shirk and snigger, + No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger! + + Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies, + Like ph]oenixes from Ph]oenix Park (and what lay there) they rise! + Go shout it to the emerald seas — give word to Erin now, + Her honourable gentlemen are cleared — and this is how: — + + They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price, + They only helped the murderer with counsel's best advice, + But — sure it keeps their honour white — the learned Court believes + They never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves. + + They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman's hide, + They never marked a man for death — what fault of theirs he died? — + They only said “intimidate”, and talked and went away — + By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they! + + Their sin it was that fed the fire — small blame to them that heard — + The “bhoys” get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word — + They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too, + The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew. + + They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail, + They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clanna-Gael. + If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down, + They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown. + + “Cleared”, honourable gentlemen! Be thankful it's no more: — + The widow's curse is on your house, the dead are at your door. + On you the shame of open shame, on you from North to South + The hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth. + + “Less black than we were painted”? — Faith, no word of black was said; + The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red. + It's sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff, + And by the Judge's well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off. + + Hold up those hands of innocence — go, scare your sheep together, + The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether; + And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen, + Tell them it's tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again! + + “The charge is old”? — As old as Cain — as fresh as yesterday; + Old as the Ten Commandments — have ye talked those laws away? + If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball, + You spoke the words that sped the shot — the curse be on you all. + + “Our friends believe”? — Of course they do — as sheltered women may; + But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay? + They! — If their own front door is shut, + they'll swear the whole world's warm; + What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm? + + The secret half a county keeps, the whisper in the lane, + The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane, + The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees, + And shows the “bhoys” have heard your talk — what do they know of these? + + But you — you know — ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead, + Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred, + The mangled stallion's scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer's low. + Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know! + + My soul! I'd sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight, + Pure crime I'd done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate, + Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered, + While one of those “not provens” proved me cleared as you are cleared. + + Cleared — you that “lost” the League accounts — go, guard our honour still, + Go, help to make our country's laws that broke God's law at will — + One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal “strike again”; + The other on your dress-shirt-front to show your heart is clane. + + If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down, + You're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown. + If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: — + We are not ruled by murderers, but only — by their friends. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed, + To ease the strong of their burden, to help the weak in their need, + He sent a word to the peoples, who struggle, and pant, and sweat, + That the straw might be counted fairly and the tally of bricks be set. + + The Lords of Their Hands assembled; from the East and the West they drew — + Baltimore, Lille, and Essen, Brummagem, Clyde, and Crewe. + And some were black from the furnace, and some were brown from the soil, + And some were blue from the dye-vat; but all were wearied of toil. + + And the young King said: — “I have found it, the road to the rest ye seek: + The strong shall wait for the weary, the hale shall halt for the weak; + With the even tramp of an army where no man breaks from the line, + Ye shall march to peace and plenty in the bond of brotherhood — sign!” + + The paper lay on the table, the strong heads bowed thereby, + And a wail went up from the peoples: — “Ay, sign — give rest, for we die!” + A hand was stretched to the goose-quill, a fist was cramped to scrawl, + When — the laugh of a blue-eyed maiden ran clear through the council-hall. + + And each one heard Her laughing as each one saw Her plain — + Saidie, Mimi, or Olga, Gretchen, or Mary Jane. + And the Spirit of Man that is in Him to the light of the vision woke; + And the men drew back from the paper, as a Yankee delegate spoke: — + + “There's a girl in Jersey City who works on the telephone; + We're going to hitch our horses and dig for a house of our own, + With gas and water connections, and steam-heat through to the top; + And, W. Hohenzollern, I guess I shall work till I drop.” + + And an English delegate thundered: — “The weak an' the lame be blowed! + I've a berth in the Sou'-West workshops, a home in the Wandsworth Road; + And till the 'sociation has footed my buryin' bill, + I work for the kids an' the missus. Pull up? I be damned if I will!” + + And over the German benches the bearded whisper ran: — + “Lager, der girls und der dollars, dey makes or dey breaks a man. + If Schmitt haf collared der dollars, he collars der girl deremit; + But if Schmitt bust in der pizness, we collars der girl from Schmitt.” + + They passed one resolution: — “Your sub-committee believe + You can lighten the curse of Adam when you've lightened the curse of Eve. + But till we are built like angels, with hammer and chisel and pen, + We will work for ourself and a woman, for ever and ever, amen.” + + Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser held — + The day that they razored the Grindstone, the day that the Cat was belled, + The day of the Figs from Thistles, the day of the Twisted Sands, + The day that the laugh of a maiden made light of the Lords of Their Hands. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TOMLINSON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square, + And a Spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair — + A Spirit gripped him by the hair and carried him far away, + Till he heard as the roar of a rain-fed ford the roar of the Milky Way: + Till he heard the roar of the Milky Way die down and drone and cease, + And they came to the Gate within the Wall where Peter holds the keys. + “Stand up, stand up now, Tomlinson, and answer loud and high + The good that ye did for the sake of men or ever ye came to die — + The good that ye did for the sake of men in little earth so lone!” + And the naked soul of Tomlinson grew white as a rain-washed bone. + “O I have a friend on earth,” he said, “that was my priest and guide, + And well would he answer all for me if he were by my side.” + — “For that ye strove in neighbour-love it shall be written fair, + But now ye wait at Heaven's Gate and not in Berkeley Square: + Though we called your friend from his bed this night, + he could not speak for you, + For the race is run by one and one and never by two and two.” + Then Tomlinson looked up and down, and little gain was there, + For the naked stars grinned overhead, and he saw that his soul was bare: + The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife, + And Tomlinson took up his tale and spoke of his good in life. + “This I have read in a book,” he said, “and that was told to me, + And this I have thought that another man thought of a Prince in Muscovy.” + The good souls flocked like homing doves and bade him clear the path, + And Peter twirled the jangling keys in weariness and wrath. + “Ye have read, ye have heard, ye have thought,” he said, + “and the tale is yet to run: + By the worth of the body that once ye had, give answer — what ha' ye done?” + Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and little good it bore, + For the Darkness stayed at his shoulder-blade and Heaven's Gate before: — + “O this I have felt, and this I have guessed, and this I have heard men say, + And this they wrote that another man wrote of a carl in Norroway.” + — “Ye have read, ye have felt, ye have guessed, good lack! + Ye have hampered Heaven's Gate; + There's little room between the stars in idleness to prate! + O none may reach by hired speech of neighbour, priest, and kin + Through borrowed deed to God's good meed that lies so fair within; + Get hence, get hence to the Lord of Wrong, for doom has yet to run, + And. . .the faith that ye share with Berkeley Square uphold you, Tomlinson!” + + . . . . . + + The Spirit gripped him by the hair, and sun by sun they fell + Till they came to the belt of Naughty Stars that rim the mouth of Hell: + The first are red with pride and wrath, the next are white with pain, + But the third are black with clinkered sin that cannot burn again: + They may hold their path, they may leave their path, + with never a soul to mark, + They may burn or freeze, but they must not cease + in the Scorn of the Outer Dark. + The Wind that blows between the worlds, it nipped him to the bone, + And he yearned to the flare of Hell-Gate + there as the light of his own hearth-stone. + The Devil he sat behind the bars, where the desperate legions drew, + But he caught the hasting Tomlinson and would not let him through. + “Wot ye the price of good pit-coal that I must pay?” said he, + “That ye rank yoursel' so fit for Hell and ask no leave of me? + I am all o'er-sib to Adam's breed that ye should give me scorn, + For I strove with God for your First Father the day that he was born. + Sit down, sit down upon the slag, and answer loud and high + The harm that ye did to the Sons of Men or ever you came to die.” + And Tomlinson looked up and up, and saw against the night + The belly of a tortured star blood-red in Hell-Mouth light; + And Tomlinson looked down and down, and saw beneath his feet + The frontlet of a tortured star milk-white in Hell-Mouth heat. + “O I had a love on earth,” said he, “that kissed me to my fall, + And if ye would call my love to me I know she would answer all.” + — “All that ye did in love forbid it shall be written fair, + But now ye wait at Hell-Mouth Gate and not in Berkeley Square: + Though we whistled your love from her bed to-night, I trow she would not run, + For the sin ye do by two and two ye must pay for one by one!” + The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife, + And Tomlinson took up the tale and spoke of his sin in life: — + “Once I ha' laughed at the power of Love and twice at the grip of the Grave, + And thrice I ha' patted my God on the head that men might call me brave.” + The Devil he blew on a brandered soul and set it aside to cool: — + “Do ye think I would waste my good pit-coal on the hide of a brain-sick fool? + I see no worth in the hobnailed mirth or the jolthead jest ye did + That I should waken my gentlemen that are sleeping three on a grid.” + Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and there was little grace, + For Hell-Gate filled the houseless Soul with the Fear of Naked Space. + “Nay, this I ha' heard,” quo' Tomlinson, “and this was noised abroad, + And this I ha' got from a Belgian book on the word of a dead French lord.” + — “Ye ha' heard, ye ha' read, ye ha' got, good lack! + and the tale begins afresh — + Have ye sinned one sin for the pride o' the eye + or the sinful lust of the flesh?” + Then Tomlinson he gripped the bars and yammered, “Let me in — + For I mind that I borrowed my neighbour's wife to sin the deadly sin.” + The Devil he grinned behind the bars, and banked the fires high: + “Did ye read of that sin in a book?” said he; and Tomlinson said, “Ay!” + The Devil he blew upon his nails, and the little devils ran, + And he said: “Go husk this whimpering thief that comes in the guise of a man: + Winnow him out 'twixt star and star, and sieve his proper worth: + There's sore decline in Adam's line if this be spawn of earth.” + Empusa's crew, so naked-new they may not face the fire, + But weep that they bin too small to sin to the height of their desire, + Over the coal they chased the Soul, and racked it all abroad, + As children rifle a caddis-case or the raven's foolish hoard. + And back they came with the tattered Thing, as children after play, + And they said: “The soul that he got from God he has bartered clean away. + We have threshed a stook of print and book, and winnowed a chattering wind + And many a soul wherefrom he stole, but his we cannot find: + We have handled him, we have dandled him, we have seared him to the bone, + And sure if tooth and nail show truth he has no soul of his own.” + The Devil he bowed his head on his breast and rumbled deep and low: — + “I'm all o'er-sib to Adam's breed that I should bid him go. + Yet close we lie, and deep we lie, and if I gave him place, + My gentlemen that are so proud would flout me to my face; + They'd call my house a common stews and me a careless host, + And — I would not anger my gentlemen for the sake of a shiftless ghost.” + The Devil he looked at the mangled Soul that prayed to feel the flame, + And he thought of Holy Charity, but he thought of his own good name: — + “Now ye could haste my coal to waste, and sit ye down to fry: + Did ye think of that theft for yourself?” said he; and Tomlinson said, “Ay!” + The Devil he blew an outward breath, for his heart was free from care: — + “Ye have scarce the soul of a louse,” he said, + “but the roots of sin are there, + And for that sin should ye come in were I the lord alone. + But sinful pride has rule inside — and mightier than my own. + Honour and Wit, fore-damned they sit, to each his priest and whore: + Nay, scarce I dare myself go there, and you they'd torture sore. + Ye are neither spirit nor spirk,” he said; “ye are neither book nor brute — + Go, get ye back to the flesh again for the sake of Man's repute. + I'm all o'er-sib to Adam's breed that I should mock your pain, + But look that ye win to worthier sin ere ye come back again. + Get hence, the hearse is at your door — the grim black stallions wait — + They bear your clay to place to-day. Speed, lest ye come too late! + Go back to Earth with a lip unsealed — go back with an open eye, + And carry my word to the Sons of Men or ever ye come to die: + That the sin they do by two and two they must pay for one by one — + And. . .the God that you took from a printed book be with you, Tomlinson!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + L'ENVOI TO “LIFE'S HANDICAP” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My new-cut ashlar takes the light + Where crimson-blank the windows flare; + By my own work, before the night, + Great Overseer I make my prayer. + + If there be good in that I wrought, + Thy hand compelled it, Master, Thine; + Where I have failed to meet Thy thought + I know, through Thee, the blame is mine. + + One instant's toil to Thee denied + Stands all Eternity's offence, + Of that I did with Thee to guide + To Thee, through Thee, be excellence. + + Who, lest all thought of Eden fade, + Bring'st Eden to the craftsman's brain, + Godlike to muse o'er his own trade + And Manlike stand with God again. + + The depth and dream of my desire, + The bitter paths wherein I stray, + Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire, + Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay! + + One stone the more swings to her place + In that dread Temple of Thy Worth — + It is enough that through Thy grace + I saw naught common on Thy earth. + + Take not that vision from my ken; + Oh whatsoe'er may spoil or speed, + Help me to need no aid from men + That I may help such men as need! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + L'ENVOI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, + And the ricks stand gray to the sun, + Singing: — “Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover, + And your English summer's done.” + You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind, + And the thresh of the deep-sea rain; + You have heard the song — how long! how long? + Pull out on the trail again! + + Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass, + We've seen the seasons through, + And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. + + It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun, + Or South to the blind Horn's hate; + Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay, + Or West to the Golden Gate; + Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass, + And the wildest tales are true, + And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + And life runs large on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. + + The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old, + And the twice-breathed airs blow damp; + And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll + Of a black Bilbao tramp; + With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass, + And a drunken Dago crew, + And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail + From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. + + There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake, + Or the way of a man with a maid; + But the fairest way to me is a ship's upon the sea + In the heel of the North-East Trade. + Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass, + And the drum of the racing screw, + As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail — + the trail that is always new? + + See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore, + And the fenders grind and heave, + And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate, + And the fall-rope whines through the sheave; + It's “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass, + It's “Hawsers warp her through!” + And it's “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + We're backing down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. + + O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied, + And the sirens hoot their dread! + When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep + To the sob of the questing lead! + It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass, + With the Gunfleet Sands in view, + Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail, + our own trail, the out trail, + And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail — + the trail that is always new. + + O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light + That holds the hot sky tame, + And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors + Where the scared whale flukes in flame! + Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass, + And her ropes are taut with the dew, + For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + We're sagging south on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. + + Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb, + And the shouting seas drive by, + And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing, + And the Southern Cross rides high! + Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass, + That blaze in the velvet blue. + They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + They're God's own guides on the Long Trail — + the trail that is always new. + + Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start — + We're steaming all-too slow, + And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle + Where the trumpet-orchids blow! + You have heard the call of the off-shore wind, + And the voice of the deep-sea rain; + You have heard the song — how long! how long? + Pull out on the trail again! + + The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass, + And The Deuce knows what we may do — + But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail, + We're down, hull down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SEVEN SEAS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1891-1896 +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEDICATION + </h2> + <h3> + To the City of Bombay + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Cities are full of pride, + Challenging each to each — + This from her mountain-side, + That from her burthened beach. + + They count their ships full tale — + Their corn and oil and wine, + Derrick and loom and bale, + And rampart's gun-flecked line; + City by City they hail: + “Hast aught to match with mine?” + + And the men that breed from them + They traffic up and down, + But cling to their cities' hem + As a child to their mother's gown. + + When they talk with the stranger bands, + Dazed and newly alone; + When they walk in the stranger lands, + By roaring streets unknown; + Blessing her where she stands + For strength above their own. + + (On high to hold her fame + That stands all fame beyond, + By oath to back the same, + Most faithful-foolish-fond; + Making her mere-breathed name + Their bond upon their bond.) + + So thank I God my birth + Fell not in isles aside — + Waste headlands of the earth, + Or warring tribes untried — + But that she lent me worth + And gave me right to pride. + + Surely in toil or fray + Under an alien sky, + Comfort it is to say: + “Of no mean city am I!” + + (Neither by service nor fee + Come I to mine estate — + Mother of Cities to me, + For I was born in her gate, + Between the palms and the sea, + Where the world-end steamers wait.) + + Now for this debt I owe, + And for her far-borne cheer + Must I make haste and go + With tribute to her pier. + + And she shall touch and remit + After the use of kings + (Orderly, ancient, fit) + My deep-sea plunderings, + And purchase in all lands. + And this we do for a sign + Her power is over mine, + And mine I hold at her hands! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SEVEN SEAS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SONG OF THE ENGLISH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fair is our lot — O goodly is our heritage! + (Humble ye, my people, and be fearful in your mirth!) + For the Lord our God Most High + He hath made the deep as dry, + He hath smote for us a pathway to the ends of all the Earth! + + Yea, though we sinned — and our rulers went from righteousness — + Deep in all dishonour though we stained our garments' hem. + Oh be ye not dismayed, + Though we stumbled and we strayed, + We were led by evil counsellors — the Lord shall deal with them! + + Hold ye the Faith — the Faith our Fathers seal]\ed us; + Whoring not with visions — overwise and overstale. + Except ye pay the Lord + Single heart and single sword, + Of your children in their bondage shall He ask them treble-tale! + + Keep ye the Law — be swift in all obedience — + Clear the land of evil, drive the road and bridge the ford. + Make ye sure to each his own + That he reap where he hath sown; + By the peace among Our peoples let men know we serve the Lord! + + . . . . . + + Hear now a song — a song of broken interludes — + A song of little cunning; of a singer nothing worth. + Through the naked words and mean + May ye see the truth between + As the singer knew and touched it in the ends of all the Earth! +</pre> + <p> + The Coastwise Lights + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees; + Our loins are battered 'neath us by the swinging, smoking seas. + From reef and rock and skerry — over headland, ness, and voe — + The Coastwise Lights of England watch the ships of England go! + + Through the endless summer evenings, on the lineless, level floors; + Through the yelling Channel tempest when the siren hoots and roars — + By day the dipping house-flag and by night the rocket's trail — + As the sheep that graze behind us so we know them where they hail. + + We bridge across the dark and bid the helmsman have a care, + The flash that wheeling inland wakes his sleeping wife to prayer; + From our vexed eyries, head to gale, we bind in burning chains + The lover from the sea-rim drawn — his love in English lanes. + + We greet the clippers wing-and-wing that race the Southern wool; + We warn the crawling cargo-tanks of Bremen, Leith, and Hull; + To each and all our equal lamp at peril of the sea — + The white wall-sided war-ships or the whalers of Dundee! + + Come up, come in from Eastward, from the guardports of the Morn! + Beat up, beat in from Southerly, O gipsies of the Horn! + Swift shuttles of an Empire's loom that weave us, main to main, + The Coastwise Lights of England give you welcome back again! + + Go, get you gone up-Channel with the sea-crust on your plates; + Go, get you into London with the burden of your freights! + Haste, for they talk of Empire there, and say, if any seek, + The Lights of England sent you and by silence shall ye speak! +</pre> + <p> + The Song of the Dead + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hear now the Song of the Dead — in the North by the torn berg-edges — + They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges. + Song of the Dead in the South — in the sun by their skeleton horses, + Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust + of the sear river-courses. + + Song of the Dead in the East — in the heat-rotted jungle hollows, + Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof — + in the brake of the buffalo-wallows. + Song of the Dead in the West — + in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them, + Where the wolverene tumbles their packs + from the camp and the grave-mound they made them; + Hear now the Song of the Dead! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I + + We were dreamers, dreaming greatly, in the man-stifled town; + We yearned beyond the sky-line where the strange roads go down. + Came the Whisper, came the Vision, came the Power with the Need, + Till the Soul that is not man's soul was lent us to lead. + As the deer breaks — as the steer breaks — from the herd where they graze, + In the faith of little children we went on our ways. + Then the wood failed — then the food failed — then the last water dried — + In the faith of little children we lay down and died. + On the sand-drift — on the veldt-side — in the fern-scrub we lay, + That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way. + Follow after — follow after! We have watered the root, + And the bud has come to blossom that ripens for fruit! + Follow after — we are waiting, by the trails that we lost, + For the sounds of many footsteps, for the tread of a host. + Follow after — follow after — for the harvest is sown: + By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own! + + When Drake went down to the Horn + And England was crowned thereby, + 'Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed + Our Lodge — our Lodge was born + (And England was crowned thereby!) + + Which never shall close again + By day nor yet by night, + While man shall take his life to stake + At risk of shoal or main + (By day nor yet by night). + + But standeth even so + As now we witness here, + While men depart, of joyful heart, + Adventure for to know + (As now bear witness here!) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II + + We have fed our sea for a thousand years + And she calls us, still unfed, + Though there's never a wave of all her waves + But marks our English dead: + We have strawed our best to the weed's unrest, + To the shark and the sheering gull. + If blood be the price of admiralty, + Lord God, we ha' paid in full! + + There's never a flood goes shoreward now + But lifts a keel we manned; + There's never an ebb goes seaward now + But drops our dead on the sand — + But slinks our dead on the sands forlore, + From the Ducies to the Swin. + If blood be the price of admiralty, + If blood be the price of admiralty, + Lord God, we ha' paid it in! + + We must feed our sea for a thousand years, + For that is our doom and pride, + As it was when they sailed with the <i>Golden Hind</i>, + Or the wreck that struck last tide — + Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef + Where the ghastly blue-lights flare. + If blood be the price of admiralty, + If blood be the price of admiralty, + If blood be the price of admiralty, + Lord God, we ha' bought it fair! +</pre> + <p> + The Deep-Sea Cables + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar — + Down to the dark, to the utter dark, where the blind white sea-snakes are. + There is no sound, no echo of sound, in the deserts of the deep, + Or the great gray level plains of ooze where the shell-burred cables creep. + + Here in the womb of the world — here on the tie-ribs of earth + Words, and the words of men, flicker and flutter and beat — + Warning, sorrow and gain, salutation and mirth — + For a Power troubles the Still that has neither voice nor feet. + + They have wakened the timeless Things; they have killed their father Time; + Joining hands in the gloom, a league from the last of the sun. + Hush! Men talk to-day o'er the waste of the ultimate slime, + And a new Word runs between: whispering, “Let us be one!” + </pre> + <p> + The Song of the Sons + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One from the ends of the earth — gifts at an open door — + Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more! + From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed, + Turn, and the world is thine. Mother, be proud of thy seed! + Count, are we feeble or few? Hear, is our speech so rude? + Look, are we poor in the land? Judge, are we men of The Blood? + + Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in — + We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin. + Not in the dark do we fight — haggle and flout and gibe; + Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe. + Gifts have we only to-day — Love without promise or fee — + Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea! +</pre> + <p> + The Song of the Cities + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BOMBAY + + Royal and Dower-royal, I the Queen + Fronting thy richest sea with richer hands — + A thousand mills roar through me where I glean + All races from all lands. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CALCUTTA + + Me the Sea-captain loved, the River built, + Wealth sought and Kings adventured life to hold. + Hail, England! I am Asia — Power on silt, + Death in my hands, but Gold! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MADRAS + + Clive kissed me on the mouth and eyes and brow, + Wonderful kisses, so that I became + Crowned above Queens — a withered beldame now, + Brooding on ancient fame. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + RANGOON + + Hail, Mother! Do they call me rich in trade? + Little care I, but hear the shorn priest drone, + And watch my silk-clad lovers, man by maid, + Laugh 'neath my Shwe Dagon. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SINGAPORE + + Hail, Mother! East and West must seek my aid + Ere the spent gear may dare the ports afar. + The second doorway of the wide world's trade + Is mine to loose or bar. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HONG-KONG + + Hail, Mother! Hold me fast; my Praya sleeps + Under innumerable keels to-day. + Yet guard (and landward), or to-morrow sweeps + Thy war-ships down the bay! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HALIFAX + + Into the mist my guardian prows put forth, + Behind the mist my virgin ramparts lie, + The Warden of the Honour of the North, + Sleepless and veiled am I! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + QUEBEC AND MONTREAL + + Peace is our portion. Yet a whisper rose, + Foolish and causeless, half in jest, half hate. + Now wake we and remember mighty blows, + And, fearing no man, wait! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VICTORIA + + From East to West the circling word has passed, + Till West is East beside our land-locked blue; + From East to West the tested chain holds fast, + The well-forged link rings true! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + CAPE TOWN + + Hail! Snatched and bartered oft from hand to hand, + I dream my dream, by rock and heath and pine, + Of Empire to the northward. Ay, one land + From Lion's Head to Line! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + MELBOURNE + + Greeting! Nor fear nor favour won us place, + Got between greed of gold and dread of drouth, + Loud-voiced and reckless as the wild tide-race + That whips our harbour-mouth! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + SYDNEY + + Greeting! My birth-stain have I turned to good; + Forcing strong wills perverse to steadfastness: + The first flush of the tropics in my blood, + And at my feet Success! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + BRISBANE + + The northern stirp beneath the southern skies — + I build a Nation for an Empire's need, + Suffer a little, and my land shall rise, + Queen over lands indeed! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + HOBART + + Man's love first found me; man's hate made me Hell; + For my babes' sake I cleansed those infamies. + Earnest for leave to live and labour well, + God flung me peace and ease. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + AUCKLAND + + Last, loneliest, loveliest, exquisite, apart — + On us, on us the unswerving season smiles, + Who wonder 'mid our fern why men depart + To seek the Happy Isles! +</pre> + <p> + England's Answer + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than to ban; + Little used to lie down at the bidding of any man. + Flesh of the flesh that I bred, bone of the bone that I bare; + Stark as your sons shall be — stern as your fathers were. + Deeper than speech our love, stronger than life our tether, + But we do not fall on the neck nor kiss when we come together. + My arm is nothing weak, my strength is not gone by; + Sons, I have borne many sons, but my dugs are not dry. + Look, I have made ye a place and opened wide the doors, + That ye may talk together, your Barons and Councillors — + Wards of the Outer March, Lords of the Lower Seas, + Ay, talk to your gray mother that bore you on her knees! — + That ye may talk together, brother to brother's face — + Thus for the good of your peoples — thus for the Pride of the Race. + Also, we will make promise. So long as The Blood endures, + I shall know that your good is mine: ye shall feel that my strength is yours: + In the day of Armageddon, at the last great fight of all, + That Our House stand together and the pillars do not fall. + Draw now the threefold knot firm on the ninefold bands, + And the Law that ye make shall be law after the rule of your lands. + This for the waxen Heath, and that for the Wattle-bloom, + This for the Maple-leaf, and that for the southern Broom. + The Law that ye make shall be law and I do not press my will, + Because ye are Sons of The Blood and call me Mother still. + Now must ye speak to your kinsmen and they must speak to you, + After the use of the English, in straight-flung words and few. + Go to your work and be strong, halting not in your ways, + Balking the end half-won for an instant dole of praise. + Stand to your work and be wise — certain of sword and pen, + Who are neither children nor Gods, but men in a world of men! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FIRST CHANTEY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mine was the woman to me, darkling I found her; + Haling her dumb from the camp, took her and bound her. + Hot rose her tribe on our track ere I had proved her; + Hearing her laugh in the gloom, greatly I loved her. + + Swift through the forest we ran; none stood to guard us, + Few were my people and far; then the flood barred us — + Him we call Son of the Sea, sullen and swollen. + Panting we waited the death, stealer and stolen. + + Yet ere they came to my lance laid for the slaughter, + Lightly she leaped to a log lapped in the water; + Holding on high and apart skins that arrayed her, + Called she the God of the Wind that He should aid her. + + Life had the tree at that word (Praise we the Giver!) + Otter-like left he the bank for the full river. + Far fell their axes behind, flashing and ringing, + Wonder was on me and fear — yet she was singing! + + Low lay the land we had left. Now the blue bound us, + Even the Floor of the Gods level around us. + Whisper there was not, nor word, shadow nor showing, + Till the light stirred on the deep, glowing and growing. + + Then did He leap to His place flaring from under, + He the Compeller, the Sun, bared to our wonder. + Nay, not a league from our eyes blinded with gazing, + Cleared He the gate of the world, huge and amazing! + + This we beheld (and we live) — the Pit of the Burning! + Then the God spoke to the tree for our returning; + Back to the beach of our flight, fearless and slowly, + Back to our slayers went he: but we were holy. + + Men that were hot in that hunt, women that followed, + Babes that were promised our bones, trembled and wallowed: + Over the necks of the Tribe crouching and fawning — + Prophet and priestess we came back from the dawning! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAST CHANTEY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>And there was no more sea.</i>” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 Judgment Day. + 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 — + Our bones we'll leave the barracout', and God may sink the sea!” + + Then said the soul of Judas that betray]\ed Him: + “Lord, hast Thou forgotten Thy covenant with me? + How once a year I go + To cool me on the floe? + 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, + 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, + 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, + 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, + 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 — + May we lift a Deep-sea 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; + Heave or sink it, leave or drink it, we were masters of the sea!” + + Up spake the soul of a gray Gothavn 'speckshioner — + (He that led the flinching in the fleets of fair Dundee): + “Oh, the ice-blink white and near, + And the bowhead breaching clear! + 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? + 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 'stablished his borders unto all eternity, + That such as have no pleasure + For to praise the Lord by measure, + 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 + Who heard the silly sailor-folk and gave them back their sea! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MERCHANTMEN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + King Solomon drew merchantmen, + Because of his desire + For peacocks, apes, and ivory, + From Tarshish unto Tyre: + With cedars out of Lebanon + Which Hiram rafted down, + But we be only sailormen + That use in London Town. + + <i>Coastwise — cross-seas — round the world and back again — + Where the flaw shall head us or the full Trade suits — + Plain-sail — storm-sail — lay your board and tack again — + And that's the way we'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!</i> + + We bring no store of ingots, + Of spice or precious stones, + But that we have we gathered + With sweat and aching bones: + In flame beneath the tropics, + In frost upon the floe, + And jeopardy of every wind + That does between them go. + + And some we got by purchase, + And some we had by trade, + And some we found by courtesy + Of pike and carronade — + At midnight, 'mid-sea meetings, + For charity to keep, + And light the rolling homeward-bound + That rode a foot too deep. + + By sport of bitter weather + We're walty, strained, and scarred + From the kentledge on the kelson + To the slings upon the yard. + Six oceans had their will of us + To carry all away — + Our galley's in the Baltic, + And our boom's in Mossel Bay! + + We've floundered off the Texel, + Awash with sodden deals, + We've slipped from Valparaiso + With the Norther at our heels: + We've ratched beyond the Crossets + That tusk the Southern Pole, + And dipped our gunnels under + To the dread Agulhas roll. + + Beyond all outer charting + We sailed where none have sailed, + And saw the land-lights burning + On islands none have hailed; + Our hair stood up for wonder, + But, when the night was done, + There danced the deep to windward + Blue-empty 'neath the sun! + + Strange consorts rode beside us + And brought us evil luck; + The witch-fire climbed our channels, + And flared on vane and truck: + Till, through the red tornado, + That lashed us nigh to blind, + We saw The Dutchman plunging, + Full canvas, head to wind! + + We've heard the Midnight Leadsman + That calls the black deep down — + Ay, thrice we've heard The Swimmer, + The Thing that may not drown. + On frozen bunt and gasket + The sleet-cloud drave her hosts, + When, manned by more than signed with us, + We passed the Isle o' Ghosts! + + And north, amid the hummocks, + A biscuit-toss below, + We met the silent shallop + That frighted whalers know; + For, down a cruel ice-lane, + That opened as he sped, + We saw dead Henry Hudson + Steer, North by West, his dead. + + So dealt God's waters with us + Beneath the roaring skies, + So walked His signs and marvels + All naked to our eyes: + But we were heading homeward + With trade to lose or make — + Good Lord, they slipped behind us + In the tailing of our wake! + + Let go, let go the anchors; + Now shamed at heart are we + To bring so poor a cargo home + That had for gift the sea! + Let go the great bow-anchors — + Ah, fools were we and blind — + The worst we stored with utter toil, + The best we left behind! + + <i>Coastwise — cross-seas — round the world and back again, + Whither flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down: + Plain-sail — storm-sail — lay your board and tack again — + And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + M'ANDREW'S HYMN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + John Calvin might ha' forged the same — enorrmous, certain, slow — + Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame — <i>my</i> “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 + 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! + 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 <i>Sarah Sands</i> was burned. Oh roads we used to tread, + Fra' Maryhill to Pollokshaws — fra' Govan to Parkhead!) + Not but they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth say: + “Good-morrn, M'Andrew! 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, + 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 fifty-five! + We're creepin' on wi' each new rig — less weight an' larger power: + There'll be the loco-boiler next an' thirty knots an hour! + Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began + Leaves me no 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? + 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, + An' times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back. + The sins o' four and 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; + 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. + I was not 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, + 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', + Milk-warm wi' breath o' spice an' bloom: “M'Andrew, 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. + They mak' Him in the Broomielaw, o' Glasgie cold an' dirt, + A jealous, pridefu' fetich, 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 <i>They</i>?) “an' know the Leevin' God, + That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest, + 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 — + 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 <i>Mary Gloster</i> then, and first that night in Hell! + Yet was Thy hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy care — + Fra' Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o' despair, + But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer! + We dared not run that sea by night but lay an' held our fire, + An' I was drowsin' on the hatch — sick — sick wi' doubt an' tire: + “<i>Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin' o' desire!</i>” + 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. + + . . . . . + + 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 <i>am</i> o' service to my kind. Ye wadna blame the thought? + Maybe they steam from grace to wrath — to sin by folly led, — + 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 any road ye steer — + Fra' Cape Town east to Wellington — ye need an engineer. + 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 + Whaur, grindin' like the Mills o' God, goes by the big South drift. + (Hail, snow an' 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. + 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, + 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 earn's four hunder pound a year. + Better myself abroad? Maybe. <i>I'd</i> sooner starve than sail + Wi' such as call a snifter-rod <i>ross</i>. . .French for nightingale. + Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I can not 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 <i>those</i>. + (There's bricks that I might recommend — an' clink the fire-bars cruel. + 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 head for aught they make or sell. + <i>I</i> found that I could not invent an' look to these — as well. + 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. . . . + <i>Below there! Oiler! What's your wark? Ye find it runnin' hard? + Ye needn't swill the cap wi' oil — this isn't the Cunard! + Ye thought? Ye are not paid to think. Go, sweat that off again!</i> + 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. + 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: + “Mister M'Andrew, 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? + 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, + 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' dynamos. + Interdependence absolute, foreseen, ordained, decreed, + To work, Ye'll note, at any 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: + “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. + 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, + 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! + <i>That</i> 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. + 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. + 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. . . . + <i>'Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought + What your good leddy costs in coal? . . . I'll burn 'em down to port.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MIRACLES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I sent a message to my dear — + A thousand leagues and more to Her — + The dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear, + And Lost Atlantis bore to Her. + + Behind my message hard I came, + And nigh had found a grave for me; + But that I launched of steel and flame + Did war against the wave for me. + + Uprose the deep, by gale on gale, + To bid me change my mind again — + He broke his teeth along my rail, + And, roaring, swung behind again. + + I stayed the sun at noon to tell + My way across the waste of it; + I read the storm before it fell + And made the better haste of it. + + Afar, I hailed the land at night — + The towers I built had heard of me — + And, ere my rocket reached its height, + Had flashed my Love the word of me. + + Earth sold her chosen men of strength + (They lived and strove and died for me) + To drive my road a nation's length, + And toss the miles aside for me. + + I snatched their toil to serve my needs — + Too slow their fleetest flew for me — + I tired twenty smoking steeds, + And bade them bait a new for me. + + I sent the lightnings forth to see + Where hour by hour She waited me. + Among ten million one was She, + And surely all men hated me! + + Dawn ran to meet me at my goal — + Ah, day no tongue shall tell again! + And little folk of little soul + Rose up to buy and sell again! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE NATIVE-BORN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We've drunk to the Queen — God bless her! — + We've drunk to our mothers' land; + We've drunk to our English brother + (But he does not understand); + We've drunk to the wide creation, + And the Cross swings low for the morn; + Last toast, and of obligation, + A health to the Native-born! + + They change their skies above them, + But not their hearts that roam! + We learned from our wistful mothers + To call old England “home”; + We read of the English skylark, + Of the spring in the English lanes, + But we screamed with the painted lories + As we rode on the dusty plains! + + They passed with their old-world legends — + Their tales of wrong and dearth — + Our fathers held by purchase, + But we by the right of birth; + Our heart's where they rocked our cradle, + Our love where we spent our toil, + And our faith and our hope and our honour + We pledge to our native soil! + + I charge you charge your glasses — + I charge you drink with me + To the men of the Four New Nations, + And the Islands of the Sea — + To the last least lump of coral + That none may stand outside, + And our own good pride shall teach us + To praise our comrade's pride! + + To the hush of the breathless morning + On the thin, tin, crackling roofs, + To the haze of the burned back-ranges + And the dust of the shoeless hoofs — + To the risk of a death by drowning, + To the risk of a death by drouth — + To the men of a million acres, + To the Sons of the Golden South! + + To the Sons of the Golden South (Stand up!), + And the life we live and know, + Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about, + If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about + With the weight of a single blow! + + To the smoke of a hundred coasters, + To the sheep on a thousand hills, + To the sun that never blisters, + To the rain that never chills — + To the land of the waiting spring-time, + To our five-meal, meat-fed men, + To the tall, deep-bosomed women, + And the children nine and ten! + + And the children nine and ten (Stand up!), + And the life we live and know, + Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about, + If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about + With the weight of a two-fold blow! + + To the far-flung fenceless prairie + Where the quick cloud-shadows trail, + To our neighbour's barn in the offing + And the line of the new-cut rail; + To the plough in her league-long furrow + With the gray Lake gulls behind — + To the weight of a half-year's winter + And the warm wet western wind! + + To the home of the floods and thunder, + To her pale dry healing blue — + To the lift of the great Cape combers, + And the smell of the baked Karroo. + To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head — + To the reef and the water-gold, + To the last and the largest Empire, + To the map that is half unrolled! + + To our dear dark foster-mothers, + To the heathen songs they sung — + To the heathen speech we babbled + Ere we came to the white man's tongue. + To the cool of our deep verandas — + To the blaze of our jewelled main, + To the night, to the palms in the moonlight, + And the fire-fly in the cane! + + To the hearth of our people's people — + To her well-ploughed windy sea, + To the hush of our dread high-altar + Where The Abbey makes us We; + To the grist of the slow-ground ages, + To the gain that is yours and mine — + To the Bank of the Open Credit, + To the Power-house of the Line! + + We've drunk to the Queen — God bless her! — + We've drunk to our mothers' land; + We've drunk to our English brother + (And we hope he'll understand). + We've drunk as much as we're able, + And the Cross swings low for the morn; + Last toast — and your foot on the table! — + A health to the Native-born! + + A health to the Native-born (Stand up!), + We're six white men arow, + All bound to sing o' the little things we care about, + All bound to fight for the little things we care about + With the weight of a six-fold blow! + By the might of our cable-tow (Take hands!), + From the Orkneys to the Horn, + All round the world (and a little loop to pull it by), + All round the world (and a little strap to buckle it), + A health to the Native-born! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KING + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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. + 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 + Hold him who scorns our hutted piers. + Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell, + Guard ye his rest. Romance, farewell!” + + “Farewell, Romance!” the Soldier spoke; + “By sleight of sword we may not win, + But scuffle 'mid uncleanly smoke + Of arquebus and culverin. + Honour is lost, and none may tell + Who paid good blows. Romance, farewell!” + + “Farewell, Romance!” the Traders cried; + Our keels ha' lain with every sea; + The dull-returning wind and tide + Heave up the wharf where we would be; + The known and noted breezes swell + Our trudging sail. Romance, farewell!” + + “Good-bye, Romance!” the Skipper said; + “He vanished with the coal we burn; + Our dial marks full steam ahead, + Our speed is timed to half a turn. + Sure as the ferried barge we ply + 'Twixt port and port. Romance, good-bye!” + + “Romance!” the season-tickets mourn, + “<i>He</i> never ran to catch his train, + But passed with coach and guard and horn — + And left the local — late again!” + Confound Romance! . . . And all unseen + Romance brought up the nine-fifteen. + + His hand was on the lever laid, + His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks, + His whistle waked the snowbound grade, + His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks; + By dock and deep and mine and mill + The Boy-god reckless laboured still! + + Robed, crowned and throned, he wove his spell, + Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke curled, + With unconsidered miracle, + Hedged in a backward-gazing world; + Then taught his chosen bard to say: + “Our King was with us — yesterday!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RHYME OF THE THREE SEALERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Away by the lands of the Japanee + Where the paper lanterns glow + And the crews of all the shipping drink + In the house of Blood Street Joe, + At twilight, when the landward breeze + Brings up the harbour noise, + And ebb of Yokohama Bay + Swigs chattering through the buoys, + In Cisco's Dewdrop Dining-Rooms + They tell the tale anew + Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight, + When the <i>Baltic</i> ran from the <i>Northern Light</i> + And the <i>Stralsund</i> fought the two. + + Now this is the Law of the Muscovite, that he proves with shot and steel, + When ye come by his isles in the Smoky Sea ye must not take the seal, + Where the gray sea goes nakedly between the weed-hung shelves, + And the little blue fox he is bred for his skin + and the seal they breed for themselves; + For when the <i>matkas</i> seek the shore to drop their pups aland, + The great man-seal haul out of the sea, a-roaring, band by band; + And when the first September gales have slaked their rutting-wrath, + The great man-seal haul back to the sea and no man knows their path. + Then dark they lie and stark they lie — rookery, dune, and floe, + And the Northern Lights come down o' nights to dance with the houseless snow; + And God Who clears the grounding berg and steers the grinding floe, + He hears the cry of the little kit-fox and the wind along the snow. + But since our women must walk gay and money buys their gear, + The sealing-boats they filch that way at hazard year by year. + English they be and Japanee that hang on the Brown Bear's flank, + And some be Scot, but the worst of the lot, and the boldest thieves, be Yank! + + It was the sealer <i>Northern Light</i>, to the Smoky Seas she bore, + With a stovepipe stuck from a starboard port and the Russian flag at her fore. + (<i>Baltic</i>, <i>Stralsund</i>, and <i>Northern Light</i> — + oh! they were birds of a feather — + Slipping away to the Smoky Seas, three seal-thieves together!) + And at last she came to a sandy cove and the Baltic lay therein, + But her men were up with the herding seal to drive and club and skin. + There were fifteen hundred skins abeach, cool pelt and proper fur, + When the <i>Northern Light</i> drove into the bight + and the sea-mist drove with her. + The <i>Baltic</i> called her men and weighed — she could not choose but run — + For a stovepipe seen through the closing mist, it shows like a four-inch gun. + (And loss it is that is sad as death to lose both trip and ship + And lie for a rotting contraband on Vladivostock slip.) + She turned and dived in the sea-smother as a rabbit dives in the whins, + And the <i>Northern Light</i> sent up her boats to steal the stolen skins. + They had not brought a load to side or slid their hatches clear, + When they were aware of a sloop-of-war, ghost-white and very near. + Her flag she showed, and her guns she showed — three of them, black, abeam, + And a funnel white with the crusted salt, but never a show of steam. + + There was no time to man the brakes, they knocked the shackle free, + And the <i>Northern Light</i> stood out again, goose-winged to open sea. + (For life it is that is worse than death, by force of Russian law + To work in the mines of mercury that loose the teeth in your jaw.) + They had not run a mile from shore — they heard no shots behind — + When the skipper smote his hand on his thigh and threw her up in the wind: + “Bluffed — raised out on a bluff,” said he, “for if my name's Tom Hall, + You must set a thief to catch a thief — and a thief has caught us all! + By every butt in Oregon and every spar in Maine, + The hand that spilled the wind from her sail was the hand of Reuben Paine! + He has rigged and trigged her with paint and spar, + and, faith, he has faked her well — + But I'd know the <i>Stralsund</i>'s deckhouse yet from here to the booms o' Hell. + Oh, once we ha' met at Baltimore, and twice on Boston pier, + But the sickest day for you, Reuben Paine, was the day that you came here — + The day that you came here, my lad, to scare us from our seal + With your funnel made o' your painted cloth, and your guns o' rotten deal! + Ring and blow for the <i>Baltic</i> now, and head her back to the bay, + And we'll come into the game again — with a double deck to play!” + + They rang and blew the sealers' call — the poaching cry of the sea — + And they raised the <i>Baltic</i> out of the mist, and an angry ship was she: + And blind they groped through the whirling white and blind to the bay again, + Till they heard the creak of the <i>Stralsund</i>'s boom + and the clank of her mooring chain. + They laid them down by bitt and boat, their pistols in their belts, + And: “Will you fight for it, Reuben Paine, or will you share the pelts?” + + A dog-toothed laugh laughed Reuben Paine, and bared his flenching-knife. + “Yea, skin for skin, and all that he hath a man will give for his life; + But I've six thousand skins below, and Yeddo Port to see, + And there's never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-Three: + So go in peace to the naked seas with empty holds to fill, + And I'll be good to your seal this catch, as many as I shall kill!” + + Answered the snap of a closing lock and the jar of a gun-butt slid, + But the tender fog shut fold on fold to hide the wrong they did. + The weeping fog rolled fold on fold the wrath of man to cloak, + And the flame-spurts pale ran down the rail as the sealing-rifles spoke. + The bullets bit on bend and butt, the splinter slivered free + (Little they trust to sparrow-dust that stop the seal in his sea!), + The thick smoke hung and would not shift, leaden it lay and blue, + But three were down on the <i>Baltic</i>'s deck and two of the <i>Stralsund</i>'s crew. + An arm's-length out and overside the banked fog held them bound, + But, as they heard or groan or word, they fired at the sound. + For one cried out on the Name of God, and one to have him cease, + And the questing volley found them both and bade them hold their peace; + And one called out on a heathen joss and one on the Virgin's Name, + And the schooling bullet leaped across and showed them whence they came. + And in the waiting silences the rudder whined beneath, + And each man drew his watchful breath slow taken 'tween the teeth — + Trigger and ear and eye acock, knit brow and hard-drawn lips — + Bracing his feet by chock and cleat for the rolling of the ships. + Till they heard the cough of a wounded man that fought in the fog for breath, + Till they heard the torment of Reuben Paine that wailed upon his death: + + “The tides they'll go through Fundy Race but I'll go nevermore + And see the hogs from ebb-tide mark turn scampering back to shore. + No more I'll see the trawlers drift below the Bass Rock ground, + Or watch the tall Fall steamer lights tear blazing up the Sound. + Sorrow is me, in a lonely sea and a sinful fight I fall, + But if there's law o' God or man you'll swing for it yet, Tom Hall!” + Tom Hall stood up by the quarter-rail. “Your words in your teeth,” said he. + “There's never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-Three. + So go in grace with Him to face, and an ill-spent life behind, + And I'll be good to your widows, Rube, as many as I shall find.” + + A <i>Stralsund</i> man shot blind and large, and a war-lock Finn was he, + And he hit Tom Hall with a bursting ball a hand's-breadth over the knee. + Tom Hall caught hold by the topping-lift, and sat him down with an oath, + “You'll wait a little, Rube,” he said, “the Devil has called for both. + The Devil is driving both this tide, and the killing-grounds are close, + And we'll go up to the Wrath of God as the holluschickie goes. + O men, put back your guns again and lay your rifles by, + We've fought our fight, and the best are down. Let up and let us die! + Quit firing, by the bow there — quit! Call off the <i>Baltic</i>'s crew! + You're sure of Hell as me or Rube — but wait till we get through.” + There went no word between the ships, but thick and quick and loud + The life-blood drummed on the dripping decks, + with the fog-dew from the shroud, + The sea-pull drew them side by side, gunnel to gunnel laid, + And they felt the sheerstrakes pound and clear, but never a word was said. + + Then Reuben Paine cried out again before his spirit passed: + “Have I followed the sea for thirty years to die in the dark at last? + Curse on her work that has nipped me here with a shifty trick unkind — + I have gotten my death where I got my bread, but I dare not face it blind. + Curse on the fog! Is there never a wind of all the winds I knew + To clear the smother from off my chest, and let me look at the blue?” + The good fog heard — like a splitten sail, to left and right she tore, + And they saw the sun-dogs in the haze and the seal upon the shore. + Silver and gray ran spit and bay to meet the steel-backed tide, + And pinched and white in the clearing light the crews stared overside. + O rainbow-gay the red pools lay that swilled and spilled and spread, + And gold, raw gold, the spent shell rolled between the careless dead — + The dead that rocked so drunkenwise to weather and to lee, + And they saw the work their hands had done as God had bade them see. + + And a little breeze blew over the rail that made the headsails lift, + But no man stood by wheel or sheet, and they let the schooners drift. + And the rattle rose in Reuben's throat and he cast his soul with a cry, + And “Gone already?” Tom Hall he said. “Then it's time for me to die.” + His eyes were heavy with great sleep and yearning for the land, + And he spoke as a man that talks in dreams, his wound beneath his hand. + “Oh, there comes no good o' the westering wind that backs against the sun; + Wash down the decks — they're all too red — and share the skins and run, + <i>Baltic</i>, <i>Stralsund</i>, and <i>Northern Light</i> — clean share and share for all, + You'll find the fleets off Tolstoi Mees, but you will not find Tom Hall. + Evil he did in shoal-water and blacker sin on the deep, + But now he's sick of watch and trick and now he'll turn and sleep. + He'll have no more of the crawling sea that made him suffer so, + But he'll lie down on the killing-grounds where the holluschickie go. + And west you'll sail and south again, beyond the sea-fog's rim, + And tell the Yoshiwara girls to burn a stick for him. + And you'll not weight him by the heels and dump him overside, + But carry him up to the sand-hollows to die as Bering died, + And make a place for Reuben Paine that knows the fight was fair, + And leave the two that did the wrong to talk it over there!” + + Half-steam ahead by guess and lead, for the sun is mostly veiled — + Through fog to fog, by luck and log, sail ye as Bering sailed; + And if the light shall lift aright to give your landfall plain, + North and by west, from Zapne Crest, ye raise the Crosses Twain. + Fair marks are they to the inner bay, the reckless poacher knows + What time the scarred see-catchie lead their sleek seraglios. + Ever they hear the floe-pack clear, and the blast of the old bull-whale, + And the deep seal-roar that beats off-shore above the loudest gale. + Ever they wait the winter's hate as the thundering <i>boorga</i> calls, + Where northward look they to St. George, and westward to St. Paul's. + Ever they greet the hunted fleet — lone keels off headlands drear — + When the sealing-schooners flit that way at hazard year by year. + Ever in Yokohama port men tell the tale anew + Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight, + When the <i>Baltic</i> ran from the <i>Northern Light</i> + And the <i>Stralsund</i> fought the two. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DERELICT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>And reports the derelict </i>Mary Pollock<i> still at sea.</i> + SHIPPING NEWS. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I was the staunchest of our fleet + Till the sea rose beneath our feet + Unheralded, in hatred past all measure. + Into his pits he stamped my crew, + Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw, + Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure. + + Man made me, and my will + Is to my maker still, + Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer — + Lifting forlorn to spy + Trailed smoke along the sky, + Falling afraid lest any keel come near! + + Wrenched as the lips of thirst, + Wried, dried, and split and burst, + Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining; + And jarred at every roll + The gear that was my soul + Answers the anguish of my beams' complaining. + + For life that crammed me full, + Gangs of the prying gull + That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches! + For roar that dumbed the gale, + My hawse-pipes guttering wail, + Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches! + + Blind in the hot blue ring + Through all my points I swing — + Swing and return to shift the sun anew. + Blind in my well-known sky + I hear the stars go by, + Mocking the prow that cannot hold one true! + + White on my wasted path + Wave after wave in wrath + Frets 'gainst his fellow, warring where to send me. + Flung forward, heaved aside, + Witless and dazed I bide + The mercy of the comber that shall end me. + + North where the bergs careen, + The spray of seas unseen + Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling; + South where the corals breed, + The footless, floating weed + Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling. + + I that was clean to run + My race against the sun — + Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster — + Whipped forth by night to meet + My sister's careless feet, + And with a kiss betray her to my master! + + Man made me, and my will + Is to my maker still — + To him and his, our peoples at their pier: + Lifting in hope to spy + Trailed smoke along the sky, + Falling afraid lest any keel come near! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ANSWER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A Rose, in tatters on the garden path, + Cried out to God and murmured 'gainst His Wrath, + Because a sudden wind at twilight's hush + Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush. + And God, Who hears both sun-dried dust and sun, + Had pity, whispering to that luckless one, + “Sister, in that thou sayest We did not well — + What voices heardst thou when thy petals fell?” + And the Rose answered, “In that evil hour + A voice said, `Father, wherefore falls the flower? + For lo, the very gossamers are still.' + And a voice answered, `Son, by Allah's will!'” + + Then softly as a rain-mist on the sward, + Came to the Rose the Answer of the Lord: + “Sister, before We smote the dark in twain, + Ere yet the stars saw one another plain, + Time, Tide, and Space, We bound unto the task + That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask.” + Whereat the withered flower, all content, + Died as they die whose days are innocent; + While he who questioned why the flower fell + Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SONG OF THE BANJO + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile — + You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp — + You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile, + And play it in an Equatorial swamp. + <i>I</i> travel with the cooking-pots and pails — + <i>I'm</i> sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the pork — + And when the dusty column checks and tails, + You should hear me spur the rear-guard to a walk! + With my “<i>Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!</i>” + [Oh, it's any tune that comes into my head!] + So I keep 'em moving forward till they drop; + So I play 'em up to water and to bed. + + In the silence of the camp before the fight, + When it's good to make your will and say your prayer, + You can hear my <i>strumpty-tumpty</i> overnight + Explaining ten to one was always fair. + I'm the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd, + Of the Patently Impossible and Vain — + And when the Thing that Couldn't has occurred, + Give me time to change my leg and go again. + With my “<i>Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump!</i>” + In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled + There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus, + I — the war-drum of the White Man round the world! + + By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread, + Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own, — + 'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed, + In the silence of the herder's hut alone — + In the twilight, on a bucket upside down, + Hear me babble what the weakest won't confess — + I am Memory and Torment — I am Town! + I am all that ever went with evening dress! + With my “<i>Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!</i>” + [So the lights — the London Lights — grow near and plain!] + So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh, + Till I bring my broken rankers home again. + + In desire of many marvels over sea, + Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars, + I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay + Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores. + He is blooded to the open and the sky, + He is taken in a snare that shall not fail, + He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die, + Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale. + With my “<i>Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!</i>” + [O the green that thunders aft along the deck!] + Are you sick o' towns and men? You must sign and sail again, + For it's “Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!” + + Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear — + Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel — + Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer — + Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal: + Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow, + Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine, + So I lead my reckless children from below + Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine. + With my “<i>Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!</i>” + [And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!] + So we ride the iron stallions down to drink, + Through the canyons to the waters of the West! + + And the tunes that mean so much to you alone — + Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose, + Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan — + I can rip your very heartstrings out with those; + With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun — + And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink, + And the merry play that drops you, when you're done, + To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think. + With my “<i>Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!</i>” + Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past, + Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin + And the heavier repentance at the last! + + Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof — + I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man! + Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof — + I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran! + My bray ye may not alter nor mistake + When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things, + But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make, + Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings? + With my “<i>Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!</i>” + [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?] + But the word — the word is mine, when the order moves the line + And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die. + + Of the driven dust of speech I make a flame + And a scourge of broken withes that men let fall: + For the words that had no honour till I came — + Lo! I raise them into honour over all! + By the wisdom of the centuries I speak — + To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth — + I, the joy of life unquestioned — I, the Greek — + I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth! + With my “<i>Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!</i>” + [What d'ye lack, my noble masters? What d'ye lack?] + So I draw the world together link by link: + Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LINER SHE'S A LADY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds — + The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e gives 'er all she needs; + But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun', + They're just the same as you an' me a-plyin' up an' down! + + Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard, + All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard; + Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old — + Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, waitin' in the cold! + + The Liner she's a lady by the paint upon 'er face, + An' if she meets an accident they count it sore disgrace: + The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e's always 'andy by, + But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they've got to load or die. + + The Liner she's a lady, and 'er route is cut an' dried; + The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e always keeps beside; + But, oh, the little cargo-boats that 'aven't any man, + They've got to do their business first, and make the most they can! + + The Liner she's a lady, and if a war should come, + The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e'd bid 'er stay at home; + But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide! + 'E'd 'ave to up an' fight for them, for they are England's pride. + + The Liner she's a lady, but if she wasn't made, + There still would be the cargo-boats for 'ome an' foreign trade. + The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, but if we wasn't 'ere, + 'E wouldn't have to fight at all for 'ome an' friends so dear. + + 'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard, + All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard; + Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old — + 'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, waitin' in the cold! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MULHOLLAND'S CONTRACT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The fear was on the cattle, for the gale was on the sea, + An' the pens broke up on the lower deck an' let the creatures free — + An' the lights went out on the lower deck, an' no one near but me. + + I had been singin' to them to keep 'em quiet there, + For the lower deck is the dangerousest, requirin' constant care, + An' give to me as the strongest man, though used to drink and swear. + + I see my chance was certain of bein' horned or trod, + For the lower deck was packed with steers thicker'n peas in a pod, + An' more pens broke at every roll — so I made a Contract with God. + + An' by the terms of the Contract, as I have read the same, + If He got me to port alive I would exalt His Name, + An' praise His Holy Majesty till further orders came. + + He saved me from the cattle an' He saved me from the sea, + For they found me 'tween two drownded ones where the roll had landed me — + An' a four-inch crack on top of my head, as crazy as could be. + + But that were done by a stanchion, an' not by a bullock at all, + An' I lay still for seven weeks convalessing of the fall, + An' readin' the shiny Scripture texts in the Seaman's Hospital. + + An' I spoke to God of our Contract, an' He says to my prayer: + “I never puts on My ministers no more than they can bear. + So back you go to the cattle-boats an' preach My Gospel there. + + “For human life is chancy at any kind of trade, + But most of all, as well you know, when the steers are mad-afraid; + So you go back to the cattle-boats an' preach 'em as I've said. + + “They must quit drinkin' an' swearin', they mustn't knife on a blow, + They must quit gamblin' their wages, and you must preach it so; + For now those boats are more like Hell than anything else I know.” + + I didn't want to do it, for I knew what I should get, + An' I wanted to preach Religion, handsome an' out of the wet, + But the Word of the Lord were lain on me, an' I done what I was set. + + I have been smit an' bruis]\ed, as warned would be the case, + An' turned my cheek to the smiter exactly as Scripture says; + But following that, I knocked him down an' led him up to Grace. + + An' we have preaching on Sundays whenever the sea is calm, + An' I use no knife or pistol an' I never take no harm, + For the Lord abideth back of me to guide my fighting arm. + + An' I sign for four-pound-ten a month and save the money clear, + An' I am in charge of the lower deck, an' I never lose a steer; + An' I believe in Almighty God an' preach His Gospel here. + + The skippers say I'm crazy, but I can prove 'em wrong, + For I am in charge of the lower deck with all that doth belong — + <i>Which they would not give to a lunatic, and the competition so strong!</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANCHOR SONG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah heave her short again! + Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl. + Loose all sail, and brace your yards back and full — + Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all! + Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love — + Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee; + For the wind has come to say: + “You must take me while you may, + If you'd go to Mother Carey + (Walk her down to Mother Carey!), + Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!” + + Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah break it out o' that! + Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear. + Port — port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot, + And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year! + Well, ah fare you well, for we've got to take her out again — + Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free. + And it's time to clear and quit + When the hawser grips the bitt, + So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea! + + Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her! + Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall! + Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy. + Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul! + Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind's took hold of us, + Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free. + And it's blowing up for night, + And she's dropping Light on Light, + And she's snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea, + + Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone to-night. + Sick she is and harbour-sick — O sick to clear the land! + Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us — + Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll stand! + Well, ah fare you well, and it's Ushant slams the door on us, + Whirling like a windmill through the dirty scud to lee: + Till the last, last flicker goes + From the tumbling water-rows, + And we're off to Mother Carey + (Walk her down to Mother Carey!), + Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOST LEGION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's a Legion that never was 'listed, + That carries no colours or crest, + But, split in a thousand detachments, + Is breaking the road for the rest. + Our fathers they left us their blessing — + They taught us, and groomed us, and crammed; + But we've shaken the Clubs and the Messes + To go and find out and be damned + (Dear boys!), + To go and get shot and be damned. + + So some of us chivy the slaver, + And some of us cherish the black, + And some of us hunt on the Oil Coast, + And some on — the Wallaby track: + And some of us drift to Sarawak, + And some of us drift up The Fly, + And some share our tucker with tigers, + And some with the gentle Masai + (Dear boys!), + Take tea with the giddy Masai. + + We've painted The Islands vermilion, + We've pearled on half-shares in the Bay, + We've shouted on seven-ounce nuggets, + We've starved on a Seedeeboy's pay; + We've laughed at the world as we found it — + Its women and cities and men — + From Sayyid Burgash in a tantrum + To the smoke-reddened eyes of Loben + (Dear boys!), + We've a little account with Loben. + + The ends o' the Earth were our portion, + The ocean at large was our share. + There was never a skirmish to windward + But the Leaderless Legion was there: + Yes, somehow and somewhere and always + We were first when the trouble began, + From a lottery-row in Manila, + To an I.D.B. race on the Pan + (Dear boys!), + With the Mounted Police on the Pan. + + We preach in advance of the Army, + We skirmish ahead of the Church, + With never a gunboat to help us + When we're scuppered and left in the lurch. + But we know as the cartridges finish, + And we're filed on our last little shelves, + That the Legion that never was 'listed + Will send us as good as ourselves + (Good men!), + Five hundred as good as ourselves. + + Then a health (we must drink it in whispers) + To our wholly unauthorised horde — + To the line of our dusty foreloopers, + The Gentlemen Rovers abroad — + Yes, a health to ourselves ere we scatter, + For the steamer won't wait for the train, + And the Legion that never was 'listed + Goes back into quarters again! + 'Regards! + Goes back under canvas again. + Hurrah! + The swag and the billy again. + Here's how! + The trail and the packhorse again. + Salue! + The trek and the laager again. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SEA-WIFE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate, + And a wealthy wife is she; + She breeds a breed o' rovin' men + And casts them over sea. + + And some are drowned in deep water, + And some in sight o' shore, + And word goes back to the weary wife + And ever she sends more. + + For since that wife had gate or gear, + Or hearth or garth or bield, + She willed her sons to the white harvest, + And that is a bitter yield. + + She wills her sons to the wet ploughing, + To ride the horse of tree, + And syne her sons come back again + Far-spent from out the sea. + + The good wife's sons come home again + With little into their hands, + But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men + In the new and naked lands; + + But the faith of men that ha' brothered men + By more than easy breath, + And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men + In the open books of death. + + Rich are they, rich in wonders seen, + But poor in the goods o' men; + So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teeth + They sell for their teeth again. + + For whether they lose to the naked life + Or win to their hearts' desire, + They tell it all to the weary wife + That nods beside the fire. + + Her hearth is wide to every wind + That makes the white ash spin; + And tide and tide and 'tween the tides + Her sons go out and in; + + (Out with great mirth that do desire + Hazard of trackless ways, + In with content to wait their watch + And warm before the blaze); + + And some return by failing light, + And some in waking dream, + For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts + That ride the rough roof-beam. + + Home, they come home from all the ports, + The living and the dead; + The good wife's sons come home again + For her blessing on their head! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HYMN BEFORE ACTION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The earth is full of anger, + The seas are dark with wrath, + The Nations in their harness + Go up against our path: + Ere yet we loose the legions — + Ere yet we draw the blade, + Jehovah of the Thunders, + Lord God of Battles, aid! + + High lust and froward bearing, + Proud heart, rebellious brow — + Deaf ear and soul uncaring, + We seek Thy mercy now! + The sinner that forswore Thee, + The fool that passed Thee by, + Our times are known before Thee — + Lord, grant us strength to die! + + For those who kneel beside us + At altars not Thine own, + Who lack the lights that guide us, + Lord, let their faith atone. + If wrong we did to call them, + By honour bound they came; + Let not Thy Wrath befall them, + But deal to us the blame. + + From panic, pride, and terror, + Revenge that knows no rein, + Light haste and lawless error, + Protect us yet again. + Cloak Thou our undeserving, + Make firm the shuddering breath, + In silence and unswerving + To taste Thy lesser death! + + Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow, + Remember, reach and save + The soul that comes to-morrow + Before the God that gave! + Since each was born of woman, + For each at utter need — + True comrade and true foeman — + Madonna, intercede! + + E'en now their vanguard gathers, + E'en now we face the fray — + As Thou didst help our fathers, + Help Thou our host to-day! + Fulfilled of signs and wonders, + In life, in death made clear — + Jehovah of the Thunders, + Lord God of Battles, hear! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE TRUE ROMANCE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thy face is far from this our war, + Our call and counter-cry, + I shall not find Thee quick and kind, + Nor know Thee till I die, + Enough for me in dreams to see + And touch Thy garments' hem: + Thy feet have trod so near to God + I may not follow them. + + Through wantonness if men profess + They weary of Thy parts, + E'en let them die at blasphemy + And perish with their arts; + But we that love, but we that prove + Thine excellence august, + While we adore discover more + Thee perfect, wise, and just. + + Since spoken word Man's Spirit stirred + Beyond his belly-need, + What is is Thine of fair design + In thought and craft and deed; + Each stroke aright of toil and fight, + That was and that shall be, + And hope too high, wherefore we die, + Has birth and worth in Thee. + + Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee + To gild his dross thereby, + And knowledge sure that he endure + A child until he die — + For to make plain that man's disdain + Is but new Beauty's birth — + For to possess in loneliness + The joy of all the earth. + + As Thou didst teach all lovers speech + And Life all mystery, + So shalt Thou rule by every school + Till love and longing die, + Who wast or yet the Lights were set, + A whisper in the Void, + Who shalt be sung through planets young + When this is clean destroyed. + + Beyond the bounds our staring rounds, + Across the pressing dark, + The children wise of outer skies + Look hitherward and mark + A light that shifts, a glare that drifts, + Rekindling thus and thus, + Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne + Strange tales to them of us. + + Time hath no tide but must abide + The servant of Thy will; + Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme + The ranging stars stand still — + Regent of spheres that lock our fears, + Our hopes invisible, + Oh 'twas certes at Thy decrees + We fashioned Heaven and Hell! + + Pure Wisdom hath no certain path + That lacks thy morning-eyne, + And captains bold by Thee controlled + Most like to Gods design; + Thou art the Voice to kingly boys + To lift them through the fight, + And Comfortress of Unsuccess, + To give the dead good-night — + + A veil to draw 'twixt God His Law + And Man's infirmity, + A shadow kind to dumb and blind + The shambles where we die; + A rule to trick th' arithmetic + Too base of leaguing odds — + The spur of trust, the curb of lust, + Thou handmaid of the Gods! + + O Charity, all patiently + Abiding wrack and scaith! + O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats + Yet drops no jot of faith! + Devil and brute Thou dost transmute + To higher, lordlier show, + Who art in sooth that lovely Truth + The careless angels know! + + Thy face is far from this our war, + Our call and counter-cry, + I may not find Thee quick and kind, + Nor know Thee till I die. + + Yet may I look with heart unshook + On blow brought home or missed — + Yet may I hear with equal ear + The clarions down the List; + Yet set my lance above mischance + And ride the barriere — + Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis, + My Lady is not there! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FLOWERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To our private taste, there is always something a little exotic, + almost artificial, in songs which, under an English aspect and dress, + are yet so manifestly the product of other skies. They affect us + like translations; the very fauna and flora are alien, remote; + the dog's-tooth violet is but an ill substitute for the rathe primrose, + nor can we ever believe that the wood-robin sings as sweetly in April + as the English thrush. — THE ATHENAEUM. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Buy my English posies! + Kent and Surrey may — + Violets of the Undercliff + Wet with Channel spray; + Cowslips from a Devon combe — + Midland furze afire — + Buy my English posies + And I'll sell your heart's desire! + + Buy my English posies! + You that scorn the May, + Won't you greet a friend from home + Half the world away? + Green against the draggled drift, + Faint and frail and first — + Buy my Northern blood-root + And I'll know where you were nursed: + Robin down the logging-road whistles, “Come to me!” + Spring has found the maple-grove, the sap is running free; + All the winds of Canada call the ploughing-rain. + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again! + + Buy my English posies! + Here's to match your need — + Buy a tuft of royal heath, + Buy a bunch of weed + White as sand of Muysenberg + Spun before the gale — + Buy my heath and lilies + And I'll tell you whence you hail! + Under hot Constantia broad the vineyards lie — + Throned and thorned the aching berg props the speckless sky — + Slow below the Wynberg firs trails the tilted wain — + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again! + + Buy my English posies! + You that will not turn — + Buy my hot-wood clematis, + Buy a frond o' fern + Gathered where the Erskine leaps + Down the road to Lorne — + Buy my Christmas creeper + And I'll say where you were born! + West away from Melbourne dust holidays begin — + They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynn — + Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Main — + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again! + + Buy my English posies! + Here's your choice unsold! + Buy a blood-red myrtle-bloom, + Buy the kowhai's gold + Flung for gift on Taupo's face, + Sign that spring is come — + Buy my clinging myrtle + And I'll give you back your home! + Broom behind the windy town; pollen o' the pine — + Bell-bird in the leafy deep where the <i>ratas</i> twine — + Fern above the saddle-bow, flax upon the plain — + Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again! + + Buy my English posies! + Ye that have your own + Buy them for a brother's sake + Overseas, alone. + Weed ye trample underfoot + Floods his heart abrim — + Bird ye never heeded, + Oh, she calls his dead to him! + Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas; + Woe for us if we forget, we that hold by these! + Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land — + Masters of the Seven Seas, oh, love and understand. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAST RHYME OF TRUE THOMAS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The King has called for priest and cup, + The King has taken spur and blade + To dub True Thomas a belted knight, + And all for the sake o' the songs he made. + + They have sought him high, they have sought him low, + They have sought him over down and lea; + They have found him by the milk-white thorn + That guards the gates o' Faerie. + + 'Twas bent beneath and blue above, + Their eyes were held that they might not see + The kine that grazed beneath the knowes, + Oh, they were the Queens o' Faerie! + + “Now cease your song,” the King he said, + “Oh, cease your song and get you dight + To vow your vow and watch your arms, + For I will dub you a belted knight. + + “For I will give you a horse o' pride, + Wi' blazon and spur and page and squire; + Wi' keep and tail and seizin and law, + And land to hold at your desire.” + + True Thomas smiled above his harp, + And turned his face to the naked sky, + Where, blown before the wastrel wind, + The thistle-down she floated by. + + “I ha' vowed my vow in another place, + And bitter oath it was on me, + I ha' watched my arms the lee-long night, + Where five-score fighting men would flee. + + “My lance is tipped o' the hammered flame, + My shield is beat o' the moonlight cold; + And I won my spurs in the Middle World, + A thousand fathom beneath the mould. + + “And what should I make wi' a horse o' pride, + And what should I make wi' a sword so brown, + But spill the rings o' the Gentle Folk + And flyte my kin in the Fairy Town? + + “And what should I make wi' blazon and belt, + Wi' keep and tail and seizin and fee, + And what should I do wi' page and squire + That am a king in my own countrie? + + “For I send east and I send west, + And I send far as my will may flee, + By dawn and dusk and the drinking rain, + And syne my Sendings return to me. + + “They come wi' news of the groanin' earth, + They come wi' news o' the roarin' sea, + Wi' word of Spirit and Ghost and Flesh, + And man, that's mazed among the three.” + + The King he bit his nether lip, + And smote his hand upon his knee: + “By the faith o' my soul, True Thomas,” he said, + “Ye waste no wit in courtesie! + + “As I desire, unto my pride, + Can I make Earls by three and three, + To run before and ride behind + And serve the sons o' my body.” + + “And what care I for your row-foot earls, + Or all the sons o' your body? + Before they win to the Pride o' Name, + I trow they all ask leave o' me. + + “For I make Honour wi' muckle mouth, + As I make Shame wi' mincin' feet, + To sing wi' the priests at the market-cross, + Or run wi' the dogs in the naked street. + + “And some they give me the good red gold, + And some they give me the white money, + And some they give me a clout o' meal, + For they be people o' low degree. + + “And the song I sing for the counted gold + The same I sing for the white money, + But best I sing for the clout o' meal + That simple people given me.” + + The King cast down a silver groat, + A silver groat o' Scots money, + “If I come wi' a poor man's dole,” he said, + “True Thomas, will ye harp to me?” + + “Whenas I harp to the children small, + They press me close on either hand. + And who are you,” True Thomas said, + “That you should ride while they must stand? + + “Light down, light down from your horse o' pride, + I trow ye talk too loud and hie, + And I will make you a triple word, + And syne, if ye dare, ye shall 'noble me.” + + He has lighted down from his horse o' pride, + And set his back against the stone. + “Now guard you well,” True Thomas said, + “Ere I rax your heart from your breast-bone!” + + True Thomas played upon his harp, + The fairy harp that couldna lee, + And the first least word the proud King heard, + It harpit the salt tear out o' his ee. + + “Oh, I see the love that I lost long syne, + I touch the hope that I may not see, + And all that I did o' hidden shame, + Like little snakes they hiss at me. + + “The sun is lost at noon — at noon! + The dread o' doom has grippit me. + True Thomas, hide me under your cloak, + God wot, I'm little fit to dee!” + + 'Twas bent beneath and blue above — + 'Twas open field and running flood — + Where, hot on heath and dike and wall, + The high sun warmed the adder's brood. + + “Lie down, lie down,” True Thomas said. + “The God shall judge when all is done. + But I will bring you a better word + And lift the cloud that I laid on.” + + True Thomas played upon his harp, + That birled and brattled to his hand, + And the next least word True Thomas made, + It garred the King take horse and brand. + + “Oh, I hear the tread o' the fighting men, + I see the sun on splent and spear. + I mark the arrow outen the fern + That flies so low and sings so clear! + + “Advance my standards to that war, + And bid my good knights prick and ride; + The gled shall watch as fierce a fight + As e'er was fought on the Border side!” + + 'Twas bent beneath and blue above, + 'Twas nodding grass and naked sky, + Where, ringing up the wastrel wind, + The eyas stooped upon the pie. + + True Thomas sighed above his harp, + And turned the song on the midmost string; + And the last least word True Thomas made, + He harpit his dead youth back to the King. + + “Now I am prince, and I do well + To love my love withouten fear; + To walk wi' man in fellowship, + And breathe my horse behind the deer. + + “My hounds they bay unto the death, + The buck has couched beyond the burn, + My love she waits at her window + To wash my hands when I return. + + “For that I live am I content + (Oh! I have seen my true love's eyes) + To stand wi' Adam in Eden-glade, + And run in the woods o' Paradise!” + + 'Twas naked sky and nodding grass, + 'Twas running flood and wastrel wind, + Where, checked against the open pass, + The red deer belled to call the hind. + + True Thomas laid his harp away, + And louted low at the saddle-side; + He has taken stirrup and hauden rein, + And set the King on his horse o' pride. + + “Sleep ye or wake,” True Thomas said, + “That sit so still, that muse so long; + Sleep ye or wake? — till the latter sleep + I trow ye'll not forget my song. + + “I ha' harpit a shadow out o' the sun + To stand before your face and cry; + I ha' armed the earth beneath your heel, + And over your head I ha' dusked the sky. + + “I ha' harpit ye up to the throne o' God, + I ha' harpit your midmost soul in three; + I ha' harpit ye down to the Hinges o' Hell, + And — ye — would — make — a Knight o' me!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + 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 Solutr]/e, told the tribe my style was <i>outr]/e</i> — + '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; + 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, + 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 Tr—ll]. + + 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, + 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; + 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 roared where Paris roars to-night: — + There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, + And — every — single — one — of — them — is — right! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORY OF UNG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago, + Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow. + Fashioned the form of a tribesman — gaily he whistled and sung, + Working the snow with his fingers. <i>Read ye the Story of Ung!</i> + + Pleased was his tribe with that image — came in their hundreds to scan — + Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: “Verily, this is a man! + Thus do we carry our lances — thus is a war-belt slung. + Lo! it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!” + + Later he pictured an aurochs — later he pictured a bear — + Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair — + Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone — + Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone. + + Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still — + Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill — + Hunters and fishers and trappers, presently whispering low: + “Yea, they are like — and it may be — But how does the Picture-man know?” + + “Ung — hath he slept with the Aurochs — watched where the Mastodon roam? + Spoke on the ice with the Bow-head — followed the Sabre-tooth home? + Nay! These are toys of his fancy! If he have cheated us so, + How is there truth in his image — the man that he fashioned of snow?” + + Wroth was that maker of pictures — hotly he answered the call: + “Hunters and fishers and trappers, children and fools are ye all! + Look at the beasts when ye hunt them!” Swift from the tumult he broke, + Ran to the cave of his father and told him the shame that they spoke. + + And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft, + Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed: + “If they could see as thou seest they would do what thou hast done, + And each man would make him a picture, and — what would become of my son? + + “There would be no pelts of the reindeer, flung down at thy cave for a gift, + Nor dole of the oily timber that comes on the Baltic drift; + No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale; + No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale. + + “<i>Thou</i> hast not toiled at the fishing when the sodden trammels freeze, + Nor worked the war-boats outward through the rush of the rock-staked seas, + Yet they bring thee fish and plunder — full meal and an easy bed — + And all for the sake of thy pictures.” And Ung held down his head. + + “<i>Thou</i> hast not stood to the Aurochs when the red snow reeks of the fight; + Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright. + And the heart of the hairy Mammoth, thou sayest, they do not see, + Yet they save it whole from the beaches and broil the best for thee. + + “And now do they press to thy pictures, with opened mouth and eye, + And a little gift in the doorway, and the praise no gift can buy: + But — sure they have doubted thy pictures, and that is a grievous stain — + Son that can see so clearly, return them their gifts again!” + + And Ung looked down at his deerskins — their broad shell-tasselled bands — + And Ung drew downward his mitten and looked at his naked hands; + And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard his father, behind: + “Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe is blind!” + + Straight on the glittering ice-field, by the caves of the lost Dordogne, + Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on bone + Even to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled and sung, + Blessing his tribe for their blindness. <i>Heed ye the Story of Ung!</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE THREE-DECKER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “<i>The three-volume novel is extinct.</i>” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail. + It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail; + But, spite all modern notions, I found her first and best — + The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest. + + 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, + 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: + 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 forc's'le — 'twas garlands on the mast, + 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! + + 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, howe'er so far you cruise + In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws. + + Swing round your aching search-light — 'twill show no haven's peace. + Ay, blow your shrieking sirens to the deaf, gray-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, + 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 figure-head; + While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine + 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. + + 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 — + <i>She</i>'s taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN AMERICAN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The American Spirit speaks: +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If the Led Striker call it a strike, + Or the papers call it a war, + They know not much what I am like, + Nor what he is, my Avatar.” + + Through many roads, by me possessed, + He shambles forth in cosmic guise; + He is the Jester and the Jest, + And he the Text himself applies. + + The Celt is in his heart and hand, + The Gaul is in his brain and nerve; + Where, cosmopolitanly planned, + He guards the Redskin's dry reserve. + + His easy unswept hearth he lends + From Labrador to Guadeloupe; + Till, elbowed out by sloven friends, + He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop. + + Calm-eyed he scoffs at sword and crown, + Or panic-blinded stabs and slays: + Blatant he bids the world bow down, + Or cringing begs a crust of praise; + + Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart, + He dubs his dreary brethren Kings. + His hands are black with blood — his heart + Leaps, as a babe's, at little things. + + But, through the shift of mood and mood, + Mine ancient humour saves him whole — + The cynic devil in his blood + That bids him mock his hurrying soul; + + That bids him flout the Law he makes, + That bids him make the Law he flouts, + Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes + The drumming guns that — have no doubts; + + That checks him foolish — hot and fond, + That chuckles through his deepest ire, + That gilds the slough of his despond + But dims the goal of his desire; + + Inopportune, shrill-accented, + The acrid Asiatic mirth + That leaves him, careless 'mid his dead, + The scandal of the elder earth. + + How shall he clear himself, how reach + Your bar or weighed defence prefer? + A brother hedged with alien speech + And lacking all interpreter. + + Which knowledge vexes him a space; + But while Reproof around him rings, + He turns a keen untroubled face + Home, to the instant need of things. + + Enslaved, illogical, elate, + He greets th' embarrassed Gods, nor fears + To shake the iron hand of Fate + Or match with Destiny for beers. + + Lo, imperturbable he rules, + Unkempt, disreputable, vast — + And, in the teeth of all the schools, + I — I shall save him at the last! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE “MARY GLOSTER” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I've paid for your sickest fancies; I've humoured your crackedest whim — + Dick, it's your daddy, dying; you've got to listen to him! + Good for a fortnight, am I? The doctor told you? He lied. + I shall go under by morning, and — Put that nurse outside. + 'Never seen death yet, Dickie? Well, now is your time to learn, + And you'll wish you held my record before it comes to your turn. + Not counting the Line and the Foundry, the yards and the village, too, + I've made myself and a million; but I'm damned if I made you. + Master at two-and-twenty, and married at twenty-three — + Ten thousand men on the pay-roll, and forty freighters at sea! + Fifty years between 'em, and every year of it fight, + And now I'm Sir Anthony Gloster, dying, a baronite: + For I lunched with his Royal 'Ighness — what was it the papers a-had? + “Not least of our merchant-princes.” Dickie, that's me, your dad! + <i>I</i> didn't begin with askings. <i>I</i> took my job and I stuck; + And I took the chances they wouldn't, an' now they're calling it luck. + Lord, what boats I've handled — rotten and leaky and old! + Ran 'em, or — opened the bilge-cock, precisely as I was told. + Grub that 'ud bind you crazy, and crews that 'ud turn you grey, + And a big fat lump of insurance to cover the risk on the way. + The others they dursn't do it; they said they valued their life + (They've served me since as skippers). <i>I</i> went, and I took my wife. + Over the world I drove 'em, married at twenty-three, + And your mother saving the money and making a man of me. + <i>I</i> was content to be master, but she said there was better behind; + She took the chances I wouldn't, and I followed your mother blind. + She egged me to borrow the money, an' she helped me to clear the loan, + When we bought half shares in a cheap 'un and hoisted a flag of our own. + Patching and coaling on credit, and living the Lord knew how, + We started the Red Ox freighters — we've eight-and-thirty now. + And those were the days of clippers, and the freights were clipper-freights, + And we knew we were making our fortune, but she died in Macassar Straits — + By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the Union Bank — + And we dropped her in fourteen fathom; I pricked it off where she sank. + Owners we were, full owners, and the boat was christened for her, + And she died in the <i>Mary Gloster</i>. My heart, how young we were! + So I went on a spree round Java and well-nigh ran her ashore, + But your mother came and warned me and I wouldn't liquor no more: + Strict I stuck to my business, afraid to stop or I'd think, + Saving the money (she warned me), and letting the other men drink. + And I met M'Cullough in London (I'd turned five 'undred then), + And 'tween us we started the Foundry — three forges and twenty men: + Cheap repairs for the cheap 'uns. It paid, and the business grew, + For I bought me a steam-lathe patent, and that was a gold mine too. + “Cheaper to build 'em than buy 'em,” <i>I</i> said, but M'Cullough he shied, + And we wasted a year in talking before we moved to the Clyde. + And the Lines were all beginning, and we all of us started fair, + Building our engines like houses and staying the boilers square. + But M'Cullough 'e wanted cabins with marble and maple and all, + And Brussels an' Utrecht velvet, and baths and a Social Hall, + And pipes for closets all over, and cutting the frames too light, + But M'Cullough he died in the Sixties, and — Well, I'm dying to-night. . . . + I knew — <i>I</i> knew what was coming, when we bid on the <i>Byfleet</i>'s keel — + They piddled and piffled with iron: I'd given my orders for steel! + Steel and the first expansions. It paid, I tell you, it paid, + When we came with our nine-knot freighters and collared the long-run trade! + And they asked me how I did it, and I gave 'em the Scripture text, + “You keep your light so shining a little in front o' the next!” + They copied all they could follow, but they couldn't copy my mind, + And I left 'em sweating and stealing a year and a half behind. + Then came the armour-contracts, but that was M'Cullough's side; + He was always best in the Foundry, but better, perhaps, he died. + I went through his private papers; the notes was plainer than print; + And I'm no fool to finish if a man'll give me a hint. + (I remember his widow was angry.) So I saw what the drawings meant, + And I started the six-inch rollers, and it paid me sixty per cent — + Sixty per cent <i>with</i> failures, and more than twice we could do, + And a quarter-million to credit, and I saved it all for you! + I thought — it doesn't matter — you seemed to favour your ma, + But you're nearer forty than thirty, and I know the kind you are. + Harrer an' Trinity College! I ought to ha' sent you to sea — + But I stood you an education, an' what have you done for me? + The things I knew was proper you wouldn't thank me to give, + And the things I knew was rotten you said was the way to live. + For you muddled with books and pictures, an' china an' etchin's an' fans, + And your rooms at college was beastly — more like a whore's than a man's — + Till you married that thin-flanked woman, as white and as stale as a bone, + An' she gave you your social nonsense; but where's that kid o' your own? + I've seen your carriages blocking the half o' the Cromwell Road, + But never the doctor's brougham to help the missus unload. + (So there isn't even a grandchild, an' the Gloster family's done.) + Not like your mother, she isn't. <i>She</i> carried her freight each run. + But they died, the pore little beggars! At sea she had 'em — they died. + Only you, an' you stood it; you haven't stood much beside. + Weak, a liar, and idle, and mean as a collier's whelp + Nosing for scraps in the galley. No help — my son was no help! + So he gets three 'undred thousand, in trust and the interest paid. + I wouldn't give it you, Dickie — you see, I made it in trade. + You're saved from soiling your fingers, and if you have no child, + It all comes back to the business. Gad, won't your wife be wild! + 'Calls and calls in her carriage, her 'andkerchief up to 'er eye: + “Daddy! dear daddy's dyin'!” and doing her best to cry. + Grateful? Oh, yes, I'm grateful, but keep her away from here. + Your mother 'ud never ha' stood 'er, and, anyhow, women are queer. . . . + There's women will say I've married a second time. + Not quite! But give pore Aggie a hundred, and tell her your lawyers'll fight. + She was the best o' the boiling — you'll meet her before it ends; + I'm in for a row with the mother — I'll leave you settle my friends: + For a man he must go with a woman, which women don't understand — + Or the sort that say they can see it they aren't the marrying brand. + But I wanted to speak o' your mother that's Lady Gloster still — + I'm going to up and see her, without it's hurting the will. + Here! Take your hand off the bell-pull. Five thousand's waiting for you, + If you'll only listen a minute, and do as I bid you do. + They'll try to prove me crazy, and, if you bungle, they can; + And I've only you to trust to! (O God, why ain't he a man?) + There's some waste money on marbles, the same as M'Cullough tried — + Marbles and mausoleums — but I call that sinful pride. + There's some ship bodies for burial — we've carried 'em, soldered and packed; + Down in their wills they wrote it, and nobody called <i>them</i> cracked. + But me — I've too much money, and people might. . . . All my fault: + It come o' hoping for grandsons and buying that Wokin' vault. + I'm sick o' the 'ole dam' business; I'm going back where I came. + Dick, you're the son o' my body, and you'll take charge o' the same! + I want to lie by your mother, ten thousand mile away, + And they'll want to send me to Woking; and that's where you'll earn your pay. + I've thought it out on the quiet, the same as it ought to be done — + Quiet, and decent, and proper — an' here's your orders, my son. + You know the Line? You don't, though. You write to the Board, and tell + Your father's death has upset you an' you're goin' to cruise for a spell, + An' you'd like the <i>Mary Gloster</i> — I've held her ready for this — + They'll put her in working order and you'll take her out as she is. + Yes, it was money idle when I patched her and put her aside + (Thank God, I can pay for my fancies!) — the boat where your mother died, + By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the Union Bank, + We dropped her — I think I told you — and I pricked it off where she sank — + ['Tiny she looked on the grating — that oily, treacly sea —] + 'Hundred and eighteen East, remember, and South just three. + Easy bearings to carry — three South — three to the dot; + But I gave M'Andrew a copy in case of dying — or not. + And so you'll write to M'Andrew, he's Chief of the Maori Line; + They'll give him leave, if you ask 'em and say it's business o' mine. + I built three boats for the Maoris, an' very well pleased they were, + An' I've known Mac since the Fifties, and Mac knew me — and her. + After the first stroke warned me I sent him the money to keep + Against the time you'd claim it, committin' your dad to the deep; + For you are the son o' my body, and Mac was my oldest friend, + I've never asked 'im to dinner, but he'll see it out to the end. + Stiff-necked Glasgow beggar, I've heard he's prayed for my soul, + But he couldn't lie if you paid him, and he'd starve before he stole! + He'll take the <i>Mary</i> in ballast — you'll find her a lively ship; + And you'll take Sir Anthony Gloster, that goes on 'is wedding-trip, + Lashed in our old deck-cabin with all three port-holes wide, + The kick o' the screw beneath him and the round blue seas outside! + Sir Anthony Gloster's carriage — our 'ouse-flag flyin' free — + Ten thousand men on the pay-roll and forty freighters at sea! + He made himself and a million, but this world is a fleetin' show, + And he'll go to the wife of 'is bosom the same as he ought to go — + By the heel of the Paternosters — there isn't a chance to mistake — + And Mac'll pay you the money as soon as the bubbles break! + Five thousand for six weeks' cruising, the staunchest freighter afloat, + And Mac he'll give you your bonus the minute I'm out o' the boat! + He'll take you round to Macassar, and you'll come back alone; + He knows what I want o' the <i>Mary</i>. . . . I'll do what I please with my own. + Your mother 'ud call it wasteful, but I've seven-and-thirty more; + I'll come in my private carriage and bid it wait at the door. . . . + For my son 'e was never a credit: 'e muddled with books and art, + And 'e lived on Sir Anthony's money and 'e broke Sir Anthony's heart. + There isn't even a grandchild, and the Gloster family's done — + The only one you left me, O mother, the only one! + Harrer and Trinity College — me slavin' early an' late — + An' he thinks I'm dying crazy, and you're in Macassar Strait! + Flesh o' my flesh, my dearie, for ever an' ever amen, + That first stroke come for a warning; I ought to ha' gone to you then, + But — cheap repairs for a cheap 'un — the doctors said I'd do: + Mary, why didn't <i>you</i> warn me? I've allus heeded to you, + Excep' — I know — about women; but you are a spirit now; + An', wife, they was only women, and I was a man. That's how. + An' a man 'e must go with a woman, as you could not understand; + But I never talked 'em secrets. I paid 'em out o' hand. + Thank Gawd, I can pay for my fancies! Now what's five thousand to me, + For a berth off the Paternosters in the haven where I would be? + <i>I</i> believe in the Resurrection, if I read my Bible plain, + But I wouldn't trust 'em at Wokin'; we're safer at sea again. + For the heart it shall go with the treasure — go down to the sea in ships. + I'm sick of the hired women — I'll kiss my girl on her lips! + I'll be content with my fountain, I'll drink from my own well, + And the wife of my youth shall charm me — an' the rest can go to Hell! + (Dickie, <i>he</i> will, that's certain.) I'll lie in our standin'-bed, + An' Mac'll take her in ballast — an' she trims best by the head. . . . + Down by the head an' sinkin', her fires are drawn and cold, + And the water's splashin' hollow on the skin of the empty hold — + Churning an' choking and chuckling, quiet and scummy and dark — + Full to her lower hatches and risin' steady. Hark! + That was the after-bulkhead. . . . She's flooded from stem to stern. . . . + Never seen death yet, Dickie? . . . Well, now is your time to learn! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SESTINA OF THE TRAMP-ROYAL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all, + The 'appy roads that take you o'er the world. + Speakin' in general, I 'ave found them good + For such as cannot use one bed too long, + But must get 'ence, the same as I 'ave done, + An' go observin' matters till they die. + + What do it matter where or 'ow we die, + So long as we've our 'ealth to watch it all — + The different ways that different things are done, + An' men an' women lovin' in this world — + Takin' our chances as they come along, + An' when they ain't, pretendin' they are good? + + In cash or credit — no, it aren't no good; + You 'ave to 'ave the 'abit or you'd die, + Unless you lived your life but one day long, + Nor didn't prophesy nor fret at all, + But drew your tucker some'ow from the world, + An' never bothered what you might ha' done. + + But, Gawd, what things are they I 'aven't done? + I've turned my 'and to most, an' turned it good, + In various situations round the world — + For 'im that doth not work must surely die; + But that's no reason man should labour all + 'Is life on one same shift; life's none so long. + + Therefore, from job to job I've moved along. + Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done, + For something in my 'ead upset me all, + Till I 'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good, + An', out at sea, be'eld the dock-lights die, + An' met my mate — the wind that tramps the world! + + It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world, + Which you can read and care for just so long, + But presently you feel that you will die + Unless you get the page you're readin' done, + An' turn another — likely not so good; + But what you're after is to turn 'em all. + + Gawd bless this world! Whatever she 'ath done — + Excep' when awful long — I've found it good. + So write, before I die, “'E liked it all!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When 'Omer smote 'is bloomin' lyre, + He'd 'eard men sing by land an' sea; + An' what he thought 'e might require, + 'E went an' took — the same as me! + + The market-girls an' fishermen, + The shepherds an' the sailors, too, + They 'eard old songs turn up again, + But kep' it quiet — same as you! + + They knew 'e stole; 'e knew they knowed. + They didn't tell, nor make a fuss, + But winked at 'Omer down the road, + An' 'e winked back — the same as us! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “BACK TO THE ARMY AGAIN” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm 'ere in a ticky ulster an' a broken billycock 'at, + A-layin' 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! + + 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 — + 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; + '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, + 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! + + 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, + 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. + 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 <i>Jumner</i> was due? + 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. + + 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; + 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: + 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 — + 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 + An' back to the Army again! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “BIRDS OF PREY” MARCH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + March! The mud is cakin' good about our trousies. + Front! — eyes front, an' watch the Colour-casin's drip. + Front! The faces of the women in the 'ouses + Ain't the kind o' things to take aboard the ship. + + Cheer! An' we'll never march to victory. + Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar! + The Large Birds o' Prey + They will carry us away, + An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! + + Wheel! Oh, keep your touch; we're goin' round a corner. + Time! — mark time, an' let the men be'ind us close. + Lord! the transport's full, an' 'alf our lot not on 'er — + Cheer, O cheer! We're going off where no one knows. + + March! The Devil's none so black as 'e is painted! + Cheer! We'll 'ave some fun before we're put away. + 'Alt, an' 'and 'er out — a woman's gone and fainted! + Cheer! Get on — Gawd 'elp the married men to-day! + + Hoi! Come up, you 'ungry beggars, to yer sorrow. + ('Ear them say they want their tea, an' want it quick!) + You won't have no mind for slingers, not to-morrow — + No; you'll put the 'tween-decks stove out, bein' sick! + + 'Alt! The married kit 'as all to go before us! + 'Course it's blocked the bloomin' gangway up again! + Cheer, O cheer the 'Orse Guards watchin' tender o'er us, + Keepin' us since eight this mornin' in the rain! + + Stuck in 'eavy marchin'-order, sopped and wringin' — + Sick, before our time to watch 'er 'eave an' fall, + 'Ere's your 'appy 'ome at last, an' stop your singin'. + 'Alt! Fall in along the troop-deck! Silence all! + + Cheer! For we'll never live to see no bloomin' victory! + Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar! (One cheer more!) + The jackal an' the kite + 'Ave an 'ealthy appetite, + An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!) + The eagle an' the crow + They are waitin' ever so, + An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!) + Yes, the Large Birds o' Prey + They will carry us away, + An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “SOLDIER AN' SAILOR TOO” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I was spittin' into the Ditch aboard o' the <i>Crocodile</i>, + I seed a man on a man-o'-war got up in the Reg'lars' style. + 'E was scrapin' the paint from off of 'er plates, + an' I sez to 'im, “'Oo are you?” + Sez 'e, “I'm a Jolly — 'Er Majesty's Jolly — soldier an' sailor too!” + Now 'is work begins by Gawd knows when, and 'is work is never through; + 'E isn't one o' the reg'lar Line, nor 'e isn't one of the crew. + 'E's a kind of a giddy harumfrodite — soldier an' sailor too! + + An' after I met 'im all over the world, a-doin' all kinds of things, + Like landin' 'isself with a Gatlin' gun to talk to them 'eathen kings; + 'E sleeps in an 'ammick instead of a cot, + an' 'e drills with the deck on a slew, + An' 'e sweats like a Jolly — 'Er Majesty's Jolly — soldier an' sailor too! + For there isn't a job on the top o' the earth the beggar don't know, nor do — + You can leave 'im at night on a bald man's 'ead, to paddle 'is own canoe — + 'E's a sort of a bloomin' cosmopolouse — soldier an' sailor too. + + We've fought 'em in trooper, we've fought 'em in dock, + and drunk with 'em in betweens, + When they called us the seasick scull'ry-maids, + an' we called 'em the Ass Marines; + But, when we was down for a double fatigue, from Woolwich to Bernardmyo, + We sent for the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies — soldier an' sailor too! + They think for 'emselves, an' they steal for 'emselves, + and they never ask what's to do, + But they're camped an' fed an' they're up an' fed before our bugle's blew. + Ho! they ain't no limpin' procrastitutes — soldier an' sailor too. + + You may say we are fond of an 'arness-cut, or 'ootin' in barrick-yards, + Or startin' a Board School mutiny along o' the Onion Guards; + But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view, + The same as the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies — soldier an' sailor too! + They come of our lot, they was brothers to us; + they was beggars we'd met an' knew; + Yes, barrin' an inch in the chest an' the arm, they was doubles o' me an' you; + For they weren't no special chrysanthemums — soldier an' sailor too! + + To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about, + Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout; + But to stand an' be still to the <i>Birken'ead</i> drill + is a damn tough bullet to chew, + An' they done it, the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies — + soldier an' sailor too! + Their work was done when it 'adn't begun; they was younger nor me an' you; + Their choice it was plain between drownin' in 'eaps + an' bein' mopped by the screw, + So they stood an' was still to the <i>Birken'ead</i> drill, soldier an' sailor too! + + We're most of us liars, we're 'arf of us thieves, + an' the rest are as rank as can be, + But once in a while we can finish in style + (which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me). + But it makes you think better o' you an' your friends, + an' the work you may 'ave to do, + When you think o' the sinkin' <i>Victorier</i>'s Jollies — soldier an' sailor too! + Now there isn't no room for to say ye don't know — + they 'ave proved it plain and true — + That whether it's Widow, or whether it's ship, Victorier's work is to do, + An' they done it, the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies — + soldier an' sailor too! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SAPPERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When the Waters were dried an' the Earth did appear, + (“It's all one,” says the Sapper), + The Lord He created the Engineer, + Her Majesty's Royal Engineer, + With the rank and pay of a Sapper! + + When the Flood come along for an extra monsoon, + 'Twas Noah constructed the first pontoon + To the plans of Her Majesty's, etc. + + But after fatigue in the wet an' the sun, + Old Noah got drunk, which he wouldn't ha' done + If he'd trained with, etc. + + When the Tower o' Babel had mixed up men's <i>bat</i>, + Some clever civilian was managing that, + An' none of, etc. + + When the Jews had a fight at the foot of a hill, + Young Joshua ordered the sun to stand still, + For he was a Captain of Engineers, etc. + + When the Children of Israel made bricks without straw, + They were learnin' the regular work of our Corps, + The work of, etc. + + For ever since then, if a war they would wage, + Behold us a-shinin' on history's page — + First page for, etc. + + We lay down their sidings an' help 'em entrain, + An' we sweep up their mess through the bloomin' campaign, + In the style of, etc. + + They send us in front with a fuse an' a mine + To blow up the gates that are rushed by the Line, + But bent by, etc. + + They send us behind with a pick an' a spade, + To dig for the guns of a bullock-brigade + Which has asked for, etc. + + We work under escort in trousers and shirt, + An' the heathen they plug us tail-up in the dirt, + Annoying, etc. + + We blast out the rock an' we shovel the mud, + We make 'em good roads an' — they roll down the <i>khud</i>, + Reporting, etc. + + We make 'em their bridges, their wells, an' their huts, + An' the telegraph-wire the enemy cuts, + An' it's blamed on, etc. + + An' when we return, an' from war we would cease, + They grudge us adornin' the billets of peace, + Which are kept for, etc. + + We build 'em nice barracks — they swear they are bad, + That our Colonels are Methodist, married or mad, + Insultin', etc. + + They haven't no manners nor gratitude too, + For the more that we help 'em, the less will they do, + But mock at, etc. + + Now the Line's but a man with a gun in his hand, + An' Cavalry's only what horses can stand, + When helped by, etc. + + Artillery moves by the leave o' the ground, + But <i>we</i> are the men that do something all round, + For <i>we</i> are, etc. + + I have stated it plain, an' my argument's thus + (“It's all one,” says the Sapper), + There's only one Corps which is perfect — that's us; + An' they call us Her Majesty's Engineers, + Her Majesty's Royal Engineers, + With the rank and pay of a Sapper! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THAT DAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It got beyond all orders an' it got beyond all 'ope; + It got to shammin' wounded an' retirin' from the 'alt. + 'Ole companies was lookin' for the nearest road to slope; + It were just a bloomin' knock-out — an' our fault! + + Now there ain't no chorus 'ere to give, + Nor there ain't no band to play; + An' I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did, + Or seen what I seed that day! + + We was sick o' bein' punished, an' we let 'em know it, too; + An' a company-commander up an' 'it us with a sword, + An' some one shouted “'Ook it!” an' it come to <i>sove-ki-poo</i>, + An' we chucked our rifles from us — O my Gawd! + + There was thirty dead an' wounded on the ground we wouldn't keep — + No, there wasn't more than twenty when the front begun to go; + But, Christ! along the line o' flight they cut us up like sheep, + An' that was all we gained by doin' so. + + I 'eard the knives be'ind me, but I dursn't face my man, + Nor I don't know where I went to, 'cause I didn't 'alt to see, + Till I 'eard a beggar squealin' out for quarter as 'e ran, + An' I thought I knew the voice an' — it was me! + + We was 'idin' under bedsteads more than 'arf a march away; + We was lyin' up like rabbits all about the countryside; + An' the major cursed 'is Maker 'cause 'e lived to see that day, + An' the colonel broke 'is sword acrost, an' cried. + + We was rotten 'fore we started — we was never disci<i>plined</i>; + We made it out a favour if an order was obeyed; + Yes, every little drummer 'ad 'is rights an' wrongs to mind, + So we had to pay for teachin' — an' we paid! + + The papers 'id it 'andsome, but you know the Army knows; + We was put to groomin' camels till the regiments withdrew, + An' they gave us each a medal for subduin' England's foes, + An' I 'ope you like my song — because it's true! + + An' there ain't no chorus 'ere to give, + Nor there ain't no band to play; + But I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did, + Or seen what I seed that day! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “THE MEN THAT FOUGHT AT MINDEN” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A Song of Instruction +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! + + 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, + Six inch 'igh an' more; + But fatigue it was their pride, and they <i>would</i> 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; + 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, + 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. + + 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 — + 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; + But <i>that's</i> 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, + For 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! + Ho! run an' get the beer, Johnny Raw! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHOLERA CAMP + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We've got the cholerer in camp — it's worse than forty fights; + We're dyin' in the wilderness the same as Isrulites; + It's before us, an' be'ind us, an' we cannot get away, + An' the doctor's just reported we've ten more to-day! + + Oh, strike your camp an' go, the Bugle's callin', + The Rains are fallin' — + The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below; + The Band's a-doin' all she knows to cheer us; + The Chaplain's gone and prayed to Gawd to 'ear us — + To 'ear us — + O Lord, for it's a-killin' of us so! + + Since August, when it started, it's been stickin' to our tail, + Though they've 'ad us out by marches an' they've 'ad us back by rail; + But it runs as fast as troop-trains, and we cannot get away; + An' the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more to-day. + + There ain't no fun in women nor there ain't no bite to drink; + It's much too wet for shootin', we can only march and think; + An' at evenin', down the <i>nullahs</i>, we can 'ear the jackals say, + “Get up, you rotten beggars, you've ten more to-day!” + + 'Twould make a monkey cough to see our way o' doin' things — + Lieutenants takin' companies an' captains takin' wings, + An' Lances actin' Sergeants — eight file to obey — + For we've lots o' quick promotion on ten deaths a day! + + Our Colonel's white an' twitterly — 'e gets no sleep nor food, + But mucks about in 'orspital where nothing does no good. + 'E sends us 'eaps o' comforts, all bought from 'is pay — + But there aren't much comfort 'andy on ten deaths a day. + + Our Chaplain's got a banjo, an' a skinny mule 'e rides, + An' the stuff 'e says an' sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides! + With 'is black coat-tails a-bobbin' to <i>Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-ay!</i> + 'E's the proper kind o' <i>padre</i> for ten deaths a day. + + An' Father Victor 'elps 'im with our Roman Catholicks — + He knows an 'eap of Irish songs an' rummy conjurin' tricks; + An' the two they works together when it comes to play or pray; + So we keep the ball a-rollin' on ten deaths a day. + + We've got the cholerer in camp — we've got it 'ot an' sweet; + It ain't no Christmas dinner, but it's 'elped an' we must eat. + We've gone beyond the funkin', 'cause we've found it doesn't pay, + An' we're rockin' round the Districk on ten deaths a day! + + Then strike your camp an' go, the Rains are fallin', + The Bugle's callin'! + The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below! + An' them that do not like it they can lump it, + An' them that cannot stand it they can jump it; + We've got to die somewhere — some way — some'ow — + We might as well begin to do it now! + Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole slow, + Knock out the pegs an' 'old the corners — so! + Fold in the flies, furl up the ropes, an' stow! + Oh, strike — oh, strike your camp an' go! + (Gawd 'elp us!) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LADIES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I've taken my fun where I've found it; + I've rogued an' I've ranged in my time; + I've 'ad my pickin' o' sweet'earts, + An' four o' the lot was prime. + One was an 'arf-caste widow, + One was a woman at Prome, + One was the wife of a <i>jemadar-sais</i>, [Head-groom.] + An' one is a girl at 'ome. + + Now I aren't no 'and with the ladies, + For, takin' 'em all along, + You never can say till you've tried 'em, + An' then you are like to be wrong. + There's times when you'll think that you mightn't, + There's times when you'll know that you might; + But the things you will learn from the Yellow an' Brown, + They'll 'elp you a lot with the White! + + I was a young un at 'Oogli, + Shy as a girl to begin; + Aggie de Castrer she made me, + An' Aggie was clever as sin; + Older than me, but my first un — + More like a mother she were — + Showed me the way to promotion an' pay, + An' I learned about women from 'er! + + Then I was ordered to Burma, + Actin' in charge o' Bazar, + An' I got me a tiddy live 'eathen + Through buyin' supplies off 'er pa. + Funny an' yellow an' faithful — + Doll in a teacup she were, + But we lived on the square, like a true-married pair, + An' I learned about women from 'er! + + Then we was shifted to Neemuch + (Or I might ha' been keepin' 'er now), + An' I took with a shiny she-devil, + The wife of a nigger at Mhow; + 'Taught me the gipsy-folks' <i>bolee</i>; [Slang.] + Kind o' volcano she were, + For she knifed me one night 'cause I wished she was white, + And I learned about women from 'er! + + Then I come 'ome in the trooper, + 'Long of a kid o' sixteen — + Girl from a convent at Meerut, + The straightest I ever 'ave seen. + Love at first sight was 'er trouble, + <i>She</i> didn't know what it were; + An' I wouldn't do such, 'cause I liked 'er too much, + But — I learned about women from 'er! + + I've taken my fun where I've found it, + An' now I must pay for my fun, + For the more you 'ave known o' the others + The less will you settle to one; + An' the end of it's sittin' and thinkin', + An' dreamin' Hell-fires to see; + So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not), + An' learn about women from me! + + What did the Colonel's Lady think? + Nobody never knew. + Somebody asked the Sergeant's wife, + <i>An''</i> she told 'em true! + When you get to a man in the case, + They're like as a row of pins — + For the Colonel's Lady an' Judy O'Grady + Are sisters under their skins! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BILL 'AWKINS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “'As anybody seen Bill 'Awkins?” + “Now 'ow in the devil would I know?” + “'E's taken my girl out walkin', + An' I've got to tell 'im so — + Gawd — bless — 'im! + I've got to tell 'im so.” + + “D'yer know what 'e's like, Bill 'Awkins?” + “Now what in the devil would I care?” + “'E's the livin', breathin' image of an organ-grinder's monkey, + With a pound of grease in 'is 'air — + Gawd — bless — 'im! + An' a pound o' grease in 'is 'air.” + + “An' s'pose you met Bill 'Awkins, + Now what in the devil 'ud ye do?” + “I'd open 'is cheek to 'is chin-strap buckle, + An' bung up 'is both eyes, too — + Gawd — bless — 'im! + An' bung up 'is both eyes, too!” + + “Look 'ere, where 'e comes, Bill 'Awkins! + Now what in the devil will you say?” + “It isn't fit an' proper to be fightin' on a Sunday, + So I'll pass 'im the time o' day — + Gawd — bless — 'im! + I'll pass 'im the time o' day!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MOTHER-LODGE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was Rundle, Station Master, + An' Beazeley of the Rail, + An' 'Ackman, Commissariat, + An' Donkin' o' the Jail; + An' Blake, Conductor-Sargent, + Our Master twice was 'e, + With 'im that kept the Europe-shop, + Old Framjee Eduljee. + + Outside — “Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!” + Inside — “Brother”, an' it doesn't do no 'arm. + We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square, + An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there! + + We'd Bola Nath, Accountant, + An' Saul the Aden Jew, + An' Din Mohammed, draughtsman + Of the Survey Office too; + There was Babu Chuckerbutty, + An' Amir Singh the Sikh, + An' Castro from the fittin'-sheds, + The Roman Catholick! + + We 'adn't good regalia, + An' our Lodge was old an' bare, + But we knew the Ancient Landmarks, + An' we kep' 'em to a hair; + An' lookin' on it backwards + It often strikes me thus, + There ain't such things as infidels, + Excep', per'aps, it's us. + + For monthly, after Labour, + We'd all sit down and smoke + (We dursn't give no banquits, + Lest a Brother's caste were broke), + An' man on man got talkin' + Religion an' the rest, + An' every man comparin' + Of the God 'e knew the best. + + So man on man got talkin', + An' not a Brother stirred + Till mornin' waked the parrots + An' that dam' brain-fever-bird; + We'd say 'twas 'ighly curious, + An' we'd all ride 'ome to bed, + With Mo'ammed, God, an' Shiva + Changin' pickets in our 'ead. + + Full oft on Guv'ment service + This rovin' foot 'ath pressed, + An' bore fraternal greetin's + To the Lodges east an' west, + Accordin' as commanded + From Kohat to Singapore, + But I wish that I might see them + In my Mother-Lodge once more! + + I wish that I might see them, + My Brethren black an' brown, + With the trichies smellin' pleasant + An' the <i>hog-darn</i> passin' down; [Cigar-lighter.] + An' the old khansamah snorin' [Butler.] + On the bottle-khana floor, [Pantry.] + Like a Master in good standing + With my Mother-Lodge once more! + + Outside — “Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!” + Inside — “Brother”, an' it doesn't do no 'arm. + We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square, + An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “FOLLOW ME 'OME” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was no one like 'im, 'Orse or Foot, + Nor any o' the Guns I knew; + An' because it was so, why, o' course 'e went an' died, + Which is just what the best men do. + + So it's knock out your pipes an' follow me! + An' it's finish up your swipes an' follow me! + Oh, 'ark to the big drum callin', + Follow me — follow me 'ome! + + 'Is mare she neighs the 'ole day long, + She paws the 'ole night through, + An' she won't take 'er feed 'cause o' waitin' for 'is step, + Which is just what a beast would do. + + 'Is girl she goes with a bombardier + Before 'er month is through; + An' the banns are up in church, for she's got the beggar hooked, + Which is just what a girl would do. + + We fought 'bout a dog — last week it were — + No more than a round or two; + But I strook 'im cruel 'ard, an' I wish I 'adn't now, + Which is just what a man can't do. + + 'E was all that I 'ad in the way of a friend, + An' I've 'ad to find one new; + But I'd give my pay an' stripe for to get the beggar back, + Which it's just too late to do. + + So it's knock out your pipes an' follow me! + An' it's finish off your swipes an' follow me! + Oh, 'ark to the fifes a-crawlin'! + Follow me — follow me 'ome! + + Take 'im away! 'E's gone where the best men go. + Take 'im away! An' the gun-wheels turnin' slow. + Take 'im away! There's more from the place 'e come. + Take 'im away, with the limber an' the drum. + + For it's “Three rounds blank” an' follow me, + An' it's “Thirteen rank” an' follow me; + Oh, passin' the love o' women, + Follow me — follow me 'ome! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SERGEANT'S WEDDIN' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'E was warned agin' 'er — + That's what made 'im look; + She was warned agin' 'im — + That is why she took. + 'Wouldn't 'ear no reason, + 'Went an' done it blind; + We know all about 'em, + They've got all to find! + + Cheer for the Sergeant's weddin' — + Give 'em one cheer more! + Grey gun-'orses in the lando, + An' a rogue is married to, etc. + + What's the use o' tellin' + 'Arf the lot she's been? + 'E's a bloomin' robber, + <i>An''</i> 'e keeps canteen. + 'Ow did 'e get 'is buggy? + Gawd, you needn't ask! + 'Made 'is forty gallon + Out of every cask! + + Watch 'im, with 'is 'air cut, + Count us filin' by — + Won't the Colonel praise 'is + Pop — u — lar — i — ty! + We 'ave scores to settle — + Scores for more than beer; + She's the girl to pay 'em — + That is why we're 'ere! + + See the chaplain thinkin'? + See the women smile? + Twig the married winkin' + As they take the aisle? + Keep your side-arms quiet, + Dressin' by the Band. + Ho! You 'oly beggars, + Cough be'ind your 'and! + + Now it's done an' over, + 'Ear the organ squeak, + “<i>'Voice that breathed o'er Eden</i>” — + Ain't she got the cheek! + White an' laylock ribbons, + Think yourself so fine! + I'd pray Gawd to take yer + 'Fore I made yer mine! + + Escort to the kerridge, + Wish 'im luck, the brute! + Chuck the slippers after — + [Pity 'tain't a boot!] + Bowin' like a lady, + Blushin' like a lad — + 'Oo would say to see 'em + Both is rotten bad? + + Cheer for the Sergeant's weddin' — + Give 'em one cheer more! + Grey gun-'orses in the lando, + An' a rogue is married to, etc. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0088" id="link2H_4_0088"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE JACKET + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Through the Plagues of Egyp' we was chasin' Arabi, + Gettin' down an' shovin' in the sun; + An' you might 'ave called us dirty, an' you might ha' called us dry, + An' you might 'ave 'eard us talkin' at the gun. + But the Captain 'ad 'is jacket, an' the jacket it was new — + ('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!) + An' the wettin' of the jacket is the proper thing to do, + Nor we didn't keep 'im waitin' very long. + + One day they gave us orders for to shell a sand redoubt, + Loadin' down the axle-arms with case; + But the Captain knew 'is dooty, an' he took the crackers out + An' he put some proper liquor in its place. + An' the Captain saw the shrapnel, which is six-an'-thirty clear. + ('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!) + “Will you draw the weight,” sez 'e, “or will you draw the beer?” + An' we didn't keep 'im waitin' very long. + <i>For the Captain, etc.</i> + + Then we trotted gentle, not to break the bloomin' glass, + Though the Arabites 'ad all their ranges marked; + But we dursn't 'ardly gallop, for the most was bottled Bass, + An' we'd dreamed of it since we was disembarked: + So we fired economic with the shells we 'ad in 'and, + ('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!) + But the beggars under cover 'ad the impidence to stand, + An' we couldn't keep 'em waitin' very long. + <i>And the Captain, etc.</i> + + So we finished 'arf the liquor (an' the Captain took champagne), + An' the Arabites was shootin' all the while; + An' we left our wounded 'appy with the empties on the plain, + An' we used the bloomin' guns for pro-jec-tile! + We limbered up an' galloped — there were nothin' else to do — + ('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!) + An' the Battery came a-boundin' like a boundin' kangaroo, + But they didn't watch us comin' very long. + <i>As the Captain, etc.</i> + + We was goin' most extended — we was drivin' very fine, + An' the Arabites were loosin' 'igh an' wide, + Till the Captain took the glassy with a rattlin' right incline, + An' we dropped upon their 'eads the other side. + Then we give 'em quarter — such as 'adn't up and cut, + ('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!) + An' the Captain stood a limberful of fizzy — somethin' Brutt, + But we didn't leave it fizzing very long. + <i>For the Captain, etc.</i> + + We might ha' been court-martialled, but it all come out all right + When they signalled us to join the main command. + There was every round expended, there was every gunner tight, + An' the Captain waved a corkscrew in 'is 'and. + <i>But the Captain 'ad 'is jacket, etc.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE 'EATHEN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + 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! + + <i>* abby-nay: Not now. kul: To-morrow. hazar-ho: + Wait a bit.</i> + + The young recruit is 'aughty — 'e draf's from Gawd knows where; + 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; + 'E talks o' “cruel tyrants” '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, + 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! + + 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; + They watch 'im with 'is comrades, they watch 'im with 'is beer; + They watch 'im with the women at the regimental dance, + And 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; + 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 'em quick an' 'andy, uncommon set an' smart, + 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. + + An' when it comes to marchin' he'll see their socks are right, + An' when it comes to action 'e shows 'em 'ow 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' corpril that leads a squad astray; + '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; + 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, + 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. + + '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; + '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! + Let's ha' done with abby-nay, kul, an' hazar-ho; + Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SHUT-EYE SENTRY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sez the Junior Orderly Sergeant + To the Senior Orderly Man: + “Our Orderly Orf'cer's <i>hokee-mut</i>, + You 'elp 'im all you can. + For the wine was old and the night is cold, + An' the best we may go wrong, + So, 'fore 'e gits to the sentry-box, + You pass the word along.” + + So it was “Rounds! What Rounds?” at two of a frosty night, + 'E's 'oldin' on by the sergeant's sash, but, sentry, shut your eye. + An' it was “Pass! All's well!” Oh, ain't 'e drippin' tight! + 'E'll need an affidavit pretty badly by-an'-by. + + The moon was white on the barricks, + The road was white an' wide, + An' the Orderly Orf'cer took it all, + An' the ten-foot ditch beside. + An' the corporal pulled an' the sergeant pushed, + An' the three they danced along, + But I'd shut my eyes in the sentry-box, + So I didn't see nothin' wrong. + + Though it was “Rounds! What Rounds?” O corporal, 'old 'im up! + 'E's usin' 'is cap as it shouldn't be used, but, sentry, shut your eye. + An' it was “Pass! All's well!” Ho, shun the foamin' cup! + 'E'll need, etc. + + 'Twas after four in the mornin'; + We 'ad to stop the fun, + An' we sent 'im 'ome on a bullock-cart, + With 'is belt an' stock undone; + But we sluiced 'im down an' we washed 'im out, + An' a first-class job we made, + When we saved 'im, smart as a bombardier, + For six-o'clock parade. + + It 'ad been “Rounds! What Rounds?” Oh, shove 'im straight again! + 'E's usin' 'is sword for a bicycle, but, sentry, shut your eye. + An' it was “Pass! All's well!” 'E's called me “Darlin' Jane”! + 'E'll need, etc. + + The drill was long an' 'eavy, + The sky was 'ot an' blue, + An' 'is eye was wild an' 'is 'air was wet, + But 'is sergeant pulled 'im through. + Our men was good old trusties — + They'd done it on their 'ead; + But you ought to 'ave 'eard 'em markin' time + To 'ide the things 'e said! + + For it was “Right flank — wheel!” for “'Alt, an' stand at ease!” + An' “Left extend!” for “Centre close!” O marker, shut your eye! + An' it was, “'Ere, sir, 'ere! before the Colonel sees!” + So he needed affidavits pretty badly by-an'-by. + + There was two-an'-thirty sergeants, + There was corp'rals forty-one, + There was just nine 'undred rank an' file + To swear to a touch o' sun. + There was me 'e'd kissed in the sentry-box, + As I 'ave not told in my song, + But I took my oath, which were Bible truth, + I 'adn't seen nothin' wrong. + + There's them that's 'ot an' 'aughty, + There's them that's cold an' 'ard, + But there comes a night when the best gets tight, + And then turns out the Guard. + I've seen them 'ide their liquor + In every kind o' way, + But most depends on makin' friends + With Privit Thomas A.! + + When it is “Rounds! What Rounds?” 'E's breathin' through 'is nose. + 'E's reelin', rollin', roarin' tight, but, sentry, shut your eye. + An' it is “Pass! All's well!” An' that's the way it goes: + We'll 'elp 'im for 'is mother, an' 'e'll 'elp us by-an'-by! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + “MARY, PITY WOMEN!” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You call yourself a man, + For all you used to swear, + An' leave me, as you can, + My certain shame to bear? + I 'ear! You do not care — + You done the worst you know. + I 'ate you, grinnin' there. . . . + Ah, Gawd, I love you so! + + Nice while it lasted, an' now it is over — + Tear out your 'eart an' good-bye to your lover! + What's the use o' grievin', when the mother that bore you + (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you? + + It aren't no false alarm, + The finish to your fun; + You — you 'ave brung the 'arm, + An' I'm the ruined one; + An' now you'll off an' run + With some new fool in tow. + Your 'eart? You 'aven't none. . . . + Ah, Gawd, I love you so! + + When a man is tired there is naught will bind 'im; + All 'e solemn promised 'e will shove be'ind 'im. + What's the good o' prayin' for The Wrath to strike 'im + (Mary, pity women!), when the rest are like 'im? + + What 'ope for me or — it? + What's left for us to do? + I've walked with men a bit, + But this — but this is you. + So 'elp me Christ, it's true! + Where can I 'ide or go? + You coward through and through! . . . + Ah, Gawd, I love you so! + + All the more you give 'em the less are they for givin' — + Love lies dead, an' you cannot kiss 'im livin'. + Down the road 'e led you there is no returnin' + (Mary, pity women!), but you're late in learnin'! + + You'd like to treat me fair? + You can't, because we're pore? + We'd starve? What do I care! + We might, but <i>this</i> is shore! + I want the name — no more — + The name, an' lines to show, + An' not to be an 'ore. . . . + Ah, Gawd, I love you so! + + What's the good o' pleadin', when the mother that bore you + (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you? + Sleep on 'is promises an' wake to your sorrow + (Mary, pity women!), for we sail to-morrow! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOR TO ADMIRE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + The ship is swep', the day is done, + The bugle's gone for smoke and play; + An' black agin' the settin' sun + The Lascar sings, “<i>Hum deckty hai!</i>” [“I'm looking out.”] + + For to admire an' for to see, + 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, + 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 + 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; + 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, + 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, + But sat in Clink without my boots, + Admirin' 'ow the world was made. + + Be'old a crowd upon the beam, + An' 'umped above the sea appears + Old Aden, like a barrick-stove + 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. + + 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 + 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 — + It never done no good to me, + But I can't drop it if I tried! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + L'ENVOI + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! + + 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; + And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame, + But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, + Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses 1889-1896, by Rudyard Kipling + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VERSES 1889-1896 *** + +***** This file should be named 323-h.htm or 323-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/2/323/ + +Produced by Judith Boss and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +http://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at http://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +http://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at http://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit http://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: http://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart is the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + + +</pre> + </body> +</html> |