Rudyard Kipling's Verse | ||
PRELUDE (To “Departmental Ditties”)
I have drunk your water and wine.
The deaths ye died I have watched beside,
And the lives ye led were mine.
In vigil or toil or ease,—
One joy or woe that I did not know,
Dear hearts across the seas?
For a sheltered people's mirth,
In jesting guise—but ye are wise,
And ye know what the jest is worth.
A GENERAL SUMMARY
From the semi-apes who ranged
India's prehistoric clay;
He that drew the longest bow
Ran his brother down, you know,
As we run men down to-day.
Met the Mammoth face to face
On the lake or in the cave:
Stole the steadiest canoe,
Ate the quarry others slew,
Died—and took the finest grave.
Some one made the sketch his own,
Filched it from the artist—then,
Even in those early days,
Won a simple Viceroy's praise
Through the toil of other men.
Ere they hewed the Sphinx's visage
Favouritism governed kissage,
Even as it does in this age.
Under Cheops' pyramid”
Was that the contractor did
Cheops out of several millions?
Or that Joseph's sudden rise
To Comptroller of Supplies
Was a fraud of monstrous size
On King Pharaoh's swart Civilians?
Do not deal with anything
New or never said before.
As it was in the beginning
Is to-day official sinning,
And shall be for evermore.
ARMY HEADQUARTERS
Old as my unpaid bills—
Old as the chicken that khitmutgars bring
Men at dâk-bungalows—old as the Hills.
Was dowered with a tenor voice of super-Santley tone.
His views on equitation were, perhaps, a trifle queer.
He had no seat worth mentioning, but oh! he had an ear.
He used to quit his charger in a parabolic way;
His method of saluting was the joy of all beholders;
But Ahasuerus Jenkins had a head upon his shoulders.
And underneath the deodars eternally did sing.
He warbled like a bul-bul but particularly at
Cornelia Agrippina, who was musical and fat.
Where Cornelia Agrippina's human singing-birds were kept
From April to October on a plump retaining-fee,
Supplied, of course, per mensem, by the Indian Treasury.
He praised unblushingly her notes, for he was false as they;
So when the winds of April turned the budding roses brown,
Cornelia told her husband:—“Tom, you mustn't send him down.”
They found for him an office-stool, and on that stool they set him
To play with maps and catalogues three idle hours a day,
And draw his plump retaining-fee—which means his double pay.
Ahasuerus waileth o'er the grand pianoforte;
And, thanks to fair Cornelia, his fame hath waxen great,
And Ahasuerus Jenkins is a Power in the State!
STUDY OF AN ELEVATION, IN INDIAN INK
But—how the deuce did Gubbins rise?
Stands at the top of the tree;
And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led
To the hoisting of Potiphar G.
Is seven years junior to Me;
Each bridge that he makes either buckles or breaks,
And his work is as rough as he.
Is coarse as a chimpanzee;
And I can't understand why you gave him your hand,
Lovely Mehitabel Lee.
Is dear to the Powers that Be;
For They bow and They smile in an affable style,
Which is seldom accorded to Me.
Is certain as certain can be
Of a highly paid post which is claimed by a host
Of seniors—including Me.
Greatly inferior to Me.
What is the spell that you manage so well,
Commonplace Potiphar G.?
Let me inquire of thee,
Should I have riz to where Potiphar is,
Hadst thou been mated to Me?
DELILAH
Of Delilah Aberyswith and depraved Ulysses Gunne.
With a perfect taste in dresses and a badly-bitted tongue,
With a thirst for information, and a greater thirst for praise,
And a little house in Simla in the Prehistoric Days.
Delilah was acquainted with the gossip of the hour;
And many little secrets, of the half-official kind,
Were whispered to Delilah, and she bore them all in mind.
Whose mode of earning money was a low and shameful one.
He wrote for certain papers, which, as everybody knows,
Is worse than serving in a shop or scaring off the crows.
At the “vastness of her intellect” with compliment unstinted.
He went with her a-riding, and his love for her was such
That he lent her all his horses and—she galled them very much.
It related to Appointments, to a Man and a Report.
'Twas almost worth the keeping,—only seven people knew it—
And Gunne rose up to seek the truth and patiently ensue it.
Perhaps an Aged Councillor had lost his aged head—
Perhaps Delilah's eyes were bright—Delilah's whispers sweet—
The Aged Member told her what 'twere treason to repeat.
Ulysses went a-calling, and he called for several hours;
Ulysses went a-waltzing, and Delilah helped him dance—
Ulysses let the waltzes go, and waited for his chance.
The couple went a-walking in the shade of Summer Hill.
The wasteful sunset faded out in turkis-green and gold,
Ulysses pleaded softly, and . . . that bad Delilah told!
Next week, the Aged Councillor was shaking in his shoes.
Next month, I met Delilah and she did not show the least
Hesitation in affirming that Ulysses was a “beast.”
Off, Delilah Aberyswith and most mean Ulysses Gunne!
A LEGEND OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE
Rajah of Kolazai,
Drinketh the “simpkin” and brandy peg,
Maketh the money to fly,
Vexeth a Government, tender and kind,
Also—but this is a detail—blind.
Lusted for a C.S.I. —so began to sanitate.
Built a Gaol and Hospital—nearly built a City drain—
Till his faithful subjects all thought their ruler was insane.
Half a dozen Englishmen helped the Rajah with a will,
'Talked of noble aims and high, hinted at a future fine
For the State of Kolazai, on a strictly Western line.
Organised a State Police; purified the Civil Staff;
Settled cess and tax afresh in a very liberal way;
Cut temptations of the flesh—also cut the Bukhshi's pay:
By an Order hinting at supervision of dasturi;
Turned the State of Kolazai very nearly upside-down;
When the end of May was nigh waited his achievement's crown.
Stood against the Rajah's name nothing more than C.I.E.! . . .
Things were lively for a week in the State of Kolazai,
Even now the people speak of that time regretfully.
Turned to beauty fair and frail—got his senses back again;
Doubled taxes, cesses, all; cleared away each new-built thana;
Turned the two-lakh Hospital into a superb Zenana;
Clad himself in Eastern garb—squeezed his people as of old.
Happy, happy Kolazai! Never more will Rustum Beg
Play to catch his Viceroy's eye. He prefers the “simpkin” peg.
THE STORY OF URIAH
Because they told him to.
He left his wife at Simla
On three-fourths his monthly screw.
Jack Barrett died at Quetta
Ere the next month's pay he drew.
He didn't understand
The reason of his transfer
From the pleasant mountain-land.
The season was September,
And it killed him out of hand.
And there gave up the ghost,
Attempting two men's duty
In that very healthy post;
And Mrs. Barrett mourned for him
Five lively months at most.
Enjoy profound repose;
But I shouldn't be astonished
If now his spirit knows
The reason of his transfer
From the Himalayan snows.
Adown the Hurnai throbs,
And the last grim joke is entered
In the big black Book of Jobs,
And Quetta graveyards give again
Their victims to the air,
I shouldn't like to be the man
Who sent Jack Barrett there.
THE POST THAT FITTED
This ditty explains,
No tangle's so tangled it cannot improve
If the Lover has brains.
An attractive girl at Tunbridge, whom he called “my little Carrie.”
Sleary's pay was very modest; Sleary was the other way.
Who can cook a two-plate dinner on eight poor rupees a day?
Then proposed to Minnie Boffkin, eldest of Judge Boffkin's daughters.
Certainly an impecunious Subaltern was not a catch,
But the Boffkins knew that Minnie mightn't make another match.
Got him made a Something Something somewhere on the Bombay side.
Anyhow, the billet carried pay enough for him to marry—
As the artless Sleary put it:—“Just the thing for me and Carrie.”
No! He started epileptic fits of an appalling kind.
[Of his modus operandi only this much I could gather:—
“Pears's shaving sticks will give you little taste and lots of lather.”]
Sleary with distressing vigour—always in the Boffkins' sight.
Ere a week was over Minnie weepingly returned his ring,
Told him his “unhappy weakness” stopped all thought of marrying.
Epileptic fits don't matter in Political employ,—
Wired three short words to Carrie—took his ticket, packed his kit—
Bade farewell to Minnie Boffkin in one last, long, lingering fit.
Mrs. Boffkin's warning letter on the “wretched epilept.” . . .
Year by year, in pious patience, vengeful Mrs. Boffkin sits
Waiting for the Sleary babies to develop Sleary's fits.
A CODE OF MORALS
I merely mention I
Evolved it lately. 'Tis a most
Unmitigated misstatement.
And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,
To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught
His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught.
So Cupid and Apollo linked, per heliograph, the pair.
At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise—
At e'en, the dying sunset bore her husband's homilies.
As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;
But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)
That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.
When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.
They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt—
So stopped to take the message down—and this is what they learnt—
“Was ever General Officer addressed as ‘dear’ before?
“‘My Love,’ i' faith! ‘My Duck,’ Gadzooks! ‘My darling popsy-wop!’
“Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?”
As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill;
For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran:—
“Don't dance or ride with General Bangs—a most immoral man.”
But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.]
With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife
Some interesting details of the General's private life.
And red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill.
And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not):—
“I think we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!”
By word or act official who read off that helio.
But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan
They know the worthy General as “that most immoral man.”
PUBLIC WASTE
List to a ditty queer—
The sale of a Deputy-Acting-Vice-
Resident-Engineer,
Bought like a bullock, hoof and hide,
By the Little Tin Gods on the Mountain Side.
That only a Colonel from Chatham can manage the Railways of State,
Because of the gold on his breeks, and the subjects wherein he must pass;
Because in all matters that deal not with Railways his knowledge is great.
On the Lines of the East and the West, and eke of the North and South;
Many Lines had he built and surveyed—important the posts which he held;
And the Lords of the Iron Horse were dumb when he opened his mouth.
Hinting that Railways required lifetimes of study and knowledge—
Never clanked sword by his side—Vauban he knew not nor drill—
Nor was his name on the list of the men who had passed through the “College.”
Seeing he came not from Chatham, jingled no spurs at his heels,
Knowing that, nevertheless, was he first on the Government rolls
For the billet of “Railway Instructor to Little Tin Gods on Wheels.”
It would be better for all men if he were laid on the shelf.
Much would accrue to his bank-book, an he consented to wait
Until the Little Tin Gods built him a berth for himself,
Even to Ninety and Nine”—these were the terms of the pact:
Thus did the Little Tin Gods (long may Their Highnesses thrive!)
Silence his mouth with rupees, keeping their Circle intact;
(The which was one mile and one furlong—a guaranteed twenty-inch gauge),
So Exeter Battleby Tring consented his claims to resign,
And died, on four thousand a month, in the ninetieth year of his age!
WHAT HAPPENED
Owner of a native press, “Barrishter-at-Lar,”
Waited on the Government with a claim to wear
Sabres by the bucketful, rifles by the pair.
Said to Chunder Mookerjee: “Stick to pen and ink.
They are safer implements, but, if you insist,
We will let you carry arms wheresoe'er you list.”
Bought the tubes of Lancaster, Ballard, Dean, and Bland,
Bought a shiny bowie-knife, bought a town-made sword,
Jingled like a carriage-horse when he went abroad.
Also gave permission to horrid men like these—
Yar Mahommed Yusufzai, down to kill or steal,
Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer, Tantia the Bhil;
Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat, Abdul Huq Rafiq—
He was a Wahabi; last, little Boh Hla-oo
Took advantage of the Act—took a Snider too.
They procured their swords and guns chiefly on the spot;
And the lore of centuries, plus a hundred fights,
Made them slow to disregard one another's rights.
All those hairy gentlemen out of foreign parts
Said: “The good old days are back—let us go to war!”
Swaggered down the Grand Trunk Road into Bow Bazar.
Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer oiled his Tonk jezail ;
Yar Mahommed Yusufzai spat and grinned with glee
As he ground the butcher-knife of the Khyberee.
Abdul Huq, Wahabi, jerked his dagger from its place,
While amid the jungle-grass danced and grinned and jabbered
Little Boh Hla-oo and cleared his dah-blade from the scabbard.
Yar Mahommed only grins in a nasty way,
Jowar Singh is reticent, Chimbu Singh is mute,
But the belts of all of them simply bulge with loot.
Sell them for their silver weight to the men of Pubbi;
And the shiny bowie-knife and the town-made sword are
Hanging in a Marri camp just across the Border.
Prodding Siva's sacred bull down the Bow Bazar,
Speak to placid Nubbee Baksh—question land and sea—
Ask the Indian Congressmen—only don't ask me!
THE MAN WHO COULD WRITE
Has ruined many geese who dipped their quills in 't;
Bribe, murder, marry, but steer clear of Ink
Save when you write receipts for paid-up bills in 't.
There may be silver in the “blue-black”—all
I know of is the iron and the gall.
Is a dismal failure—is a Might-have-been.
In a luckless moment he discovered men
Rise to high position through a ready pen.
With the selfsame weapon, can attain as high.”
Only he did not possess when he made the trial,
Wicked wit of Colvin, irony of Lyall.
Something more than ordinary journalistic prose.]
Till an Indian paper found that he could write:
Never young Civilian's prospects were so dark,
When the wretched Blitzen wrote to make his mark.
In that Indian paper—made his seniors squirm,
Quoted office scandals, wrote the tactless truth—
Was there ever known a more misguided youth?
Boanerges Blitzen felt that this was Fame;
When the men he wrote of shook their heads and swore,
Boanerges Blitzen only wrote the more:
Till he found promotion didn't come to him;
Till he found that reprimands weekly were his lot,
And his many Districts curiously hot.
Boanerges Blitzen didn't care a pin:
Then it seemed to dawn on him something wasn't right—
Boanerges Blitzen put it down to “spite”;
Watched the Local Government yearly pass him by;
Wondered where the hitch was; called it most unfair.
PINK DOMINOES
Wisely has the poet sung.
Man may hold all sorts of posts
If he'll only hold his tongue.
On the eve of the Fancy Ball;
So a kiss or two was nothing to you
Or any one else at all.
Pretty and pink but warm;
While I attended, clad in a splendid
Austrian uniform.
Early that afternoon,
At Number Four to waltz no more,
But to sit in the dusk and spoon.
Had barely exchanged our troth;
So a kiss or two was strictly due
By, from, and between us both.
I fled to the gloom outside;
And a Domino came out also
Whom I took for my future bride.
I slipped my arm around her;
With a kiss or two (which is nothing to you),
And ready to kiss I found her.
Was certainly not my own;
But ere I could speak, with a smothered shriek
She fled and left me alone.
She'd doffed her domino;
And I had embraced an alien waist—
But I did not tell her so.
Dominoes pink, and one
Had cloaked the spouse of Sir Julian Vouse,
Our big Political gun.
And her eye was a blue cerulean;
And the name she said when she turned her head
Was not in the least like “Julian.”
Forbade us twain to marry,
That old Sir J., in the kindest way,
Made me his Secretarry?
MUNICIPAL
Said Binks of Hezabad.
“Well, drains, and sewage-outfalls are
“My own peculiar fad.
“I learnt a lesson once. It ran
“Thus,” quoth that most veracious man:—
I paid a round of visits in the lines of Hezabad;
When, presently, my Waler saw, and did not like at all,
A Commissariat elephant careering down the Mall.
That that Commissariat elephant had suddenly gone musth.
I didn't care to meet him, and I couldn't well get down,
So I let the Waler have it, and we headed for the town.
Till the Waler jumped a bullock just above the City Drain;
And the next that I remember was a hurricane of squeals,
And the creature making toothpicks of my five-foot patent wheels.
To the Main Drain sewage-outfall while he snorted in my ear—
Reached the four-foot drain-head safely and, in darkness and despair,
Felt the brute's proboscis fingering my terror-stiffened hair.
Found the Main Drain sewage-outfall blocked, some eight feet up, with mire;
And, for twenty reeking minutes, Sir, my very marrow froze,
While the trunk was feeling blindly for a purchase on my toes!
Before they called the drivers up and dragged the brute away.
Then I sought the City Elders, and my words were very plain.
They flushed that four-foot drain-head and—it never choked again!
Till you've been a periwinkle shrinking coyly up a sewer.
I believe in well-flushed culverts. . . .
This is why the death-rate's small;
And, if you don't believe me, get shikarred yourself. That's all.
THE LAST DEPARTMENT
About this Earth, and I and You
Wonder, when You and I are dead,
“What will those luckless millions do?”
Of favour.” Wait awhile, till we attain
The Last Department where nor fraud nor fools,
Nor grade nor greed, shall trouble us again.
To the grim Head who claims our services?
I never knew a wife or interest yet
Delay that pukka step, miscalled “decease”;
When idleness of all Eternity
Becomes our furlough, and the marigold
Our thriftless, bullion-minting Treasury
Each in his strait, wood-scantled office pent,
No longer Brown reverses Smith's appeals,
Or Jones records his Minute of Dissent.
As mud between the beams thereof is wrought;
And One who wrote on phosphates for the crops
Is subject-matter of his own Report.
Let Him who Is, go call on Him who Was;
And He shall see the mallie steals the slab
For curry-grinder, and for goats the grass.
A draught of water, or a horse's fright—
The droning of the fat Sheristadar
Ceases, the punkah stops, and falls the night
The step that offers, or their work resign?
Trust me, To-day's Most Indispensables,
Five hundred men can take your place or mine.
MY RIVAL
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
They burn before Her shrine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And she is forty-nine.
My colour comes and goes.
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be,
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.
I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
Not quite the proper thing.
I'm very gauche and very shy,
Her jokes aren't in my line;
And, worst of all, I'm seventeen
While She is forty-nine.
Each pink and white and neat,
She's older than their mothers, but
They grovel at Her feet.
They walk beside Her 'rickshaw-wheels—
None ever walk by mine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is forty-nine.
(She calls them “boys” and “mashes”),
I trot along the Mall alone;
My prettiest frocks and sashes
Don't help to fill my programme-card.
And vainly I repine
From ten to two a. m. Ah me!
Would I were forty-nine.
And “sweet retiring maid.”
I'm always at the back, I know—
She puts me in the shade.
She introduces me to men—
“Cast” lovers, I opine;
For sixty takes to seventeen,
Nineteen to forty-nine.
And end Her dancing days,
She can't go on for ever so
At concerts, balls, and plays.
One ray of priceless hope I see
Before my footsteps shine;
Just think, that She'll be eighty-one
When I am forty-nine!
TO THE UNKNOWN GODDESS
Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautious shikar?
Shall I meet you next season at Simla, O sweetest and best of your kind?
Are you growing the charms that shall capture and torture the heart in my breast?
Will you bring me to book on the Mountains, or where the thermantidotes play?
And the charm of your presence shall lure me from love of the gay “thirteen-two”;
When I quit the Delight of Wild Asses, forswearing the swearing of oaths;
When the days of my freedom are numbered, and the life of the bachelor ends.
To the God that they knew not an altar—so I, a young Pagan, have praised
You will come in the future, and therefore these verses are written to you.
THE RUPAIYAT OF OMAR KAL'VIN
[Allowing for the difference 'twixt prose and rhymed exaggeration, this ought to reproduce the sense of what Sir Auckland (Colvin) told the nation some time ago, when the Government struck from our incomes two per cent.]
The Thoughtful Fisher casteth wide his Net;
So I with begging Dish and ready Tongue
Assail all Men for all that I can get.
Lo! Salt a Lever that I dare not use,
Nor may I ask the Tillers in Bengal—
Surely my Kith and Kin will not refuse
Retrenchment. If my promises can bring
Comfort, Ye have Them now a thousand-fold—
By Allah! I will promise Anything!
I swore—but did I mean it when I swore?
And then, and then, We wandered to the Hills,
And so the Little Less became Much More.
I know not how the wretched Thing is done,
The Items of Receipt grow surely small;
The Items of Expense mount one by one.
With One and Five, or Four, or Three, or Two?
Let Scribes spit Blood and Sulphur as they please,
Or Statesmen call me foolish—Heed not you.
Behold, I greet you with an empty Till—
Ah! Fellow-Sinners, of your Charity
Seek not the Reason of the Dearth but fill.
Of Knowledge? Would it ease you of your Pain
To know the tangled Threads of Revenue,
I ravel deeper in a hopeless Skein?
Of Her who paints Her Eyes and tires Her Head,
And jibes and mocks the People in the Street,
And fawns upon them for Her thriftless Bread?
Hath cast off Prudence, and Her End shall be
Destruction. . . . Brethren, of your Bounty grant
Some portion of your daily Bread to Me!
PAGETT, M.P.
Exactly where each tooth-point goes;
The butterfly upon the road
Preaches contentment to that toad.
He spoke of the heat of India as “The Asian Solar Myth”;
'Came on a four months' visit, to “study the East” in November,
And I got him to make an agreement vowing to stay till September.
Called me a “bloated Brahmin,” talked of my “princely pay.”
March went out with the roses. “Where is your heat?” said he.
“Coming,” said I to Pagett. “Skittles!” said Pagett, M.P.
Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.
He grew speckled and lumpy—hammered, I grieve to say,
Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.
All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.
Imprimis—ten days' “liver”—due to his drinking beer;
Later, a dose of fever—slight, but he called it severe.
Lowered his portly person—made him yearn to depart.
He didn't call me a “Brahmin,” or “bloated,” or “overpaid,”
But seemed to think it a wonder that any one ever stayed.
Called it the “Cholera Morbus,” hinted that life was dear.
He babbled of “Eastern exile,” and mentioned his home with tears;
But I hadn't seen my children for close upon seven years.
[I've mentioned Pagett was portly] Pagett went off in a swoon.
That was an end to the business. Pagett, the perjured, fled
With a practical, working knowledge of “Solar Myths” in his head.
As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their “Eastern trips,”
And the sneers of the travelled idiots who duly misgovern the land,
And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.
LA NUIT BLANCHE
The Singer generally sings
Of personal and private things,
And prints and sells his past for gold.
The very clever folk I sing to
Will most indubitably cling to
Their pet delusion, just the same.
And I staggered to my rest,
Tara Devi softly shaking
From the Cart Road to the crest.
I had seen the spurs of Jakko
Heave and quiver, swell and sink.
Was it Earthquake or tobacco,
Day of Doom or Night of Drink?
I observed a camel crawl,
Laws of gravitation scorning,
On the ceiling and the wall.
Then I watched a fender walking,
And I heard grey leeches sing,
And a red-hot monkey talking
Did not seem the proper thing.
Ran about the floor and cried,
And they said I had the “jims” on,
And they dosed me with bromide,
And they locked me in my bedroom—
Me and one wee Blood-Red Mouse—
Though I said:—“To give my head room
“You had best unroof the house.”
Though I told the grave M.D.
That the treatment really needed
Was a dip in open sea
Smooth as silver, white as snow—
And it took three men to throw me
When I found I could not go.
Fizz like '81 champagne—
Fly to sixes and to sevens,
Wheel and thunder back again;
And when all was peace and order
Save one planet nailed askew,
Much I wept because my warder
Would not let me set it true.
When the Earth and Skies were dumb,
Pealed an awful voice dictating
An interminable sum,
Changing to a tangled story—
“What she said you said I said—”
Till the Moon arose in glory,
And I found her . . . in my head;
And It couldn't wipe Its eyes,
And It muttered I was keeping
Back the moonlight from the skies;
So I patted It for pity,
But It whistled shrill with wrath,
And a huge, black Devil City
Poured its peoples on my path.
On a thousand-year-long race,
But the bellying of the curtain
Kept me always in one place,
While the tumult rose and maddened
To the roar of Earth on fire,
Ere it ebbed and sank and saddened
To a whisper tense as wire.
Rose one little, little star,
And it chuckled at my illness,
And it mocked me from afar;
And its brethren came and eyed me,
Called the Universe to aid,
Till I lay, with naught to hide me,
'Neath the Scorn of All Things Made.
Broke the solemn, pitying Day,
And I knew my pains were ended,
And I turned and tried to pray;
But my speech was shattered wholly,
And I wept as children weep,
Till the dawn-wind, softly, slowly,
Brought to burning eyelids sleep.
THE LOVERS' LITANY
Driving rain and falling tears,
As the steamer puts to sea
In a parting storm of cheers.
Sing, for Faith and Hope are high—
None so true as you and I—
Sing the Lovers' Litany:—
“Love like ours can never die!”
Milky foam to left and right;
Whispered converse near the wheel
In the brilliant tropic night.
Cross that rules the Southern Sky!
Stars that sweep, and turn, and fly
Hear the Lovers' Litany:—
“Love like ours can never die!”
Split and parched with heat of June.
Flying hoof and tightened rein,
Hearts that beat the ancient tune.
Frame we now the old reply
Of the Lovers' Litany:—
“Love like ours can never die!”
Silvered with the moonlight hoar;
Pleading of the waltz that thrills,
Dies and echoes round Benmore.
“Mabel,” “Officers,” “Good-bye,”
Glamour, wine, and witchery—
On my soul's sincerity,
“Love like ours can never die!”
Pity my most luckless state.
Four times Cupid's debtor I—
Bankrupt in quadruplicate.
Yet, despite my evil case,
An a maiden showed me grace,
Four-and-forty times would I
Sing the Lovers' Litany:—
“Love like ours can never die!”
A BALLADE OF BURIAL
Solemnly I beg you take
All that is left of “I”
To the Hills for old sake's sake.
Pack me very thoroughly
In the ice that used to slake
Pegs I drank when I was dry—
This observe for old sake's sake.
There a single ticket take
For Umballa—goods-train—I
Shall not mind delay or shake.
Spite of clamour coolies make;
Thus in state and dignity
Send me up for old sake's sake.
Book a Kalka van “for four.”
Few, I think, will care to make
Journeys with me any more
As they used to do of yore.
I shall need a “special brake”—
'Thing I never took before—
Get me one for old sake's sake.
No hotel will take me in,
And a bullock's back would break
'Neath the teak and leaden skin.
Tonga-ropes are frail and thin,
Or, did I a back-seat take,
In a tonga I might spin,—
Do your best for old sake's sake.
Recollect a Padre must
Mourn the dear departed one—
Throw the ashes and the dust.
Don't go down at once. I trust
You will find excuse to “snake
Three days' casual on the bust,” —
Get your fun for old sake's sake.
Think of blazing June and May,
Think of those September rains
Yearly till the Judgment Day!
I should never rest in peace,
I should sweat and lie awake.
Rail me then, on my decease,
To the Hills for old sake's sake!
THE OVERLAND MAIL
O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam,
The woods are astir at the close of the day—
We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.
Let the robber retreat—let the tiger turn tail—
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!
He turns to the footpath that heads up the hill—
The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,
And, tucked in his waistbelt, the Post Office bill:—
“Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,
“Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail.”
Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.
Does the tempest cry halt? What are tempests to him?
The service admits not a “but” or an “if.”
While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail,
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.
From level to upland, from upland to crest,
From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur,
Fly the soft-sandalled feet, strains the brawny, brown chest.
From rail to ravine—to the peak from the vale—
Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.
A jingle of bells on the footpath below—
There's a scuffle above in the monkey's abode—
The world is awake and the clouds are aglow.
For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail:—
“In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!”
DIVIDED DESTINIES
And much I wondered how he lived, and where the beast might dine,
And many many other things, till, o'er my morning smoke,
I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamt that Bandar spoke.
“Observe, I know not Ranken's shop, nor Ranken's monthly bills!
“I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you call dress;
“Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks at Mess.
“(For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountain-side.
“I follow no man's carriage, and no, never in my life
“Have I flirted at Peliti's with another Bandar's wife.
“I own no ponies in the hills, I drive no tallwheeled traps.
“I buy me not twelve-button gloves, ‘short-sixes’ eke, or rings,
“Nor do I waste at Hamilton's my wealth on ‘pretty things.’
“But Mrs. B. has grasped the fact I am her only lord.
“I never heard of fever—dumps nor debts depress my soul;
“And I pity and despise you!” Here he pouched my breakfast-roll.
And ever and anon he scratched with energy his head.
His manners were not always nice, but how my spirit cried
To be an artless Bandar loose upon the mountain-side!
“Makes thee a gleesome fleasome Thou, and me a wretched Me.
“Go! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid the pine;
“Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot with thine.”
THE MASQUE OF PLENTY
Argument.
—The Indian Government being minded to discover the economic condition of their land, sent a Committee to inquire into it; and saw that it was good.
From the dawn to the even he strays—
He shall follow his sheep all the day
And his tongue shall be fillèd with praise. (adagio dim.)
Fillèd with praise!”
Now this is the position,
Go make an inquisition
Into their real condition
As swiftly as ye may. (p)
Ay, paint our swarthy billions
The richest of vermilions
Ere two well-led cotillions
Have danced themselves away.
Turkish Patrol, as able and intelligent Investigators wind down the Himalayas:—
What is the state of the Nation? What is its occupation?
Hi! get along, get along, get along—lend us the information!
Census the byle and the yabu—capture a first-class Babu,
Set him to file Gazetteers—Gazetteers . . . (ff)
What is the state of the Nation, etc., etc.
The earth is iron and the skies are brass—
And faint with fervour of the flaming air
The languid hours pass.
The young wheat withers ere it reach a span,
And belts of blinding sand show cruelly
Where once the river ran.
Lift up your hands above the blighted grain,
Look westward—if they please, the Gods shall bring
Their mercy with the rain.
Nay, it is written—wherefore should we fly?
On our own field and by our cattle's flank
Lie down, lie down to die!
Semi-Chorus
By the plumèd heads of KingsWaving high,
Where the tall corn springs
O'er the dead.
If they rust or rot we die,
If they ripen we are fed.
Very mighty is the power of our Kings!
Triumphal return to Simla of the Investigators, attired after the manner of Dionysus, leading a pet tiger-cub in wreaths of rhubarb-leaves, symbolical of India under medical treatment. They sing:—
In their hosts they assembled and told it—the tale of the Sons of the Soil.
We have said of the Sickness—“Where is it?”—and of Death—“It is far from our ken,”—
We have paid a particular visit to the affluent children of men.
We have trodden the mart and the well-curb—we have stooped to the bield and the byre;
And the King may the forces of Hell curb, for the People have all they desire!
Castanets and step-dance:—
Oh, the dom and the mag and the thakur and the thag,
And the nat and the brinjaree,
And the bunnia and the ryot are as happy and as quiet
And as plump as they can be!
Yes, the jain and the jat in his stucco-fronted hut,
And the bounding bazugar,
By the favour of the King, are as fat as anything,
They are—they are—they are!
How beautiful upon the Mountains—in peace reclining,
Thus to be assured that our people are unanimously dining.
And though there are places not so blessed as others in natural advantages, which, after all, was only to be expected,
Proud and glad are we to congratulate you upon the work you have thus ably effected. (Cres.)
How be-ewtiful upon the Mountains!
Hired Band, brasses only, full chorus:—
And all his rich relations
Who teach us poor people
We eat our proper rations—
In spite of inundations,
Malarial exhalations,
And casual starvations,
We have, we have, they say we have—
We have our proper rations!
Chorus of the Crystallised Facts
There came to the rule of the State
Men with a pair of shears,
Men with an Estimate—
Strachey with Muir for leaven,
Lytton with locks that fell,
Ripon fooling with Heaven,
And Temple riding like H---ll!
And the bigots took in hand
Cess and the falling of rain,
And the measure of sifted sand
The dealer puts in the grain—
Imports by land and sea,
To uttermost decimal worth,
And registration—free—
In the houses of death and of birth.
And fashioned with pens and paper,
And fashioned in black and white,
With Life for a flickering taper
And Death for a blazing light—
With the Armed and the Civil Power,
That his strength might endure for a span—
From Adam's Bridge to Peshawur,
The Much Administered Man.
They gathered as unto rule,
They bade him starve his priest
And send his children to school.
Railways and roads they wrought,
For the needs of the soil within;
A time to squabble in court,
A time to bear and to grin.
Jails—and Police to fight,
Justice—at length of days,
And Right—and Might in the Right.
His speech is of mortgaged bedding,
On his kine he borrows yet,
At his heart is his daughter's wedding,
In his eye foreknowledge of debt.
He eats and hath indigestion,
He toils and he may not stop;
His life is a long-drawn question
Between a crop and a crop.
THE MARE'S NEST
Was good beyond all earthly need;
But, on the other hand, her spouse
Was very, very bad indeed.
He smoked cigars, called churches slow,
And raced—but this she did not know.
The little fact a secret, and,
Though o'er his minor sins she wept,
Jane Austen did not understand
That Lilly—thirteen-two and bay—
Absorbed one-half her husband's pay.
(Some women are like this, I think);
He taught her parrot how to curse,
Her Assam monkey how to drink.
He vexed her righteous soul until
She went up, and he went down hill.
Which turned a good wife to a better.
A telegraphic peon, one day,
Brought her—now, had it been a letter
For Belial Machiavelli, I
Know Jane would just have let it lie—
Marked “urgent,” and her duty plain
To open it. Jane Austen read:—
“Your Lilly's got a cough again.
“'Can't understand why she is kept
“At your expense.” Jane Austen wept.
Her husband was at Shaitanpore.
She spread her anger, hot as fire,
Through six thin foreign sheets or more;
Sent off that letter, wrote another
To her solicitor—and mother.
Her error and, I trust, his own,
Wired to the minion of the Law,
And travelled wifeward—not alone.
For Lilly—thirteen-two and bay—
Came in a horse-box all the way.
With many kisses. Austen Jane
Rode Lilly all the season through,
And never opened wires again.
She races now with Belial . . . This
Is very sad, but so it is.
THE BALLAD OF FISHER'S BOARDING-HOUSE
The wide-eyed corpse rolled free,
To blunder down by Garden Reach
And rot at Kedgeree,
The tale the Hughli told the shoal
The lean shoal told to me.
Where sailor-men reside,
And there were men of all the ports
From Mississip to Clyde,
And regally they spat and smoked,
And fearsomely they lied.
That gave them scanty bread,
They lied about the Earth beneath,
The Heavens overhead,
For they had looked too often on
Black rum when that was red.
Of shame and lust and fraud,
They backed their toughest statements with
The Brimstone of the Lord,
And crackling oaths went to and fro
Across the fist-banged board.
Bull-throated, bare of arm,
Who carried on his hairy chest
The maid Ultruda's charm—
The little silver crucifix
That keeps a man from harm.
And Pamba the Malay,
And Carboy Gin the Guinea cook,
And Luz from Vigo Bay,
And Honest Jack who sold them slops
And harvested their pay.
A lean Bostonian he—
Russ, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn,
Yank, Dane, and Portugee,
At Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
They rested from the sea.
Collinga knew her fame,
From Tarnau in Galicia
To Jaun Bazar she came,
To eat the bread of infamy
And take the wage of shame.
Rich spoil of war was hers,
In hose and gown and ring and chain,
From twenty mariners,
And, by Port Law, that week, men called
Her Salem Hardieker's.
That neither gifts nor gain
Can hold a winking Light o' Love
Or Fancy's flight restrain,
When Anne of Austria rolled her eyes
On Hans the blue-eyed Dane.
From Howrah to the Bay,
And he may die before the dawn
Who liquored out the day,
In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
We woo while yet we may.
Bull-throated, bare of arm,
And laughter shook the chest beneath
The maid Ultruda's charm—
The little silver crucifix
That keeps a man from harm.
“You was his girl, I know.
“I ship mineselfs to-morrow, see,
“Und round the Skaw we go,
“South, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm,
“To Besser in Saro.”
All ill betide the man.
“You speak to Salem Hardieker”—
She spoke as woman can.
A scream—a sob—“He called me—names!”
And then the fray began.
A shriek upon the stairs,
A dance of shadows on the wall,
A knife-thrust unawares—
And Hans came down, as cattle drop,
Across the broken chairs.
The weary head fell low:—
“I ship mineselfs to-morrow, straight
“For Besser in Saro;
“Und there Ultruda comes to me
“At Easter, und I go
“There—are—no—lights—to—guide!”
The mutter ceased, the spirit passed.
And Anne of Austria cried
In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house
When Hans the mighty died.
Bull-throated, bare of arm,
But Anne of Austria looted first
The maid Ultruda's charm—
The little silver crucifix
That keeps a man from harm.
POSSIBILITIES
A fortnight fully to be missed,
Behold, we lose our fourth at whist,
A chair is vacant where we dine.
Have bought his ponies, guns, and traps.
His fortune is the Great Perhaps
And that cool rest-house down the glen,
Our mundane revel on the height,
Shall watch each flashing 'rickshaw-light
Sweep on to dinner, dance, and play.
With lighted rooms and braying band;
And he shall hear and understand
“Dream Faces” better than us all.
Across Sanjaolie after rain,
His soul may climb the hill again
To each old field of victory.
The strong man's yearning to his kind
Shall shake at most the window-blind,
Or dull awhile the card-room's cheer.
His Light o' Love another's flame,
His dearest pony galloped lame,
And he an alien and alone!
Shrewd shadows, lingering long unseen
Among us when “God save the Queen”
Shows even “extras” have an end.
And, when at four the lights expire,
The crew shall gather round the fire
And mock our laughter in the gloom;
Flirt wanly, dance in ghostly wise,
With ghosts of tunes for melodies,
And vanish at the morning's breath!
ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER
To learn, for seven years or so,
The Lord knows what of that and this,
Ere reckoned fit to face the foe—
The flying bullet down the Pass,
That whistles clear: “All flesh is grass.”
On making brain and body meeter
For all the murderous intent
Comprised in “villainous saltpetre”!
And after?—Ask the Yusufzaies
What comes of all our 'ologies.
A canter down some dark defile—
Two thousand pounds of education
Drops to a ten-rupee jezail—
The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,
Shot like a rabbit in a ride!
No formulæ the text-books know,
Will turn the bullet from your coat,
Or ward the tulwar's downward blow.
Strike hard who cares—shoot straight who can—
The odds are on the cheaper man.
Will pay for all the school expenses
Of any Kurrum Valley scamp
Who knows no word of moods and tenses,
But, being blessed with perfect sight,
Picks off our messmates left and right.
The troopships bring us one by one,
At vast expense of time and steam,
To slay Afridis where they run.
The “captives of our bow and spear”
Are cheap, alas! as we are dear.
THE SONG OF THE WOMEN
The walls are high and she is very far.
How shall the women's message reach unto her
Above the tumult of the packed bazar?
Free wind of March, against the lattice blowing,
Bear thou our thanks lest she depart unknowing.
Go forth beyond the trees that rim the city
To whatsoe'er fair place she hath her home in,
Who dowered us with wealth of love and pity.
Out of our shadow pass and seek her singing—
“I have no gifts but Love alone for bringing.”
But old in grief, and very wise in tears:
Say that we, being desolate, entreat her
That she forget us not in after-years;
For we have seen the light and it were grievous
To dim that dawning if our Lady leave us.
By Love's sad harvest garnered ere the spring,
When Love in Ignorance wept unavailing
O'er young buds dead before their blossoming;
By all the grey owl watched, the pale moon viewed,
In past grim years declare our gratitude!
By gifts that found no favour in their sight,
By faces bent above the babe that stirred not,
By nameless horrors of the stifling night;
By ills fordone, by peace her toils discover,
Bid Earth be good beneath and Heaven above her!
If she have fought with Death and dulled his sword;
And to the breast the weakling lips restored,
Is it a little thing that she has wrought?
Then Life and Death and Motherhood be nought.
And they shall hear thee pass and bid thee speed,
In reed-roofed hut, or white-walled home of kings,
Who have been holpen by her in their need.
All spring shall give thee fragrance, and the wheat
Shall be a tasselled floorcloth to thy feet.
Loud-voiced ambassador, from sea to sea
Proclaim the blessing, manifold, confest,
Of those in darkness by her hand set free,
Then very softly to her presence move,
And whisper: “Lady, lo, they know and love!”
THE BETROTHED
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.
And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.
In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away—
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!
And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar—
With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket!
Here is a mild Manila—there is a wifely smile.
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close,
With only a Suttee's passion—to do their duty and burn.
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.
When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.
But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year;
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?
And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse!
A BALLADE OF JAKKO HILL
Since tiffin is not laid till three,
Below the upward path and strait
You climbed a year ago with me.
Love came upon us suddenly
And loosed—an idle hour to kill—
A headless, harmless armoury
That smote us both on Jakko Hill.
Through Time and to Eternity!
Ah, Heaven! we would conquer Fate
With more than Godlike constancy!
I cut the date upon a tree—
Here stand the clumsy figures still:—
“10-7-85, A.D.”
Damp in the mists on Jakko Hill.
And until Death fidelity?
Whose horse is waiting at your gate?
Whose 'rickshaw-wheels ride over me?
No Saint's, I swear; and—let me see
To-night what names your programme fill.
We drift asunder merrily,
As drifts the mist on Jakko Hill!
L'ENVOI
Princess, behold our ancient stateHas clean departed; and we see
'Twas Idleness we took for Fate
That bound light bonds on you and me.
Amen! Here ends the comedy
Where it began in all good will,
Since Love and Leave together flee
As driven mist on Jakko Hill!
THE PLEA OF THE SIMLA DANCERS
To remedy the wrong—
The rooms are taken from us, swept and garnished for their fate,
But these tear-besprinkled pages
Shall attest to future ages
That we cried against the crime of it—too late, alas! too late!
Was there no room save only in Benmore
For docket, duftar, and for office-drudge,
That you usurp our smoothest dancing floor?
Must Babus do their work on polished teak?
Are ballrooms fittest for the ink you spill?
Was there no other cheaper house to seek?
You might have left them all at Strawberry Hill.
Dainty our shining feet, our voices low;
And we revolved to divers melodies,
And we were happy but a year ago.
To-night, the moon that watched our lightsome wiles—
That beamed upon us through the deodars—
Is wan with gazing on official files,
And desecrating desks disgust the stars.
Nay! by the witchery of flying feet—
Nay! by the glamour of foredone delights—
By all things merry, musical, and meet—
By wine that sparkled, and by sparkling eyes—
By wailing waltz—by reckless galop's strain—
By dim verandahs and by soft replies.
Give us our ravished ballroom back again!
The ghosts of waltzes shall perplex your brain,
And murmurs of past merriment pursue
Your 'wildered clerks that they indite in vain;
The only figures that your pen shall frame
Shall be the figures of dear, dear cotillions
Danced out in tumult long before you came.
“Dream Faces” shall your heavy heads bemuse.
Because your hand, unheeding, desecrates
Our temple fit for higher, worthier use.
And all the long verandahs, eloquent
With echoes of a score of Simla years,
Shall plague you with unbidden sentiment—
Babbling of kisses, laughter, love, and tears.
So shall you toil, and shall accomplish nought.
And ever in your ears a phantom Band
Shall blare away the staid official thought.
Wherefore—and ere this awful curse be spoken,
Cast out your swarthy sacrilegious train,
And give—ere dancing cease and hearts be broken—
Give us our ravished ballroom back again!
“AS THE BELL CLINKS”
Maid last season worshipped dumbly, watched with fervour from afar;
And I wondered idly, blindly, if the maid would greet me kindly.
That was all—the rest was settled by the clinking tonga-bar.
Yea, my life and hers were coupled by the tonga coupling-bar.
Suffered sudden dislocation, fled before the tuneless jar
Played on either pony's saddle by the clacking tonga-bar—
Played with human speech, I fancied, by the jigging, jolting bar.
“Such a tiny hope to freeze on as was offered by my Star,
“When she whispered, something sadly: ‘I—we feel your going badly!’”
“And you let the chance escape you?” rapped the rattling tonga-bar.
“What a chance and what an idiot!” clicked the vicious tonga-bar.
On the old Hill-road and rutty, I had 'scaped that fatal car.
But his fortune each must bide by, so I watched the milestones slide by
To—“You call on Her to-morrow!” fugue with cymbals by the bar—
“You must call on Her to-morrow!”—post-horn galop by the bar.
With a double lurch and roll on, best foot foremost, ganz und gar—
“She was very sweet,” I hinted. “If a kiss had been imprinted—?”
“'Would ha' saved a world of trouble!” clashed the busy tonga-bar.
“'Been accepted or rejected!” banged and clanged the tonga-bar.
And a hasty thought of sharing—less than many incomes are—
“You must work the sum to prove it,” clanked the careless tonga-bar.
“Simple Rule of Two will prove it,” lilted back the tonga-bar.
“There are lovers rich—and forty; wait some wealthy Avatar?
“Answer, monitor untiring, 'twixt the ponies twain perspiring!”
“Faint heart never won fair lady,” creaked the straining tonga-bar.
“Can I tell you ere you ask Her?” pounded slow the tonga-bar.
Lit my little lazy yearning to a fiercer flame by far.
As below the Mall we jingled, through my very heart it tingled—
Did the iterated order of the threshing tonga-bar:—
“Try your luck—you can't do better!” twanged the loosened tonga-bar.
CHRISTMAS IN INDIA
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Eastern Day, is born.
O the white dust on the highway! O the stenches in the byway!
O the clammy fog that hovers over earth!
And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry—
What part have India's exiles in their mirth?
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly—
Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
And to-day we bid “good Christian men rejoice!”
As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!
O the toil that knows no breaking! O the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
O the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it. Gold was good—we hoped to hold it.
And to-day we know the fulness of our gain!
As the Sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether
That drags us back howe'er so far we roam.
Hard her service, poor her payment—she in ancient, tattered raiment—
India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter,
The door is shut—we may not look behind.
As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us and the hopeless years before us,
Let us honour, O my brothers, Christmas Day!
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For, if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
THE GRAVE OF THE HUNDRED HEAD
Who weeps for her only son;
There's a grave on the Pabeng River,
A grave that the Burmans shun;
And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri
Who tells how the work was done.
Somebody laughed and fled,
And the men of the First Shikaris
Picked up their Subaltern dead,
With a big blue mark in his forehead
And the back blown out of his head.
Jemadar Hira Lal,
Took command of the party,
Twenty rifles in all,
Marched them down to the river
As the day was beginning to fall.
A blanket over his face—
They wept for their dead Lieutenant,
The men of an alien race—
They made a samadh in his honour,
A mark for his resting-place.
They swore by the salt they ate,
Should go to his God in state,
With fifty file of Burmans
To open him Heaven's Gate.
Marched till the break of day,
Till they came to the rebel village
The village of Pabengmay—
A jingal covered the clearing,
Calthrops hampered the way.
Bidding them load with ball,
Halted a dozen rifles
Under the village wall;
Sent out a flanking-party
With Jemadar Hira Lal.
Shouted and smote and slew,
Turning the grinning jingal
On to the howling crew.
The Jemadar's flanking-party
Butchered the folk who flew.
Long was the list of slain,
Five score heads were taken,
Five score heads and twain;
And the men of the First Shikaris
Went back to their grave again,
Red as his palms that day,
Red as the blazing village—
The village of Pabengmay.
And the “drip-drip-drip” from the baskets
Reddened the grass by the way.
High as a tall man's chin,
Set in a sightless grin,
Anger and pain and terror
Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin.
Put the head of the Boh
On the top of the mound of triumph,
The head of his son below—
With the sword and the peacock-banner
That the world might behold and know.
Thus was the lesson plain
Of the wrath of the First Shikaris—
The price of a white man slain;
And the men of the First Shikaris
Went back into camp again.
A hush fell over the shore,
And Bohs that were brave departed,
And Sniders squibbed no more;
For the Burmans said
That a white man's head
Must be paid for with heads five-score.
Who weeps for her only son;
There's a grave on the Pabeng River,
A grave that the Burmans shun;
And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri
Who tells how the work was done.
AN OLD SONG
The tonga-horn shall ring,
So long as down the Solon dip
The hard-held ponies swing,
The lights of Simla town,
So long as Pleasure calls us up,
Or Duty drives us down,
If you love me as I love you
What pair so happy as we two?
Or backers take the bet,
So long as debt leads men to wed,
Or marriage leads to debt,
So long as little luncheons, Love,
And scandal hold their vogue,
While there is sport at Annandale
Or whisky at Jutogh,
If you love me as I love you
What knife can cut our love in two?
The raving polka spins,
So long as Kitchen Lancers spur
The maddened violins,
So long as through the whirling smoke
We hear the oft-told tale—
“Twelve hundred in the Lotteries,”
And Whatshername for sale,
If you love me as I love you
We'll play the game and win it too.
Straight riders from the course,
So long as with each drink we pour
Black brewage of Remorse,
So long as those unloaded guns
We keep beside the bed,
Blow off, by obvious accident,
The lucky owner's head,
If you love me as I love you
What can Life kill or Death undo?
Chills best and bravest blood,
The rotten, rain-soaked khud,
So long as rumours from the North
Make loving wives afraid,
So long as Burma takes the boy
Or typhoid kills the maid,
If you love me as I love you
What knife can cut our love in two?
Or works our lifelong woe,
From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs
And those grim glades below,
Where, heedless of the flying hoof
And clamour overhead,
Sleep, with the grey langur for guard,
Our very scornful Dead,
If you love me as I love you
All Earth is servant to us two!
By Mountain, Cliff, and Fir,
By Fan and Sword and Office-box,
By Corset, Plume, and Spur
By Riot, Revel, Waltz, and War,
By Women, Work, and Bills,
By all the life that fizzes in
The everlasting Hills,
If you love me as I love you
What pair so happy as we two?
CERTAIN MAXIMS OF HAFIZ
I
If it be pleasant to look on, stalled in the packed serai,Does not the Young Man try Its temper and pace ere he buy?
If She be pleasant to look on, what does the Young Man say?
“Lo! She is pleasant to look on. Give Her to me to-day!”
II
Yea, though a Kafir die, to him is remitted JehannumIf he borrowed in life from a native at sixty per cent. per annum.
III
Blister we not for bursati ? So when the heart is vext,The pain of one maiden's refusal is drowned in the pain of the next.
IV
The temper of chums, the love of your wife, and a new piano's tune—Which of the three will you trust at the end of an Indian June?
V
Who are the rulers of Ind—to whom shall we bow the knee?Make your peace with the women, and men will make you L. G.
VI
Does the woodpecker flit round the young ferash ? Does the grass clothe a new-built wall?Is she under thirty, the woman who holds a boy in her thrall?
VII
If She grow suddenly gracious—reflect. Is it all for thee?The blackbuck is stalked through the bullock, and Man through jealousy.
VIII
Seek not for favour of women. So shall you find it indeed.Does not the boar break cover just when you're lighting a weed?
IX
If He play, being young and unskilful, for shekels of silver and gold,Take His money, my son, praising Allah. The kid was ordained to be sold.
X
With a “weed” among men or horses verily this is the best,That you work him in office or dog-cart lightly—but give him no rest.
XI
Pleasant the snaffle of Courtship, improving the manners and carriage;But the colt who is wise will abstain from the terrible thorn-bit of Marriage.
XII
As the thriftless gold of the babul so is the gold that we spendOn a Derby Sweep, or our neighbour's wife, or the horse that we buy from a friend.
XIII
The ways of man with a maid be strange, yet simple and tameTo the ways of a man with a horse, when selling or racing that same.
XIV
In public Her face turneth to thee, and pleasant Her smile when ye meet.It is ill. The cold rocks of El-Gidar smile thus on the waves at their feet.
In public Her face is averted; with anger She nameth thy name.
It is well. Was there ever a loser content with the loss of the game?
XV
If She have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed,And the Brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed.
If She have written a letter, delay not an instant but burn it.
Tear it in pieces, O Fool, and the wind to her mate shall return it!
If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear,
Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear.
XVI
My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give o'er,Yet lip meets with lip at the lastward. Get out! She has been there before.
They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose who are lacking in lore.
XVII
If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred on the course.Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth for ever Remorse.
XVIII
“By all I am misunderstood!” if the Matron shall say, or the Maid:—“Alas! I do not understand,” my son, be thou nowise afraid.
In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed.
XIX
My son, if I, Hafiz, thy father, take hold of thy knees in my pain,Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour—refrain.
Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest another man's chain?
THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS
When bats begin to fly,
I sit me down and watch—alas!
Another evening die.
Blood-red behind the sere ferash
She rises through the haze.
Sainted Diana! can that be
The Moon of Other Days?
Sweet Saint of Kensington!
Say, was it ever thus at Home
The Moon of August shone,
When arm in arm we wandered long
Through Putney's evening haze,
And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath
The Moon of Other Days?
And Putney's evening haze
The dust that half a hundred kine
Before my window raise.
Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist
The seething city looms,
In place of Putney's golden gorse
The sickly babul blooms.
And bid the pie-dog yell,
Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ,
From each bazar its smell;
Yea, suck the fever from the tank
And sap my strength therewith:
Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face
To little Kitty Smith!
THE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE
'Twixt the first an' the second rub—
That oor mon Jock cam' hame again
To his rooms ahint the Club.
An' syne we thocht him fou,
An' syne he trumped his partner's trick,
An' garred his partner rue.
That held the Spade its Ace—
“God save the lad! Whence comes the licht
“That wimples on his face?”
An' ower the card-brim wunk:—
“I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg,
“May be that I am drunk.”
“An' L. L. L. forbye;
“But never liquor lit the lowe
“That keeks fra' oot your eye.
“Aboon the heart a wee?”
“Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye
“That slobbers ower me.”
“An' terrier-dogs are fair,
“But never yet was terrier born,
“Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!
“Below the left lappel?”
“Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar,
“Whenas the stump-end fell.”
“For ye are short o' cash.
“An' best Havanas couldna leave
“Sae white an' pure an ash.
“An' stopped it wi' a curse.
“Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel'—
“An' capped it wi' a worse!
“But plainly we can ken
“Ye're fallin', fallin' fra' the band
“O' cantie single men!”
An' the nichts were lang and mirk,
In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring,
Oor Jockie gaed to the Kirk!
WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID
Queen Victoria's Jubilee
Silent and blind and slow—
By the field, where the young corn dies
In the face of the sultry skies,
They have heard, as the dull Earth hears
The voice of the wind of an hour,
The sound of the Great Queen's voice:—
“My God hath given me years,
“Hath granted dominion and power:
“And I bid you, O Land, rejoice.”
More deep in the grudging clod;
For he saith:—“The wheat is my care,
“And the rest is the will of God.
“He sent the Mahratta spear
“As He sendeth the rain,
“And the Mlech, in the fated year,
“Broke the spear in twain,
“And was broken in turn. Who knows
“How our Lords make strife?
“It is good that the young wheat grows,
“For the bread is Life.”
Hissed up to the scornful dark
Great serpents, blazing, of red and blue,
That rose and faded, and rose anew,
That the Land might wonder and mark.
“Make merry, O People, all!”
And the Ploughman listened and bowed his head.
“To-day and to-morrow God's will,” he said,
As he trimmed the lamps on the wall.
“As He sendeth the dearth.
“He giveth to each man his food,
“Or Her food to the Earth.
“Our Kings and our Queens are afar—
“On their peoples be peace—
“God bringeth the rain to the Bar,
“That our cattle increase.”
More deep in the sun-dried clod:—
“Mogul, Mahratta, and Mlech from the North,
“And White Queen over the Seas—
“God raiseth them up and driveth them forth
“As the dust of the ploughshare flies in the breeze;
“But the wheat and the cattle are all my care,
“And the rest is the will of God.”
THE UNDERTAKER'S HORSE
And the pretty daughter rides him,
And I meet him oft o' mornings on the Course;
And there kindles in my bosom
An emotion chill and gruesome
As I canter past the Undertaker's Horse.
But a hideously suggestive
Trot, professional and placid, he affects;
To my mind this grim reproof beats:—
“Mend your pace, my friend. I'm coming. Who's the next?”
I have watched the strongest go—men
Of pith and might and muscle—at your heels,
Down the plantain-bordered highway,
(Heaven send it ne'er be my way!)
In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.
Where is Brown, the young, the cheery?
Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force?
You were at that last dread dâk
We must cover at a walk,
Bring them back to me, O Undertaker's Horse!
And your curious way of going,
And that businesslike black crimping of your tail,
E'en with Beauty on your back, Sir,
Pacing as a lady's hack, Sir,
What wonder when I meet you I turn pale?
Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast—
Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the glass—
Follow after with the others,
Where some dusky heathen smothers
Us with marigolds in lieu of English grass.
I shall watch your plump sides hollow,
See Carnifex (gone lame) become a corse—
See old age at last o'erpower you,
And the Station Pack devour you,
I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker's Horse!
Still the hideously suggestive
Trot that hammers out the unrelenting text,
And I hear it hard behind me
In what place soe'er I find me:—
“'Sure to catch you soon or later. Who's the next?”
ONE VICEROY RESIGNS
LORD DUFFERIN TO LORD LANSDOWNE:—
We'll clear the Aides and khitmutgars away.
(You'll know that fat old fellow with the knife—
He keeps the Name Book, talks in English, too,
And almost thinks himself the Government.)
O Youth, Youth, Youth! Forgive me, you're so young.
Forty from sixty—twenty years of work
And power to back the working. Ay de mí!
You want to know, you want to see, to touch
And, by your lights, to act. It's natural.
I wonder can I help you? Let me try.
You saw—what did you see from Bombay east?
Enough to frighten any one but me?
Neat that! It frightened Me in Eighty-Four!
You shouldn't take a man from Canada
And bid him smoke in powder-magazines;
Nor with a Reputation such as—Bah!
That ghost has haunted me for twenty years,
My Reputation now full-blown. Your fault!
Yours, with your stories of the strife at Home,
Who's up, who's down, who leads and who is led—
One reads so much, one hears so little here.
Well, now's your turn of exile. I go back
To Rome and leisure. All roads lead to Rome,
Or books—the refuge of the destitute.
When you . . . that brings me back to India. See!
You'll never plumb the Oriental mind,
And if you did, it isn't worth the toil.
Divide by twenty half-breeds. Multiply
By twice the Sphinx's silence. There's your East,
And you're as wise as ever. So am I.
At venture, stumble forward, make your mark,
(It's chalk on granite) then thank God no flame
Leaps from the rock to shrivel mark and man.
I'm clear—my mark is made. Three months of drouth
Had ruined much. It rained and washed away
The specks that might have gathered on my Name.
I took a country twice the size of France,
And shuttered up one doorway in the North.
I stand by those. You'll find that both will pay,
I pledged my Name on both—they're yours to-night.
Hold to them—they hold fame enough for two.
I'm old, but I shall live till Burma pays.
Men there—not German traders—Crosthwaite knows—
You'll find it in my papers. For the North
Guns always—quietly—but always guns.
You've seen your Council? Yes, they'll try to rule,
And prize their Reputations. Have you met
A grim lay-reader with a taste for coins,
And faith in Sin most men withhold from God?
He's gone to England. Ripon knew his grip
And kicked. A Council always has its Hopes.
They look for nothing from the West but Death
Or Bath or Bournemouth. Here's their ground.
Until the Middle Classes take them back,
One of ten millions plus a C. S. I.,
Or drop in harness. Legion of the Lost?
Not altogether. Earnest, narrow men,
But chiefly earnest, and they'll do your work,
And end by writing letters to the Times.
(Shall I write letters, answering Hunter—fawn
With Ripon on the Yorkshire grocers? Ugh!)
They have their Reputations. Look to one—
I work with him—the smallest of them all,
White-haired, red-faced, who sat the plunging horse
Out in the garden. He's your right-hand man,
And dreams of tilting Wolseley from the throne,
But while he dreams gives work we cannot buy;
By way of Frontier Roads. Meantime, I think,
He values very much the hand that falls
Upon his shoulder at the Council table—
Hates cats and knows his business. Which is yours.
Your business! I could tell you what I did
Some nights of Eighty-five, at Simla, worth
A Kingdom's ransom. When a big ship drives
God knows to what new reef, the man at the wheel
Prays with the passengers. They lose their lives,
Or rescued go their way; but he's no man
To take his trick at the wheel again. That's worse
Than drowning. Well, a galled Mashobra mule
(You'll see Mashobra) passed me on the Mall,
And I was—some fool's wife had ducked and bowed
To show the others I would stop and speak.
Then the mule fell—three galls, a hand-breadth each,
Behind the withers. Mrs. Whatsisname
Leers at the mule and me by turns, thweet thoul!
“How could they make him carry such a load!”
I saw—it isn't often I dream dreams—
More than the mule that minute—smoke and flame
From Simla to the haze below. That's weak.
You're younger. You'll dream dreams before you've done.
You've youth, that's one; good workmen—that means two
Fair chances in your favour. Fate's the third.
I know what I did. Do you ask me, “Preach?”
I answer by my past or else go back
To platitudes of rule—or take you thus
In confidence and say:—“You know the trick:
“You've governed Canada. You know. You know!”
And all the while commend you to Fate's hand
(Here at the top one loses sight o' God),
Commend you, then, to something more than you—
The Other People's blunders and . . . that's all.
I'd agonise to serve you if I could.
It's incommunicable, like the cast
That drops the hackle with the gut adry.
Too much—too little—there's your salmon lost!
And so I tell you nothing—wish you luck,
And wonder—how I wonder!—for your sake!
And triumph for my own. You're young, you're young,
I'm old. I followed Power to the last,
Gave her my best, and Power followed Me.
It's worth it—on my soul I'm speaking plain,
Here by the claret glasses!—worth it all.
I gave—no matter what I gave—I win.
I know I win. Mine's work, good work that lives!
A country twice the size of France—the North
Safeguarded. That's my record: sink the rest
And better if you can. The Rains may serve,
Rupees may rise—threepence will give you Fame—
It's rash to hope for sixpence. If they rise
Get guns, more guns, and lift the salt-tax. . . Oh!
I told you what the Congress meant or thought?
I'll answer nothing. Half a year will prove
The full extent of time and thought you'll spare
To Congress. Ask a Lady Doctor once
How little Begums see the light—deduce
Thence how the True Reformer's child is born.
It's interesting, curious . . . and vile.
I told the Turk he was a gentleman.
I told the Russian that his Tartar veins
Bled pure Parisian ichor; and he purred.
The Congress doesn't purr. I think it swears.
You're young—you'll swear too ere you've reached the end.
The End! God help you, if there be a God.
(There must be one to startle Gladstone's soul
In that new land where all the wires are cut,
And Cross snores anthems on the asphodel.)
God help you! And I'd help you if I could,
But that's beyond me. Yes, your speech was crude.
Sound claret after olives—yours and mine;
But Médoc slips into vin ordinaire.
(I'll drink my first at Genoa to your health)
Raise it to Hock. You'll never catch my style.
And, after all, the middle-classes grip
The middle-class—for Brompton talk Earl's Court.
Perhaps you're right. I'll see you in the Times—
A quarter-column of eye-searing print,
A leader once a quarter—then a war;
The Strand a-bellow through the fog:—“Defeat!”
“'Orrible slaughter!” While you lie awake
And wonder. Oh, you'll wonder ere you're free!
So fast, so fast, and leave me here alone.
Reay, Colvin, Lyall, Roberts, Buck, the rest,
Princes and Powers of Darkness, troops and trains,
(I cannot sleep in trains), land piled on land,
Whitewash and weariness, red rockets, dust,
White snows that mocked me, palaces—with draughts,
And Westland with the drafts he couldn't pay.
Poor Wilson reading his obituary
Before he died, and Hope, the man with bones,
And Aitchison a dripping mackintosh
At Council in the Rains, his grating “Sirrr”
Half drowned by Hunter's silky: “Bât, my lahd.”
Hunterian always: Marshal spinning plates
Or standing on his head; the Rent Bill's roar,
A hundred thousand speeches, much red cloth,
And Smiths thrice happy if I called them Jones,
(I can't remember half their names) or reined
My pony on the Mall to greet their wives.
More trains, more troops, more dust, and then all's done. . .
Four years, and I forget. If I forget,
How will they bear me in their minds? The North
Safeguarded—nearly (Roberts knows the rest),
A country twice the size of France annexed.
That stays at least. The rest may pass—may pass—
Your heritage—and I can teach you naught.
“High trust,” “vast honour,” “interests twice as vast,”
“Due reverence to your Council”—keep to those.
I envy you the twenty years you've gained,
But not the five to follow. What's that? One!
Two!—Surely not so late. Good-night. Don't dream.
THE GALLEY-SLAVE
To her figurehead of silver and her beak of hammered steel.
The leg-bar chafed the ankle and we gasped for cooler air,
But no galley on the waters with our galley could compare!
We ran a mighty merchandise of niggers in the hold;
The white foam spun behind us, and the black shark swam below,
As we gripped the kicking sweep-head and we made the galley go.
If they wore us down like cattle, faith, we fought and loved like men!
As we snatched her through the water, so we snatched a minute's bliss,
And the mutter of the dying never spoiled the lover's kiss.
They died, we filed their fetters, and we heaved them to the shark—
We heaved them to the fishes, but so fast the galley sped
We had only time to envy, for we could not mourn our dead.
The servants of the sweep-head, but the masters of the sea!
By the hands that drove her forward as she plunged and yawed and sheered,
Woman, Man, or God or Devil, was there anything we feared?
Earth that waited for the wreckage watched the galley struggle through.
Burning noon or choking midnight, Sickness, Sorrow, Parting, Death?
Nay, our very babes would mock you had they time for idle breath.
There's my name upon the deck-beam—let it stand a little space.
I am free—to watch my messmates beating out to open main,
Free of all that Life can offer—save to handle sweep again.
By the welts the whips have left me, by the scars that never heal;
By eyes grown old with staring through the sunwash on the brine,
I am paid in full for service. Would that service still were mine!
Of our galley swamped and shattered in the rollers of the North;
When the niggers break the hatches and the decks are gay with gore,
And a craven-hearted pilot crams her crashing on the shore.
When the cry for help goes seaward, she will find her servants there.
Battered chain-gangs of the orlop, grizzled drafts of years gone by,
To the bench that broke their manhood, they shall lash themselves and die.
Palace, cot, and lazaretto shall make up the tale that day,
When the skies are black above them, and the decks ablaze beneath,
And the top-men clear the raffle with their clasp-knives in their teeth.
Set some strong man free for fighting as I take awhile his oar.
But to-day I leave the galley. Shall I curse her service then?
God be thanked! Whate'er comes after, I have lived and toiled with Men!
A TALE OF TWO CITIES
On his byles;
Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crow
Come and go;
Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea,
Hides and ghi;
Where the Babu drops inflammatory hints
In his prints;
Stands a City—Charnock chose it—packed away
Near a Bay—
By the sewage rendered fetid, by the sewer
Made impure,
By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swamp
Moist and damp;
And the City and the Viceroy, as we see,
Don't agree.
Meek and tame.
Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed,
Till mere trade
Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth
South and North,
Till the country from Peshawur to Ceylon
Was his own.
Thus the midday halt of Charnock—more's the pity!—
Grew a City.
As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed,
So it spread—
Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built
On the silt—
Palace, byre, hovel—poverty and pride—
Side by side;
And, above the packed and pestilential town,
Death looked down.
Turned to flee—
Fled, with each returning Spring-tide, from its ills
To the Hills.
Of the days,
From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,
Beat retreat;
For the country from Peshawur to Ceylon
Was their own.
But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain
For his gain.
Asks an alms,
And the burden of its lamentation is,
Briefly, this:—
“Because, for certain months, we boil and stew,
“So should you.
“Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire
“In our fire!”
And for answer to the argument, in vain
We explain
That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot cry:—
“All must fry!”
That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plains
For his gains.
Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,
From its kitchen.
In his prints;
And mature—consistent soul—his plan for stealing
To Darjeeling:
Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile,
England's isle;
Let the City Charnock pitched on—evil day!—
Go Her way.
Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors
Heap their stores,
Though Her enterprise and energy secure
Income sure,
Though “out-station orders punctually obeyed”
Swell Her trade—
Still, for rule, administration, and the rest,
Simla's best!
IN SPRINGTIME
And the koïl sings above it, in the siris by the well,
From the creeper-covered trellis comes the squirrel's chattering speech,
And the blue jay screams and flutters where the cheery sat-bhai dwell.
But the rose has lost its fragrance, and the koïl's note is strange;
I am sick of endless sunshine, sick of blossom-burdened bough.
Give me back the leafless woodlands where the winds of Springtime range—
Give me back one day in England, for it's Spring in England now!
From the furrow of the ploughshare streams the fragrance of the loam,
And the hawk nests on the cliffside and the jackdaw in the hill,
And my heart is back in England 'mid the sights and sounds of Home.
But the garland of the sacrifice this wealth of rose and peach is
Ah! koïl, little koïl, singing on the siris bough,
In my ears the knell of exile your ceaseless bell like speech is—
Can you tell me aught of England or of Spring in England now?
GIFFEN'S DEBT
His Regiment and, later, took to drink;
Then, having lost the balance of his friends,
“Went Fantee”—joined the people of the land,
And lived among the Gauri villagers,
Who gave him shelter and a wife or twain,
And boasted that a thorough, full-blood sahib
Had come among them. Thus he spent his time,
Deeply indebted to the village shroff
(Who never asked for payment), always drunk,
Unclean, abominable, out-at-heels;
Forgetting that he was an Englishman.
And all the good contractors scamped their work
And all the bad material at hand
Was used to dam the Gauri—which was cheap,
And, therefore, proper. Then the Gauri burst,
And several hundred thousand cubic tons
Of water dropped into the valley, flop,
And drowned some five-and-twenty villagers,
And did a lakh or two of detriment
To crops and cattle. When the flood went down
We found him dead, beneath an old dead horse
Full six miles down the valley. So we said
He was a victim to the Demon Drink,
And moralised upon him for a week,
And then forgot him. Which was natural.
Beneath the shadow of the big new dam,
Relate a foolish legend of the flood,
Accounting for the little loss of life
(Only those five-and-twenty villagers)
In this wise:—On the evening of the flood,
They heard the groaning of the rotten dam,
And voices of the Mountain Devils. Then
An incarnation of the local God,
Mounted upon a monster-neighing horse,
And flourishing a flail-like whip, came down,
Breathing ambrosia, to the villages,
And fell upon the simple villagers
With yells beyond the power of mortal throat,
And blows beyond the power of mortal hand,
Them clamorous with terror up the hill,
And scattered, with the monster-neighing steed,
Their crazy cottages about their ears,
And generally cleared those villages.
Then came the water, and the local God,
Breathing ambrosia, flourishing his whip,
And mounted on his monster-neighing steed,
Went down the valley with the flying trees
And residue of homesteads, while they watched
Safe on the mountain-side these wondrous things,
And knew that they were much beloved of Heaven.
They raised a temple to the local God,
And burnt all manner of unsavoury things
Upon his altar, and created priests,
And blew into a conch and banged a bell,
And told the story of the Gauri flood
With circumstance and much embroidery. . . .
So he, the whiskified Objectionable,
Unclean, abominable, out-at-heels,
Became the Tutelary Deity
Of all the Gauri valley villages,
And may in time become a Solar Myth.
TWO MONTHS
JUNE
No hope, no change! The clouds have shut us in,And through the cloud the sullen Sun strikes down
Full on the bosom of the tortured Town,
Till Night falls heavy as remembered sin
That will not suffer sleep or thought of ease,
And, hour on hour, the dry-eyed Moon in spite
Glares through the haze and mocks with watery light
The torment of the uncomplaining trees.
Far off, the Thunder bellows her despair
To echoing Earth, thrice parched. The lightnings fly
But wearier weight of burdened, burning air.
What truce with Dawn? Look, from the aching sky,
Day stalks, a tyrant with a flaming sword!
SEPTEMBER
At dawn there was a murmur in the trees,A ripple on the tank, and in the air
Presage of coming coolness—everywhere
A voice of prophecy upon the breeze.
Up leapt the Sun and smote the dust to gold,
And strove to parch anew the heedless land,
All impotently, as a King grown old
Wars for the Empire crumbling 'neath his hand.
One after one the lotos-petals fell,
Beneath the onslaught of the rebel year,
In mutiny against a furious sky;
And far-off Winter whispered:—“It is well!
“Hot Summer dies. Behold your help is near,
“For when men's need is sorest, then come I.”
L'ENVOI (to Departmental Ditties)
The flowers decay,
The Goddess of your sacrifice
Has flown away.
What profit then to sing or slay
The sacrifice from day to day?
“The Goddess flown—
“Yet wreaths are on the altar laid—
“The Altar-Stone
“Is black with fumes of sacrifice,
“Albeit She has fled our eyes.
“And tend the Shrine,
“Some Deity on wandering wing
“May there incline;
“And, finding all in order meet,
“Stay while we worship at Her feet.”
THE FIRES
Each under his roof-tree,
And the Four Winds that rule the earth
They blow the smoke to me.
And all the changeful skies,
The Four Winds blow the smoke to me
Till the tears are in my eyes.
And my heart is wellnigh broke
For thinking on old memories
That gather in the smoke.
The homesick memories come,
From every quarter of mankind
Where I have made me a home.
And a roof against the rain—
Sorrow fourfold and joy fourfold
The Four Winds bring again!
Of all the fires that burn?
I have been too often host or guest
At every fire in turn.
On any man's hearthstone?
I know the wonder and desire
That went to build my own!
Where'er his house-fires shine,
Since all that man must undergo
Will visit me at mine?
And know that this is true,
Stoop for a little and carry my song
To all the men I knew!
Or roofs against the rain—
With love fourfold and joy fourfold,
Take them my songs again!
DEDICATION FROM “BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS”
Farther than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled—
Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world.
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.
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 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 tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made;
And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid.
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.
E'en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth,
In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth.
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.
Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled,
Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world.
TO THE TRUE ROMANCE
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!
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.
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.
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 singleness
The joy of all the earth.
And Life all mystery,
Till life 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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
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!
Our call and counter-cry,
I may not find Thee quick and kind,
Nor know Thee till I die.
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!
SESTINA OF THE TRAMP-ROYAL
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.
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?
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.
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.
Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done,
For something in my 'ead upset it 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!
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.
Excep' when awful long—I've found it good.
So write, before I die, “'E liked it all!”
THE MIRACLES
A thousand leagues and more to Her—
The dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear,
And Lost Atlantis bore to Her!
And nigh had found a grave for me;
But that I launched of steel and flame
Did war against the wave for me.
To bid me change my mind again—
He broke his teeth along my rail,
And, roaring, swung behind again.
My way across the waste of it;
I read the storm before it fell
And made the better haste of it.
The towers I built had heard of me—
And, ere my rocket reached its height,
Had flashed my Love the word of me.
(They lived and strove and died for me)
To drive my road a nation's length,
And toss the miles aside for me.
Too slow their fleetest flew for me.
I tired twenty smoking steeds,
And bade them bait a new for me.
Where hour by hour She waited me.
Among ten million one was She,
And surely all men hated me!
Ah, day no tongue shall tell again!
And little folk of little soul
Rose up to buy and sell again!
SONG OF THE WISE CHILDREN
And frost and the fog divide the air,
And the day is dead at his breaking-forth,
Sirs, it is bitter beneath the Bear!
The million molten spears of morn—
The spears of our deliverance
That shine on the house where we were born.
Flying sea-fires in our wake:
This is the road to our Father's House,
Whither we go for our souls' sake!
We have forsaken all things meet;
We have forgotten the look of light,
We have forgotten the scent of heat.
Year by year in a shining land,
They be men of our Father's House,
They shall receive us and understand.
To the life unaltered our childhood knew—
To the naked feet on the cool, dark floors,
And the high-ceiled rooms that the Trade blows through:
And the tree-toad's chorus drowning all—
And the lisp of the split banana-frond
That talked us to sleep when we were small.
Shall soon undo what the North has done—
Because of the sights and the sounds and the smells
That ran with our youth in the eye of the sun.
Nor the Sea our love, nor our lover the Sky.
When we return to our Father's House
Only the English shall wonder why!
ZION
They do not always stand
In helmet and whole armour,
With halberds in their hand;
But, being sure of Zion,
And all her mysteries,
They rest awhile in Zion,
Sit down and smile in Zion;
Ay, even jest in Zion;
In Zion, at their ease.
They dare not sit or lean,
But fume and fret and posture
And foam and curse between;
For, being bound to Baal,
Whose sacrifice is vain,
Their rest is scant with Baal,
They glare and pant for Baal,
They mouth and rant for Baal;
For Baal in their pain.
By choice and not through dread,
With these our present comrades
And those our present dead;
And, being free of Zion
In both her fellowships,
Sit down and sup in Zion—
Stand up and drink in Zion
Whatever cup in Zion
Is offered to our lips!
BUDDHA AT KAMAKURA
By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day,
Be gentle when “the heathen” pray
To Buddha at Kamakura!
Whom Maya held beneath her heart,
Ananda's Lord, the Bodhisat,
The Buddha of Kamakura.
Nor hears ye thank your Deities,
Ye have not sinned with such as these,
His children at Kamakura,
When joss-sticks turn to scented smoke
The little sins of little folk
That worship at Kamakura—
That flit beneath the Master's eyes.
He is beyond the Mysteries
But loves them at Kamakura.
Contemning neither creed nor priest,
May feel the Soul of all the East
About him at Kamakura.
Of birth as fish or beast or bird,
While yet in lives the Master stirred,
The warm wind brings Kamakura.
A-flower 'neath her golden htee
The Shwe-Dagon flare easterly
From Burma to Kamakura,
The thunder of Thibetan drums,
And droned—“Om mane padme hum's”
A world's-width from Kamakura.
Buddh-Gaya's ruins pit the hill,
And beef-fed zealots threaten ill
To Buddha and Kamakura.
A rusting bulk of bronze and gold,
So much, and scarce so much, ye hold
The meaning of Kamakura?
Think, ere ye pass to strife and trade,
Is God in human image made
No nearer than Kamakura?
THE GREEK NATIONAL ANTHEM
Oh, divinely restored,
By the light of thine eyes
And the light of thy Sword.
Shall thy valour prevail
As we greet thee again—
Hail, Liberty! Hail!
Mid the peoples that mourn,
Awaiting some voice
That should bid thee return.
And no man dared call,
For the shadow of tyranny
Lay over all:
The tears on thy cheeks
While thy raiment was dyed
In the blood of the Greeks.
With impetuous breath
Go forth to the fight
Seeking Freedom or Death.
Shall thy valour prevail
As we greet thee again—
Hail, Liberty! Hail!
THE SEA-WIFE
And a wealthy wife is she;
She breeds a breed of roving men
And casts them over sea.
And some in sight o' shore,
And word goes back to the weary wife
And ever she sends more.
Or hearth or garth or field,
She willed her sons to the white harvest.
And that is a bitter yield.
To ride the horse of tree;
And syne her sons come back again
Far-spent from out the sea.
With little into their hands,
But the lore of men that have dealt with men
In the new and naked lands;
By more than easy breath,
And the eyes of men that have read with men
In the open books of Death.
But poor in the goods of men;
So what they have got by the skin of their teeth
They sell for their teeth again.
Or win to their hearts' desire,
They tell it all to the weary wife
That nods beside the fire.
That makes the white ash spin;
And tide and tide and 'tween the tides
Her sons go out and in;
Hazard of trackless ways—
In with content to wait their watch
And warm before the blaze);
And some in waking dream,
For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts
That ride the rough roof-beam.
The living and the dead;
The good wife's sons come home again
For her blessing on their head!
THE BROKEN MEN
For Art misunderstood—
For excellent intention
That did not turn to good;
From ancient tales' renewing,
From clouds we would not clear—
Beyond the Law's pursuing
We fled, and settled here.
We bade no long good-byes.
Men talked of crime and thieving,
Men wrote of fraud and lies.
To save our injured feelings
'Twas time and time to go—
Behind was dock and Dartmoor,
Ahead lay Callao!
That pray for ten per cent,
They clapped their trailers on us
To spy the road we went.
They watched the foreign sailings
(They scan the shipping still),
And that's your Christian people
Returning good for ill!
Where never warrants come;
God bless the just Republics
That give a man a home,
That ask no foolish questions,
But set him on his feet;
And save his wife and daughters
From the workhouse and the street!
The noonday silence falls;
Of the fountain in our halls.
Asleep amid the yuccas
The city takes her ease—
Till twilight brings the land-wind
To the clicking jalousies.
The high, unaltered blue—
The smell of goats and incense
And the mule-bells tinkling through.
Day long the warder ocean
That keeps us from our kin,
And once a month our levée
When the English mail comes in.
To treat you at the bar;
You'll find us less exclusive
Than the average English are.
We'll meet you with a carriage,
Too glad to show you round,
But—we do not lunch on steamers,
For they are English ground.
And join our smiling Boards—
Our wives go in with Viscounts
And our daughters dance with Lords,
But behind our princely doings,
And behind each coup we make,
We feel there's Something Waiting,
And—we meet It when we wake.
To greet our flesh and blood—
To hear the traffic slurring
Once more through London mud!
Our towns of wasted honour—
Our streets of lost delight!
How stands the old Lord Warden?
Are Dover's cliffs still white?
GETHSEMANE
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass—we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.
It didn't pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane!
THE SONG OF THE BANJO
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 travel with the cooking-pots and pails—
I'm sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the pork—
And when the dusty column checks and tails,
You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk!
[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.
When it's good to make your will and say your prayer,
You can hear my strumpty-tumpty 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.
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!
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!
[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.
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.
[Oh, 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!”
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,
Hear me lead my reckless children from below
Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine!
[Oh, the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]
And we ride the iron stallions down to drink,
Through the cañons to the waters of the West!
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.
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!
I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!
Let the trumpet 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?
[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!
[Oh, the blue below the little fisher-huts!]
That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire,
Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts!
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!
[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!
THE SPIES' MARCH
Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow.
There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugle we rally
From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow!
Fall in! O fall in! O fall in!
Not where the bayonets shine,
Not where the big shell shout as they pass
Over the firing-line;
Not where the wounded are,
Not where the nations die,
Killed in the cleanly game of war—
That is no place for a spy!
O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours—
Here is no place for a spy!
We march with colours furled,
Only concerned when Death breaks loose
On a front of half a world.
Only for General Death
The Yellow Flag may fly,
While we take post beneath—
That is the place for a spy.
Where Plague has spread his pinions over Nations and Dominions—
Then will be work for a spy!
The single funerals pass,
Our skirmishers run in,
The corpses dot the grass!
The howling towns stampede,
The tainted hamlets die.
Now it is war indeed—
Now there is room for a spy!
O Peoples, Kings and Lands, we are waiting your commands—
What is the work for a spy? (Drums)
—Fear is upon us, spy!
Unmask the shape they take,
Whether a gnat from the waterside,
Or a stinging fly in the brake,
Or a sick rat limping by,
Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat—
That is the work for a spy! (Drums)
—Death is upon us, spy!
Whence will he move to attack?—
By water, earth or air?—
How can we head him back?
Shall we starve him out if we burn
Or bury his food-supply?
Slip through his lines and learn—
That is the work for a spy! (Drums)
—Get to your business, spy!
Will he charge or ambuscade?
What is it checks his course?
Is he beaten or only delayed?
How long will the lull endure?
Is he retreating? Why?
Crawl to his camp and make sure—
That is the work for a spy! (Drums)
—Fetch us our answer, spy!
Wherever the Pale Horse wheels.
Wait on his councils, ear to earth,
And show what the dust reveals.
For the smoke of our torment rolls
Where the burning corpses lie;
What do we care for men's bodies or souls?
Bring us deliverance, spy!”
THE EXPLORER
So they said, and I believed it—broke my land and sowed my crop—
Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run out and stop:
On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated—so:
“Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges—
“Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!”
Stole away with pack and ponies—left 'em drinking in the town;
And the faith that moveth mountains didn't seem to help my labours
As I faced the sheer main-ranges, whipping up and leading down.
Hurried on in hope of water, headed back for lack of grass;
Till I camped above the tree-line—drifted snow and naked boulders—
Felt free air astir to windward—knew I'd stumbled on the Pass.
Froze and killed the plains-bred ponies; so I called the camp Despair
(It's the Railway Gap to-day, though). Then my Whisper waked to hound me:—
“Something lost behind the Ranges. Over yonder! Go you there!”
Still—it might be self-delusion—scores of better men had died—
But I didn't . . . but I didn't. I went down the other side,
And the aloes sprung to thickets and a brimming stream ran by;
But the thickets dwined to thorn-scrub, and the water drained to shallows,
And I dropped again on desert—blasted earth, and blasting sky. . . .
I remember seeing faces, hearing voices, through the smoke;
I remember they were fancy—for I threw a stone to try 'em.
“Something lost behind the Ranges” was the only word they spoke.
When I heard myself hallooing to the funny folk I saw.
'Very full of dreams that desert, but my two legs took me through it . . .
And I used to watch 'em moving with the toes all black and raw.
Rolling grass and open timber, with a hint of hills behind—
There I found me food and water, and I lay a week recruiting.
Got my strength and lost my nightmares. Then I entered on my find.
Week by week I pried and sampled—week by week my findings grew.
Saul he went to look for donkeys, and by God he found a kingdom!
But by God, who sent His Whisper, I had struck the worth of two!
Down and through the big fat marshes that the virgin ore-bed stains,
Till I heard the mile-wide mutterings of unimagined rivers,
And beyond the nameless timber saw illimitable plains!
Watched unharnessed rapids wasting fifty thousand head an hour;
Counted leagues of water-frontage through the axe-ripe woods that screen 'em—
Saw the plant to feed a people—up and waiting for the power!
Came, a dozen men together—never knew my desert-fears;
Tracked me by the camps I'd quitted, used the water-holes I'd hollowed.
They'll go back and do the talking. They'll be called the Pioneers!
They will rediscover rivers—not my rivers heard at night.
By my own old marks and bearings they will show me how to get there,
By the lonely cairns I builded they will guide my feet aright.
Have I kept one single nugget—(barring samples)? No, not I!
Because my price was paid me ten times over by my Maker.
But you wouldn't understand it. You go up and occupy.
(That should keep the railway-rates down), coal and iron at your doors.
Then He chose me for His Whisper, and I've found it, and it's yours!
And “no sense in going further”—till I crossed the range to see.
God forgive me! No, I didn't. It's God's present to our nation.
Anybody might have found it, but—His Whisper came to Me!
THE PRO-CONSULS
(LORD MILNER)
His heart's desire at price of his heart's blood.
The clamour of the arrogant accuser
Wastes that one hour we needed to make good.
This was foretold of old at our outgoing;
This we accepted who have squandered, knowing,
The strength and glory of our reputations,
At the day's need, as it were dross, to guard
The tender and new-dedicate foundations
Against the sea we fear—not man's award.
Fit for realms to rise upon,
Little honour do they reap
Of their generation,
Any more than mountains gain
Stature till we reach the plain.
Such as shroud or sceptre lend—
Daily in the market-place,
Of one height to foe and friend—
They must cheapen self to find
Ends uncheapened for mankind.
Sleepless they arise, alone,
The unsleeping arch to test
And the o'er-trusted corner-stone,
'Gainst the need, they know, that lies
Hid behind the centuries.
Not by Peace herself betrayed—
Peace herself must they forgo
Till that peace be fitly made;
And in single strength uphold
Wearier hands and hearts acold.
For thy sports, O Liberty!
Doubted are they, and defamed
By the tongues their act set free,
While they quicken, tend and raise
Power that must their power displace.
Failing whereof they may sit
Scholarly to judge the souls
That go down into the Pit
And, despite its certain clay,
Heave a new world toward the day.
More than planets, tides or years
Which discover God's design,
Not our hopes and not our fears;
Nor in aught they gain or lose
Seek a triumph or excuse!
Heeds how they perished or were paid that bore it?
For, so the Shrine abide, what shame—what pride—
If we, the priests, were bound or crowned before it?
THE RUNNERS Indian Frontier, 1904
News!
What is the word that they tell now—now—now!The little drums beating in the bazaars?
They beat (among the buyers and the sellers)
“Nimrud—ah, Nimrud!
God sends a gnat against Nimrud!”
Watchers, O Watchers a thousand!
News!
At the edge of the crops—now—now—where the well-wheels are halted,One prepares to loose the bullocks and one scrapes his hoe,
They beat (among the sowers and the reapers)
“Nimrud—ah, Nimrud!
God prepares an ill day for Nimrud!”
Watchers, O Watchers ten thousand.
News!
By the fires of the camps—now—now—where the travellers meet,Where the camels come in and the horses, their men conferring,
They beat (among the packmen and the drivers)
“Nimrud—ah, Nimrud!
Thus it befell last noon to Nimrud!”
Watchers, O Watchers an hundred thousand!
News!
Under the shadow of the border-peels—now—now—now!In the rocks of the passes where the expectant shoe their horses,
They beat (among the rifles and the riders)
“Nimrud—ah, Nimrud!
Shall we go up against Nimrud?”
Watchers, O Watchers a thousand thousand!
News!
Bring out the heaps of grain—open the account-books again!Drive forward the well-bullocks against the taxable harvest!
Eat and lie under the trees—pitch the police-guarded fair-grounds, O dancers!
Hide away the rifles and let down the ladders from the watch-towers!
They beat (among all the peoples)
“Now—now—now!
God has reserved the Sword for Nimrud!
God has given Victory to Nimrud!
Let us abide under Nimrud!”
O Well-disposed and Heedful, an hundred thousand thousand!
THE SEA AND THE HILLS
The heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the comber wind-hounded?
The sleek-barrelled swell before storm, grey, foamless, enormous, and growing—
Stark calm on the lap of the Line or the crazy-eyed hurricane blowing—
His Sea in no showing the same—his Sea and the same 'neath each showing:
His Sea as she slackens or thrills?
So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen desire their Hills!
The shudder, the stumble, the swerve, as the star-stabbing bowsprit emerges?
The orderly clouds of the Trades, the ridged, roaring sapphire thereunder—
Unheralded cliff-haunting flaws and the headsail's low-volleying thunder—
His Sea as she rages or stills?
So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen desire their Hills.
The in-rolling walls of the fog and the silver-winged breeze that disperses?
The unstable mined berg going South and the calvings and groans that declare it—
White water half-guessed overside and the moon breaking timely to bare it—
His Sea as his fathers have dared—his Sea as his children shall dare it:
His Sea as she serves him or kills?
So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen desire their Hills.
Than forecourts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather
Inland, among dust, under trees—inland where the slayer may slay him—
Inland, out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him—
His Sea from the first that betrayed—at the last that shall never betray him:
His Sea that his being fulfils?
So and no otherwise—so and no otherwise—hillmen desire their Hills.
ANCHOR SONG
Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full—
Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
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!”
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!
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!
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!
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 as she's snatching for a breath of open sea!
Sick she is and harbour-sick—oh, 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!
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!
THE RHYME OF THE THREE SEALERS
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 Baltic ran from the Northern Light,
And the Stralsund fought the two.
When you come by his isles in the Smoky Sea you must not take the seal,
Where the grey 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 matkas seek the shore to drop their pups aland,
The great man-seal haul out of the sea, aroaring, band by band.
The great man-seals 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!
With a stovepipe stuck from a starboard port and the Russian flag at her fore.
(Baltic, Stralsund, and Northern Light—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 Northern Light drove into the bight and the sea-mist drove with her.
The Baltic 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 Vladivostok slip).
And the Northern Light 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.
And the Northern Light 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 Stralsund'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!
“And we'll come into the game again—with a double deck to play!”
And they raised the Baltic 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 Stralsund'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?”
“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!”
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,
As the flame-spurts pale ran down the rail and 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 Baltic's deck and two of the Stralsund's crew.
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 led 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:
“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!”
“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.”
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 Baltic's crew!
“You're sure of Hell as me or Rube—but wait till we get through.”
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 sheer-strakes pound and clear, but never a word was said.
“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.
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 shells 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!
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.
“Wash down the decks—they're all too red—and share the skins and run.
“Baltic, Stralsund, and Northern Light—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.
“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!”
Through fog to fog, by luck and log, sail you as Bering sailed;
And if the light shall lift aright to give your landfall plain,
North and by west, from Zapne Crest you 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 boorga 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 Baltic ran from the Northern Light,
And the Stralsund fought the two.
McANDREW'S HYMN
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—my “Institutio.”
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 Sarah Sands 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, McAndrew! Back again? An' how's your bilge to-day?”
Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my chair
To drink Madeira wi' three Earls—the auld Fleet Engineer
That started as a boiler-whelp—when steam and he were low.
I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi' tow!
Ten pound was all the pressure then—Eh! Eh!—a man wad drive;
An' here, our workin' gauges give one hunder sixty-five!
We're creepin' on wi' each new rig—less weight an' larger power;
There'll be the loco-boiler next an' thirty mile an hour!
Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began
Leaves me na doot for the machine: but what about the man?
The man that counts, wi' all his runs, one million mile o' sea:
Four time the span from earth to moon. . . . How far, O Lord, from Thee
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 an' forty years, all up an' down the seas,
Clack an' repeat like valves half-fed. . . . Forgie's our trespasses!
Nights when I'd come on deck to mark, wi' envy in my gaze,
The couples kittlin' in the dark between the funnel-stays;
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 HongKong!
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: “McAndrew, come awa'!”
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 They?) “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.
Thou knowest all my heart an' mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell—
Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell!
Yet was Thy Hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy Care—
Fra' Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o' despair,
But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer! . . .
We dared na run that sea by night but lay an' held our fire,
An' I was drowsin' on the hatch—sick—sick wi' doubt an' tire:
“Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin' o' desire!”
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.
I've lost it since a thousand times, but never past return!
Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord,
But—average fifteen hunder souls safe-borne fra' port to port—
I am o' service to my kind. Ye wadna blame the thought?
Maybe they steam from Grace to Wrath—to sin by folly led—
It isna mine to judge their path—their lives are on my head.
Mine at the last—when all is done it all comes back to me,
The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon the sea.
We'll tak' one stretch—three weeks an' odd by ony road ye steer—
Fra' Cape Town east to Wellington—ye need an engineer.
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 and Ice that praise the Lord. I've met them at their work,
An' wished we had anither route or they anither kirk.)
Yon's strain, hard strain, o' head an' hand, for though Thy Power brings
All skill to naught, Ye'll understand a man must think o' things.
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.
No pension, an' the most we'll earn 's four hunder pound a year.
Better myself abroad? Maybe. I'd sooner starve than sail
Wi' such as call a snifter-rod ross. . . . French for nightingale.
Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I cannot afford
To lie like stewards wi' patty-pans. I'm older than the Board.
A bonus on the coal I save? Ou ay, the Scots are close,
But when I grudge the strength Ye gave I'll grudge their food to those.
(There's bricks that I might recommend—an' clink the fire-bars cruel.
No! Welsh—Wangarti at the worst—an' damn all patent fuel!)
Inventions? Ye must stay in port to mak' a patent pay.
My Deeferential Valve-Gear taught me how that business lay.
I blame no chaps wi' clearer heads for aught they make or sell.
I found that I could not invent an' look to these as well.
So, wrestled wi' Apollyon—Nah!—fretted like a bairn—
But burned the workin'-plans last run, wi' all I hoped to earn.
Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an' what that meant to me—
E'en tak' it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee. . . .
Below there! Oiler! What's your wark? Ye find it runnin' hard?
Ye needn't swill the cup wi' oil—this isn't the Cunard!
Ye thought? Ye are not paid to think. Go, sweat that off again!
Tck! Tck! It's deeficult to sweer nor tak' The Name in vain!
Men, ay, an women, call me stern. Wi' these to oversee,
Ye'll note I've little time to burn on social repartee.
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.
“Mister McAndrew, don't you think steam spoils romance at sea?”
Damned ijjit! I'd been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws,
Manholin', on my back—the cranks three inches off my nose.
Romance! Those first-class passengers they like it very well,
Printed an' bound in little books; but why don't poets tell?
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' dynamoes.
Interdependence absolute, foreseen, ordained, decreed,
To work, Ye'll note, at ony tilt an' every rate o' speed.
Fra' skylight-lift to furnace-bars, backed, bolted, braced an' stayed,
An' singin' like the Mornin' Stars for joy that they are made;
While, out o' touch o' vanity, the sweatin' thrust-block says:
“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.
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!
That holds, in spite o' knock and scale, o' friction, waste an' slip,
An' by that light—now, mark my word—we'll build the Perfect Ship.
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. . . .
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. . . .
What your good leddy costs in coal? . . . I'll burn 'em down to port.
MULHOLLAND'S CONTRACT
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.
For the lower deck is the dangerousest, requirin' constant care,
An' give to me as the strongest man, though used to drink and swear.
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.
If He got me to port alive I would exalt His Name,
An' praise His Holy Majesty till further orders came.
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.
An' I lay still for seven weeks convalescing of the fall,
An' readin' the shiny Scripture texts in the Seaman's Hospital.
“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.
“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 gamblin' their wages, and you must preach it so;
“For now those boats are more like Hell than anything else I know.”
An' I wanted to preach Religion, handsome an' out of the wet;
But the Word of the Lord were laid on me, an' I done what I was set.
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' 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 am in charge of the lower deck, an' I never lose a steer;
An' I believe in Almighty God an' I preach His Gospel here.
For I am in charge of the lower deck with all that doth belong—
Which they would not give to a lunatic, and the competition so strong!
THE “MARY GLOSTER”
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!
And now I'm Sir Anthony Gloster, dying, a baronite:
For I lunched with his Royal 'Ighness—what was it the papers had?
“Not least of our merchant-princes.” Dickie, that's me, your dad!
I didn't begin with askings. I took my job and I stuck;
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 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 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 Mary Gloster. My heart, how young we were!
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 saved 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 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 knew what was coming, when we bid on the Byfleet'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.
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 his drawings meant,
And I started the six-inch rollers, and it paid me sixty per cent.
Sixty per cent with 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. She 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.
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 its 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 it 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 them cracked.
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 Mary Gloster—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 laid 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 McAndrew a copy in case of dying—or not.
And so you'll write to McAndrew, 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.
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 Mary 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 Mary. . . . 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.
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 you 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 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, he 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!
THE BALLAD OF THE “BOLIVAR”
Rolling down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain.
Give the girls another drink 'fore we sign away—
We that took the Bolivar out across the Bay!
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.
All the coals adrift adeck, half the rails below,
Leaking like a lobster-pot, steering like a dray—
Out we took the Bolivar, out across the Bay!
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 Wolf behind us with a two-foot list to port.
Clanging like a smithy-shop after every roll;
Just a funnel and a mast lurching through the spray—
So we threshed the Bolivar out across the Bay!
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!
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 Bolivar knocking round the Bay!
Up and down and back we went, never time for breath;
Then the money paid at Lloyds' caught her by the keel,
And the stars ran round and round dancin' at our death!
'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 Bolivar, south across the Bay!
Mad with work and weariness, wishin' they was we—
Some damned Liner's lights go by like a grand hotel;
'Cheered her from the Bolivar swampin' in the sea.
“Boys, the wheel has gone to Hell—rig the winches aft!
“Yoke the kicking rudder-head—get her under way!”
So we steered her, pully-haul, out across the Bay!
In we came, an' time enough, 'cross Bilbao Bar.
Overloaded, undermanned, meant to founder, we
Euchred God Almighty's storm, bluffed the Eternal Sea!
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?
THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN”
This was originally written for the “St. James's Gazette” as a deliberate skit on a letter by a correspondent who seemed to believe that naval warfare of the future would be conducted on the old Nelsonic battle lines, including boarding, etc. By some accident it was treated from the first as a serious contribution—was even, if I remember rightly, set to music as a cantata. I never explained this till now.
Would sweep the Channel clean,
Wherefore she kept her hatches close
When the merry Channel chops arose,
To save the bleached Marine.
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.
Fell in with a cruiser light
That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun
And a pair of heels wherewith to run
From the grip of a close-fought fight.
As ye shoot at a bobbing cork—
And once she fired and twice she fired,
Till the bow-gun dropped like a lily tired
That lolls upon the stalk.
“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.”
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.
“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!”
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.
“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.”
“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?”
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 Nordenfeldt.
“The chilled steel bolts are swift!
“We have emptied our bunkers in open sea,
“Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be.”
And he answered, “Let her drift.”
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.
“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!”
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.
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.
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.
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!
CRUISERS
Made play for her bully the Ship of the Line;
So we, her bold daughters by iron and fire,
Accost and decoy to our masters' desire.
Night-walking wet sea-lanes, a guard and a lure;
Since half of our trade is that same pretty sort
As mettlesome wenches do practise in port.
As hiding yet guiding the foe to their doom;
Surrounding, confounding, we bait and betray
And tempt them to battle the sea's width away.
With headlight and sidelight he lieth along,
Till, lightless and lightfoot and lurking, leap we
To force him discover his business by sea.
To draw him by flight toward our bullies we go,
Till, 'ware of strange smoke stealing nearer, he flies
Ere our bullies close in for to make him good prize.
One flieth to carry that word to the coast;
And, lest by false doublings they turn and go free,
One lieth behind them to follow and see.
Across the sad valleys all drabbled with rain—
Across the grey ridges all crispèd and curled—
To join the long dance round the curve of the world.
The moon-track a-tremble, bewilders our eyes,
Where, linking and lifting, our sisters we hail
'Twixt wrench of cross-surges or plunge of head-gale.
Make play with light jestings and wit of no worth,
So, widdershins circling the bride-bed of death,
Each fleereth her neighbour and signeth and saith:—
“What hear ye? God's thunder, or guns of our war?
“What mark ye? Their smoke, or the cloud-rack outblown?
“What chase ye? Their lights, or the Daystar low down?”
Deceiving we cumber the road of our foes,
For this is our virtue: to track and betray;
Preparing great battles a sea's width away.
For the laws are clean gone that restrainèd our art;
Up and down the near headlands and against the far wind
We are loosed (O be swift!) to the work of our kind!
THE VERDICTS
Not in the press of the odds,
Do the heroes come to their height,
Or we know the demi-gods.
We can only perceive
Men returned from the seas,
Very grateful for leave.
Snatched from their business of war;
But we are too close to appraise
What manner of men they are.
With age-kept victories,
Or whether they battle and drown
Unreckoned, is hid from our eyes.
But our children shall understand
When and how our fate
Was changed, and by whose hand.
We are content to be blind . . .
But we know that we walk on a new-born earth
With the saviours of mankind.
THE DESTROYERS
That seeks the single goal;
The line that holds the rending course,
The hate that swings the whole:
The stripped hulls, slinking through the gloom,
At gaze and gone again—
The Brides of Death that wait the groom—
The Choosers of the Slain!
In rain, the daylight dies;
The sullen, shouldering swells attend
Night and our sacrifice.
No mark on spit or bar,—
Girdled and desperate we dare
The blindfold game of war.
The council of our foes;
Clearer the barking guns that tell
Their scattered flank to close.
Sheer to the trap they crowd their way
From ports for this unbarred.
Quiet, and count our laden prey,
The convoy and her guard!
Where rock and islet throng,
Hidden and hushed we watch them throw
Their anxious lights along.
Not here, not here your danger lies—
(Stare hard, O hooded eyne!)
Save where the dazed rock-pigeons rise
The lit cliffs give no sign.
The Narrow Seas to clear—
Hark to the siren's whimpering shriek—
The driven death is here!
Look to your van a league away,—
What midnight terror stays
The bulk that checks against the spray
Her crackling tops ablaze?
The muffled, knocking stroke—
The steam that overruns the foam—
The foam that thins to smoke—
The smoke that clokes the deep aboil—
The deep that chokes her throes
Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil,
The lukewarm whirlpools close!
Long since her slayer fled:
But hear their chattering quick-fires rave
Astern, abeam, ahead!
Panic that shells the drifting spar—
Loud waste with none to check—
Mad fear that rakes a scornful star
Or sweeps a consort's deck.
Now ere their wits they find,
Lay in and lance them to the quick—
Our gallied whales are blind!
Good luck to those that see the end,
Good-bye to those that drown—
For each his chance as chance shall send—
And God for all! Shut down!
That serve the one command;
The hand that heaves the headlong force,
The hate that backs the hand:
The doom-bolt in the darkness freed,
The mine that splits the main;
The white-hot wake, the 'wildering speed—
The Choosers of the Slain!
WHITE HORSES
Where hide your mares to breed?
'Mid bergs about the Ice-cap
Or wove Sargasso weed;
By chartless reef and channel,
Or crafty coastwise bars,
But most the ocean-meadows
All purple to the stars!
The latest gale let free.
What meat is in your mangers?
The glut of all the sea.
'Twixt tide and tide's returning
Great store of newly dead,—
The bones of those that faced us,
And the hearts of those that fled.
Some stallion, rearing swift,
Neighs hungry for new fodder,
And calls us to the drift:
Then down the cloven ridges—
A million hooves unshod—
Break forth the mad White Horses
To seek their meat from God!
Our furious vanguard strains—
Through mist of mighty tramplings
Roll up the fore-blown manes—
A hundred leagues to leeward,
Ere yet the deep is stirred,
The groaning rollers carry
The coming of the herd!
Your forelock who may hold?
E'en they that use the broads with us—
The riders bred and bold,
That spy upon our matings,
That rope us where we run—
They know the strong White Horses
From father unto son.
We race their babes ashore,
We snuff against their thresholds,
We nuzzle at their door;
By night in whinnying droves,
Creep up the wise White Horses,
To call them from their loves.
No wit of man may save.
They hear the loosed White Horses
Above their fathers' grave;
And, kin to those we crippled,
And, sons of those we slew,
Spur down the wild white riders
To school the herds anew.
O jealous steeds and strong?
Save we that throw their weaklings,
Is none dare work them wrong;
While thick around the homestead
Our snow-backed leaders graze—
A guard behind their plunder,
And a veil before their ways.
With weight of wheeling hosts—
Stray mob or bands embattled—
We ring the chosen coasts:
And, careless of our clamour
That bids the stranger fly,
At peace within our pickets
The wild white riders lie.
Trust ye the neighing wind—
Trust ye the moaning groundswell—
Our herds are close behind!
To bray your foeman's armies—
To chill and snap his sword—
Trust ye the wild White Horses,
The Horses of the Lord!
A SONG IN STORM
The abiding oceans fight,
Though headlong wind and heaping tide
Make us their sport to-night.
By force of weather, not of war,
In jeopardy we steer:
Then welcome Fate's discourtesy
Whereby it shall appear
How in all time of our distress,
And our deliverance too,
The game is more than the player of the game,
And the ship is more than the crew!
The glimmering combers roll.
Almost these mindless waters work
As though they had a soul—
Almost as though they leagued to whelm
Our flag beneath their green:
Then welcome Fate's discourtesy
Whereby it shall be seen, etc.
Have mightier blows in store,
That we who keep the watch assigned
Must stand to it the more;
And as our streaming bows rebuke
Each billow's baulked career,
Sing, welcome Fate's discourtesy
Whereby it is made clear, etc.
And mast and timber crack—
We can make good all loss except
The loss of turning back.
So, 'twixt these Devils and our deep
Let courteous trumpets sound,
To welcome Fate's discourtesy
Whereby it will be found, etc.
Is nothing left to give
But chance and place to meet the hour,
And leave to strive to live,
Till these dissolve our Order holds,
Our Service binds us here.
Then welcome Fate's discourtesy
Whereby it is made clear
How in all time of our distress,
As in our triumph too,
The game is more than the player of the game,
And the ship is more than the crew!
THE DERELICT
Till the sea rose beneath my 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.
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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
THE 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.
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!
Of spice or precious stones,
But what 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 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!
We're walty, strained, and scarred
From the kentledge on the kelson
To the slings upon the yard.
To carry all away—
Our galley's in the Baltic,
And our boom's in Mossel Bay.
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.
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!
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!
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 of Ghosts!
A biscuit-toss below,
That frighted whalers know;
For, down a cruel ice-lane,
That opened as he sped,
We saw dead Hendrick Hudson
Steer, North by West, his dead.
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!
Now shamed at heart are we
To bring so poor a cargo home
That had for gift the sea!
Let go the great bow-anchor—
Ah, fools were we and blind—
The worst we stored with utter toil,
The best we left behind!
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!
THE SONG OF DIEGO VALDEZ
Hath prospered here my hand—
The cargoes of my lading,
And the keels of my command.
For out of many ventures
That sailed with hope as high,
My own have made the better trade,
And Admiral am I.
To me my people's love—
To me the pride of Princes
And power all pride above;
To me the shouting cities,
To me the mob's refrain:—
“Who knows not noble Valdez
“Hath never heard of Spain.”
Old playmates on new seas—
Whenas we traded orpiment
Among the savages—
A thousand leagues to south'ard
And thirty years removed—
They knew not noble Valdez,
But me they knew and loved.
They drank it not alone,
And they that found fair plunder,
They told us every one,
About our chosen islands
Or secret shoals between,
When, weary from far voyage,
We gathered to careen.
All pale along the shore:
There rose our worn pavilions—
A sail above an oar:
As flashed each yearning anchor
Through mellow seas afire,
So swift our careless captains
Rowed each to his desire.
Where turned our naked feet?
Whose tavern 'mid the palm-trees?
What quenchings of what heat?
Oh, fountain in the desert!
Oh, cistern in the waste!
Oh, bread we ate in secret!
Oh, cup we spilled in haste!
The widow curbed and wan,
The goodwife proud at season,
And the maid aware of man—
All souls unslaked, consuming,
Defrauded in delays,
Desire not more their quittance
Than I those forfeit days!
Unchanged my spring would bide:
Wherefore, to wait my pleasure,
I put my spring aside
Till, first in face of Fortune,
And last in mazed disdain,
I made Diego Valdez
High Admiral of Spain.
Nor surge that did not aid—
I dared extreme occasion,
Nor ever one betrayed.
They wrought a deeper treason—
(Led seas that served my needs!)
They sold Diego Valdez
To bondage of great deeds.
And pinned and bade me hold
The course I might not alter—
And men esteemed me bold!
The calms embayed my quarry,
The fog-wreath sealed his eyes;
The dawn-wind brought my topsails—
And men esteemed me wise!
Bewildered, dispossessed—
My dream held I before me—
My vision of my rest;
But, crowned by Fleet and People,
And bound by King and Pope—
Stands here Diego Valdez
To rob me of my hope.
No word of his set free
The Lord of Sixty Pennants
And the Steward of the Sea.
His will can loose ten thousand
To seek their loves again—
But not Diego Valdez,
High Admiral of Spain.
Nor wave that shall restore
The old careening riot
And the clamorous, crowded shore—
The fountain in the desert,
The cistern in the waste,
The bread we ate in secret,
The cup we spilled in haste.
For council fly the sign—
Now leap their zealous galleys,
Twelve-oared, across the brine.
To me the straiter prison,
To me the heavier chain—
To me Diego Valdez,
High Admiral of Spain!
THE SECOND VOYAGE
They were frightened, they were tired, they were cold.
Our sails of silk and purple go to store,
And we've cut away our mast of beaten gold.
(Foul weather!)
Oh, 'tis hemp and singing pine for to stand against the brine,
But Love he is our master as of old!
The salt has soiled our gilding past remede;
Our paint is flaked and blistered by the spray,
Our sides are half a fathom furred in weed.
(Foul weather!)
And the Doves of Venus fled and the petrels came instead,
But Love he was our master at our need!
'Was Pleasure at the helm too drunk to steer—
We've shipped three able quartermasters now.
Men call them Custom, Reverence, and Fear.
(Foul weather!)
They are old and scarred and plain, but we'll run no risk again
From any Port o' Paphos mutineer!
We skirt no more the indraught and the shoal—
We ask no more of any day or night
Than to come with least adventure to our goal.
(Foul weather!)
What we find we needs must brook, but we do not go to look
Nor tempt the Lord our God that saved us whole.
To brace and trim for every foolish blast,
If the squall be pleased to sweep us unaware,
He may bellow off to leeward like the last.
(Foul weather!)
We will blame it on the deep (for the watch must have their sleep),
And Love can come and wake us when 'tis past.
Oh, warp them out with garlands from the quays—
Most resolute—a damsel unto each—
New prows that seek the old Hesperides!
(Foul weather!)
Though we know their voyage is vain, yet we see our path again
In the saffroned bridesails scenting all the seas!
(Foul weather!)
THE OLDEST SONG
Why do you feign that you love them?
You that broke from their constancies,
And the wide calm brows above them!
Why do you thrill when you hear it?
You that have ridden out of its reach
The width of the world or near it!
You that chafed when it bound you
Screened from knowledge or shame or care,
In the night that it made around you!”
And that's why my heart is breaking!”
“Then what do you gain by pretending so?”
“The joy of an old wound waking.”
THE LINER SHE'S A LADY
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!
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!
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 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 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.
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.
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!
THE FIRST CHANTEY
Haling her dumb from the camp, held 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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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!
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.
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!
THE LAST CHANTEY
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?”
“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!”
“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.”
(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!”
“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?”
“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.”
“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!”
Plucking at their harps, and they plucked unhandily:
“Our thumbs are rough and tarred,
And the tune is something hard—
May we lift a Deepsea Chantey such as seamen use at sea?”
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!”
(He that led the flenching 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?”
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!”
And 'stablishèd its 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.
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!
THE EXILES' LINE
The restless soul to open sea aspires,
Where the Blue Peter flickers from the fore,
And the grimed stoker feeds the engine-fires.
And last year's sea-met loves where Grindlay knows;
But still the wild wind wakes off Gardafui,
And hearts turn eastward with the P. & O's.
Oh, slothful mother of much idleness,
Whom neither rivals spur nor contracts speed!
Nay, bear us gently! Wherefore need we press?
On those white decks beneath the awning shade—
Birth, absence, longing, laughter, love and tears,
And death unmaking ere the land is made.
Whom the cool seas call through the open port,
So that the table lacks one place next morn,
And for one forenoon men forgo their sport.
Sways, shifts, and flickers on the spar-deck's snow,
And like a giant trampling in his chains,
The screw-blades gasp and thunder deep below;
Heaven stoops to sea, and sea to Heaven clings;
While, bent upon the ending of his toil,
The hot sun strides, regarding not these things:
Bore Smith of Asia eastward yesterday,
And Delhi Jones and Brown of Midnapore
To-morrow follow on the self-same way.
Flushed with long leave, or tanned with many a sun,
The Exiles' Line brings out the exiles' line,
And ships them homeward when their work is done.
The flying keels fulfil the web of doom.
Sorrow or shouting—what is that to them?
Make out the cheque that pays for cabin-room!
With wife and babe and caravan of kit,
Not all thy travels past shall lower one fare,
Not all thy tears abate one pound of it.
Honour and state, go sink it in the sea,
Till that great one upon the quarter-deck,
Brow-bound with gold, shall give thee leave to be.
Off for all time, and mean it when we swear;
And then, and then we meet the Quartered Flag,
And, surely for the last time, pay the fare.
In three short months the world he never knew,
Stares with blind eyes upon the Quartered Flag
And sees no more than yellow, red and blue.
Waifs of the land and wastrels of the sea—
Come nearer home beneath the Quartered Flag
Than ever home shall come to such as we.
Dead friends and houses desert mark our ways,
Till sickness send us down to Prince's Dock
To meet the changeless use of many days.
The chain-gangs of the East from sire to son,
The Exiles' Line takes out the exiles' line
And ships them homeward when their work is done.
So much and twice so much. We gird, but go.
For all the soul of our sad East is there,
Beneath the house-flag of the P. & O.
THE LONG TRAIL
And the ricks stand grey to the sun,
Singing: “Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,
“And your English summer's done.”
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!
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.
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,
And a drunken Dago crew,
And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail
From Cadiz south on the Long Trail—the trail that is always new.
Or the way of a man with a maid;
But the sweetest 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?
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.
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.
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 flaked 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.
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.
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!
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!
IN THE MATTER OF ONE COMPASS
The helmsman dare not look behind,
But hears beyond his compass-light,
The blind bow thunder through the night,
And, like a harpstring ere it snaps,
The rigging sing beneath the caps;
Above the shriek of storm in sail
Or rattle of the blocks blown free,
Set for the peace beyond the gale,
This song the Needle sings the Sea:
Rage of the Deep and sterile Rain,
By Love upheld, by God allowed,
We go, but we return again!
The rainbow Jellies fill and float,
And, lilting where the laver lingers,
The Starfish trips on all her fingers;
Where, 'neath his myriad spines ashock,
The Sea-egg ripples down the rock,
An orange wonder dimly guessed
From darkness where the Cuttles rest,
Moored o'er the darker deeps that hide
The blind white Sea-snake and his bride,
Who, drowsing, nose the long-lost Ships
Let down through darkness to their lips—
Safe-swung above the glassy death,
Hear what the constant Needle saith:
In slumber on a pulseless main!
By Love upheld, by God allowed,
We go, but we return again!
Awed by the shadow of new skies,
As we shall watch old planets fade
And mark the stranger stars arise,
So, surely, back through Sun and Cloud,
So, surely, from the outward main,
By Love recalled, by God allowed,
Shall we return—return again!
Yea, we return—return again!
AVE IMPERATRIX!
(Written on the occasion of the attempt to assassinate Queen Victoria in March 1882)
They give God thanks who turned away
Death and the needy madman's hand,
Death-fraught, which menaced you that day.
Men who shall hold it dearest right
To battle for their ruler's sake,
And stake their being in the fight,
Though verse be rude and poor and mean—
To you, the greatest as most dear—
Victoria, by God's grace Our Queen!
Whose fathers faced the Sepoy hordes,
Or served you in the Russian snows,
And, dying, left their sons their swords.
Already in the Afghan pass—
Or where the scarce-seen smoke-puffs flew
From Boer marksmen in the grass;
By land and sea—wherever flies
The Flag, to fight and follow still,
And work your Empire's destinies.
Our greeting be, and coming slow.
Trust us, if need arise, O Queen,
We shall not tarry with the blow!
A SONG OF THE ENGLISH
[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!
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!
Whoring not with visions—overwise and overstale.
Except ye pay the Lord
Single heart and single sword,
Of your children in their bondage He shall ask them treble-tale!
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!
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!
THE COASTWISE LIGHTS
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 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.
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 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 warships or the whalers of Dundee!
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 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!
THE SONG OF THE DEAD
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 sere river-courses.
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 pass that betrayed them,
Where the wolverine tumbles their packs from the camp and the grave-mound they made them;
Hear now the Song of the Dead!
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.
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!
And England was crowned thereby,
'Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed
Our Lodge—our Lodge was born
(And England was crowned thereby!)
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)
As now we witness here,
While men depart, of joyful heart,
Adventure for to know
(As now bear witness here!)
II
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!
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!
For that is our doom and pride,
As it was when they sailed with the Golden Hind,
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!
THE DEEP-SEA CABLES
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 grey level plains of ooze where the shell-burred cables creep.
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.
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!”
THE SONG OF THE SONS
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?
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!
THE SONG OF THE CITIES
BOMBAY
Royal and Dower-royal, I the QueenFronting thy richest sea with richer hands—
A thousand mills roar through me where I glean
All races from all lands.
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!
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.
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.
SINGAPORE
Hail, Mother! East and West must seek my aidEre the spent hull may dare the ports afar.
The second doorway of the wide world's trade
Is mine to loose or bar.
HONG-KONG
Hail, Mother! Hold me fast; my Praya sleepsUnder innumerable keels to-day.
Yet guard (and landward), or to-morrow sweeps
Thy warships down the bay!
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!
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!
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!
CAPETOWN
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!
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!
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!
BRISBANE
The northern stock 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!
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.
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!
ENGLAND'S ANSWER
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 grey 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,
Baulking 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!
THE HOUSES
(A Song of the Dominions)
In thy house or my house is half the world's hoard;
By my house and thy house hangs all the world's fate,
On thy house and my house lies half the world's hate.
Save thy house and my house—kin cleaving to kind;
If my house be taken, thine tumbleth anon.
If thy house be forfeit, mine followeth soon.
Of headship or lordship, or service or fee?
Since my house to thy house no greater can send
Than thy house to my house—friend comforting friend;
And thy house to my house no meaner can bring
Than my house to thy house—King counselling King!
TO THE CITY OF BOMBAY
Challenging each to each—
This from her mountain-side,
That from her burdened beach.
Their corn and oil and wine,
Derrick and loom and bale,
And ramparts' gun-flecked line;
City by City they hail:
“Hast aught to match with mine?”
They traffic up and down,
But cling to their cities' hem
As a child to the mother's gown;
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.
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.)
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.
Under an alien sky,
Comfort it is to say:
“Of no mean city am I!”
Come I to mine estate—
Mother of Cities to me,
But I was born in her gate,
Between the palms and the sea,
Where the world-end steamers wait.)
And for her far-borne cheer
Must I make haste and go
With tribute to her pier.
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!
THE GIPSY TRAIL
The bee to the opened clover,
And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood
Ever the wide world over.
Ever the trail held true,
Over the world and under the world,
And back at the last to you.
Out of the grime and the gray
(Morning waits at the end of the world),
Gipsy, come away!
The red crane to her reed,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad
By the tie of a roving breed.
The buck to the stony plain,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
And both to the road again.
Out on a clean sea-track—
Follow the cross of the gipsy trail
Over the world and back!
North where the blue bergs sail,
And the bows are gray with the frozen spray,
And the masts are shod with mail.
Sheer to the Austral Light,
Where the besom of God is the wild South wind,
Sweeping the sea-floors white.
West to the sinking sun,
Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift,
And the east and the west are one.
East where the silence broods
By a purple wave on an opal beach
In the hush of the Mahim woods.
The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
As it was in the days of old.”
Light of my tents, be fleet.
Morning waits at the end of the world,
And the world is all at our feet!
OUR LADY OF THE SNOWS
A Queen sent word to a Throne:
“Daughter am I in my mother's house,
But mistress in my own.
As the gates are mine to close,
And I set my house in order,”
Said our Lady of the Snows.
Fear or the child's amaze—
Soberly under the White Man's law
My white men go their ways.
Not for the Gentiles' clamour—
Insult or threat of blows—
Bow we the knee to Baal,”
Said our Lady of the Snows.
I talk of common things—
Words of the wharf and the market-place
And the ware the merchant brings:
Favour to those I favour,
But a stumbling-block to my foes.
Many there be that hate us,”
Said our Lady of the Snows.
In the din of a troubled year;
For the sake of a sign ye would not see,
And a word ye would not hear.
This is our message and answer;
This is the path we chose:
For we be also a people,”
Said our Lady of the Snows.
To the Queens of the East and the South.
I have proven faith in the Heritage
By more than the word of the mouth.
They that are wise may follow
Ere the world's war-trumpet blows,
But I—I am first in the battle,”
Said our Lady of the Snows.
A Throne sent word to a Throne:
“Daughter am I in my mother's house,
But mistress in my own.
The gates are mine to open,
As the gates are mine to close,
And I abide by my Mother's House,”
Said our Lady of the Snows.
AN AMERICAN
Or the papers call it a war,
They know not much what I am like,
Nor what he is, my Avatar.
He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
He is the Jester and the Jest,
And he the Text himself applies.
The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
Where, cosmopolitantly planned,
He guards the Redskin's dry reserve.
From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,
He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.
Or, panic-blinded, stabs and slays;
Blatant he bids the world bow down,
Or cringing begs a crust of praise;
He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.
His hands are black with blood—his heart
Leaps, as a babe's, at little things.
Mine ancient humour saves him whole—
The cynic devil in his blood
That bids him mock his hurrying soul;
That bids him make the Law he flouts,
Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes
The drumming guns that—have no doubts;
That chuckles through his deepest ire,
That gilds the slough of his despond
But dims the goal of his desire;
The acrid Asiatic mirth
That leaves him, careless 'mid his dead,
The scandal of the elder earth.
Your bar or weighed defence prefer—
A brother hedged with alien speech
And lacking all interpreter?
But, while Reproof around him rings,
He turns a keen untroubled face
Home, to the instant need of things.
He greets the embarrassed Gods, nor fears
To shake the iron hand of Fate
Or match with Destiny for beers.
Unkempt, disreputable, vast—
And, in the teeth of all the schools,
I—I shall save him at the last!
THE CHOICE
With Whom fulfilment lies
Our purpose and our power belong,
Our faith and sacrifice.
Our ancient bonds are riven;
Once more to us the eternal choice
Of Good or Ill is given.
Hardly by prayer or tears,
Shall we recover the road we lost
In the drugged and doubting years.
But, after searching and pain,
His Mercy opens us a path
To live with ourselves again.
We see and hold the good—
Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choice
With Freedom's brotherhood!
Whose Strength hath saved us whole,
Who bade us choose that the Flesh should die
And not the living Soul!
Where'er we see that Birth,
Be love and understanding paid
As never yet on earth!
On Whom all worlds depend,
Be Glory since our world began
And service to the end!
THE YOUNG QUEEN
She had not cast her harness of grey, war-dinted steel;
High on her red-splashed charger, beautiful, bold, and browned,
Bright-eyed out of the battle, the Young Queen rode to be crowned.
In the Hall of the Five Free Nations that are peers among their peers:
Royal she gave the greeting, loyal she bowed the head,
Crying—“Crown me, my Mother!” And the Old Queen rose and said:—
Where the clean surge takes the Leeuwin or the coral barriers rise.
Blood of our foes on thy bridle, and speech of our friends in thy mouth—
How can I crown thee further, O Queen of the Sovereign South?
“It shall be crown of Our crowning to hold Our crown for a gift.
In the days when Our folk were feeble thy sword made sure Our lands:
Wherefore We come in power to take Our crown at thy hands.”
Roped with the pearls of the Northland and red with the gold of the West,
Lit with her land's own opals, levin-hearted, alive,
And the Five-starred Cross above them, for sign of the Nations Five.
In the face of the Five Free Nations that have no peer but their peers;
And the Young Queen out of the Southland kneeled down at the Old Queen's knee,
And asked for a mother's blessing on the excellent years to be.
“Daughter no more but Sister, and doubly Daughter so—
Mother of many princes—and child of the child I bore,
What good thing shall I wish thee that I have not wished before?
Nay, we be women together—we know what that lust is worth.
Peace in thy utmost borders, and strength on a road untrod?
These are dealt or diminished at the secret will of God.
Father and son and grandson, I have known the hearts of the Kings.
Shall I give thee my sleepless wisdom, or the gift all wisdom above?
Ay, we be women together—I give thee thy people's love:
Eager in face of peril as thine for thy mother's house.
God requite thee, my Sister, through the excellent years to be,
And make thy people to love thee as thou hast lovèd me!”
MELBOURNE SHRINE OF REMEMBRANCE
ODE
Let these stones witness, through the years to come,
How once there was a people fenced secure
Behind great waters girdling a far home.
Heedless and headlong as their unyoked seas—
Lavish o'er all, and set in stubborn pride
Of judgment, nurtured by accepted peace.
Joined with the earth for slaughter. In a breath
They, scoffing at all talk of sacrifice,
Gave themselves without idle words to death.
Or their own herds move southward with the year,
Secretly, swiftly, from their ports they came,
So that before half earth had heard their name
Half earth had learned to speak of them with fear;
Through the red surf, the crest no man might hold,
And gave their name for ever to a beach
Which shall outlive Troy's tale when Time is old;
Merciless riders whom Megiddo sent forth
When the outflanking hour struck, and bid
Them close and bar the drove-roads to the north;
Of Western war had risen beyond recall,
Stormed through the night from Amiens and made good,
At their glad cost, the breach that perilled all.
The kindly cities and plains where they were bred—
Having revealed their nation in earth's sight
So long as sacrifice and honour stand,
And their own sun at the hushed hour shall light
The shrine of these their dead!
THE FLOWERS
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!
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 but 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!
Here's to match your need—
Buy a tuft of royal heath,
Buy a bunch of weed
White as sand of Muizenberg
Spun before the gale—
Buy my heath and lilies
And I'll tell you whence you hail!
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!
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 you love again!
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 of the pine—
Bell-bird in the leafy deep where the ratas twine—
Fern above the saddle-bow, flax upon the plain—
Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!
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 who hold by these!
Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land—
Masters of the Seven Seas, oh, love and understand!
THE NATIVE-BORN
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!
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!
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 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.
On the thin, tin, crackling roofs,
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!
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 sheep on a thousand hills,
To the sun that never blisters,
To the rain that never chills—
To the land of the waiting springtime,
To our five-meal, meat-fed men,
To the tall, deep-bosomed women,
And the children nine and ten!
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!
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 grey Lake gulls behind—
To the weight of a half-year's winter
And the warm wet western wind!
To her pale dry healing blue—
To the lift of the great Cape combers,
And the smell of the baked Karroo.
To the reef and the water-gold,
To the last and the largest Empire,
To the map that is half unrolled!
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 verandahs—
To the blaze of our jewelled main,
To the night, to the palms in the moonlight,
And the fire-fly in the cane!
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 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!
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!
THE LOST LEGION
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.
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 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 ocean at large was our share.
There was never a skirmish to windward
But the Leaderless Legion was there:
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 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!
To our wholly unauthorized 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!
THE IRISH GUARDS
But we're not so young at our trade,
For we had the honour at Fontenoy
Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.
And Lee that led us then,
And after a hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,
And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
But once through France we went
Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth
The English—left at Ghent.
They're fighting on our side to-day
But, before they changed their clothes,
The half of Europe knew our fame,
As all of Ireland knows!
Old Days! The wild geese are flying,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's memory undying,
And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,
The ancient days come back no more
Than water under the bridge.
But the bridge it stands and the water runs
As red as yesterday,
And the Irish move to the sound of the guns
Like salmon to the sea.
Old Days! The wild geese are ranging,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,
And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
But we're not so new in the ring,
For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe
When Louis was our King.
And we're King George's men,
And after one hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Ah, France! And did we stand by you,
When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?
Ah, France! And will we deny you
In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting,
And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
PHARAOH AND THE SERGEANT
That will stand upon his feet and play the game;
That will Maxim his oppressor as a Christian ought to do,”
And she sent old Pharaoh Sergeant Whatsisname.
It was not a Duke nor Earl, nor yet a Viscount—
It was not a big brass General that came;
But a man in khaki kit who could handle men a bit,
With his bedding labelled Sergeant Whatsisname.
You shall hum a proper tune before it ends,”
And she introduced old Pharaoh to the Sergeant once for all,
And left 'em in the desert making friends.
It was not a Crystal Palace nor Cathedral;
It was not a public-house of common fame;
But a piece of red-hot sand, with a palm on either hand,
And a little hut for Sergeant Whatsisname.
When Aaron struck your rivers into blood;
But if you watch the Sergeant he can show you something more.
He's a charm for making riflemen from mud.”
It was neither Hindustani, French, nor Coptics;
It was odds and ends and leavings of the same,
Translated by a stick (which is really half the trick),
And Pharaoh harked to Sergeant Whatsisname.
There was faith and hope and whacking and despair—
While the Sergeant gave the Cautions and he combed old Pharaoh out,
And England didn't seem to know nor care.
That is England's awful way o' doing business—
She would serve her God (or Gordon) just the same—
For she thinks her Empire still is the Strand and Holborn Hill,
And she didn't think of Sergeant Whatsisname.)
(England used 'em cheap and nasty from the start),
And they entered 'em in battle on a most astonished foe—
But the Sergeant he had hardened Pharaoh's heart
Which was broke, along of all the plagues of Egypt,
Three thousand years before the Sergeant came—
And he mended it again in a little more than ten,
Till Pharaoh fought like Sergeant Whatsisname.
There was heat and dust and coolie-work and sun,
There were vipers, flies, and sandstorms, there was cholera and thirst,
But Pharaoh done the best he ever done.
Down the desert, down the railway, down the river,
Like the Israelites from bondage so he came,
'Tween the clouds o' dust and fire to the land of his desire,
And his Moses, it was Sergeant Whatsisname!
Which we have to buy from those that hate us most,
And we must not raise the money where the Sergeant raised the dead,
And it's wrong and bad and dangerous to boast.
But he did it on the cheap and on the quiet,
And he's not allowed to forward any claim—
Though he drilled a black man white, though he made a mummy fight,
He will still continue Sergeant Whatsisname—
Private, Corporal, Colour-Sergeant, and Instructor—
But the everlasting miracle's the same!
THE LAST OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, “Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites.”
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.
“You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.
A sort of ‘to be continued’ and ‘see next page’ o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now.”
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with “the scorn of scorn.”
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night,
Our children's children are lisping to “honour the charge they made—”
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!
KITCHENER'S SCHOOL
Being a translation of the song that was made by a Mohammedan schoolmaster of Bengal Infantry (some time on service at Suakim) when he heard that Kitchener was taking money from the English to build a Madrissa for Hubshees—or a college for the Sudanese at Khartoum.
This is the message of Kitchener who did not break you in jest.
It was permitted to him to fulfil the long-appointed years;
Reaching the end ordained of old over your dead Emirs.
He gathered up under his armpits all the swords of your trust:
He set a guard on your granaries, securing the weak from the strong:
He said:—“Go work the waterwheels that were abolished so long.”
That was the mercy of Kitchener. Cometh his madness now!
He does not desire as ye desire, nor devise as ye devise:
He is preparing a second host—an army to make you wise.
But letter by letter, from Kaf to Kaf, at the mouths of his chosen men.
But openly asking the English for money to buy you Hakims and scribes.
He begs for money to bring you learning—and all the English give.
It is their treasure—it is their pleasure—thus are their hearts inclined:
For Allah created the English mad—the maddest of all mankind!
Behold, they clap the slave on the back, and behold, he ariseth a man!
They terribly carpet the earth with dead, and before their cannon cool,
They walk unarmed by twos and threes to call the living to school.
By casting a ball at three straight sticks and defending the same with a fourth?
But this they do (which is doubtless a spell) and other matters more strange,
Until, by the operation of years, the hearts of their scholars change:
(But always the English watch near by to prop them when they fail);
Till these make laws of their own choice and Judges of their own blood;
And all the mad English obey the Judges and say that that Law is good.
That the magic whereby they work their magic—wherefrom their fortunes spring—
May be that they show all peoples their magic and ask no price in return.
Wherefore, since ye are bond to that magic, O Hubshee, make haste and learn!
If he who broke you be minded to teach you, to his Madrissa go!
Go, and carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast,
For he who did not slay you in sport, he will not teach you in jest.
LORD ROBERTS
Of the war that he had descried.
Three hundred mile of cannon spoke
When the Master-Gunner died.
But, before his eye grew dim,
He had seen the faces of the sons
Whose sires had served with him.
With the old sure word of praise;
And there was virtue in touch and speech
As it had been in old days.
And the steadfast spirit went forth
Between the adoring East and West
And the tireless guns of the North.
Flawless in faith and fame,
Whom neither ease nor honours moved
An hair's-breadth from his aim.
The weighed and urgent word
That pleaded in the market-place—
Pleaded and was not heard!
Through all the hosts to come,
And Glory is the least of things
That follow this man home.
BRIDGE-GUARD IN THE KARROO
The raw glare softens and clings,
Till the aching Oudtshoorn ranges
Stand up like the thrones of Kings—
Blazing, amazing, aglow—
'Twixt the sky-line's belting beryl
And the wine-dark flats below.
Lit by the last of the sun—
Opal and ash-of-roses,
Cinnamon, umber, and dun.
The starlight reveals the ridge.
The whistle shrills to the picket—
We are changing guard on the bridge.
Where the empty metals shine—
No, not combatants—only
Details guarding the line.)
Of fence by the ganger's shed;
We drop to the waterless channel
And the lean track overhead;
The beef and the biscuit-tins;
We take our appointed stations,
And the endless night begins.
As the sheep click past to the fold—
And the click of the restless girders
As the steel contracts in the cold—
And, loud in the hush between,
A morsel of dry earth falling
From the flanks of the scarred ravine.
And the hosts of heaven rise
Framed through the iron arches—
Banded and barred by the ties,
And we see her headlight plain,
And we gather and wait her coming—
The wonderful north-bound train.
Where the white car-windows shine—
No, not combatants—only
Details guarding the line.)
Out of the darkness we reach
For a handful of week-old papers
And a mouthful of human speech.
And the earth allows again
Meetings, greetings, and voices
Of women talking with men.
As out on the bridge she rolls;
And the darkness covers our faces,
And the darkness re-enters our souls.
Where the lessening tail-lights shine.
No—not combatants—only
Details guarding the line!
SOUTH AFRICA
(May the Lord amend her!)
Neither simple, kind, nor true,
But her Pagan beauty drew
Christian gentlemen a few
Hotly to attend her.
From Berwick unto Dover;
For she was South Africa,
And she was South Africa,
She was Our South Africa,
Africa all over!
Half was red with battle;
She was fenced with fire and sword,
Plague on pestilence outpoured,
Locusts on the greening sward
And murrain on the cattle!
That is why we love her!
For she is South Africa,
And she is South Africa,
She is Our South Africa,
Africa all over!
Scandalous their payment,—
Food forgot on trains derailed;
Cattle-dung where fuel failed;
Water where the mules had staled;
And sackcloth for their raiment!
And their bones with fever;
Greeted them with cruel lies;
Treated them despiteful-wise;
Meted them calamities
Till they vowed to leave her!
Raging, from her borders—
In a little, none the less,
They forgat their sore duresse,
They forgave her frowardness
And returned for orders!
Than a Throne's foundation.
For the glory of her face
Bade farewell to breed and race—
Yea, and made their burial-place
Altar of a Nation!
And by blood restorèd
To the arms that nearly lost,
She, because of all she cost,
Stands, a very woman, most
Perfect and adored!
This is why we love her!
For she is South Africa,
She is Our South Africa,
Is Our Own South Africa,
Africa all over!
THE BURIAL
(C. J. RHODES, BURIED IN THE MATOPPOS, APRIL 10, 1902)
Or Emperors in their pride,
Grief of a day shall fill a day,
Because its creature died.
But we—we reckon not with those
Whom the mere Fates ordain,
This Power that wrought on us and goes
Back to the Power again.
Beyond our guess or reach,
The travail of his spirit bred
Cities in place of speech.
So huge the all-mastering thought that drove—
So brief the term allowed—
Nations, not words, he linked to prove
His faith before the crowd.
Across the world he won—
The granite of the ancient North—
Great spaces washed with sun.
There shall he patient take his seat
(As when the Death he dared),
And there await a people's feet
In the paths that he prepared.
Splendid and whole arise,
And unimagined Empires draw
To council 'neath his skies,
The immense and brooding Spirit still
Shall quicken and control.
Living he was the land, and dead,
His soul shall be her soul!
RHODES MEMORIAL, TABLE MOUNTAIN
(From a letter written to Sir Herbert Baker, R.A., when the form of the Memorial was under discussion)
We should rewelcome to our stewardship
The rider with the loose-flung bridle-rein
And chance-plucked twig for whip,
Alert, devouring—and the imperious hand
Ordaining matters swiftly to bequeath
Perfect the work he planned.
THINGS AND THE MAN
(IN MEMORIAM, JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN)
To all save all unwritten things,
And, half a league behind, pursue
The accomplished Fact with flouts and flings,
The oldest tale since Earth began—
The answer to your worryings:
“Once on a time there was a Man.”
Magicians, Armies, Ogres, Kings.
He lonely 'mid his doubting crew—
“In all the loneliness of wings”—
He fed the flame, he filled the springs,
He locked the ranks, he launched the van
Straight at the grinning Teeth of Things.
“Once on a time there was a Man.”
Before his ribald questionings.
He broke the Oracles in two,
And bared the paltry wires and strings.
He headed desert wanderings;
He led his soul, his cause, his clan
A little from the ruck of Things.
“Once on a time there was a Man.”
With episodes and underlings—
The meek historian deems them true
Nor heeds the song that Clio sings—
The simple central truth that stings
The mob to boo, the priest to ban;
Things never yet created things—
“Once on a time there was a Man.”
A wakened realm full circle swings
Where Dothan's dreamer dreams anew
Of vast and far-borne harvestings;
And unto him an Empire clings
That grips the purpose of his plan.
My Lords, how think you of these things?
Once—in our time—is there a Man?
THE SETTLER
And the deep soil glistens red,
I will repair the wrong that was done
To the living and the dead.
Here, where the senseless bullet fell,
And the barren shrapnel burst,
I will plant a tree, I will dig a well,
Against the heat and the thirst.
Where no wrong bites to the bone,
I will lay my hand in my neighbour's hand,
And together we will atone
For the set folly and the red breach
And the black waste of it all;
Giving and taking counsel each
Over the cattle-kraal.
The hailstroke and the storm,
And the red and rustling cloud that blows
The locust's mile-deep swarm.
Frost and murrain and flood let loose
Shall launch us side by side
In the holy wars that have no truce
'Twixt seed and harvest-tide.
Our love shall redeem unto life.
We will gather and lead to her lips again
The waters of ancient strife,
From the far and the fiercely guarded streams
And the pools where we lay in wait,
Till the corn cover our evil dreams
And the young corn our hate.
We will not remember the sin—
If there be blood on his head of my kind,
Or blood on my head of his kin—
For the ungrazed upland, the untilled lea
Cry, and the fields forlorn:
“The dead must bury their dead, but ye—
Ye serve an host unborn.”
And the good beasts that draw,
And the bread we eat in the sweat of our brow
According to Thy Law.
After us cometh a multitude—
Prosper the work of our hands,
That we may feed with our land's food
The folk of all our lands!
Where the healing stillness lies,
And the vast, benignant sky restrains
And the long days make wise—
Bless to our use the rain and the sun
And the blind seed in its bed,
That we may repair the wrong that was done
To the living and the dead!
SUSSEX
But, since our hearts are small,
Ordained for each one spot should prove
Belovèd over all;
That, as He watched Creation's birth,
So we, in godlike mood,
May of our love create our earth
And see that it is good.
As one some Surrey glade,
Or one the palm-grove's droned lament
Before Levuka's Trade.
Each to his choice, and I rejoice
The lot has fallen to me
In a fair ground—in a fair ground—
Yea, Sussex by the sea!
No bosomed woods adorn
Our blunt, bow-headed, whale-backed Downs,
But gnarled and writhen thorn—
Bare slopes where chasing shadows skim,
And, through the gaps revealed,
Belt upon belt, the wooded, dim,
Blue goodness of the Weald.
Half-wild and wholly tame,
The wise turf cloaks the white cliff-edge
As when the Romans came.
What sign of those that fought and died
At shift of sword and sword?
The barrow and the camp abide,
The sunlight and the sward.
All heavy-winged with brine,
Here lies above the folded crest
The Channel's leaden line;
And here the sea-fogs lap and cling,
And here, each warning each,
The sheep-bells and the ship-bells ring
Along the hidden beach.
Our broad and brookless vales—
Only the dewpond on the height
Unfed, that never fails—
Which way the season flies—
Only our close-bit thyme that smells
Like dawn in Paradise.
The tinkling silence thrills;
Or little, lost, Down churches praise
The Lord who made the hills:
But here the Old Gods guard their round,
And, in her secret heart,
The heathen kingdom Wilfrid found
Dreams, as she dwells, apart.
With equal soul I'd see
Her nine-and-thirty sisters fair,
Yet none more fair than she.
Choose ye your need from Thames to Tweed,
And I will choose instead
Such lands as lie 'twixt Rake and Rye,
Black Down and Beachy Head.
Where the rolled scarp retires,
And the Long Man of Wilmington
Looks naked toward the shires;
And east till doubling Rother crawls
To find the fickle tide,
By dry and sea-forgotten walls,
Our ports of stranded pride.
And the deep ghylls that breed
Huge oaks and old, the which we hold
No more than Sussex weed;
Or south where windy Piddinghoe's
Begilded dolphin veers,
Lie down our Sussex steers.
Till the sure magic strike,
And Memory, Use, and Love make live
Us and our fields alike—
That deeper than our speech and thought,
Beyond our reason's sway,
Clay of the pit whence we were wrought
Yearns to its fellow-clay.
But, since man's heart is small,
Ordains for each one spot shall prove
Belovèd over all.
Each to his choice, and I rejoice
The lot has fallen to me
In a fair ground—in a fair ground—
Yea, Sussex by the sea!
MY BOY JACK
Not this tide.
“When d'you think that he'll come back?”
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind—
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!
A NATIVITY
Between the gentle kine—
All safe from cold and danger—
“But it was not so with mine,
(With mine! With mine!)
“Is it well with the child, is it well?”
The waiting mother prayed.
“For I know not how he fell,
And I know not where he is laid.”
The Watchers ran to see
The Sign of the Promise given—
“But there comes no sign to me.
(To me! To me!)
“My child died in the dark.
Is it well with the child, is it well?
There was none to tend him or mark,
And I know not how he fell.”
The Mother grieved beside—
“But the Mother saw Him die
And took Him when He died.
(He died! He died!)
“Seemly and undefiled
His burial-place was made—
Is it well, is it well with the child?
For I know not where he is laid.”
Comes Mary Magdalene;
But the Stone was rolled away,
And the Body was not within—
(Within! Within!)
“Ah, who will answer my word?”
The broken mother prayed.
“They have taken away my Lord,
And I know not where He is laid.”
The watchers watch in vain
For Sign of the Promise given
Of peace on Earth again—
(Again! Again!)
“But I know for Whom he fell”—
The steadfast mother smiled,
“Is it well with the child—is it well?
It is well—it is well with the child!”
DIRGE OF DEAD SISTERS
(Violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air?)
And the clink of iron teacups and the piteous, noble laughter,
And the faces of the Sisters with the dust upon their hair?
Now and not hereafter, ere the meaner years go by—
Let us now remember many honourable women,
Such as bade us turn again when we were like to die.)
(Tufts of fleecy shrapnel strung along the empty plains?)
And the sun-scarred Red-Cross coaches creeping guarded to the culvert,
And the faces of the Sisters looking gravely from the trains?
When the Powers of Darkness had dominion on our soul—
When we fled consuming through the Seven Hells of Fever,
These put out their hands to us and healed and made us whole.)
(Autumn rain that rattled like a Maxim on the tin?)
And the lightning-dazzled levels and the streaming, straining wagons,
And the faces of the Sisters as they bore the wounded in?
When each nerve cried out on God that made the misused clay;
When the Body triumphed and the last poor shame departed—
These abode our agonies and wiped the sweat away.)
(Blanket-hidden bodies, flagless, followed by the flies?)
And the footsore firing-party, and the dust and stench and staleness,
And the faces of the Sisters and the glory in their eyes?
Patient, wise, and mirthful in the ringed and reeking town,
These endured unresting till they rested from their labours—
Little wasted bodies, ah, so light to lower down!)
Earth shall not remember, but the Waiting Angel knows
Them that died at Uitvlugt when the plague was on the city—
Her that fell at Simon's Town in service on our foes.
Now and not hereafter—ere the meaner years go by—
Praise with love and worship many honourable women,
Those that gave their lives for us when we were like to die!
THE VAMPIRE
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair
(We called her the woman who did not care)
But the fool he called her his lady fair—
(Even as you and I!)
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!
(Even as you and I!)
Honour and faith and a sure intent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant)
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(Even as you and I!)
And the excellent things we planned
Belong to the woman who didn't know why
(And now we know that she never knew why)
And did not understand!
(Even as you and I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside—
(But it isn't on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died—
(Even as you and I!)
That stings like a white-hot brand—
It's coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)
And never could understand!
THE ENGLISH FLAG
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!
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!
“I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe.
“And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.
“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 musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Lights:
“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!”
“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.
“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 chased it north to the Lizard—ribboned and rolled and torn;
“I have spread its folds o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea;
“I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free.
“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!”
“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!
“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.
“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 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!”
“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.
“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.
“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 naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist.
“What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare,
“Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!”
THE DEAD KING
(EDWARD VII.)
And, unconcerned for his own estate, toils till the last grudged sands have run?
Let him approach. It is proven here
Our King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.
Her abundance full-handed.
The peculiar treasure of Kings was his for the taking.
All that men come to in dreams he inherited waking:—
His seas 'neath his keels when his war-castles foamed to their places;
The thundering foreshores that answered his heralded landing;
The huge lighted cities adoring, the assemblies upstanding;
The Councils of Kings called in haste to learn how he was minded—
The Kingdoms, the Powers, and the Glories he dealt with unblinded.
Hot from the press of their battles they told him their story.
They revealed him their lives in an hour and, saluting, departed,
Joyful to labour afresh—he had made them new-hearted.
And, since he weighed men from his youth, and no lie long deceived him,
He spoke and exacted the truth, and the basest believed him.
In the clear-welling love of his peoples which daily accrued to him.
Honour and service we gave him, rejoicingly fearless;
Faith absolute, trust beyond speech and a friendship as peerless,
And since he was Master and Servant in all that we asked him,
We leaned hard on his wisdom in all things, knowing not how we tasked him.
To confront, or confirm, or make smooth some dread issue of power;
To deliver true judgment aright on the instant, unaided,
In the strict, level, ultimate phrase that allowed or dissuaded;
To foresee, to allay, to avert from us perils unnumbered,
To stand guard on our gates when he guessed that the watchmen had slumbered;
To win time, to turn hate, to woo folly to service and, mightily schooling
His strength to the use of his Nations, to rule as not ruling.
God gave him great works to fulfil, and to us the behoof of them.
We accepted his toil as our right—none spared, none excused him.
When he was bowed by his burden his rest was refused him.
We troubled his age with our weakness—the blacker our shame to us!
Hearing his People had need of him, straightway he came to us.
Not even the last gasp of his breath when he strove for us, dying.
For our sakes, without question, he put from him all that he cherished.
Simply as any that serve him he served and he perished.
All that Kings covet was his, and he flung it aside for us.
Simply as any that die in his service he died for us!
And, much concerned for his own estate, would sell his soul to remain in the sun?
Let him depart nor look on Our dead.
Our King asks nothing of any man more than Our King himself has done.
WHEN EARTH'S LAST PICTURE IS PAINTED
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 æon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew.
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 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!
“CLEARED”
(In memory of the Parnell Commission)
Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt!
From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, oh, listen to my song,
The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong.
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.
The “honourable gentlemen” deplored the loss of life!
Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burke and shirk and snigger,
No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger!
Like phœnixes from Phœnix 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 helped the murderer with counsel's best advice,
But—sure it keeps their honour white—the learned Court believes
They never give a piece of plate to murderers and thieves.
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!
The boys 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 fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clan-na-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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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 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 boys have heard your talk—what do they know of these?
Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred,
Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know!
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.
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.
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.
THE BALLAD OF THE RED EARL
The silly camel-birds,
That ye bury your head in an Irish thorn,
On a desert of drifting words?
As the Lord o' Wrong and Right;
But the day is done with the setting sun—
Will ye follow into the night?
For food on the wastrel way;
Will ye rise and eat in the night, Red Earl,
That fed so full in the day?
And where did the wandering lead?
From the day that ye praised the spoken word
To the day ye must gloss the deed.
So must ye give in loss;
And as ye ha' come to the brink of the pit,
So must ye loup across.
And some be rogues in fact,
And rogues direct and rogues elect;
But all be rogues in pact.
Take heed to where ye stand.
Ye have tied a knot with your tongue, Red Earl,
That ye cannot loose with your hand.
In the grip of a tightening tether,
Till ye find at the end ye must take for friend
The quick and their dead together.
And mouthed it daintilee;
But the gist o' the speech is ill to teach,
For ye say: “Let wrong go free.”
And gat your place from a King:
Do ye make Rebellion of no account,
And Treason a little thing?
That stand and speak so high?
And is it good that the guilt o' blood
Be cleared at the cost of a sigh?
Our tattered Honour to sell,
And higgle anew with a tainted crew—
Red Earl, and is it well?
On a dark and doubtful way,
And the road is hard, is hard, Red Earl,
And the price is yet to pay.
For the toil of your tongue and pen—
In the praise of the blamed and the thanks of the shamed,
And the honour o' knavish men.
And the worst at the last shall be,
When you tell your heart that it does not know
And your eye that it does not see.
ULSTER
Draws on and sees us sold
To every evil power
We fought against of old.
Rebellion, rapine, hate,
Oppression, wrong and greed
Are loosed to rule our fate,
By England's act and deed.
The laws we made and guard—
Our honour, lives, and land—
Are given for reward
To Murder done by night,
To Treason taught by day,
To folly, sloth, and spite,
And we are thrust away.
Our love, our toils, our pains,
Are counted us for guilt,
And only bind our chains.
Before an Empire's eyes
The traitor claims his price.
What need of further lies?
We are the sacrifice.
To reap where we had sown,
Through good and ill to cleave
To our own flag and throne.
Now England's shot and steel
Beneath that flag must show
How loyal hearts should kneel
To England's oldest foe.
On every peaceful home,
We know the hells declared
For such as serve not Rome—
The terror, threats, and dread
In market, hearth, and field—
We know, when all is said,
We perish if we yield.
Believe, we do not fear—
We stand to pay the cost
In all that men hold dear.
What answer from the North?
One Law, one Land, one Throne.
If England drive us forth
We shall not fall alone!
THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST
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, though they come from the ends of the earth!
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 Mohammed 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.”
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of a 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 dust-devils 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 woeful 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:
“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 grey 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!”
“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 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.
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!”
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, though they come from the ends of the earth!
THE LAST SUTTEE
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 and burned themselves with the corpse, 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 King's court, to kill her. This he did, not knowing who she was.
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.
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.
All night he fought for air:
And there were sobbings behind the screen,
Rustle and whisper of women unseen,
And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen
On the death she might not share.
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.
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!”
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!
And laughing spoke from the wall:
“Ohé, 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.
“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.
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.
Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand:
Where the grey 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.
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!”
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.
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 grey,
And kin to the Boondi Queen.
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.
“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!”
“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.
“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.”
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 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!
GENERAL JOUBERT
He had no part whose hands were clear of gain;
But subtle, strong, and stubborn, gave his life
To a lost cause, and knew the gift was vain.
Forged in strong fires, by equal war made one;
Telling old battles over without hate—
Not least his name shall pass from sire to son.
In the doomed city when we close the score;
Yet o'er his grave—his grave that holds a Man—
Our deep-tongued guns shall answer his once more!
GEHAZI
So reverend to behold,
In scarlet and in ermines
And chain of England's gold?
“From following after Naaman
To tell him all is well,
Whereby my zeal hath made me
A Judge in Israel.”
Stretch forth thy ready hand.
Thou barely 'scaped from judgment,
Take oath to judge the land
Unswayed by gift of money
Or privy bribe, more base,
Of knowledge which is profit
In any market-place.
As thou of all canst try,
The truthful, well-weighed answer
That tells the blacker lie—
The loud, uneasy virtue,
The anger feigned at will,
To overbear a witness
And make the Court keep still.
That no man talk aside
In secret with his judges
The while his case is tried.
Lest he should show them—reason
To keep a matter hid,
And subtly lead the questions
Away from what he did.
What ails thee at thy vows?
What means the risen whiteness
Of the skin between thy brows?
The boils that shine and burrow,
The sores that slough and bleed—
The leprosy of Naaman
On thee and all thy seed?
Stand up, stand up, Gehazi,
Draw close thy robe and go,
Gehazi, Judge in Israel,
A leper white as snow!
THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY
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.
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 Yusufzai,
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 Kafir grovelled under-hoof and clamoured for his life.
“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.
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.”
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!
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.”
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.)
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!”
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 Zukka Kheyl!
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.
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.”
“Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that he die!”
“The night is short, and he can pray and learn to bless my name.”
“Creature of God, deliver me, and bless the King therefor!”
And when he heard the matchlocks clink, he blessed the King again.
So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy of the King.
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.
THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST
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.
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 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 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.
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 grey-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 grey.
“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 dam was a clucking Khattack hen;
“And the colt bred close to the vice of each,
“For he carried the curse of an unstaunched 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 grey-coat squadrons are.
“There have I journeyed too—but I
“Saw naught, said naught, and—did not die!
“He hearked to rumour, and snatched at a breath
“Of ‘this one knoweth,’ and ‘that one saith,’—
“Legends that ran from mouth to mouth
“Of a grey-coat coming, and sack of the South.
“These have I also heard—they pass
“With each new spring and the winter grass.
“Back to the city ran Wali Dad,
“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—wait them, thou.
“‘Watch from the tree. Thou art young and strong.
“‘Surely the 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.’
“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 like 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.
“To warn a King of his enemies?
“We know what Heaven or Hell may bring,
“But no man knoweth the mind of the King.
“When the night is gathering all is grey.
“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!”
WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI
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 Mahratta trooper tells the story:—
Our hands and scarves were saffron-dyed for signal of despair,
When we went forth to Paniput to battle with the Mlech,—
Ere we came back from Paniput and left a kingdom there.
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!
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.
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!
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 right the sunshine rippled red from redder lance and blade—
Above the dark Upsaras flew, beneath us plashed the blood,
And, bellying black against the dust, the Bhagwa Jhanda swayed.
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!”
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.
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.
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.
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?)
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.
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 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.
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.
“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!
“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!”
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.
“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.
And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a handsbreadth 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.
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.
THE DOVE OF DACCA
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings—
And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings!
He set in his bosom a dove of flight—
“If she return, be sure that I fall.”
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove!
Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight.
Leave to the foeman no spoil at all.
In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep
If the dove—if the dove—if the homing dove
Come, and alone, to the palace wall.”
The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all.
Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,
And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove!
She thought of her cote on the palace-wall.
Fluttered away beyond recall;
She came to the palace at break of day.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
Flying so fast for a kingdom's fall!
Slept in the flame of the palace old—
To save their honour from Moslem shame.
And the dove—the dove—oh, the homing dove,
She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled;
Followed as fast as a horse could fly,
He came and the palace was black at his feet;
And the dove—the dove—the homing dove
Circled alone in the stainless sky.
Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings;
So the thorns covered the city of Gaur,
And Dacca was lost for a white dove's wings.
Dove—dove—oh, homing dove,
Dacca is lost from the Roll of the Kings!
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.
His sword and his rifle were bossed with gold,
Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore.
From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak:
He filled old ladies with kerosene:
“The patriot fights for his countryside!”
The worn white soldiers in khaki dress,
Who died in the swamp and were tombed in the mire,
For the Pride of their Race and the Peace of the Land.
Was Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone,
Who hustled that dissolute Chief along.
Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth,
The mud on the boot-heels of “Crook” O'Neil.
And ever their quarry would vanish away,
Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone,
The Boh and his trackers were best of friends.
A rush through the mist—a scattering fight—
A glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring—
And . . . the Boh was abroad on the raid again!
They gave him credit for cunning and skill,
And started anew on the track of the thief,
“When Crook and his darlings come back with the head.”
He doubled and broke for the hills again:
They had routed him out of his pet stockade,
To a camp deserted—a village fired.
But the body upon it was stark and cold.
The high grass bowed her plumes to the blast,
A spirtle of fire, a whorl of smoke—
Was blessed with a slug in the ulnar-bone—
The gift of his enemy Boh Da Thone.
Is a thorn in the flesh and a rankling fire.)
In a steaming barrack at Mandalay.
“I'd like to be after the Boh once more!”
“I'd give a hundred to look at his head!”
But Babu Harendra (Gomashta) heard.
That girdled his home by the Dacca tank.
He thought—but abandoned the thought—of a gun.
Of a shining Boh with a silver head.
And swindled the cartmen of half their pay.
And the Boh returned to the raid anew.
And in far Simoorie had taken a wife;
With hair like the sunshine and heart of gold,
Had cloven a man from the brow to the waist:
Had ordered a quivering life's eclipse,
Had glared unawed in the Gates of Death.
As a general rule, from an innocent Bride.)
And, of all men, Babu Harendra last.
The Government Bullock Train toted its load.
In the rearmost cart sat the Babu-jee;
Of a scowling Boh with a silver head.
And the cartmen flogged and the escort raved,
Pranced Boh Da Thone, and his gang at his heels!
The Snider's snarl and the carbine's crack,
To the blade that twanged on the locking-ring,
As the steel shot back with a wrench and a twist,
Watched the souls of the dead arise,
The Peacock Banner staggered and swayed.
And girded his ponderous loins for flight,
On a lone-hand raid of the rearmost cart,
The Babu fell—flat on the top of the Boh!
To the growth of his purse and the girth of his pêt.
On the broad of the chest of this best of Bohs.
Are bad for a Boh with a spleen enlarged.
He dropped like a bullock—he lay like a block;
Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear.
The princely pest of the Chindwin died.
The Captain is petting the Bride on his knees,
Are mixed as the mist of some devilish dream—
Where the hill-daisy blooms and the grey monkey gambols,
The Peace of the Lord is on Captain O'Neil!
The bags on his shoulder, the mail-runner trudges.
“Rupees to collect on delivery.”
Then
Tore waxcloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer; )
With a crash and a thud, rolled—the Head of the Boh!
“In Fielding Force Service.
“Encampment,
“10th Jan.
“For final approval (see under) Boh's Head;
“By High Education brought pressure to bear.
“To mail V.P.P. (rupees hundred) Please add
“Much cheap at one hundred, and children want food.
“True love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train,
“I am,
“Graceful Master,
“Your
“H. Mukerji.”
As the smoker's eye fills at the opium hour,
As the waiting ear yearns for the whisper of love,
The Captain bent down to the Head of the Boh.
'Twixt the winking new spoons and the napkins' array,
The hand-to-hand scuffle—the smoke and the blaze—
The banjo at twilight, the burial ere morn—
When the overhand stabbing-cut silenced the yell—
Where the black crosses hung o'er the Kuttamow flood.
The Captain went out on the Past from his Bride,
When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer.
In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter,
Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife.
Though a four-month Eternity should have controlled him!—
The scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red—
Some grim hidden Past she had never a clue to.
And muttered aloud, “So you kept that jade earring!”
“Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end.”
“He took what I said in this horrible fashion?
The Captain came back to the Bride . . . who had fainted
And look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri,
She's always about on the Mall of a mornin'—
This: Gules upon argent, a Boh's Head, erased!
THE SACRIFICE OF ER-HEB
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.
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 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, by which
Is bred the neighing thunder in the Hills.
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.
The Red Horse Sickness with the iron hooves,
To turn the Valley to Taman again.
The naked wind that had no fear of him;
And the Red Horse stamped thrice upon the snow,
The naked snows that had no fear of him;
The ringing rocks that had no fear of him;
And downward, where the lean birch meets the snow,
And downward, where the grey pine meets the birch,
And downward, where the dwarf oak meets the pine,
Till at his feet our cup-like pastures lay.
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 stilled themselves,
Till all the Valley glittered like a marsh,
Beneath the moonlight, filled with sluggish mist
Knee-deep, so that men waded as they walked.
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 hoofprints lay.
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.
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.
To Gorukh was a road of enemies,
And Ao-Safai was blocked with early snows,
We could not flee from out the Valley. Death
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.
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.
“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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
We heard Bisesa weeping where she passed
And followed her, and on the river-mint
His hooves struck dead and heavy in our ears.
Of Ao-Safai climbs through the black snow-blurs
To show the Pass is clear, Bisesa stepped
Upon the great grey 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.
And watched that night above the clinging mists,
Far up the hill, Bisesa's passing in.
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.
Against the hewn stone leaves, and prayed Taman
To spare Er-Heb and take her life for price.
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.
For succour, very pitifully, thrice,
And others that she sang and had no fear.
But only thunder and the lashing rain.
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.
Had thrust the altar-slabs apart, the walls
Were grey 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.
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 LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE THIEF
I led beyond the Bar,
And a treble woe for my winsome wife
That weeps at Shalimar.
My shield and sabre fine,
And heaved me into the Central Jail
For lifting of the kine.
The Jat may tend his grain,
But there'll be neither loot nor fire
Till I come back again.
When once my fetters fall,
And Heaven defend the farmer's hut
When I am loosed from thrall.
Above the grinching quern,
It's woe to hear the leg-bar clack
And jingle when I turn!
The brand on me and mine,
I'll pay you back in leaping flame
And loss of the butchered kine.
In charity set free—
If I may reach my hold once more
I'll reive an honest three.
That scared the dusty plain,
By sword and cord, by torch and tow
I'll light the land with twain!
Young Sahib with the yellow hair—
Lie close, lie close as Khattacks lie,
Fat herds below Bonair!
At dawn I'll drive the other;
The black shall mourn for hoof and hide,
The white man for his brother.
War till my sinews fail;
For the wrong you have done to a chief of men,
And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl.
I give you leave for the sin,
That you cram my throat with the foul pig's flesh,
And swing me in the skin!
THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN
Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain;
Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues,
Now the Red Gods make their medicine again!
Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating?
Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry?
Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting,
Or the sea-trout's jumping-crazy for the fly?
On the other side the world he's overdue.
'Send your road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o'er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust;
And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits the cow,
And for one the mule-train coughing in the dust.
Who is quick to read the noises of the night?
Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men's feet are turning
To the camps of proved desire and known delight!
I
Do you know the blackened timber—do you know that racing streamWith the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end;
And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream
To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend?
It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces,
To a silent, smoky Indian that we know—
To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, with the starlight on our faces,
For the Red Gods call us out and we must go!
II
Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep and short,Where the bluff, lee-boarded fishing-luggers ride?
Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of your port
On a coast you've lost the chart of overside?
It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale her—
Just one able 'long-shore loafer that I know.
He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and sail and sail her,
For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!
III
Do you know the pile-built village where the sago-dealers trade—Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo?
Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented glade
When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through?
It is there that I am going with my camphor, net, and boxes,
To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know—
To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and flying-foxes,
For the Red Gods call me out and I must go!
IV
Do you know the world's white roof-tree—do you know that windy riftWhere the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change?
Do you know the long day's patience, belly-down on frozen drift,
While the head of heads is feeding out of range?
It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the snow lie,
With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know.
I have sworn an oath, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis Poli,
And the Red Gods call me out and I must go!
Pleasant smokes, ere yet 'twixt trail and trail they choose—
Now the girths and ropes are tested: now they pack their last supplies:
Now our Young Men go to dance before the Trues!
Who shall meet them at those altars—who shall light them to that shrine?
Velvet-footed, who shall guide them to their goal?
Unto each the voice and vision: unto each his spoor and sign—
Lonely mountain in the Northland, misty sweat-bath 'neath the Line—
And to each a man that knows his naked soul!
Smoke of funnel, dust of hooves, or beat of train—
Where the high grass hides the horseman or the glaring flats discover—
Where the steamer hails the landing, or the surf-boat brings the rover—
Where the rails run out in sand-drift . . . Quick! ah, heave the camp-kit over,
For the Red Gods make their medicine again!
On the other side the world we're overdue!
'Send the road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o'er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
A BOY SCOUTS' PATROL SONG
There's just one law for the Scout
And the first and the last, and the present and the past,
And the future and the perfect is “Look out!”
I, thou and he, look out!
We, ye and they, look out!
Though you didn't or you wouldn't
Or you hadn't or you couldn't;
You jolly well must look out!
That your kit is packed to your mind;
There is no use going away
With half of it left behind.
Look out that your laces are tight,
And your boots are easy and stout,
Or you'll end with a blister at night. (Chorus)
All Patrols look out!
Look out for the beasts of the field—
The other side's concealed.
When the blackbird bolts from the copse,
Or the cattle are staring about,
The wise commander stops
And (chorus)
All Patrols look out!
And you feel you are bound to win.
Look out for your flank and your rear—
That's where surprises begin.
For the rustle that isn't a rat,
For the splash that isn't a trout,
For the boulder that may be a hat (Chorus)
All Patrols look out!
For the ditch that never tells,
Look out! Look out ere you pass—
And look out for everything else!
A sign mis-read as you run
May turn retreat to a rout—
For all things under the sun (Chorus)
All Patrols look out!
At the end of a losing game;
When your boots are too tight for your toes;
And you answer and argue and blame.
It's the hardest part of the Law,
But it has to be learnt by the Scout—
For whining and shirking and “jaw” (Chorus)
All Patrols look out!
THE TRUCE OF THE BEAR
By the Pass called Muttianee, to shoot in the vale below.
Yearly by Muttianee he follows our white men in—
Matun, the old blind beggar, bandaged from brow to chin.
Seeking a dole at the doorway he mumbles his tale to each;
Over and over the story, ending as he began:
“Make ye no truce with Adam-zad—the Bear that walks like a Man!
When I went hunting Adam-zad—the Bear that stands like a Man.
I looked my last on the timber, I looked my last on the snow,
When I went hunting Adam-zad fifty summers ago!
By night in the ripened maizefield and robbed my house of bread.
I knew his strength and cunning, as he knew mine, that crept
At dawn to the crowded goat-pens and plundered while I slept.
Out on the naked ridges ran Adam-zad the Bear—
Groaning, grunting, and roaring, heavy with stolen meals,
Two long marches to northward, and I was at his heels!
I came on mine enemy Adam-zad all panting from his flight.
There was a charge in the musket—pricked and primed was the pan—
My finger crooked on the trigger—when he reared up like a man.
Making his supplication rose Adam-zad the Bear!
I looked at the swaying shoulders, at the paunch's swag and swing,
And my heart was touched with pity for the monstrous, pleading thing.
I have looked no more on women—I have walked no more with men.
From brow to jaw that steel-shod paw, it ripped my face away!
Faceless I fell before his feet, fifty summers ago.
I heard him grunt and chuckle—I heard him pass to his den.
He left me blind to the darkened years and the little mercy of men.
That load (I have felt) in the middle and range (I have heard) a mile?
Luck to the white man's rifle, that shoots so fast and true,
But—pay, and I lift my bandage and show what the Bear can do!”
Matun, the old blind beggar, he gives good worth for his pay.)
“Rouse him at noon in the bushes, follow and press him hard—
Not for his ragings and roarings flinch ye from Adam-zad.
When he stands up like a tired man, tottering near and near;
When he stands up as pleading, in wavering, man-brute guise,
When he veils the hate and cunning of his little, swinish eyes;
That is the time of peril—the time of the Truce of the Bear!”
Matun, the old blind beggar, he tells it o'er and o'er;
Fumbling and feeling the rifles, warming his hands at the flame,
Hearing our careless white men talk of the morrow's game;
“There is no truce with Adam-zad, the Bear that looks like a Man!”
RUSSIA TO THE PACIFISTS
But—leave your sports a little while—the dead are borne this way!
Armies dead and Cities dead, past all count or care.
God rest you, merry gentlemen, what portent see you there? Singing:—
Break ground for a wearied host
That have no ground to keep.
Give them the rest that they covet most . .
And who shall be next to sleep, good sirs,
In such a trench to sleep?
We go to dig a nation's grave as great as England was.
For this Kingdom and this Glory and this Power and this Pride,
Three hundred years it flourished—in three hundred days it died. Singing:—
Pour oil for a frozen throng
That lie about the ways.
Give them the warmth they have lacked so long . . .
And what shall be next to blaze, good sirs,
On such a pyre to blaze?
Remains of this dominion no shadow, sound, or sight,
Except the sound of weeping and the sight of burning fire,
And the shadow of a people that is trampled into mire. Singing:—
Break bread for a starving folk
That perish in the field.
Give them their food as they take the yoke . . .
And who shall be next to yield, good sirs,
For such a bribe to yield?
Was ever Kingdom turned so soon to ashes, blood, and earth?
'Twixt the summer and the snow—seeding-time and frost—
Arms and victual, hope and counsel, name and country lost! Singing:—
Let down by the foot and the head—
Shovel and smooth it all!
So do we bury a Nation dead . . .
And who shall be next to fall, good sirs,
With your good help to fall?
THE PEACE OF DIVES
“Our World is full of wickedness, My Children maim and slay,
“And the Saint and Seer and Prophet
“Can make no better of it
“Than to sanctify and prophesy and pray.
“And thy women and thy housen as they were to thee of old.
“It may be grace hath found thee
“In the furnace where We bound thee,
“And that thou shalt bring the peace My Son foretold.”
And walked abroad with diligence to do the Lord's desire;
And anon the battles ceased,
And the captives were released,
And Earth had rest from Goshen to Gadire.
'Mid the shouting of the peoples by the cannon overthrown
(But the Prophets, Saints, and Seers
Set each other by the ears,
For each would claim the marvel as his own):
“And prove the Peace of Dives if it be good or no:
“For all that he hath planned
“We deliver to thy hand,
“As thy skill shall serve, to break it or bring low.”
And breathed on Kings in idleness and Princes drunk with pride.
But for all the wrong he breathed
There was never sword unsheathed,
And the fires he lighted flickered out and died.
Till he came on cunning Dives where the money-changers are;
And he saw men pledge their gear
For the gold that buys the spear,
And the helmet and the habergeon of war.
And their hearts were nothing altered, nor their cunning nor their greed—
And they pledged their flocks and farms
For the King-compelling arms,
And Dives lent according to their need.
“Who hast broken His Commandment in the day He set thee free,
“Who grindest for thy greed
“Man's belly-pinch and need,
“And the blood of Man to filthy usury!”
“My Refuge is Our Master, O My Master in the Pit.
“But behold all Earth is laid
“In the Peace which I have made,
“And behold I wait on thee to trouble it!”
To shake the new-sown peoples with insult, doubt, and dread;
But, for all the sleight he used,
There was never squadron loosed,
And the brands he flung flew dying and fell dead.
And their hates were nothing weakened nor their angers nor unrest—
And they pawned their utmost trade
For the dry, decreeing blade;
And Dives lent and took of them their best.
“The secret of thy subtlety that turneth mine to shame.
“It is known through all the Hells
“How my peoples mocked my spells,
“And my faithless Kings denied me ere I came.”
“At the heart of every Magic, yea, and senseless fear beside?
“With gold and fear and hate
“I have harnessed state to state,
“And by hate and fear and gold their hates are tied.
“Keener blades and broader targes than their frantic neighbours wield—
“For gold I arm their hands,
“And for gold I buy their lands,
“And for gold I sell their enemies the yield.
“One by one from Ancient Accad to the Islands of the Seas.
“And their covenants they make
“For the naked iron's sake,
“But I—I trap them armoured into peace.
“And Pharaoh hath the increase of the herds that Sargon gave.
“Not for Ashdod overthrown
“Will the Kings destroy their own,
“Or their peoples wake the strife they feign to brave.
“They have sold me seven harvests that I sell to Crowning Tyre;
“And the Tyrian sweeps the plains
“With a thousand hired wains,
“And the Cities keep the peace and—share the hire.
“His bond is to Philistia, in half of all he hath.
“And he dare not draw the sword
“Till Gaza give the word,
“And he show release from Askalon and Gath.
“Lo! my lightnings pass before thee, and their whistling servant brings,
“Ere the drowsy street hath stirred,
“Every masked and midnight word,
“And the nations break their fast upon these things.
“The roofless Seas an hostel, and the Earth a market-place,
“Where the anxious traders know
“Each is surety for his foe,
“And none may thrive without his fellows' grace.
“God give thee good enlightenment, My Master in the Pit.
“But behold all Earth is laid
“In the Peace which I have made,
“And behold I wait on thee to trouble it!”
A SONG OF THE WHITE MEN
When they go to right a wrong,
And that is the cup of the old world's hate—
Cruel and strained and strong.
We have drunk that cup—and a bitter, bitter cup—
And tossed the dregs away.
But well for the world when the White Men drink
To the dawn of the White Man's day!
When they go to clean a land—
Iron underfoot and levin overhead
And the deep on either hand.
We have trod that road—and a wet and windy road—
Our chosen star for guide.
Oh, well for the world when the White Men tread
Their highway side by side!
When they build their homes afar—
“Freedom for ourselves and freedom for our sons
And, failing freedom, War.”
We have proved our faith—bear witness to our faith,
Dear souls of freemen slain!
Oh, well for the world when the White Men join
To prove their faith again!
THE ROWERS
(When Germany proposed that England should help her in a naval demonstration to collect debts from Venezuela.)
And backed and threshed and ground,
But bitter was the rowers' song
As they brought the war-boat round.
That makes the whale-bath smoke—
When the great blades cleave and hold and leave
As one on the racing stroke.
And steer her by what star,
If we come unscathed from the Southern deep
To be wrecked on a Baltic bar?
But seaward still we go.
And you tell us now of a secret vow
You have made with an open foe!
And haul and back and veer,
At the will of the breed that have wronged us most
For a year and a year and a year!
They laid not to our door—
And you say we must take the winter sea
And sail with them once more?
That stripped and laid us down,
When we stood forth but they stood fast
And prayed to see us drown.
Our wounds are bleeding yet—
And you tell us now that our strength is sold
To help them press for a debt!
That use upon the seas,
Was there no other fleet to find
That you strike hands with these?
On evil fate to fall,
What brooding Judgment let you loose
To pick the worst of all?
O'er half the world to run—
With a cheated crew, to league anew
With the Goth and the shameless Hun!”
AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT
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.
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.
“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!”
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.
Sadie, 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:—
“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.”
“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'll be damned if I will!”
“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.”
“You can lighten the curse of Adam when you've lifted the curse of Eve.
“But till we are built like the angels—with hammer and chisel and pen,
“We will work for ourselves and a woman, for ever and ever, amen.”
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.
A DEATH-BED
The State exists for the State alone.”
[This is a gland at the back of the jaw,
And an answering lump by the collar-bone.]
Some die silent, by shell and shot.
Some die desperate, caught on the wire;
Some die suddenly. This will not.
[It will follow the regular course of—throats.]
Some die pinned by the broken decks,
Some die sobbing between the boats.
By the sliding trench, as their friends can hear.
Some die wholly in half a breath.
Some—give trouble for half a year.
Except as the needs of the State ordain.”
[Since it is rather too late for the knife,
All we can do is to mask the pain.]
One died thus in a prison-yard—
Some die broken by rape or the rope;
Some die easily. This dies hard.
Woe to the traitor! Woe to the weak!”
[Let him write what he wishes to say.
It tires him out if he tries to speak.]
In loud self-pity. Others spread
Bad morale through the cots around. . .
This is a type that is better dead.
All that I sought was the right to live.”
[Don't be afraid of a triple dose;
The pain will neutralize half we give.
While the effects of the drug endure. . . .
What is the question he asks with his eyes?—
Yes, All-Highest, to God, be sure.]
ET DONA FERENTES
From the Four-mile Radius roughly to the Plains of Hindustan:
I have drunk with mixed assemblies, seen the racial ruction rise,
And the men of half Creation damning half Creation's eyes.
French, Italian, Arab, Spaniard, Dutch and Greek, and Russ and Jew,
Celt and savage, buff and ochre, cream and yellow, mauve and white,
But it never really mattered till the English grew polite;
Till the men who do not duel, till the men who war with votes,
Till the breed that take their pleasures as Saint Lawrence took his grid,
Began to “beg your pardon” and—the knowing croupier hid.
Felt the psychological moment, left the lit Casino clear;
But the uninstructed alien, from the Teuton to the Gaul,
Was entrapped, once more, my country, by that suave, deceptive drawl.
I “observe with apprehension” how the racial ructions rise;
And with keener apprehension, if I read the times aright,
Hear the old Casino order: “Watch your man, but be polite.
Don't hit first, but move together (there's no hurry) to the door.
Back to back, and facing outward while the linguist tells 'em how—
“Nous sommes allong ar notre batteau, nous ne voulong pas un row.’”
“Let 'em have it!” and they had it, and the same was merry war—
Fist, umbrella, cane, decanter, lamp and beer-mug, chair and boot—
Till behind the fleeing legions rose the long, hoarse yell for loot.
Then the grand piano cantered, on three castors, down the quay;
They removed, effaced, abolished all that man could heave or lift.
The pitfall of the stranger but the bulwark of thy sons—
Measured speech and ordered action, sluggish soul and unperturbed,
Till we wake our Island-Devil—nowise cool for being curbed!
When he will not hear an insult, though men make it ne'er so plain,
When his lips are schooled to meekness, when his back is bowed to blows—
Well the keen aas-vogels know it—well the waiting jackal knows.
Or bathe in tropic waters where the lean fin dogs the boat—
Cock the gun that is not loaded, cook the frozen dynamite—
But oh, beware my Country, when my Country grows polite!
THE HOLY WAR
A vagrant oft in quod,
A private under Fairfax,
A minister of God—
Two hundred years and thirty
Ere Armageddon came
His single hand portrayed it,
And Bunyan was his name!
The world in which we are—
“This famous town of Mansoul”
That takes the Holy War.
Her true and traitor people,
The Gates along her wall,
From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate,
John Bunyan showed them all.
Recruits of every class,
And highly screened positions
For flame or poison-gas;
The craft that we call modern,
The crimes that we call new,
John Bunyan had 'em typed and filed
In Sixteen Eighty-two.
That hamper faith and works,
The Perseverance-Doubters,
And Present-Comfort shirks,
With brittle intellectuals
Who crack beneath a strain—
John Bunyan met that helpful set
In Charles the Second's reign.
For right and not for rights,
My Lord Apollyon lying
To the State-kept Stockholmites,
The Pope, the swithering Neutrals,
The Kaiser and his Gott—
Their rôles, their goals, their naked souls—
He knew and drew the lot.
In Bunhill Fields to lie,
The wisdom that he taught us
Is proven prophecy—
One watchword through our Armies,
One answer from our Lands:—
“No dealings with Diabolus
As long as Mansoul stands!”
The lowest of the low—
The Father of the Novel,
Salvation's first Defoe—
Eight blinded generations
Ere Armageddon came,
He showed us how to meet it,
And Bunyan was his name!
FRANCE
By the light sane joy of life, the buckler of the Gaul;
Furious in luxury, merciless in toil,
Terrible with strength that draws from her tireless soil;
Strictest judge of her own worth, gentlest of man's mind,
First to follow Truth and last to leave old Truths behind—
France, beloved of every soul that loves its fellow-kind!
Fretting in the womb of Rome to begin our fray.
Ere men knew our tongues apart, our one task was known—
Each to mould the other's fate as he wrought his own.
To this end we stirred mankind till all Earth was ours,
Till our world-end strifes begat wayside Thrones and Powers—
Puppets that we made or broke to bar the other's path—
Necessary, outpost-folk, hirelings of our wrath.
To this end we stormed the seas, tack for tack, and burst
Through the doorways of new worlds, doubtful which was first,
Hand on hilt (rememberest thou?) ready for the blow—
Sure, whatever else we met, we should meet our foe.
Spurred or balked at every stride by the other's strength,
So we rode the ages down and every ocean's length!
Ask the wave that has not watched war between us two!
Others held us for a while, but with weaker charms,
These we quitted at the call for each other's arms.
Each the other's mystery, terror, need, and love.
To each other's open court with our proofs we came.
Where could we find honour else, or men to test our claim?
From each other's throat we wrenched—valour's last reward—
That extorted word of praise gasped 'twixt lunge and guard.
In each other's cup we poured mingled blood and tears,
Brutal joys, unmeasured hopes, intolerable fears—
All that soiled or salted life for a thousand years.
Proved beyond the need of proof, matched in every clime,
O Companion, we have lived greatly through all time!
Laughing at old villainies that Time has turned to jest;
Pardoning old necessities no pardon can efface—
That undying sin we shared in Rouen market-place.
Fiercer lightnings in their heart than we launched of old.
Now we hear new voices rise, question, boast or gird,
As we raged (rememberest thou?) when our crowds were stirred.
Now we count new keels afloat, and new hosts on land,
Massed like ours (rememberest thou?) when our strokes were planned.
We were schooled for dear life's sake, to know each other's blade.
What can Blood and Iron make more than we have made?
We have learned by keenest use to know each other's mind.
What shall Blood and Iron loose that we cannot bind?
We who swept each other's coast, sacked each other's home,
Since the sword of Brennus clashed on the scales at Rome,
Listen, count and close again, wheeling girth to girth,
In the linked and steadfast guard set for peace on earth!
By the light sane joy of life, the buckler of the Gaul;
Furious in luxury, merciless in toil,
Terrible with strength renewed from a tireless soil;
Strictest judge of her own worth, gentlest of man's mind,
First to face the Truth and last to leave old Truths behind—
France, beloved of every soul that loves or serves its kind!
“BEFORE A MIDNIGHT BREAKS IN STORM”
Or herded sea in wrath,
Ye know what wavering gusts inform
The greater tempest's path;
Till the loosed wind
Drive all from mind,
Except Distress, which, so will prophets cry,
O'ercame them, houseless, from the unhinting sky.
In piratry of flood,
Ye know what waters steal and stand
Where seldom water stood.
Yet who will note,
Till fields afloat,
And washen carcass and the returning well,
Trumpet what these poor heralds strove to tell?
(To peer by stealth on Doom),
The Shade that, shaping first of all,
Prepares an empty room.
Then doth It pass
Like breath from glass,
But, on the extorted Vision bowed intent,
No man considers why It came or went.
Themselves with stranger eye,
And the sport-making Gods of old,
Like Samson slaying, die,
Many shall hear
The all-pregnant sphere,
Bow to the birth and sweat, but—speech denied—
Sit dumb or—dealt in part—fall weak and wide.
The eternal balance swings;
That wingèd men the Fates may breed
So soon as Fate hath wings.
These shall possess
Our littleness,
And in the imperial task (as worthy) lay
Up our lives' all to piece one giant Day.
THE BELL BUOY
And a saintly name he bears—
They gave him his place to hold
At the head of the belfry-stairs,
Where the minster-towers stand
And the breeding kestrels cry.
Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
O'er sleek flood-tides afire,
I hear him hurry the chime
To the bidding of checked Desire;
Till the sweated ringers tire
And the wild bob-majors die.
Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
When the greasy wind-rack lowers—
Apart and at peace and alone,
He counts the changeless hours.
He wars with darkling Powers
(I war with a darkling sea);
Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not he!
There was never a hand to toll,
When they made me guard of the bay,
And moored me over the shoal.
I rock, I reel, and I roll—
My four great hammers ply—
Could I speak or be still at the Church's will?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
The fog-bank glides unguessed,
The seaward lights are veiled,
The spent deep feigns her rest:
But my ear is laid to her breast,
I lift to the swell—I cry!
Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
I thrill to the nearing screw;
I turn in the clearing light
And I call to the drowsy crew;
And the mud boils foul and blue
As the blind bow backs away.
Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not they!
The bursting spray-heads freeze,
I gather on crown and rim
The grey, grained ice of the seas,
Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,
The plunging colliers lie.
Would I barter my place for the Church's grace?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
Or the black of the inky sleet,
The lanterns gather and grow,
And I look for the homeward fleet.
“Ready about—stand by!”
Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
In the rip of the racing tide,
By the gates of doom I sing,
On the horns of death I ride.
A ship-length overside,
Between the course and the sand,
Fretted and bound I bide
Peril whereof I cry.
Would I change with my brother a league inland?
(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!
THE OLD ISSUE
“Many feet have worn it and the road is old indeed.
“It is the King—the King we schooled aforetime!”
(Trumpets in the marshes—in the eyot at Runnymede!)
“Pardon for his penitence or pity for his fall.
“It is the King!”—inexorable Trumpets—
(Trumpets round the scaffold at the dawning by Whitehall!)
“He hath changed the fashion of the lies that cloak his will.
“Hard die the Kings—ah, hard—dooms hard!” declare the Trumpets,
(Trumpets at the gang-plank where the brawling troop-decks fill!)
Once again the Trumpets, for the shuddering ground-swell brings
Clamour over ocean of the harsh, pursuing Trumpets—
Trumpets of the Vanguard that have sworn no truce with Kings!
This our fathers bought for us long and long ago.
Leave to live by no man's leave, underneath the Law—
Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the King.
How our King is one with us, first among his peers.
Wherefore must we watch the King, lest our gain be lost.
Suffer not the old King: for we know the breed.
Whining “He is weak and far”; crying “Time shall cure.”
Deeper strikes the rottenness in the people's loins.)
Suffer not the old King here or overseas.
Pledge the years we hold in trust—pawn our brother's blood—
Suffer not the old King under any name!
It is written what shall fall if the King return.
Set his guards about us, as in Freedom's name.
He shall change our gold for arms—arms we may not bear.
He shall rule above the Law calling on the Lord.
Watchers 'neath our window, lest we mock the King—
Money poured in secret; carrion breeding flies.
These shall deal our Justice: sell—deny—delay.
For the Land we look to—for the Tongue we use.
While his hired captains jeer us in the street.
Far beyond his borders shall his teachings run.
Laying on a new land evil of the old—
All our fathers died to loose he shall bind again.
Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew.
Step for step and word for word—so the old Kings did!
Suffer not the old Kings: for we know the breed—
Stewards of the Judgment, suffer not this King!
THE LESSON
We have had no end of a lesson: it will do us no end of good.
But conclusively, comprehensively, and several times and again,
Were all our most holy illusions knocked higher than Gilderoy's kite.
We have had a jolly good lesson, and it serves us jolly well right!
But swingingly, over eleven degrees of a bare brown continent.
From Lamberts to Delagoa Bay, and from Pietersburg to Sutherland,
Fell the phenomenal lesson we learned—with a fulness accorded no other land.
We made an Army in our own image, on an island nine by seven,
Which faithfully mirrored its makers' ideals, equipment, and mental attitude—
And so we got our lesson: and we ought to accept it with gratitude.
That horses are quicker than men afoot, since two and two make four;
And horses have four legs, and men have two legs, and two into four goes twice,
And nothing over except our lesson—and very cheap at the price.
Not our mere astonied camps, but Council and Creed and College—
All the obese, unchallenged old things that stifle and overlie us—
Have felt the effects of the lesson we got—an advantage no money could buy us!
And which, it may subsequently transpire, will be worth as much as the Rand.
Let us approach this pivotal fact in a humble yet hopeful mood—
We have had no end of a lesson. It will do us no end of good!
We have forty million reasons for failure, but not a single excuse.
So the more we work and the less we talk the better results we shall get.
We have had an Imperial lesson. It may make us an Empire yet!
MESOPOTAMIA
The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,
Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?
In sight of help denied from day to day:
But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,
Are they too strong and wise to put away?
Never while the bars of sunset hold.
But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,
Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?
When the storm is ended shall we find
How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power
By the favour and contrivance of their kind?
Even while they make a show of fear,
Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their friends,
To confirm and re-establish each career?
The shame that they have laid upon our race.
But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,
Shall we leave it unabated in its place?
THE ISLANDERS
Whoso speaks in your presence must say acceptable things:
Bowing the head in worship, bending the knee in fear—
Bringing the word well smoothen—such as a King should hear.
Long did ye wake in quiet and long lie down at ease;
Till ye said of Strife, “What is it?” of the Sword, “It is far from our ken”;
Till ye made a sport of your shrunken hosts and a toy of your armèd men.
Ye stopped your ears to the warning—ye would neither look nor heed—
Ye set your leisure before their toil and your lusts above their need.
Ye grudged your sons to their service and your fields for their camping-place.
Ye forced them glean in the highways the straw for the bricks they brought;
Ye forced them follow in byways the craft that ye never taught.
Ye hampered and hindered and crippled; ye thrust out of sight and away
Those that would serve you for honour and those that served you for pay.
Then were the judgments loosened; then was your shame revealed,
At the hands of a little people, few but apt in the field.
Yet ye were saved by a remnant (and your land's long-suffering star),
When your strong men cheered in their millions while your striplings went to the war.
Sons of the sheltered city—unmade, unhandled, unmeet—
Ye pushed them raw to the battle as ye picked them raw from the street.
And what did ye look they should compass? Warcraft learned in a breath,
Knowledge unto occasion at the first far view of Death?
So? And ye train your horses and the dogs ye feed and prize?
How are the beasts more worthy than the souls, your sacrifice?
But ye said, “Their valour shall show them”; but ye said, “The end is close.”
And ye sent them comfits and pictures to help them harry your foes:
And ye vaunted your fathomless power, and ye flaunted your iron pride,
Ere—ye fawned on the Younger Nations for the men who could shoot and ride!
Then ye returned to your trinkets; then ye contented your souls
With the flannelled fools at the wicket or the muddied oafs at the goals.
Given to strong delusion, wholly believing a lie,
Ye saw that the land lay fenceless, and ye let the months go by
Idle—openly idle—in the lee of the forespent Line.
Idle—except for your boasting—and what is your boasting worth
If ye grudge a year of service to the lordliest life on earth?
Ancient, effortless, ordered, cycle on cycle set,
Life so long untroubled, that ye who inherit forget
It was not made with the mountains, it is not one with the deep.
Men, not gods, devised it. Men, not gods, must keep.
Men, not children, servants, or kinsfolk called from afar,
But each man born in the Island broke to the matter of war.
Soberly and by custom taken and trained for the same,
Each man born in the Island entered at youth to the game—
As it were almost cricket, not to be mastered in haste,
But after trial and labour, by temperance, living chaste.
As it were almost cricket—as it were even your play,
Weighed and pondered and worshipped, and practised day and day.
So ye shall bide sure-guarded when the restless lightnings wake
In the womb of the blotting war-cloud, and the pallid nations quake.
So, at the haggard trumpets, instant your soul shall leap
Forthright, accoutred, accepting—alert from the wells of sleep.
So at the threat ye shall summon—so at the need ye shall send
Men, not children or servants, tempered and taught to the end;
Cleansed of servile panic, slow to dread or despise,
Humble because of knowledge, mighty by sacrifice. . . .
But ye say, “It will mar our comfort.” Ye say, “It will minish our trade.”
Do ye wait for the spattered shrapnel ere ye learn how a gun is laid?
For the low, red glare to southward when the raided coast-towns burn?
(Light ye shall have on that lesson, but little time to learn.)
With nets and hoops and mallets, with rackets and bats and rods?
Will the rabbit war with your foemen—the red deer horn them for hire?
Your kept cock-pheasant keep you?—he is master of many a shire.
Arid, aloof, incurious, unthinking, unthanking, gelt,
Will ye loose your schools to flout them till their brow-beat columns melt?
Will ye pray them or preach them, or print them, or ballot them back from your shore?
Will your workmen issue a mandate to bid them strike no more?
Will ye rise and dethrone your rulers? (Because ye were idle both?
Pride by Insolence chastened? Indolence purged by Sloth?)
No doubt but ye are the People; who shall make you afraid?
Also your gods are many; no doubt but your gods shall aid.
Idols of greasy altars built for the body's ease;
Proud little brazen Baals and talking fetishes;
Teraphs of sept and party and wise wood-pavement gods—
These shall come down to the battle and snatch you from under the rods?
From the gusty, flickering gun-roll with viewless salvoes rent,
And the pitted hail of the bullets that tell not whence they were sent.
When ye are ringed as with iron, when ye are scourged as with whips,
When the meat is yet in your belly, and the boast is yet on your lips;
When ye go forth at morning and the noon beholds you broke,
Ere ye lie down at even, your remnant, under the yoke?
Whatever your heart has desired ye have not withheld from your eyes.
On your own heads, in your own hands, the sin and the saving lies!
THE VETERANS
(Written for the gathering of survivors of the Indian Mutiny, Albert Hall, 1907)
The astonished years reveal
The remnant of that desperate host
Which cleansed our East with steel.
With tears that none will scorn—
O Keepers of the House of old,
Or ever we were born!
Pray for us, heroes, pray,
That when Fate lays on us our task
We do not shame the Day!
THE DYKES
All that our fathers taught us of old pleases us now no more.
All that our own hearts bid us believe we doubt where we do not deny—
There is no proof in the bread we eat nor rest in the toil we ply.
Made land all, that our fathers made, where the flats and the fairway join.
They forced the sea a sea-league back. They died, and their work stood fast.
We were born to peace in the lee of the dykes, but the time of our peace is past.
Nipping the flanks of the water-gates, baying along the wall;
Turning the shingle, returning the shingle, changing the set of the sand . . .
We are too far from the beach, men say, to know how the outworks stand.
These are the dykes our fathers made: we have never known a breach.
Time and again has the gale blown by and we were not afraid;
Now we come only to look at the dykes—at the dykes our fathers made.
Shifts and considers, wanes and recovers, scatters and sickens and dies—
An evil ember bedded in ash—a spark blown west by the wind . . .
We are surrendered to night and the sea—the gale and the tide behind!
Roused by the feet of running men, dazed by the lantern-glare.
Unbar and let them away for their lives—the levels drown as they stand,
Where the flood-wash forces the sluices aback and the ditches deliver inland.
And their overcarried spray is a sea—a sea on the landward side.
Coming, like stallions they paw with their hooves, going they snatch with their teeth,
Till the bents and the furze and the sand are dragged out, and the old-time hurdles beneath.
Flame we shall need, not smoke, in the dark if the riddled sea-banks go.
Bid the ringers watch in the tower (who knows how the dawn shall prove?)
Each with his rope between his feet and the trembling bells above.
These are the dykes our fathers left, but we would not look to the same.
Time and again were we warned of the dykes, time and again we delayed:
Now, it may fall, we have slain our sons, as our fathers we have betrayed.
These were the dykes our fathers made to our great profit and ease.
But the peace is gone and the profit is gone, with the old sure days withdrawn . . .
That our own houses show as strange when we come back in the dawn!
THE DECLARATION OF LONDON
JUNE 29, 1911
When the Abbey trumpets blew.
For a moment's breathing-space
We had forgotten you.
Now you return to your honoured place
Panting to shame us anew.
With our Past alive and ablaze.
And you bid us pawn our honour for bread,
This day of all the days!
And you cannot wait till our guests are sped,
Or last week's wreath decays?
Of Faith and Gentlehood,
Of Service and Sacrifice;
And it does not match our mood,
To turn so soon to your treacheries
That starve our land of her food.
Of our once-Imperial seas,
Exultant after our King was crowned,
Beneath the sun and the breeze.
It is too early to have them bound
Or sold at your decrees.
Wait till the visions fade,
We may betray in time, God knows,
But we would not have it said,
When you make report to our scornful foes,
That we kissed as we betrayed!
THE WAGE-SLAVES
Where guardian souls abide—
Self-exiled from our gross delights—
Above, beyond, outside:
An ampler arc their spirit swings—
Commands a juster view—
We have their word for all these things,
No doubt their words are true.
Whom dirt and danger press—
Co-heirs of insolence, delay,
And leagued unfaithfulness—
Such is our need must seek indeed
And, having found, engage
The men who merely do the work
For which they draw the wage.
Deck, altar, outpost lone—
Mill, school, battalion, counter, trench,
Rail, senate, sheepfold, throne—
Creation's cry goes up on high
From age to cheated age:
“Send us the men who do the work
“For which they draw the wage!”
Nor e'en the all-gifted fool,
Too weak to enter, bide, or leave
The lists he cannot rule.
Beneath the sun we count on none
Our evil to assuage,
Except the men that do the work
For which they draw the wage.
Comes forth the vast Event—
The simple, sheer, sufficing, sane
Result of labour spent—
They that have wrought the end unthought
Be neither saint nor sage,
But only men who did the work
For which they drew the wage.
(And all old idle things)
Wherefore on these shall Power attend
Beyond the grip of kings:
Shall rule his heritage—
The men who simply do the work
For which they draw the wage.
Or waste, to earn its praise,
Their noontide's unreturning heat
About their morning ways;
But such as dower each mortgaged hour
Alike with clean couràge—
Even the men who do the work
For which they draw the wage—
Men, like to Gods, that do the work
For which they draw the wage—
Begin—continue—close that work
For which they draw the wage!
THE SONG OF THE LATHES
(Being the words of the tune hummed at her lathe by Mrs. L. Embsay, widow)
The power is shaking the floor round me
Till the lathes pick up their duty and the midnight-shift takes over.
It is good for me to be here!
(I had a man that worked 'em once!)
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!
The bays and the galleries they loom over me,
With their quarter-mile of pillars growing little in the distance—
It is good for me to be here!
Our lights give warning, and fade over us.
(Seven thousand women keeping quiet in the darkness!)
Oh, it's good for me to be here!
Eating up the fields I used to know round me;
And the shed that I began in is a sub-inspector's office—
So long have I been here!
Through the bit that isn't painted round our sky-light rim,
And the sunshine through the window slope according to the seasons,
Twice since I've been here.
With the hundred thousand blanks that they haul to us;
And we send 'em what we've finished, and they take it where it's wanted,
For that is why we are here!
God made Woman what she always was.
Them that bear the burden they will never grant forgiveness
So long as they are here!
All I loved and looked for, it must die with me;
But the Lord has left me over for a servant of the Judgment,
And I serve His Judgments here!
(I had a son that worked 'em once!)
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
Shells for guns in Flanders, Flanders!
Shells for guns in Flanders! Feed the guns!
RIMMON
Bent head and shaded brow,—
Yet once again, for my father's sake,
In Rimmon's House I bow.
And the eunuchs howl aloud;
And the gilt, swag-bellied idol glares
Insolent over the crowd.
“Fear Him and bow the knee!”
And I watch my comrades hide their mirth
That rode to the wars with me.
And the rocks whereon we trod,
Ere we came to a scorched and a scornful land
That did not know our God;
Dead men an hundred laid—
Slain while they served His mysteries,
And that He would not aid—
For the high-priest bade us wait;
Saying He went on a journey or slept,
Or was drunk or had taken a mate.
Who ruleth Earth and Sky!
And again I bow as the censer swings
And the God Enthroned goes by.)
And the virtuous men that knelt
To the dark and the hush behind the dark
Wherein we dreamed He dwelt;
And found no more than an old
Uncleanly image girded about
The loins with scarlet and gold.
Him and his vast designs—
To be the scorn of our muleteers
And the jest of our halted lines.
In the dung and the dust He lay,
Till the priests ran and chattered awhile
And wiped Him and took Him away.
They returned to our fathers afar,
And hastily set Him afresh on His throne
Because he had won us the war.
Bent head and shaded brow—
To this dead dog, for my father's sake,
In Rimmon's House I bow!
THE SONG OF THE OLD GUARD
And all the clouds are gone—
The Proper Sort shall flourish now,
Good times are coming on”—
The evil that was threatened late
To all of our degree
Hath passed in discord and debate,
And, Hey then up go we!
To shame us unto toil,
And we shall share the spoil
According to our several needs
As Beauty shall decree,
As Age ordains or Birth concedes,
And, Hey then up go we!
Our Service would amend,
Shall own the odds and come to heel
Ere worse befall their end:
For though no naked word be wrote
Yet plainly shall they see
What pinneth Orders on their coat,
And, Hey then up go we!
We opened overwide
Shall softly close from year to year
Till all be purified;
For though no fluttering fan be heard
Nor chaff be seen to flee—
The Lord shall winnow the Lord's Preferred—
And, Hey then up go we!
Shall rankly smoke anew,
And anise, mint and cummin take
Their dread and sovereign due,
Whereby the buttons of our trade
Shall soon restorèd be
With curious work in gilt and braid,
And, Hey then up go we!
The candlesticks and bells,
The scarlet, brass, and badger's hair
Wherein our Honour dwells,
And straitly fence and strictly keep
The Ark's integrity
Till Armageddon break our sleep . . .
And, Hey then up go we!
“THE CITY OF BRASS”
A multitude ended their days whose fates were made splendid by God,
Till they grew drunk and were smitten with madness and went to their fall,
And of these is a story written: but Allah Alone knoweth all!
They rose to suppose themselves kings over all things created—
To decree a new earth at a birth without labour or sorrow—
To declare: “We prepare it to-day and inherit to-morrow.”
They chose themselves prophets and priests of minute understanding,
Men swift to see done, and outrun, their extremest commanding—
Of the tribe which describe with a jibe the perversions of Justice—
Panders avowed to the crowd whatsoever its lust is.
The impregnable ramparts of old, they razed and relaid them
As playgrounds of pleasure and leisure, with limitless entries,
And havens of rest for the wastrels where once walked the sentries;
And because there was need of more pay for the shouters and marchers,
They disbanded in face of their foemen their yeomen and archers.
Saying: “Peace! We have fashioned a God Which shall save us hereafter.
We ascribe all dominion to man in his factions conferring,
And have given to numbers the Name of the Wisdom unerring.”
Let him arise and control both that man and his labour.”
They said: “Who is eaten by sloth? Whose unthrift has destroyed him?
He shall levy a tribute from all because none have employed him.”
They said: “Who hath toiled, who hath striven, and gathered possession?
Let him be spoiled. He hath given full proof of transgression.”
They said: “Who is irked by the Law? Though we may not remove it,
If he lend us his aid in this raid, we will set him above it!”
So the robber did judgment again upon such as displeased him,
The slayer, too, boasted his slain, and the judges released him.
They harried all earth to make sure none escaped reprobation.
They awakened unrest for a jest in their newly-won borders,
And jeered at the blood of their brethren betrayed by their orders.
They instructed the ruled to rebel, their rulers to aid them;
And, since such as obeyed them not fell, their Viceroys obeyed them.
When the riotous set them at naught they said: “Praise the upheaval!
For the show and the word and the thought of Dominion is evil!”
The imperial gains of the age which their forefathers piled them.
They ran panting in haste to lay waste and embitter for ever
The wellsprings of Wisdom and Strength which are Faith and Endeavour.
They nosed out and digged up and dragged forth and exposed to derision
All doctrine of purpose and worth and restraint and prevision:
And the heart of a beast in the place of a man's heart was given. . . .
Out of the sea rose a sign—out of Heaven a terror.
Then they saw, then they heard, then they knew—for none troubled to hide it,
An host had prepared their destruction, but still they denied it.
They denied what they dared not abide if it came to the trial;
But the Sword that was forged while they lied did not heed their denial.
It drove home, and no time was allowed to the crowd that was driven.
The preposterous-minded were cowed—they thought time would be given.
There was no need of a steed nor a lance to pursue them;
It was decreed their own deed, and not chance, should undo them.
The tares they had laughingly sown were ripe to the reaping.
The trust they had leagued to disown was removed from their keeping.
The eaters of other men's bread, the exempted from hardship,
The excusers of impotence fled, abdicating their wardship,
And it passed from the roll of the Nations in headlong surrender!
THE HYÆNAS
And the baffled kites have fled;
The wise hyænas come out at eve
To take account of our dead.
Troubles them not a whit.
They snout the bushes and stones aside
And dig till they come to it.
That they and their mates may thrive,
And they know that the dead are safer meat
Than the weakest thing alive.
And a child will sometimes stand;
But a poor dead soldier of the King
Can never lift a hand.)
Until their tushes white
Take good hold of the Army shirt,
And tug the corpse to light,
For an instant ere they close;
But it is not discovered to living men—
Only to God and to those
Whatever meat they may find.
Nor do they defile the dead man's name—
That is reserved for his kind.
THE REFORMERS
Or triumph in the market-place,
Who is his Nation's sacrifice
To turn the judgment from his race.
By sleek, sufficing Circumstance—
Whose Gospel was the apparelled thought,
Whose Gods were Luxury and Chance—
The old life shrivel like a scroll,
And to unheralded dismays
Submits his body and his soul:
Forgoing, and the idiot pride,
That he may prove with his own blood
All that his easy sires denied—
Demands, abasements, penalties—
The imperishable plinth of things
Seen and unseen, that touch our peace.
His vision through the after-years,
Yet virtue shall go out of him—
Example profiting his peers.
Aloof till great occasion rise,
But serve, full-harnessed, as of old,
The Days that are the Destinies.
The idols of his sheltered house;
And to Necessity shall pay
Unflinching tribute of his vows.
Nor bind him in another's oath
To weigh the Word above the Fact,
Or make or take excuse for sloth.
And, long-ingrainèd effort goad
To find, to fashion, and fulfil
The cleaner life, the sterner code.
The world (unheeding his return)
Shall see it in his children's eyes
And from his grandson's lips shall learn.
THE COVENANT
Others might fall, not we, for we were wise—
Merchants in freedom. So, of our free-will
We let our servants drug our strength with lies.
The pleasure and the poison had its way
On us as on the meanest, till we learned
That he who lies will steal, who steals will slay.
Neither God's judgment nor man's heart was turned.
Through wrath and peril till we cleanse the wrong
By that last right which our forefathers claimed
When their Law failed them and its stewards were bought.
This is our cause. God help us, and make strong
Our will to meet Him later, unashamed!
THE OLD MEN
That we outlive the impatient years and the much too patient friend:
And because we know we have breath in our mouth and think we have thoughts in our head,
We shall assume that we are alive, whereas we are really dead.
(That the sere bush buds or the desert blooms or the ancient well-head dries),
Or any new compass wherewith new men adventure 'neath new skies.
We shall call to the water below the bridges to return and replenish our lands;
We shall harness horses (Death's own pale horses) and scholarly plough the sands.
We shall rise up when the day is done and chirrup, “Behold, it is day!”
We shall abide till the battle is won ere we amble into the fray.
The flaccid tissues of long-dead issues offensive to God and mankind—
(Precisely like vultures over an ox that the Army has left behind).
Immodestly smearing from muddled palettes amazing pigments mismated—
And our friends will weep when we ask them with boasts if our natural force be abated.
And whatever we do, we shall fold our hands and suck our gums and think well of it.
Yes, we shall be perfectly pleased with our work, and that is the Perfectest Hell of it!
That we are shunned by the people about and shamed by the Powers above us.
Wherefore be free of your harness betimes; but, being free, be assured,
That he who hath not endured to the death, from his birth he hath never endured!
THE OUTLAWS
They set themselves to find
Fresh terrors and undreamed-of fears
To heap upon mankind.
Or digged from earth beneath,
They laid into their treasure-trove
And arsenals of death:
Ruler and ruled alike
Built up the faith they meant to break
When the fit hour should strike.
And good return it gave:
They plotted by their neighbour's hearth
The means to make him slave.
They loosed their hidden sword,
And utterly laid waste a land
Their oath was pledged to guard.
To life and make more dread
Abominations of old days,
That men believed were dead.
Across a world in flame;
But their own hate slew their own soul
Before that victory came.
THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN
Send forth the best ye breed—
Go bind your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild—
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child.
In patience to abide,
To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
An hundred times made plain,
To seek another's profit,
And work another's gain.
The savage wars of peace—
Fill full the mouth of Famine
And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
The end for others sought,
Watch Sloth and heathen Folly
Bring all your hope to nought.
No tawdry rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper—
The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
The roads ye shall not tread,
Go make them with your living,
And mark them with your dead!
And reap his old reward:
The blame of those ye better,
The hate of those ye guard—
The cry of hosts ye humour
(Ah, slowly!) toward the light:—
“Why brought ye us from bondage,
“Our loved Egyptian night?”
Ye dare not stoop to less—
Nor call too loud on Freedom
To cloak your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
The silent, sullen peoples
Shall weigh your Gods and you.
Have done with childish days—
The lightly proffered laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years,
Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom,
The judgment of your peers!
HYMN BEFORE ACTION
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!
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!
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.
Revenge that knows no rein—
Light haste and lawless error,
Protect us yet again.
Cloke Thou our undeserving,
Make firm the shuddering breath,
In silence and unswerving
To taste Thy lesser death.
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 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!
A SONG AT COCK-CROW
He shrank from the cudgel, the scourge and the cord,
But followed far off to see what they would do,
Till the cock crew—till the cock crew—
After Gethsemane, till the cock crew!
'Twas only a maid in the palace who heard,
As he sat by the fire and warmed himself through.
Then the cock crew! Then the cock crew!
(“Thou also art one of them.”) Then the cock crew!
He had neither the Throne, nor the Keys nor the Sword—
A poor silly fisherman, what could he do,
When the cock crew—when the cock crew—
But weep for his wickedness when the cock crew?
He was Fisher of Men, as foretold by the Word,
With the Crown on his brow and the Cross on his shoe,
When the cock crew—when the cock crew—
In Flanders and Picardy when the cock crew!
'Twas Mary the Mother in Heaven Who heard,
And She grieved for the maidens and wives that they slew
When the cock crew—when the cock crew—
At Tirmonde and Aerschott when the cock crew!
The Babe in the Manger awakened and stirred,
And He stretched out His arms for the playmates He knew—
When the cock crew—when the cock crew—
But the waters had covered them when the cock crew!
'Twas Earth in her agony waited his word,
But he sat by the fire and naught would he do,
Though the cock crew—though the cock crew—
Over all Christendom, though the cock crew!
The Father took from him the Keys and the Sword,
And the Mother and Babe brake his Kingdom in two,
When the cock crew—when the cock crew—
(Because of his wickedness) when the cock crew!
THE QUESTION
When the war is laid aside,
If it be proven that I am he
For whom a world has died?
And the greater good I will make,
Were purchased me by a multitude
Who suffered for my sake?
Vowed to one sacrifice,
And not, as I hold them, battle-blind,
But dying with open eyes?
When they stood to endure their lot—
That they only looked to me for a word,
And I answered I knew them not?
Their death has set me free,
Then how shall I live with myself through the years
Which they have bought for me?
Or how am I justified,
If it be proven that I am he
For whom mankind has died—
If it be proven that I am he
Who, being questioned, denied?
Attitude of the United States of America during the first two years, seven months and four days of the Great War.
RECESSIONAL
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word—
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!
“FOR ALL WE HAVE AND ARE”
For all our children's fate,
Stand up and take the war.
The Hun is at the gate!
Our world has passed away,
In wantonness o'erthrown.
There is nothing left to-day
But steel and fire and stone!
Though all we knew depart,
The old Commandments stand:—
“In courage keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand.”
That sickened earth of old:—
“No law except the Sword
Unsheathed and uncontrolled.”
Once more the nations go
To meet and break and bind
A crazed and driven foe.
The ages' slow-bought gain,
They shrivelled in a night.
Only ourselves remain
To face the naked days
In silent fortitude,
Through perils and dismays
Renewed and re-renewed.
Though all we made depart,
The old Commandments stand:—
“In patience keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand.”
Shall bring us to our goal,
But iron sacrifice
Of body, will, and soul.
There is but one task for all—
One life for each to give.
What stands if Freedom fall?
Who dies if England live?
THE THREE-DECKER
It took a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail;
But, spite all modern notions, I've found her first and best—
The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest.
We'd stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs.
And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest.
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 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.
The villain had his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered.
'Twas fiddle in the foc's'le—'twas garlands on the mast,
For every one got married, and I went ashore at last.
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!. . .
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.
Ay, blow your shrieking sirens at the deaf, grey-bearded seas!
Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep's unrest—
And you aren't one knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest.
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 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!
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.
You're manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming's sake?
Well, tinker up your engines—you know your business best—
She's taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!
THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS
[This ballad appears to refer to one of the exploits of the notorious Paul Jones, an American pirate. It is founded on fact.]
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 Chaplain of the Fleet—the bravest of them all.
Their good guns guarded their great grey 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.
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 for 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 deck-house 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.
“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 in 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.
“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.
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 dipsy-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!”
THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS
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?”
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.
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.
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?”
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 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?”
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?”
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!
EVARRA AND HIS GODS
Read here:
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
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: “Thus Gods are made,
“And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”
And all the city praised him. . . . Then he died.
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
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: “Thus Gods are made,
“And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”
And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died.
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
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 brow for eye, and gave it hair
Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown.
And all the village praised him for his craft,
And brought him butter, honey, milk, and curds.
Wherefore, because the shoutings drove him mad,
He scratched upon that log: “Thus Gods are made,
“And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”
And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died.
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
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,
Uncleanly, shapeless, crowned with plantain tufts,
And when the cattle lowed at twilight-time,
And howled among the beasts: “Thus Gods are made,
“And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”
Thereat the cattle bellowed. . . . Then he died.
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.
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
THE BENEFACTORS
And what the cultured word,
Against the undoctored incident
That actually occurred?
Through paint and prose and rhyme—
When Nature in her nakedness
Defeats us every time?
Nor easy meat and drink,
But bitter pinch of pain and fear
That makes creation think.
Our godlike race began,
The longest arm, the sharpest tooth,
Gave man control of man;
And taught by pain and fear,
He learned to deal the far-off stone,
And poke the long, safe spear.
As means against a foe,
Till, bored by uniform defeat,
Some genius built the bow.
As old-time tooth and nail;
Till, spurred anew by fear and pain,
Man fashioned coats of mail.
And danger for the poor,
Till someone mixed a powder which
Redressed the scale once more.
With sword and bow and pike,
And, when the smoke of battle cleared,
All men were armed alike. . . .
To please one crazy king,
Man, schooled in bulk by fear and pain,
Grew weary of the thing;
To enslave him past recall,
His tooth-stone-arrow-gun-shy mind
Turned and abolished all.
Whose head has grown too large,
Ends by destroying its own job
And works its own discharge;
Move all things from his path,
Trembles meanwhile at their decrees,
And deprecates their wrath!
IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE
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.
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.
'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.
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.”
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!”
Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail;
And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer,
And a minor poet certified by Traill!
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 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.
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.
And the reindeer roamed where Paris roars to-night:—
“There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
“And—every—single—one—of—them—is—right!”
NATURAL THEOLOGY
PRIMITIVE
I ate my fill of a whale that diedAnd stranded after a month at sea. . . .
There is a pain in my inside.
Why have the Gods afflicted me?
Wow! I am sick till I cannot see!
What is the sense of Religion and Faith?
Look how the Gods have afflicted me!
PAGAN
How can the skin of rat or mouse holdAnything more than a harmless flea? . . .
The burning plague has taken my household.
Why have my Gods afflicted me?
All my kith and kin are deceased,
Though they were as good as good could be.
I will out and batter the family priest,
Because my Gods have afflicted me!
MEDIÆVAL
My privy and well drain into each otherAfter the custom of Christendie. . . .
Fevers and fluxes are wasting my mother.
Why has the Lord afflicted me?
The Saints are helpless for all I offer—
So are the clergy I used to fee.
Henceforward I keep my cash in my coffer,
Because the Lord has afflicted me.
MATERIAL
I run eight hundred hens to the acre.They die by dozens mysteriously. . . .
I am more than doubtful concerning my Maker.
Why has the Lord afflicted me?
What a return for all my endeavour—
Not to mention the L. S. D.!
I am an atheist now and for ever,
Because this God has afflicted me!
PROGRESSIVE
Money spent on an Army or FleetIs homicidal lunacy. . . .
My son has been killed in the Mons retreat.
Why is the Lord afflicting me?
And rape allowed by the Deity?
I will write to the Times, deriding our parson,
Because my God has afflicted me.
CHORUS
We had a kettle: we let it leak:Our not repairing it made it worse.
We haven't had any tea for a week. . . .
The bottom is out of the Universe!
CONCLUSION
This was none of the good Lord's pleasure,For the Spirit He breathed in Man is free;
But what comes after is measure for measure
And not a God that afflicteth thee.
As was the sowing so the reaping
Is now and evermore shall be.
Thou art delivered to thine own keeping.
Only Thyself hath afflicted thee!
THE STORY OF UNG
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. Read ye the story of Ung!
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!”
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, scriving them clearly on bone.
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?
“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?”
“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.
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?
“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.
“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.
“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 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 drew forward his mittens 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!”
Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scriving on bone—
Even to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled and sung,
Blessing his Tribe for their blindness. Heed ye the Story of Ung!
THE CRAFTSMAN
He to the overbearing Boanerges
Jonson, uttered (if half of it were liquor,
Blessed be the vintage!)
He had made sure of his very Cleopatra
Drunk with enormous, salvation-contemning
Love for a tinker.
Crouched in a ditch and drenched by the midnight
Dews, he had listened to gipsy Juliet
Rail at the dawning.
Winced at the business; whereupon his sister—
Lady Macbeth aged seven—thrust 'em under,
Sombrely scornful.
She being known since her birth to the townsfolk—
Stratford dredged and delivered from Avon
Dripping Ophelia.
Drop to wine-drop domed on the table,
Shakespeare opened his heart till the sunrise
Entered to hear him.
Passed from waking to hurry after shadows . . .
Busied upon shows of no earthly importance?
Yes, but he knew it!
SAMUEL PEPYS
Through earth and stillness seeking food
Most apt to furnish in the end
That dense, indomitable wood
Of Ostia's mole or—bent to frame
The beaked Liburnian's triple bank—
Carry afar the Roman name;
Through gentler Gods than Wind or Tide,
Delightedly to harbour doves,
Or take some clasping vine for bride;
(Since even now his orders hold)
A little State might ride secure
At sea from foes her sloth made bold,—
As Venus drove or Liber led,
And snatched from any shrine he found
The Stolen Draught, the Secret Bread.
No gust unslaked, no pleasure missed.
He called the obedient Nine to aid
The varied chase. And Clio kissed;
Shame, panic, stratagem, and lie
In full, that sinners undiscov-
ered, like ourselves, might say:—“'Tis I!”
THE BONFIRES
We know the Boom before the Bust.
We know the whistling Wail which is
The Stick returning to the Dust.
We know how much to take on trust
Of any promised Paradise.
We know the Pie—likewise the Crust.
We know the Bonfire on the Ice.
We know Great Cry and Little Wool.
We know the purseless Ears of Sows.
We know the Frog that aped the Bull.
We know, whatever Trick we pull,
(Ourselves have gambled once or twice)
A Bobtailed Flush is not a Full.
We know the Bonfire on the Ice.
Till Demos votes them Three or Nought.
We know the Fenris Wolf is loose.
We know what Fight has not been fought.
We know the Father to the Thought
Which argues Babe and Cockatrice
Would play together, were they taught.
We know that Bonfire on the Ice.
We know the Key must keep the Door.
We know his Boot-straps cannot lift
The frightened Waster off the Floor.
We know these things, and we deplore
That not by any Artifice
Can they be altered. Furthermore
We know the Bonfires on the Ice!
“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 shepherds an' the sailors, too,
They 'eard old songs turn up again,
But kep' it quiet—same as you!
They didn't tell, nor make a fuss,
But winked at 'Omer down the road,
An' 'e winked back—the same as us!
THE FILES
(The Sub-editor speaks)
The Files—
Office Files!
Oblige me by referring to the Files.
Every question man can raise,
Every phrase of every phase
Of that question is on record in the Files—
(Threshed out threadbare—fought and finished in the Files).
Ere the Universe at large
Was our new-tipped arrows' targe—
Ere we rediscovered Mammon and his wiles—
Faenza, gentle reader, spent her—five-and-twentieth leader—
(You will find him, and some others, in the Files).
Warn all coming Robert Brownings and Carlyles,
It will interest them to hunt among the Files
Lie the crowded years of old
In that Kensal-Green of greatness called the Files
(In our newspaPère-la-Chaise the Office Files),
Where the dead men lay them down
Meekly sure of long renown,
And above them, sere and swift,
Packs the daily deepening drift
Of the all-recording, all-effacing Files—
The obliterating, automatic Files.
Count the mighty men who slung
Ink, Evangel, Sword, or Tongue
When Reform and you were young—
Made their boasts and spake according in the Files—
(Hear the ghosts that wake applauding in the Files!)
Trace each all-forgot career
From long primer through brevier
Unto Death, a para minion in the Files
(Para minion—solid—bottom of the Files). . . .
Some successful Kings and Queens adorn the Files.
They were great, their views were leaded,
And their deaths were triple-headed,
So they catch the eye in running through the Files
(Show as blazes in the mazes of the Files);
For their “paramours and priests,”
And their gross, jack-booted feasts,
And their “epoch-marking actions” see the Files.
Was it Bomba fled the blue Sicilian isles?
Was it Saffi, a professor
Once of Oxford, brought redress or
Garibaldi? Who remembers
Forty-odd-year-old Septembers?—
Only sextons paid to dig among the Files
(Such as I am, born and bred among the Files).
You must hack through much deposit
Ere you know for sure who was it
Came to burial with such honour in the Files
(Only seven seasons back beneath the Files).
“Very great our loss and grievous—
“So our best and brightest leave us,
“And it ends the Age of Giants,” say the Files;
All the '60—'70—'80—'90 Files
(The open-minded, opportunist Files—
It is good to read a little in the Files;
'Tis a sure and sovereign balm
Unto philosophic calm,
Yea, and philosophic doubt when Life beguiles.
When you know Success is Greatness,
When you marvel at your lateness
In apprehending facts so plain to Smiles
(Self-helpful, wholly strenuous Samuel Smiles).
When your Imp of Blind Desire
Bids you set the Thames afire,
You'll remember men have done so—in the Files.
You'll have seen those flames transpire—in the Files
(More than once that flood has run so—in the Files).
When the Conchimarian horns
Of the reboantic Norns
Usher gentlemen and ladies
With new lights on Heaven and Hades,
Guaranteeing to Eternity
All yesterday's modernity;
When Brocken-spectres made by
Some one's breath on ink parade by,
Very earnest and tremendous,
Let not shows of shows offend us.
When of everything we like we
Shout ecstatic: “Quod ubique,
“Quod ab omnibus means semper!”
Oh, my brother, keep your temper!
Light your pipe and take a look along the Files.
You've a better chance to guess
At the meaning of Success
(Which is Greatness—vide Press)
When you've seen it in perspective in the Files!
THE VIRGINITY
From his first love, no matter who she be.
Oh, was there ever sailor free to choose,
That didn't settle somewhere near the sea?
To watch a pack o' shipping on the sea;
But I can understand my neighbour's views
From certain things which have occurred to me.
To earn their living, even when they are free;
And so come back upon the least excuse—
Same as the sailor settled near the sea.
He knows he's done and finished with the sea;
And yet he likes to feel she's there to use—
If he should ask her—as she used to be.
Even though she made him sick to hear or see,
Still, what she left of him will mostly choose
Her skirts to sit by. How comes such to be?
Kings on your thrones, you know as well as me,
We've only one virginity to lose,
And where we lost it there our hearts will be!
THE LEGENDS OF EVIL
I
Told as the twilight fails
And the monkeys walk together
Holding their neighbours' tails:—
“Foolish people were they,
“They went down to the cornland
“To teach the farmers to play.
“Our fathers skipped in the wheat;
“Our fathers hung from the branches,
“Our fathers danced in the street.
“Nothing of play they knew,
“Only . . . they caught our fathers
“And set them to labour too!
“With ploughs and sickles and flails,
“Put them in mud-walled prisons,
“And—cut off their beautiful tails!
“Sullen and bowed and old,
“Stooping over the millet,
“Sharing the silly mould;
“Mending a muddy yoke,
“Sleeping in mud-walled prisons,
“Steeping their food in smoke.
“For if the farmers knew
“They would come up to the forest
“And set us to labour too.”
Told as the twilight fails
And the monkeys walk together
Holding their neighbours' tails.
II
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.
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 ye, ye spalpeen!” an' the Donkey wint aboard.
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!”
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.
“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!”
PAN IN VERMONT
The boulders nose above the drift, the southern slopes are bare;
Hub-deep in slush Apollo's car swings north along the Zod-
iac. Good lack, the Spring is back, and Pan is on the road!
He sold us Zeus knows what last year; he'll take us in again.
Disguised behind a livery-team, fur-coated, rubber-shod—
Yet Apis from the bull-pen lows—he knows his brother God!
Pithys of old thy love behold! Come in for Hermes' sake!
How long since that so-Boston boot with reeling Mænads ran?
Numen adest! Let be the rest. Pipe and we pay, O Pan.
What though his ampelopsis clambered not as advertised?
Though every seed was guaranteed and every standard true—
Forget, forgive they did not live! Believe, and buy anew!)
Such bloom hath never eye beheld this side the Eden Sword;
Such fruit Pomona marks her own, yea, Liber oversees,
That we may reach (one dollar each) the Lost Hesperides!
Blue Asphodel on all our paths—a few true bays for crown—
Uncankered bud, immortal flower, and leaves that never fall—
Apples of Gold, of Youth, of Health—and—thank you, Pan, that's all. . . .
And swindle every citizen from Keene to Lake Champlain;
But where his goat's-hoof cut the crust—beloved, look below—
He's left us (I'll forgive him all) the may-flower 'neath her snow!
VERSES ON GAMES
(To “An Almanac of Twelve Sports”, by W. Nicholson, 1898)
Here is a gun to handle—
God knows you can enter the game
If you'll only pay for the same,
And the price of the game is a candle—
A single flickering candle!
January (Hunting)
And men have quitted selle and swum for't.
But I am of the meeker sort
And I prefer Surtees in comfort.
My run, where never danger lurks, is
With Jorrocks and his deathless train—
Pigg, Binjimin, and Artaxerxes.
February (Coursing)
Most men harry the world for fun—Each man seeks it a different way,
But “of all the daft devils under the sun,
A greyhound's the daftest,” says Jorrocks J.
March (Racing)
The horse is ridden—the jockey rides—The backers back—the owners own—
But . . . there are lots of things besides,
And I should let this game alone.
April (Rowing)
The Pope of Rome he could not winFrom pleasant meats and pleasant sin
These who, replying not, submit
Unto the curses of the Pit
Which that stern Coach (oh, greater shame)
Flings forth by number not by name.
Can Triple Crown or Jesuit's oath
Do what one wrathful trainer doth?
May (Fishing)
Behold a parable. A fished for BC took her bait; her heart being set on D.
Thank Heaven who cooled your blood and cramped your wishes,
Men and not Gods torment you, little fishes!
June (Cricket)
Thank God who made the British IslesAnd taught me how to play,
I do not worship crocodiles,
Or bow the knee to clay!
Give me a willow wand and I
With hide and cork and twine
From century to century
Will gambol round my shrine!
July (Archery)
The child of the Nineties considers with laughterThe maid whom his sire in the Sixties ran after,
While careering himself in pursuit of a girl whom
The Twenties will dub a “last-century heirloom.”
August (Coaching)
The Pious Horse to church may trot,A maid may work a man's salvation. . . .
Four horses and a girl are not,
However, roads to reformation.
September (Shooting)
“Peace upon Earth, Goodwill to men”So greet we Christmas Day!
Oh, Christian, load your gun and then,
Oh, Christian, out and slay.
October (Golf)
Why Golf is Art and Art is GolfWe have not far to seek—
So much depends upon the lie,
So much upon the cleek.
November (Boxing)
Read here the moral roundly writFor him who into battle goes—
Each soul that, hitting hard or hit,
Endureth gross or ghostly foes.
Prince, blown by many overthrows
Half blind with shame, half choked with dirt,
Man cannot tell, but Allah knows
How much the other side was hurt!
December (Skating)
Over the ice she fliesPerfect and poised and fair.
Stars in my true-love's eyes
Teach me to do and dare.
Now will I fly as she flies—
Woe for the stars that misled.
Stars I beheld in her eyes
Now do I see in my head!
What are you out of pocket?
'Sorry to spoil your play
But somebody says we must pay,
And the candle's down to the socket—
Its horrible tallowy socket.
TOMLINSON
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 on little Earth so lone!”
And the naked soul of Tomlinson grew white as a rainwashed bone.
“And well would he answer all for me if he were at 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 the tale and spoke of his good in life.
“O 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!
“Through borrowed deed to God's good meed that lies so fair within;
“Get hence, get hence to the Lord of Wrong, for the doom has yet to run,
“And . . . the faith that ye share with Berkeley Square uphold you, Tomlinson!”
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
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 sins 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—
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, Sire, 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;
“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—ay, 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!”
EN-DOR
For Mother or yearning Wife.
There, it is sure, we shall meet our Dead
As they were even in life.
Earth has not dreamed of the blessing in store
For desolate hearts on the road to En-dor.
Hands—ah, God!—that we knew!
Visions and voices—look and hark!—
Shall prove that the tale is true,
And that those who have passed to the further shore
May be hailed—at a price—on the road to En-dor.
Nothing they say can reach,
Unless it be uttered by alien lips
And framed in a stranger's speech.
The son must send word to the mother that bore,
Through an hireling's mouth. 'Tis the rule of En-dor.
By such as delight our Dead.
They must twitch and stiffen and slaver and groan
Ere the eyes are set in the head,
And the voice from the belly begins. Therefore,
We pay them a wage where they ply at En-dor.
And patience to follow the clue.
Often, at first, what the dear one saith
Is babble, or jest, or untrue.
(Lying spirits perplex us sore
Till our loves—and their lives—are well known at En-dor). . . .
And the craziest road of all!
Straight it runs to the Witch's abode,
As it did in the days of Saul,
And nothing has changed of the sorrow in store
For such as go down on the road to En-dor!
THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
For the Woman that God gave him isn't his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other's tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.
A RECANTATION (TO LYDE OF THE MUSIC HALLS)
Since, answered or unheard,
We perish with the Gods and all
Things made—except the Word.
By fifty years made cold,
I judged thee, Lyde, and thy art
O'erblown and over-bold.
I suffer vacant days—
He on his shield not meanly left—
He cherished all thy lays.
With convoluted runes
Wherein thy very voice was locked
And linked to circling tunes.
That decked his shelter-place.
Life seemed more present, wrote the child,
Beneath thy well-known face.
Him for a breath to home,
He, with fresh crowds of youth, adored
Thee making mirth in Rome.
Loyal and loud, who bow
To thee as Queen of Song—and ghosts,
For I remember how
At thy audacious line
Than when the news came in from Gaul
Thy son had—followed mine.
And, capering, took the brunt
Of blaze and blare, and launched the jest
That swept next week the Front.
Sleep before noon—but thee,
Wakeful each midnight for the rest,
No holocaust shall free!
To hearten and make whole,
Not less than Gods have served mankind,
Though vultures rend their soul.
THE EXPLANATION
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?
A PILGRIM'S WAY
Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.
If these are added, I rejoice—if not, I shall not mind,
So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.
For as we come and as we go (and deadly-soon go we!)
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
(Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right),
And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred
(Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head).
And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.
And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;
Since I myself have done no less and—sometimes pulled it off!
Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean).
And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise;
No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside courtesies.
But, as we give and as we take—whate'er our takings be—
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
There is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spare
Till I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we have
Show nothing irredeemable on either side the grave.
For as we live and as we die—if utter Death there be—
The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
That bars me from a brother's side, whatever pride he show.
And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and pen
That bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged. Amen!
That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,
That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,
To prove the same by deed and name, and hold unshakenly
(Where'er I go, whate'er I know, whoe'er my neighbour be)
This single faith in Life and Death and to Eternity:
“The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!”
THE ANSWER
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!’”
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.
MARY'S SON
And how they will clothe and feed you,
Willie, my son, don't you go on the Sea,
For the Sea will never need you.
And argue with people about you,
Willie, my son, don't you go on the Land,
For the Land will do better without you.
And to boast what your labour is worth, dear,
Angels may come for you, Willie, my son,
But you'll never be wanted on Earth, dear!
THE GIFT OF THE SEA
And the widow watched beside;
And her mother slept, and the Channel swept
The gale in the teeth of the tide.
“I have lost my man in the sea,
“And the child is dead. Be still,” she said,
“What more can ye do to me?”
And the candle guttered low,
And she tried to sing the Passing Song
That bids the poor soul go.
“That lay against my heart.”
And “Mary smooth your crib to-night,”
But she could not say “Depart.”
But the sea-rime blinded the glass,
And “Heard ye nothing, mother?” she said,
“'Tis the child that waits to pass.”
“'Tis a lambing ewe in the whin,
“For why should the christened soul cry out
“That never knew of sin?”
“O hands at my heart to catch,
“How should they know the road to go,
“And how should they lift the latch?”
With the little quilt atop,
That it might not hurt from the cold or the dirt,
But the crying would not stop.
And strained her eyes to see,
And opened the door on the bitter shore
To let the soul go free.
There was neither spirit nor spark,
And “Heard ye nothing, mother?” she said,
“'Tis crying for me in the dark.”
“'Tis sorrow makes ye dull;
“Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern,
“Or the wail of the wind-blown gull?”
“The grey gull follows the plough.
“'Twas never a bird, the voice I heard,
“O mother, I hear it now!”
“The child is passed from harm,
“'Tis the ache in your breast that broke your rest,
“And the feel of an empty arm.”
“In Mary's name let be!
“For the peace of my soul I must go,” she said,
And she went to the calling sea.
Where the twisted weed was piled,
She came to the life she had missed by an hour,
For she came to a little child.
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 her own in the shroud lay stark;
And “God forgive us, mother,” she said,
“We let it die in the dark!”
THE KING
“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!”
“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!”
“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!”
“Our keels have 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 sails. Romance, farewell!”
“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!”
“He 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 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!
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!”
THE LAST RHYME OF TRUE THOMAS
The King has taken spur and blade
To dub True Thomas a belted knight,
And all for the sake of the songs he made.
They have sought him over down and lea.
They have found him by the milk-white thorn
That guards the Gates of Faerie.
Their eyes were held that they might not see
The kine that grazed beneath the knowes,
Oh, they were the Queens of Faerie!
“Oh, cease your song and get you dight
“To vow your vow and watch your arms,
“For I will dub you a belted knight.
“Wi' blazon and spur and page and squire;
“Wi' keep and tail and seizin and law,
“And land to hold at your desire.”
And turned his face to the naked sky,
Where, blown before the wastrel wind,
The thistle-down she floated by.
“And bitter oath it was on me.
“I ha' watched my arms the lee-long night,
“Where five-score fighting men would flee.
“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 sword so brown,
“But spill the rings of the Gentle Folk
“And flyte my kin in the Fairy Town?
“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?
“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 roarin' sea,
“Wi' word of Spirit and Ghost and Flesh,
“And man, that's mazed among the three.”
And smote his hand upon his knee:
“By the faith of my soul, True Thomas,” he said,
“Ye waste no wit in courtesie!
“Can I make Earls by three and three,
“To run before and ride behind
“And serve the sons o' my body.”
“Or all the sons o' your body?
“Before they win to the Pride o' Name,
“I trow they all ask leave o' me.
“As I make Shame wi' mincing 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 white money,
“And some they give me a clout o' meal,
“For they be people of low degree.
“The same I sing for the white money,
“But best I sing for the clout o' meal
“That simple people given me.”
A silver groat o' Scots money,
“If I come wi' a poor man's dole,” he said,
“True Thomas, will ye harp to me?”
“They press me close on either hand.
“And who are you,” True Thomas said,
“That you should ride while they must stand?
“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.”
And set his back against a stone.
“Now guard you well,” True Thomas said,
“Ere I rax your heart from your breast-bone!”
The fairy harp that couldna lee,
And the first least word the proud King heard,
It harpit the salt tear out o' his e'e.
“I touch the hope that I may not see,
“And all that I did of hidden shame,
“Like little snakes they hiss at me.
“The dread of doom has grippit me.
“True Thomas, hide me under your cloak,
“God wot, I'm little fit to dee!”
'Twas open field and running flood—
Where, hot on heath and dyke and wall,
The high sun warmed the adder's brood.
“The God shall judge when all is done,
“But I will bring you a better word
“And lift the cloud that I laid on.”
That birled and brattled to his hand,
And the next least word True Thomas made,
It garred the King take horse and brand.
“I see the sun on splent and spear.
“I mark the arrow outen the fern
“That flies so low and sings so clear!
“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 nodding grass and naked sky,
Where, ringing up the wastrel wind,
The eyass stooped upon the pye.
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.
“To love my love withouten fear;
“To walk with man in fellowship,
“And breathe my horse behind the deer.
“The buck has couched beyond the burn,
“My love she waits at her window
“To wash my hands when I return.
“(Oh! I have seen my true love's eyes)
“To stand with Adam in Eden-glade,
“And run in the woods o' Paradise!”
'Twas running flood and wastrel wind,
Where, checked against the open pass,
The red deer turned to wait the hind.
And louted low at the saddle-side;
He has taken stirrup and hauden rein,
And set the King on his horse o' pride.
“That sit so still, that muse so long?
“Sleep ye or wake?—till the Latter Sleep
“I trow ye'll not forget my song.
“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 your midmost soul in three.
“I ha' harpit ye down to the Hinges o' Hell,
“And—ye—would—make—a Knight o' me!”
THE SONS OF MARTHA
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd—they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit—then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.
They are concerned with matters hidden—under the earthline their altars are—
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they dam'-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.
Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet—they hear the Word—they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and—the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!
HYMN OF BREAKING STRAIN
(Let all who build beware!)
The load, the shock, the pressure
Material can bear.
So, when the buckled girder
Lets down the grinding span,
The blame of loss, or murder,
Is laid upon the man.
Not on the Stuff—the Man!
With stone and steel, we find
The Gods have no such feeling
Of justice toward mankind.
To no set gauge they make us,—
For no laid course prepare—
And presently o'ertake us
With loads we cannot bear:
Too merciless to bear.
In tables at the end—
The stress that shears a rivet
Or makes a tie-bar bend—
What traffic wrecks macadam—
What concrete should endure—
But we, poor Sons of Adam,
Have no such literature,
To warn us or make sure!
All Time and Space as well—
Too wonder-stale to wonder
At each new miracle;
Till, in the mid-illusion
Of Godhead 'neath our hand,
Falls multiple confusion
On all we did or planned—
The mighty works we planned.
(Oh, luckier bridge and rail!)
Abide the twin-damnation—
To fail and know we fail.
Yet we—by which sole token
We know we once were Gods—
Take shame in being broken
However great the odds—
The Burden or the Odds.
Whose paths we seek in vain,
Be with us in our hour
Of overthrow and pain;
That we—by which sure token
We know Thy ways are true—
In spite of being broken,
Because of being broken,
May rise and build anew.
Stand up and build anew!
THE PALACE
I cleared me ground for a Palace such as a King should build.
I decreed and dug down to my levels. Presently, under the silt,
I came on the wreck of a Palace such as a King had built.
Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings ran—
Masonry, brute, mishandled, but carven on every stone:
“After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known.”
Lime I milled of his marbles; burned it, slacked it, and spread;
Taking and leaving at pleasure the gifts of the humble dead.
I read in the razed foundations the heart of that builder's heart.
As he had risen and pleaded, so did I understand
The form of the dream he had followed in the face of the thing he had planned.
They sent me a Word from the Darkness. They whispered and called me aside.
They said—“The end is forbidden.” They said—“Thy use is fulfilled.
“Thy Palace shall stand as that other's—the spoil of a King who shall build.”
I called my men from my trenches, my quarries, my wharves, and my sheers.
All I had wrought I abandoned to the faith of the faithless years.
Only I cut on the timber—only I carved on the stone:
“After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known!”
EPITAPHS OF THE WAR
“EQUALITY OF SACRIFICE”
A.“I was a Have.”
B.
“I was a ‘have-not.’” (Together.)
“What hast thou given which I gave not?”
A SERVANT
We were together since the War began.He was my servant—and the better man.
A SON
My son was killed while laughing at some jest. I would I knewWhat it was, and it might serve me in a time when jests are few.
AN ONLY SON
I have slain none except my Mother. She(Blessing her slayer) died of grief for me.
EX-CLERK
Pity not! The Army gaveFreedom to a timid slave:
In which Freedom did he find
Strength of body, will, and mind:
By which strength he came to prove
Mirth, Companionship, and Love:
For which Love to Death he went:
In which Death he lies content.
THE WONDER
Body and Spirit I surrendered wholeTo harsh Instructors—and received a soul . . .
If mortal man could change me through and through
From all I was—what may The God not do?
HINDU SEPOY IN FRANCE
This man in his own country prayed we know not to what Powers.We pray Them to reward him for his bravery in ours.
THE COWARD
I could not look on Death, which being known,Men led me to him, blindfold and alone.
SHOCK
My name, my speech, my self I had forgot.My wife and children came—I knew them not.
I died. My Mother followed. At her call
And on her bosom I remembered all.
A GRAVE NEAR CAIRO
Gods of the Nile, should this stout fellow hereGet out—get out! He knows not shame nor fear.
PELICANS IN THE WILDERNESS
A Grave near Halfa
The blown sand heaps on me, that none may learnWhere I am laid for whom my children grieve. . . .
O wings that beat at dawning, ye return
Out of the desert to your young at eve!
TWO CANADIAN MEMORIALS
I
We giving all gained all.Neither lament us nor praise.
Only in all things recall,
It is Fear, not Death that slays.
II
From little towns in a far land we came,To save our honour and a world aflame.
By little towns in a far land we sleep;
And trust that world we won for you to keep!
THE FAVOUR
Death favoured me from the first, well knowing I could not endureTo wait on him day by day. He quitted my betters and came
Whistling over the fields, and, when he had made all sure,
“Thy line is at end,” he said, “but at least I have saved its name.”
THE BEGINNER
On the first hour of my first dayIn the front trench I fell.
(Children in boxes at a play
Stand up to watch it well.)
R.A.F. (AGED EIGHTEEN)
Laughing through clouds, his milk-teeth still unshed,Cities and men he smote from overhead.
His deaths delivered, he returned to play
Childlike, with childish things now put away.
THE REFINED MAN
I was of delicate mind. I stepped aside for my needs,Disdaining the common office. I was seen from afar and killed. . . .
How is this matter for mirth? Let each man be judged by his deeds.
I have paid my price to live with myself on the terms that I willed.
NATIVE WATER-CARRIER (M.E.F.)
Prometheus brought down fire to men.This brought up water.
The Gods are jealous—now, as then,
Giving no quarter.
BOMBED IN LONDON
On land and sea I strove with anxious careTo escape conscription. It was in the air!
THE SLEEPY SENTINEL
Faithless the watch that I kept: now I have none to keep.I was slain because I slept: now I am slain I sleep.
Let no man reproach me again, whatever watch is unkept—
I sleep because I am slain. They slew me because I slept.
BATTERIES OUT OF AMMUNITION
If any mourn us in the workshop, sayWe died because the shift kept holiday.
COMMON FORM
If any question why we died,Tell them, because our fathers lied.
A DEAD STATESMAN
I could not dig: I dared not rob:Therefore I lied to please the mob.
Now all my lies are proved untrue
And I must face the men I slew.
What tale shall serve me here among
Mine angry and defrauded young?
THE REBEL
If I had clamoured at Thy GateFor gift of Life on Earth,
And, thrusting through the souls that wait,
Flung headlong into birth—
Even then, even then, for gin and snare
About my pathway spread,
Lord, I had mocked Thy thoughtful care
Before I joined the Dead!
But now? . . . I was beneath Thy Hand
Ere yet the Planets came.
And now—though Planets pass, I stand
The witness to Thy shame!
THE OBEDIENT
Daily, though no ears attended,Did my prayers arise.
Daily, though no fire descended,
Did I sacrifice.
Though my darkness did not lift,
Though I faced no lighter odds,
Though the Gods bestowed no gift,
None the less,
None the less, I served the Gods!
A DRIFTER OFF TARENTUM
He from the wind-bitten North with ship and companions descended,Searching for eggs of death spawned by invisible hulls.
Many he found and drew forth. Of a sudden the fishery ended
In flame and a clamorous breath known to the eye-pecking gulls.
DESTROYERS IN COLLISION
For Fog and Fate no charm is foundTo lighten or amend.
I, hurrying to my bride, was drowned—
Cut down by my best friend.
CONVOY ESCORT
I was a shepherd to foolsCauselessly bold or afraid.
They would not abide by my rules.
Yet they escaped. For I stayed.
UNKNOWN FEMALE CORPSE
Headless, lacking foot and hand,Horrible I come to land.
I beseech all women's sons
Know I was a mother once.
RAPED AND REVENGED
One used and butchered me: another spiedMe broken—for which thing an hundred died.
So it was learned among the heathen hosts
How much a freeborn woman's favour costs.
SALONIKAN GRAVE
I have watched a thousand daysPush out and crawl into night
Slowly as tortoises.
Now I, too, follow these.
It is fever, and not the fight—
Time, not battle,—that slays.
THE BRIDEGROOM
If, from thy scarce-known breast
So little time removed,
In other arms I rest.
Whom coldly I embrace,
Was constant at my side
Before I saw thy face.
By miracle delayed—
At last is consummate,
And cannot be unmade.
Almost, of Memory,
And leave us to endure
Its immortality.
V.A.D. (MEDITERRANEAN)
Ah, would swift ships had never been, for then we ne'er had found,These harsh Ægean rocks between, this little virgin drowned,
Whom neither spouse nor child shall mourn, but men she nursed through pain
And—certain keels for whose return the heathen look in vain.
ACTORS
On a Memorial Tablet in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-on-Avon
We counterfeited once for your disportMen's joy and sorrow: but our day has passed.
We pray you pardon all where we fell short—
Seeing we were your servants to this last.
JOURNALISTS
On a Panel in the Hall of the Institute of Journalists
We have served our day.JUSTICE
And grieving strive the more,
The great days range like tides and leave
Our dead on every shore.
Heavy the load we undergo,
And our own hands prepare,
If we have parley with the foe,
The load our sons must bear.
That bids new worlds to birth,
Needs must we loosen first the sword
Of Justice upon earth;
Or else all else is vain
Since life on earth began,
And the spent world sinks back again
Hopeless of God and Man.
Through ancient sin grown strong,
Because they feared no reckoning
Would set no bound to wrong;
But now their hour is past,
And we who bore it find
Evil Incarnate held at last
To answer to mankind.
Of nations beat to dust,
For poisoned air and tortured soil
And cold, commanded lust,
And every secret woe
The shuddering waters saw—
Willed and fulfilled by high and low—
Let them relearn the Law:
Not high nor low shall say:—
“My haughty or my humble head
Has saved me in this day.”
Their remnant shall recall
Their fathers' old, confederate crime
Availed them not at all:
Nor Kings may build again
A people with the heart of beasts
Made wise concerning men.
Whereby our dead shall sleep
In honour, unbetrayed,
And we in faith and honour keep
That peace for which they paid.
SEVEN WATCHMEN
Watching what had come upon mankind,
Showed the Man the Glory and the Power,
And bade him shape the Kingdom to his mind.
“All things on Earth your will shall win you”
('Twas so their counsel ran).
“But the Kingdom—the Kingdom is within you,”
Said the Man's own mind to the Man.
For time—and some time—
As it was in the bitter years before
So it shall be in the over-sweetened hour—
That a man's mind is wont to tell him more
Than Seven Watchmen sitting in a tower.
TO THOMAS ATKINS
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!
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!
“BOBS”
Which is Bobs,
Rides the tallest 'orse 'e can—
Our Bobs.
If it bucks or kicks or rears,
'E can sit for twenty years
With a smile round both 'is ears—
Can't yer, Bobs?
'E's our pukka Kandaharder—
Fightin' Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
'E's the Dook of Aggy Chel;
'E's the man that done us well,
An' we'll follow 'im to 'ell—
Won't we, Bobs?
'Ook on Bobs.
If a marker's lost 'is place,
Dress by Bobs.
For 'e's eyes all up 'is coat,
An' a bugle in 'is throat,
An' you will not play the goat
Under Bobs.
Chaplain Bobs;
But it keeps us outer Clink—
Don't it, Bobs?
So we will not complain
Tho' 'e's water on the brain,
If 'e leads us straight again—
Blue-light Bobs.
Father Bobs,
You could spill a quart of lead
Outer Bobs.
'E's been at it thirty years,
An-amassin' souveneers
In the way o' slugs an' spears—
Ain't yer, Bobs?
Gen'ral Bobs,
You can arst the shop next door—
Can't they, Bobs?
Oh, 'e's little but he's wise,
'E's terror for 'is size,
An'—'e—does—not—advertise—
Do yer, Bobs?
Outer Bobs,
Which was but 'is fair reward—
Weren't it, Bobs?
So 'e'll wear a coronet
Where 'is 'elmet used to set;
But we know you won't forget—
Will yer, Bobs?
Pocket-Wellin'ton an' arder —
Fightin' Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
This ain't no bloomin' ode,
But you've 'elped the soldier's load,
An' for benefits bestowed,
Bless yer, Bobs!
DANNY DEEVER
“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'.
“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'!
“'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'.
“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'!
TOMMY
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
“FUZZY-WUZZY”
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 Suakim,
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
So 'ere's to 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.
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An' a Zulu impi 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 to 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 medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
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 to 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!
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 to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air—
You big black boundin' beggar—for you broke a British square!
SOLDIER, SOLDIER
“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.”
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.
“What did you see o' my true love?”
“I seen 'im serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle-green,
“An' you'd best go look for a new love.”
“Did ye see no more o' my true love?”
“I seen 'im runnin' by when the shots begun to fly—
“But you'd best go look for a new love.”
“Did aught take 'arm to my true love?”
“I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white—
“And you'd best go look for a new love.”
“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.”
“I'll down an' die with my true love!”
“The pit we dug'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty more beside 'im—
“An' you'd best go look for a new love.”
“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.”
“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 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 new love.
SCREW-GUNS
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!
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!
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!
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!
We're clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub, we're out on the rocks an' the snow,
The rattle an' stamp o' the lead-mules—the jinglety-jink o' the chains—'Tss! 'Tss!
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!
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!
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!
CELLS
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.
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.”
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.
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!
It ain't that I mind the Ord'ly-room—it's that that cuts so hard.
I'll take my oath before them both that I will sure abstain,
But as soon as I'm in with a mate and gin, I know I'll do it again!
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.”
GUNGA DIN
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! Slippy hitherao!
“Water, get it! Panee lao,
“You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”
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!”
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 juldee in it
“Or I'll marrow you this minute
“If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”
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 mussick on 'is back,
'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-ranks shout,
“Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!”
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!”
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
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!
OONTS
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 get 'im loaded up 'is blessed girth-rope breaks.
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!
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 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 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.
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!
LOOT
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.
( Cornet:
Toot! toot!)
Why, they call a man a robber if 'e stuffs 'is marchin' clobber
With the—
(Chorus)
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! (ff)
Whoopee! Tear 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu!
Loot! loot! loot!
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.
(Chorus)
With the loot, . . .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.
Where you 'ear it answer 'ollow to the boot
( Cornet:
Toot! toot!)—
When the ground begins to sink, shove your baynick down the chink,
An' you're sure to touch the—
(Chorus)
Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!Ow, the loot! . . .
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
( Cornet:
Toot! toot!)—
Before you sling your 'ook, at the 'ousetops take a look,
For it's underneath the tiles they 'ide the loot.
(Chorus)
Ow, the loot! . . .If you only take the proper way to go.
I could never keep my pickin's, but I've learned you all I knew—
But 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
( Cornet:
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!
(Chorus)
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 (fff)
Whoop 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!
Heeya! Sick 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot!
“SNARLEYOW”
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' Snarleyow.
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!
To learn a little schoolin' to a native army-core,
They 'ad nipped against an uphill, they was tuckin' down the brow,
When a tricky trundlin' roundshot give the knock to Snarleyow.
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 Snarleyow—'is head's between 'is 'eels!”
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 you—your 'ead between your 'eels!”
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.
“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.
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.
You 'aven't got no families when servin' of the Queen—
You 'aven'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!
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!)
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!)
It's safest to leave '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!)
BELTS
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.
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!
They called us “Delhi Rebels,” an' we answered “Threes about!”
That drew them like a hornets' nest—we met them good an' large,
The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.
We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru!
I misremember what occurred, but, subsequint the storm,
A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER
'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 of the Queen!
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 . . .
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 of the Queen!
MANDALAY
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!
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:
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 . . .
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing “Kulla-lo-lo!”
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay . . .
An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
“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 . . .
An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and—
Law! wot do they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay . . .
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!
O the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
TROOPIN'
'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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
'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.
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 WIDOW'S PARTY
Johnnie, Johnnie?”
Out 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Johnnie, Johnnie?”
Ask my Colonel, for 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.
FORD O' KABUL RIVER
Blow the trumpet, 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.
Blow the trumpet, draw the sword—
'Strewth I shan't forget 'is face
Wet an' drippin' by the ford!
Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.
Blow the trumpet, 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.
Blow the trumpet, 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?
Blow the trumpet, 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.
Blow the trumpet, draw the sword—
'Im an' 'arf my troop is down,
Down and 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 a-callin'
'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
GENTLEMEN-RANKERS
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.
Yes, 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.
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!
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 living cleanly
Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you “Sir.”
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 whitewashed ceiling,
Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?
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.
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!
ROUTE MARCHIN'
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;
And the road a-sliding past,
An' every blooming campin'-ground exactly like the last;
While the Big Drum says,
With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!”—
“Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?”
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.
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' 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 bat.
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.
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.
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;
And the road a-sliding past,
An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
While the Big Drum says,
With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!”—
“Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?”
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.
PRIVATE ORTHERIS'S SONG
When I was a London lad;
An' I went on the drink for a fortnight,
An' then I went to the bad.
The Queen she give me a shillin'
To fight for 'er over the seas;
But Guv'ment built me a fever-trap,
An' Injia give me disease.
(Chorus)
Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,An' don't you go for the beer;
But I was an ass when I was at grass,
An' that is why I'm 'ere.
The beggar 'e fired again,
An' I lay on my bed with a 'ole in my 'ed,
An' missed the next campaign!
I up with my gun at a Burman
Who carried a bloomin' dah,
But the cartridge stuck and the bay'nit bruk,
An' all I got was the scar.
(Chorus)
Ho! don't you aim at a Afghan,When you stand on the skyline clear;
An' don't you go for a Burman
If none o' your friends is near.
An' wetted my stripes with pop,
For I went on the bend with a intimate friend,
An' finished the night in the “shop.”
I served my time for a Sergeant;
The Colonel 'e sez “No!
The most you'll see is a full C.B.”
An' . . . very next night 'twas so!
(Chorus)
Ho! don't you go for a Corp'ralUnless your 'ed is clear;
But I was an ass when I was at grass,
An' that is why I'm 'ere.
In barrack an' camp an' clink,
An' I lost my tip through the bloomin' trip
Along o' the women an' drink.
I'm down at the heel o' my service,
An' when I am laid on the shelf,
My very worst friend from beginning to end
By the blood of a mouse was myself!
(Chorus)
Ho! don't you 'eed what a girl says,An' don't you go for the beer;
But I was an ass when I was at grass,
An' that is why I'm 'ere!
SHILLIN' A DAY
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.
(Chorus)
Shillin' a day,Bloomin' good pay—
Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day!
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?
(Full chorus)
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!
“BACK TO THE ARMY AGAIN”
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.
Don't look so 'ard, for I 'aven't no card,
I'm back to the Army again!
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.
'Ow did I learn to do right-about-turn?
I'm back to the Army again!
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.
'Tisn't my fault if I dress when I 'alt—
I'm back to the Army again!
'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.
'Oo would ha' thought I could carry an' port?
I'm back to the Army again!
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.
'Oo said I knew when the troopship was due?
I'm back to the Army again!
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.
Rather too free with my fancies? Wot—me?
I'm back to the Army again!
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.
Out o' the cold an' the rain, sergeant,
Out o' the cold an' the rain.
'Oo's there?
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!
“BIRDS OF PREY” MARCH
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 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!
Time!—mark time, an' let the men be'ind us close.
Lord! The transport's full, an' 'alf our lot not on 'er—
Cheer, Oh, cheer! We're going off where no one knows.
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!
('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!
'Course it's blocked the bloomin' gangway up again!
Cheer, Oh, cheer the 'Orse Guards watchin' tender o'er us,
Keepin' us since eight this mornin' in the rain!
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! 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!
“SOLDIER AN' SAILOR TOO”
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!
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!
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.
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.
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!
Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout;
But to stand an' be still to the Birken'ead drill is a damn' tough bullet to chew,
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 Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too!
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' Victorier'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!
Long ago, a battalion of the Guards was sent to Bermuda as a punishment for riotous conduct in barracks.
In 1852 the Birkenhead transport was sunk off Simon's Bay. The Marines aboard her went down as drawn up on her deck.
SAPPERS
(“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!
'Twas Noah constructed the first pontoon
To the plans of Her Majesty's, etc.
Old Noah got drunk, which he wouldn't ha' done
If he'd trained with, etc.
Some clever civilian was managing that,
An' none of, etc.
Young Joshua ordered the sun to stand still,
For he was a Captain of Engineers, etc.
They were learnin' the regular work of our Corps,
The work of, etc.
Behold us a-shinin' on history's page—
First page for, etc.
An' we sweep up their mess through the bloomin' campaign
In the style of, etc.
To blow up the gates that are rushed by the Line,
But bent by, etc.
To dig for the guns of a bullock-brigade
Which has asked for, etc.
An' the heathen they plug us tail-up in the dirt,
Annoying, etc.
We make 'em good roads an'—they roll down the khud,
Reporting, etc.
An' the telegraph-wire the enemy cuts,
An' it's blamed on, etc.
They grudge us adornin' the billets of peace,
Which are kept for, etc.
That our Colonels are Methodist, married or mad,
Insultin', etc.
For the more that we help 'em, the less will they do,
But mock at, etc.
An' Cavalry's only what horses can stand,
When helped by, etc.
But we are the men that do something all round,
For we are, etc.
(“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!
THAT DAY
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!
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!
An' a company-commander up an' 'it us with a sword,
An' some one shouted “'Ook it!” an' it come to sove-ki-poo,
An' we chucked our rifles from us—O my Gawd!
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!
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 lyin' up like rabbits all about the country-side;
An' the Major cursed 'is Maker 'cause 'e'd lived to see that day,
An' the Colonel broke 'is sword acrost, an' cried.
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!
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!
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!
“THE MEN THAT FOUGHT AT MINDEN”
So was them that fought at Waterloo!
All the 'ole command, yuss, from Minden to Maiwand,
They was once dam' sweeps like you!
We'll learn you not forget;
An' you mustn't swear an' curse, or you'll only catch it worse,
For we'll make you soldiers yet!
Six inch 'igh an' more;
But fatigue it was their pride, and they would not be denied
To clean the cook-'ouse floor.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Which I don't remember clear;
But that's the reason why, now the six-year men are dry,
The rooks will stand the beer!
We'll learn you not to forget.
An' you mustn't swear an' curse, or you'll only catch it worse,
An' we'll make you soldiers yet!
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!
CHOLERA CAMP
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!
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!
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.
It's much too wet for shootin'; we can only march and think;
An' at evenin', down the nullahs, we can 'ear the jackals say,
“Get up, you rotten beggars, you've ten more to-day!”
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!
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.
An' the stuff he says an' sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides!
With 'is black coat-tails a-bobbin' to Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-ay!
'E's the proper kind o' padre for ten deaths a day.
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.
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!
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!)
THE LADIES
I've rogued an' I've ranged in my time;
I've 'ad my pickin' o' sweethearts,
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 jemadar-sais,
An' one is a girl at 'ome.
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!
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!
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!
(Or I might ha' been keepin' 'er now),
An' I took with a shiny she-devil,
The wise of a nigger at Mhow;
'Taught me the gipsy-folks' bolee;
Kind o' volcano she were,
For she knifed me one night 'cause I wished she was white,
And I learned about women from 'er!
'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,
She 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!
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!
Nobody never knew.
Somebody asked the Sergeant's Wife,
An' 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!
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.”
“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.”
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!”
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!”
THE MOTHER-LODGE
An' Beazeley of the Rail,
An' 'Ackman, Commissariat,
An' Donkin o' the Jail;
An' Blake, Conductor-Sergeant,
Our Master twice was 'e,
With 'im that kept the Europe-shop,
Old Framjee Eduljee.
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!
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!
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.
We'd all sit down and smoke
(We dursn't give no banquets,
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.
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.
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!
My Brethren black an' brown,
With the trichies smellin' pleasant
An' the hog-darn passin' down;
An' the old khansamah snorin'
On the bottle-khana floor,
Like a Master in good standing
With my Mother-Lodge once more.
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!
“FOLLOW ME 'OME”
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.
An' it's finish up your swipes an' follow me!
Oh, 'ark to the big drum callin',
Follow me—follow me 'ome!
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.
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.
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.
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!
An' it's finish up your swipes an' follow me!
Oh, 'ark to the fifes a-crawlin'!
Follow me—follow me 'ome!
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.
An' it's “Thirteen rank” an' follow me;
Oh, passin' the love o' women,
Follow me—follow me 'ome!
THE SERGEANT'S WEDDIN'
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!
Give 'em one cheer more!
Grey gun-'orses in the lando,
An' a rogue is married to, etc.
'Arf the lot she's been?
'E's a bloomin' robber,
An' 'e keeps canteen.
'Ow did 'e get 'is buggy?
Gawd, you needn't ask!
'Made 'is forty gallon
Out of every cask!
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 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!
'Ear the organ squeak,
“'Voice that breathed o'er Eden”—
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!
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?
Give 'em one cheer more!
Grey gun-'orses in the lando,
An' a rogue is married to, etc.
THE JACKET
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 waiting very long.
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 waiting very long.
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.
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 projectile!
We limbered up an' galloped—there were nothin' else to do—
('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
An' the Battery come a-boundin' like a boundin' kangaroo,
But they didn't watch us comin' very long.
An' the Arabites were loosin' 'igh an' wide,
Till the Captain took the glacis 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.
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!
THE 'EATHEN
'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' doin' things rather-more-or-less,
All along of abby-nay, kul, an' hazar-ho,
Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so!
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!
'E 'angs 'is 'ead an' mutters—'e sulks about the yard;
'E talks o' “cruel tyrants” which 'e'll swing for by-an'-by,
An' the others 'ears an' mocks 'im, an' the boy goes orf to cry.
'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' 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!
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.
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.”
'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.
'E schools 'is men at cricket, 'e tells 'em on parade;
They sees 'im quick an' 'andy, uncommon set an' smart,
An' so 'e talks to orficers which 'ave the Core at 'eart.
'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 action 'e shows 'em how to sight.
'E knows their ways of thinkin' and just what's in their mind;
'E knows when they are takin' on an' when they've fell be'ind.
'E 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' 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.
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.
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.
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!
'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!
Don't get into doin' things rather-more-or-less!
Let's ha' done with abby-nay, kul, and hazar-ho;
Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so!
THE SHUT-EYE SENTRY
To the Senior Orderly Man:
“Our Orderly Orf'cer's hokee-mut,
“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.”
'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 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.
'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.
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.
'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 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!
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 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 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.!
'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!
“MARY, PITY WOMEN!”
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!
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?
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!
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'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!
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 can't, because we're pore?
We'd starve? What do I care!
We might, but this 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!
(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!
“FOR TO ADMIRE”
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 ag'in the settin' sun
The Lascar sings, “Hum deckty hai!”
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 '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.
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.
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.
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 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 be'old this world so wide—
It never done no good to me,
But I can't drop it if I tried!
“THE SERVICE MAN”
But now that it is o'er
You shall be called The Service Man
'Enceforward, evermore.
Defaulter, Army-corps—
From first to last, The Service Man
'Enceforward, evermore.
From York to Singapore—
'Orse, foot, an' guns, The Service Man
'Enceforward, evermore!
THE ABSENT-MINDED BEGGAR
When you've finished killing Kruger with your mouth,
Will you kindly drop a shilling in my little tambourine
For a gentleman in khaki ordered South?
He's an absent-minded beggar, and his weaknesses are great—
But we and Paul must take him as we find him—
He is out on active service, wiping something off a slate—
And he's left a lot of little things behind him!
Duke's son—cook's son—son of a hundred kings—
(Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)
Each of 'em doing his country's work
(and who's to look after their things?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake,
and pay—pay—pay!
For he knew he wouldn't get it if he did.
There is gas and coals and vittles, and the house-rent falling due,
And it's more than rather likely there's a kid.
There are girls he walked with casual. They'll be sorry now he's gone,
For an absent-minded beggar they will find him,
But it ain't the time for sermons with the winter coming on.
We must help the girl that Tommy's left behind him!
Son of a Lambeth publican—it's all the same to-day!
Each of 'em doing his country's work
(and who's to look after the girl?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake,
and pay—pay—pay!
And they'll put their sticks and bedding up the spout,
And they'll live on half o' nothing, paid 'em punctual once a week,
'Cause the man that earns the wage is ordered out.
He's an absent-minded beggar, but he heard his country call,
And his reg'ment didn't need to send to find him!
He chucked his job and joined it—so the job before us all
Is to help the home that Tommy's left behind him!
Duke's job—cook's job—gardener, baronet, groom,
Mews or palace or paper-shop, there's someone gone away!
Each of 'em doing his country's work
(and who's to look after the room?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake,
and pay—pay—pay!
And tell him—what he'd very much prefer—
That, while he saved the Empire, his employer saved his place,
And his mates (that's you and me) looked out for her.
He's an absent-minded beggar and he may forget it all,
But we do not want his kiddies to remind him
That we sent 'em to the workhouse while their daddy hammered Paul,
So we'll help the homes that Tommy left behind him!
Cook's home—Duke's home—home of a millionaire,
(Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)
Each of 'em doing his country's work
(and what have you got to spare?)
Pass the hat for your credit's sake,
and pay—pay—pay!
CHANT-PAGAN
Me that 'ave gone where I've gone—
Me that 'ave seen what I've seen—
'Ow can I ever take on
With awful old England again,
An' 'ouses both sides of the street,
And 'edges two sides of the lane,
And the parson an' gentry between,
An' touchin' my 'at when we meet—
Me that 'ave been what I've been?
'Eave up all shiny with dew,
Kopje on kop to the sun,
An' as soon as the mist let 'em through
Our 'elios winkin' like fun—
Three sides of a ninety-mile square,
Over valleys as big as a shire—
“Are ye there? Are ye there? Are ye there?”
An' then the blind drum of our fire . . .
An' I'm rollin' 'is lawns for the Squire,
Me!
Forty mile, often, on end,
Along the Ma'ollisberg Range,
With only the stars for my mark
An' only the night for my friend,
An' things runnin' off as you pass,
An' things jumpin' up in the grass,
An' the silence, the shine an' the size
Of the 'igh, unexpressible skies—
I am takin' some letters almost
As much as a mile to the post,
An' “mind you come back with the change!”
Me!
When we dropped through the clouds on their 'ead,
An' they 'ove the guns over and fled—
Me that was through Di'mond 'Ill,
An' Pieters an' Springs an' Belfast—
From Dundee to Vereeniging all—
Me that stuck out to the last
(An' five bloomin' bars on my chest)—
I am doin' my Sunday-school best,
By the 'elp of the Squire an' 'is wife
(Not to mention the 'ousemaid an' cook),
To come in an' 'ands up an' be still,
An' honestly work for my bread,
My livin' in that state of life
To which it shall please God to call
Me!
In the place where the Lightnin's are made;
'Twixt the Rains and the Sun and the Moon—
Me that lay down an' got up
Three years with the sky for my roof—
That 'ave ridden my 'unger an' thirst
Six thousand raw mile on the hoof,
With the Vaal and the Orange for cup,
An' the Brandwater Basin for dish,—
Oh! it's 'ard to be'ave as they wish
(Too 'ard, an' a little too soon),
I'll 'ave to think over it first—
Me!
I will trek South and make sure
If it's only my fancy or not
That the sunshine of England is pale,
And the breezes of England are stale,
An' there's somethin' gone small with the lot.
For I know of a sun an' a wind,
An' some plains and a mountain be'ind,
An' some graves by a barb-wire fence,
An' a Dutchman I've fought 'oo might give
Me a job were I ever inclined
Where there's neither a road nor a tree—
But only my Maker an' me,
And I think it will kill me or cure,
So I think I will go there an' see.
Me!
M. I.
And a knife and a spoon in my putties that I found on a Boer farm,
Atop of a sore-backed Argentine, with a thirst that you couldn't buy.
I used to be in the Yorkshires once
(Sussex, Lincolns, and Rifles once),
Hampshires, Glosters, and Scottish once! (ad lib.)
But now I am M.I.
If you want officers' servants, pickets an' 'orseguards an' all—
Details for buryin'-parties, company-cooks or supply—
Turn out the chronic Ikonas! Roll up the— M.I.!
An' the things I've used my bay'nit for would make a tinker ill!
An' I don't know whose dam' column I'm in, nor where we're trekkin' nor why.
I've trekked from the Vaal to the Orange once—
From the Vaal to the greasy Pongolo once—
(Or else it was called the Zambesi once)—
For now I am M.I.
For outposts all night under freezin', an' rearguard all day under fire.
Anything 'ot or unwholesome? Anything dusty or dry?
Borrow a bunch of Ikonas! Trot out the—M.I.!
Our Adjutant's “late of Somebody's 'Orse,” an' a Melbourne auctioneer;
But you couldn't spot us at 'arf a mile from the crackest caval-ry.
They used to talk about Lancers once,
Hussars, Dragoons, an' Lancers once,
'Elmets, pistols, an' carbines once,
But now we are M.I.!
For beggin' the loan of an 'ead-stall an' makin' a mount to the same.
'Can't even look at their 'orselines but some one goes bellerin' “Hi!
“'Ere comes a burglin' Ikona! Footsack, you—M.I.!”
But we don't hold on by the mane no more, nor lose our stirrups—much;
An' we scout with a senior man in charge where the 'oly white flags fly.
We used to think they were friendly once,
Didn't take any precautions once
(Once, my ducky, an' only once!)
But now we are M.I.!
Three days “to learn equitation,” an' six month o' bloomin' well trot!
Cow-guns, an' cattle, an' convoys—an' Mister De Wet on the fly—
We are the rollin' Ikonas! We are the—M.I.
(The same as your talky-fighty men which are often Number Threes ),
But our words o' command are “Scatter” an' “Close” an' “Let your wounded lie.”
We used to rescue 'em noble once,—
Givin' the range as we raised 'em once—
Gettin' 'em killed as we saved 'em once—
But now we are M.I.
After a fight round the kopjes, lookin' for men that we knew;
Whistlin' an' callin' together, 'altin' to catch the reply:—
“'Elp me! O 'elp me, Ikonas! This way, the—M.I.!”
When I ride like a General up to the scrub and ride back like Tod Sloan,
Remarkable close to my 'orse's neck to let the shots go by.
We used to fancy it risky once
(Called it a reconnaissance once),
Under the charge of an orf'cer once,
But now we are M.I.!
When you want men to be Mausered at one and a penny a day;
We are no five-bob Colonials—we are the 'ome-made supply,
Ask for the London Ikonas! Ring up the—M.I.!
I could tell 'im a lot that would save 'im a lot on the things that 'e ought to know!
When I think o' that ignorant barrack-bird, it almost makes me cry.
I used to belong in an Army once
(Gawd! what a rum little Army once),
Red little, dead little Army once!
But now I am M.I.!
Over a year at the business, smelt it an' felt it an' seen.
We 'ave got 'old of the needful—you will be told by and by;
Wait till you've 'eard the Ikonas, spoke to the old M.I.!
Mop off the frost on the saddles, mop up the miles on the plain.
Out go the stars in the dawnin', up goes our dust to the sky,
Walk—trot, Ikonas! Trek jou, the old M.I.!
COLUMNS
(Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
'Oo is it 'eads to the Detail Supply?
A section, a pompom, an' six 'undred men.
(Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
“Surplus of everything—draw what you please
“For the section, the pompom, an' six 'undred men.”
(Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
“You came after dark—you will leave before day,
“You section, you pompom, you six 'undred men!”
'Ark to 'em blessin' the Gen'ral in bed!
Over the ridge an' it's all lef' be'ind
For the section, etc.
Roll up for coffee an' sleep while they may—
The section, etc.
For they'll move after dark to astonish the Dutch
With a section, etc.
Blankets on rifles or burrows in grass,
Lies the section, etc.
Watching chameleons or cleanin' a gun,
Waits the section, etc.
An' the silly mirage stringin' islands an' seas
Round the section, etc.
Till the shadows crawl out from beneath the pore stones
Towards the section, etc.
An' the 'orse-guard comes up and the Gunners 'ook in
As a 'int to the pompom an' six 'undred men. . . .
(Alpha Centauri an' somethin' Orion)
Moves the section, etc.
Same bloomin' stumble an' same bloomin' joke
Down the section, etc.
Same “Give it up” from the same clever guide
To the section, etc.
Same white-eyed Kaffir 'oo gives the alarm
Of the section, etc.
Same flyin'-tackle, an' same messy fight,
By the section, etc.
When it's too dark to see an' it's too late to feel
In the section, etc.
Watchin' their comrades bolt over the 'ill
From the section, etc.)
As 'e gets up displeasured to see what was done
By the section, etc.
An' the same quiet face which 'as finished with all
In the section, the pompom, an' six 'undred men.
(Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
'Oo is it 'eads to the Detail Supply?
A section, a pompom, an' six 'undred men.
THE PARTING OF THE COLUMNS
Together for a year and more around this stinkin' land:
Now you are goin' home again, but we must see it through.
We needn't tell we liked you well. Good-bye—good luck to you!
And learned us how to camp and cook an' steal a horse and scout.
Whatever game we fancied most, you joyful played it too,
And rather better on the whole. Good-bye—good luck to you!
The same old work, the same old skoff, the same old dust and sun;
The same old chance that laid us out, or winked an' let us through;
The same old Life, the same old Death. Good-bye—good luck to you!
We've bit the same thermometer in Bloeming-typhoidtein.
We've 'ad the same old temp'rature—the same relapses too,
The same old saw-backed fever-chart. Good-bye—good luck to you!
'Twas how you talked an' looked at things which made us like you so.
All independent, queer an' odd, but most amazin' new.
My word! you shook us up to rights. Good-bye—good luck to you!
O' Calgary an' Wellin'ton, an' Sydney and Quebec;
Of mine an' farm, an' ranch an' run, an' moose an' caribou,
An' parrots peckin' lambs to death! Good-bye—good luck to you!
We've 'eard your bloomin' forests blow of eucalyp' and pine;
For they was made by rank an' file. Good-bye—good luck to you!
For word from all those friendly dorps where you was born an' nursed.
Why, Dawson, Galle, an' Montreal—Port Darwin—Timaru,
They're only just across the road! Good-bye—good luck to you!
But tell the girls your side the drift we're comin'—when it ends!
Good-bye, you bloomin' Atlasses! You've taught us somethin' new:
The world's no bigger than a kraal. Good-bye—good luck to you!
TWO KOPJES
(Made Yeomanry towards the end of Boer War)
Only the cart-tracks that wind
Empty and open between 'em,
Only the Transvaal behind;
Only an Aldershot column
Marching to conquer the land . . .
Only a sudden and solemn
Visit, unarmed, to the Rand.
The kopje that smiles in the heat,
The wholly unoccupied kopje,
The home of Cornelius and Piet.
You can never be sure of your kopje,
But of this be you blooming well sure,
A kopje is always a kopje,
And a Boojer is always a Boer!
Only the vultures above,
Only baboons—at the bottom,
Only some buck on the move;
Only a Kensington draper
Only pretending to scout . . .
Only bad news for the paper,
Only another knock-out.
And rub not your flank on its side,
The silent and simmering kopje,
The kopje beloved by the guide.
You can never be, etc.
Only the dust of their wheels,
Only a bolted commando,
Only our guns at their heels . . .
Only a little barb-wire,
Only a natural fort,
Only “by sections retire,”
Only “regret to report!”
Especially when it is twins,
One sharp and one table-topped kopje—
For that's where the trouble begins.
You can never be, etc.
Baited the same as before—
Only we've had it so often,
Only we're taking no more . . .
Only a wave to our troopers,
Only our flanks swinging past,
Only a dozen voorloopers,
Only we've learned it at last!
But take off your hat to the same,
The patient, impartial old kopje,
The kopje that taught us the game!
For all that we knew in the Columns,
And all they've forgot on the Staff,
We learned at the Fight o' Two Kopjes,
Which lasted two years an' a half.
Not even when peace has been signed—
The kopje that isn't a kopje—
The kopje that copies its kind.
You can never be sure of your kopje,
But of this be you blooming well sure,
That a kopje is always a kopje,
And a Boojer is always a Boer!
THE INSTRUCTOR
To keep my spirits up an' raise a laugh,
'Earin' 'im pass so busy over-'ead—
Old Nickel-Neck, 'oo isn't on the Staff—
“There's one above is greater than us all.”
An' watched 'im write my Captain's epitaph,
So that a long way off it could be read—
He 'as the knack o' makin' men feel small—
Old Whistle-Tip, 'oo isn't on the Staff.
Better go on an' do the belly-crawl,
An' 'ope 'e'll 'it some other man instead
Of you 'e seems to 'unt so speshual—
Fitzy van Spitz, 'oo isn't on the Staff.
Now that the show is over, I recall
The peevish voice an' 'oary mushroom 'ead
Of 'im we owned was greater than us all,
'Oo give instruction to the quick an' the dead—
The Shudderin' Beggar—not upon the Staff!
BOOTS
Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin' over Africa—
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up and down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before—
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up and down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again);
Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin' 'em,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin' lunatic!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!
If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o' you!
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up and down again)—
There's no discharge in the war!
But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of 'em—
Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
But night—brings—long—strings—o' forty thousand million
Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again.
There's no discharge in the war!
It—is—not—fire—devils, dark, or anything,
But boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
THE MARRIED MAN
(Reservist of the Line)
As joyful as can be;
But the married man don't call it fun,
Because 'e fights for three—
For 'Im an' 'Er an' It
(An' Two an' One make Three)
'E wants to finish 'is little bit,
An' 'e wants to go 'ome to 'is tea!
To see if you are gone;
But the married man lies down instead,
An' waits till the sights come on,
For 'Im an' 'Er an' a hit
(Direct or ricochee)
'E wants to finish 'is little bit,
An' 'e wants to go 'ome to 'is tea.
To fight another day;
But the married man, 'e says “No fear!”
'E wants you out of the way
(An' 'is road to 'is farm or the sea),
'E wants to finish 'is little bit,
An' 'e wants to go 'ome to 'is tea.
An' stretches out an' snores;
But the married man sits up all night—
For 'e don't like out-o'-doors.
'E'll strain an' listen an' peer
An' give the first alarm—
For the sake o' the breathin' 'e's used to 'ear,
An' the 'ead on the thick of 'is arm.
To 'elp you when you're downed;
But the married man will wait beside
Till the ambulance comes round.
'E'll take your 'ome address
An' all you've time to say,
Or if 'e sees there's 'ope, 'e'll press
Your art'ry 'alf the day—
(An' One from Three leaves Two),
For 'e knows you wanted to finish your bit,
An' 'e knows 'oo's wantin' you.
Yes, 'Im an' 'Er an' It
(Our 'oly One in Three),
We're all of us anxious to finish our bit,
An' we want to get 'ome to our tea!
Which often makes me think
The married man must sink or swim
An'—'e can't afford to sink!
Oh, 'Im an' It an' 'Er
Since Adam an' Eve began!
So I'd rather fight with the bacheler
An' be nursed by the married man!
LICHTENBERG
To make your heart-strings crack—
They start those awful voices o' nights
That whisper, “Old man, come back!”
That must be why the big things pass
And the little things remain,
Like the smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain.
And the small wet drizzling down—
There were the sold-out shops and the bank
And the wet, wide-open town;
And we were doing escort-duty
To somebody's baggage-train,
And I smelt wattle by Lichtenberg—
Riding in, in the rain.
All I had found or missed:
Every face I was crazy to see,
And every woman I'd kissed:
All that I shouldn't ha' done, God knows!
(As He knows I'll do it again),
That smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain!
The picnics and brass-bands;
And my little homestead on Hunter River
And my new vines joining hands.
It all came over me in one act
Quick as a shot through the brain—
With the smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain.
But one I shall not forget—
With the raindrops bunging up my sights
And my eyes bunged up with wet;
And through the crack and the stink of the cordite,
(Ah, Christ! My country again!)
The smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg,
Riding in, in the rain!
STELLENBOSCH
An' 'e sent a mounted man to bring 'im back
The silly, pushin' person's name an' rank
'Oo'd dared to answer Brother Boer's attack:
For there might 'ave been a serious engagement,
An' 'e might 'ave wasted 'alf a dozen men;
So 'e ordered 'im to stop 'is operations round the kopjes,
An' 'e told 'im off before the Staff at ten!
But it never comes out in the wash,
'Ow we're sugared about by the old men
('Eavy-sterned amateur old men!)
That 'amper an' 'inder an' scold men
For fear o' Stellenbosch!
The General 'ad the country cleared—almost;
The General “'ad no reason to expect,”
And the Boers 'ad us bloomin' well on toast!
For we might 'ave crossed the drift before the twilight,
Instead o' sitting down an' takin' root;
But we was not allowed, so the Boojers scooped the crowd,
To the last survivin' bandolier an' boot.
With its stoep so nicely shaded from the sun;
Sez 'e, “I'll pitch my tabernacle 'ere,”
An' 'e kept us muckin' round till 'e 'ad done.
From sleepin' in his gaiters in the dew;
So 'e took a book an' dozed while the other columns closed,
And De Wet's commando out an' trickled through!
With their 'elios showin' saucy on the 'eight,
So 'e 'eld us to the level ground instead,
An' telegraphed the Boojers wouldn't fight.
For 'e might 'ave gone an' sprayed 'em with a pompom,
Or 'e might 'ave slung a squadron out to see—
But 'e wasn't takin' chances in them 'igh an' 'ostile kranzes—
He was markin' time to earn a K.C.B.
(The men that backed 'is lies could not complain),
The Staff 'ad D.S.O.'s till we was sick,
An' the soldier—'ad the work to do again!
For 'e might 'ave known the District was an 'otbed,
Instead of 'andin' over, upside-down,
To a man 'oo 'ad to fight 'alf a year to put it right,
While the General sat an' slandered 'im in town!
But it never came out in the wash.
We were sugared about by the old men
(Panicky, perishin' old men)
That 'amper an' 'inder an' scold men
For fear o' Stellenbosch!
The more notoriously incompetent commanders used to be sent to the town of Stellenbosch, which name presently became a verb.
HALF-BALLADE OF WATERVAL
I've 'elped to pack a transport tight
With prisoners for foreign lands,
I ain't transported with delight.
I know it's only just an' right,
But yet it somehow sickens me,
For I 'ave learned at Waterval
The meanin' of captivity.
Beneath the tall electric light,
We used to walk in bare-'ead bands,
Explainin' 'ow we lost our fight;
An' that is what they'll do to-night
Upon the steamer out at sea,
If I 'ave learned at Waterval
The meanin' of captivity.
Black shame no livin' down makes white—
The mockin' from the sentry-stands,
The women's laugh, the gaoler's spite.
We are too bloomin'-much polite,
But that is 'ow I'd 'ave us be. . .
Since I 'ave learned at Waterval
The meanin' of captivity.
Spent as a foreigner commands,
An' 'orrors of the locked-up night,
With 'Ell's own thinkin' on their 'ands.
I'd give the gold o' twenty Rands
(If it was mine) to set 'em free,
For I 'ave learned at Waterval
The meanin' of captivity!
PIET
Nor call 'em angels; still,
What is the sense of 'atin' those
'Oom you are paid to kill?
So, barrin' all that foreign lot
Which only joined for spite,
Myself, I'd just as soon as not
Respect the man I fight.
'Is coat-tails lyin' level in the bullet-sprinkled breeze;
'E does not lose 'is rifle an' 'e does not lose 'is seat.
I've known a lot o' people ride a dam' sight worse than Piet.
Like Abel's blood of old,
An' skirmished out to look, an' found
The beggar nearly cold.
I've waited on till 'e was dead
(Which couldn't 'elp 'im much),
But many grateful things 'e's said
To me for doin' such.
Ah, there, Piet! whose time 'as come to die,
'Is carcase past rebellion, but 'is eyes inquirin' why.
Though dressed in stolen uniform with badge o' rank complete,
I've known a lot o' fellers go a dam' sight worse than Piet.
But camp and cattle-guards,
I've fought with 'im the 'ole day through
At fifteen 'undred yards;
Long afternoons o' lyin' still,
An' 'earin' as you lay
The bullets swish from 'ill to 'ill
Like scythes among the 'ay.
Ah, there, Piet!—be'ind 'is stony kop—
With 'is Boer bread an' biltong, an' 'is flask of awful Dop;
'Is Mauser for amusement an' 'is pony for retreat,
I've known a lot o' fellers shoot a dam' sight worse than Piet.
Before I'd time to think,
An' borrowed all my Sunday clo'es
An' sent me 'ome in pink;
On 'ands an' knees I've gone,
And spoored and floored and caught and kept
An' sent him to Ceylon!
Ah, there, Piet!—you've sold me many a pup,
When week on week alternate it was you an' me “'ands up!”
But though I never made you walk man-naked in the 'eat,
I've known a lot of fellows stalk a dam' sight worse than Piet.
From Ookiep to De Aar,
Me an' my trusty friend 'ave 'ad,
As you might say, a war;
But seein' what both parties done
Before 'e owned defeat,
I ain't more proud of 'avin' won
Than I am pleased with Piet.
Ah, there, Piet!—picked up be'ind the drive!
The wonder wasn't 'ow 'e fought, but 'ow 'e kep' alive,
With nothin' in 'is belly, on 'is back, or to 'is feet—
I've known a lot o' men behave a dam' sight worse than Piet.
Along the block'ouse fence—
The beggar's on the peaceful tack,
Regardless of expense;
For countin' what 'e eats an' draws,
An' gifts an' loans as well,
'E's gettin' 'alf the Earth, because
'E didn't give us 'Ell!
Ah, there, Piet! with your brand-new English plough,
Your gratis tents an' cattle, an' your most ungrateful frow,
You've made the British taxpayer rebuild your country-seat—
I've known some pet battalions charge a dam' sight less than Piet.
“WILFUL-MISSING”
To which for curiousness 'Ell can't compare—
It is the place where “wilful-missings” go,
As we can testify, for we are there.
That we was gathered in “with reverent care”
And buried proper. But it was not so,
As we can testify,—for we are there!
After the old aasvogel 's 'ad 'is share.
The uniform's the mark by which they go—
And—ain't it odd?—the one we best can spare.
Name, number, record, an' begin elsewhere—
Leavin' some not too late-lamented foe
One funeral—private—British—for 'is share.
Bush-veldt that sends men stragglin' unaware
Among the Kaffirs, till their columns go,
An' they are left past call or count or care.
'Usbands or children—comfort or despair.
Our death (an' burial) settles all we owe,
An' why we done it is our own affair.
Nor come to barstardise the kids you bear.
Wait on in 'ope—you've all your life below
Before you'll ever 'ear us on the stair.
Gawd knows we all 'ad reasons which were fair;
But other people might not judge 'em so—
And now it doesn't matter what they were.
There are some things too bitter 'ard to bear.
Suffice it we 'ave finished—Domino!
As we can testify, for we are there,
In the side-world where “wilful-missings” go.
UBIQUE
“You bike,” “you bykwee,” “ubbikwe”—alludin' to R.A.
It serves 'Orse, Field, an' Garrison as motto for a crest;
An' when you've found out all it means I'll tell you 'alf the rest.
Ubique means you'll pick it up an', while you do, stand still.
Ubique means you've caught the flash an' timed it by the sound.
Ubique means five gunners' 'ash before you've loosed a round.
Ubique means stand up an' take the Mauser's 'alf-mile 'ail.
Ubique means the crazy team not God nor man can 'old.
Ubique means that 'orse's scream which turns your innards cold!
The soothin', jingle-bump-an'-clank from day to peaceful day.
Ubique means “They've caught De Wet, an' now we shan't be long.”
Ubique means “I much regret, the beggar's goin' strong!”
The khaki muzzles duck an' lift across the khaki flood.
Ubique means the dancing plain that changes rocks to Boers.
Ubique means mirage again an' shellin' all outdoors.
Ubique means “Off-load your guns”—at midnight in the rain!
Ubique means “More mounted men. Return all guns to store.”
Ubique means the R.A.M.R. Infantillery Corps.
When o'er 'is strung an' sufferin' front the shrapnel sprays 'is foes;
An' as their firin' dies away the 'usky whisper runs
From lips that 'aven't drunk all day: “The Guns! Thank Gawd, the Guns!”
From Colesberg Kop to Quagga's Poort—from Ninety-Nine till now—
By what I've 'eard the others tell an' I in spots 'ave seen,
There's nothin' this side 'Eaven or 'Ell Ubique doesn't mean!
THE RETURN
To 'Ackneystadt, but not the same;
Things 'ave transpired which made me learn
The size and meanin' of the game.
I did no more than others did,
I don't know where the change began.
I started as a average kid,
I finished as a thinkin' man.
An' not the England of our dreams,
But only putty, brass, an' paint,
'Ow quick we'd drop 'er! But she ain't!
I 'eard it in my comrade's tone.
I saw it on my neighbour's cheek
Before I felt it flush my own.
An' last it come to me—not pride,
Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole
(If such a term may be applied),
The makin's of a bloomin' soul.
Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,
Mountains which never let you near,
An' stars to all eternity;
An' the quick-breathin' dark that fills
The 'ollows of the wilderness,
When the wind worries through the 'ills—
These may 'ave taught me more or less.
An' ten times left an' burned at last;
An' starvin' dogs that come to look
For owners when a column passed;
Men, met by night, you never knew
Until—'is face—by shellfire seen—
Once—an' struck off. They taught me too.
Beneath your 'at-brim as you sight;
The dinner-'ush from noon till one,
An' the full roar that lasts till night;
An' the pore dead that look so old
An' was so young an hour ago,
An' legs tied down before they're cold—
These are the things which make you know.
A thousand Places left be'ind—
An' Men from both two 'emispheres
Discussin' things of every kind;
So much more near than I 'ad known,
So much more great than I 'ad guessed—
An' me, like all the rest, alone—
But reachin' out to all the rest!
Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole
(If such a term may be applied),
The makin's of a bloomin' soul.
But now, discharged, I fall away
To do with little things again. . . .
Gawd, 'oo knows all I cannot say,
Look after me in Thamesfontein!
An' not the England of our dreams,
But only putty, brass, an' paint,
'Ow quick we'd chuck 'er! But she ain't!
“CITIES AND THRONES AND POWERS”
Stand in Time's eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
Which daily die:
But, as new buds put forth
To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth
The Cities rise again.
She never hears
What change, what chance, what chill,
Cut down last year's;
But with bold countenance,
And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days' continuance
To be perpetual.
To all that be,
Ordains us e'en as blind,
As bold as she:
That in our very death,
And burial sure,
Shadow to shadow, well persuaded, saith,
“See how our works endure!”
THE RECALL
In me the virtue stays.
I will bring back my children,
After certain days.
My clinging magic runs.
They shall return as strangers.
They shall remain as sons.
Of their new-bought, ancient trees,
I weave an incantation
And draw them to my knees.
Smell of rain in the night—
The hours, the days and the seasons,
Order their souls aright,
Of all my thousand years—
Till I fill their hearts with knowledge,
While I fill their eyes with tears.
PUCK'S SONG
Into the oak-woods far?
O that was whence they hewed the keels
That rolled to Trafalgar.
To Bayham's mouldering walls?
O there we cast the stout railings
That stand around St. Paul's.
All hollow through the wheat?
O that was where they hauled the guns
That smote King Philip's fleet.
Men sent in ancient years
The horse-shoes red at Flodden Field,
The arrows at Poitiers!)
So busy by the brook?
She has ground her corn and paid her tax
Ever since Domesday Book.
And the dread ditch beside?
O that was where the Saxons broke
On the day that Harold died.
About the gates of Rye?
O that was where the Northmen fled,
When Alfred's ships came by.
Where the red oxen browse?
O there was a City thronged and known,
Ere London boasted a house.
Of mound and ditch and wall?
O that was a Legion's camping-place,
When Cæsar sailed from Gaul.
Like shadows on the Downs?
O they are the lines the Flint Men made,
To guard their wondrous towns.
Salt Marsh where now is corn—
Old Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease,
And so was England born!
Water or wood or air,
But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye,
Where you and I will fare!
THE WAY THROUGH THE WOODS
Seventy years ago.
Weatner and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods. . . .
But there is no road through the woods.
A THREE-PART SONG
The Weald and the Marsh and the Down countree.
Nor I don't know which I love the most,
The Weald or the Marsh or the white Chalk coast!
Twix' a liddle low shaw an' a great high gill.
Oh, hop-bine yaller an' wood-smoke blue,
I reckon you'll keep her middling true!
On a Marsh that was old when Kings begun.
Oh, Romney Level and Brenzett reeds,
I reckon you know what my mind needs!
And sheep-bells tinkled where you pass.
Oh, Firle an' Ditchling an' sails at sea,
I reckon you keep my soul for me!
THE RUN OF THE DOWNS
The Weald is good, the Downs are best—I'll give you the run of 'em, East to West.
Beachy Head and Winddoor Hill,
They were once and they are still.
Firle, Mount Caburn and Mount Harry
Go back as far as sums'll carry.
Ditchling Beacon and Chanctonbury Ring,
They have looked on many a thing,
And what those two have missed between 'em,
I reckon Truleigh Hill has seen 'em.
Highden, Bignor and Duncton Down
Knew Old England before the Crown.
Linch Down, Treyford and Sunwood
Knew Old England before the Flood;
And when you end on the Hampshire side—
Butser's old as Time and Tide.
The Downs are sheep, the Weald is corn,
You be glad you are Sussex born!
BROOKLAND ROAD
I reckoned myself no fool—
Till I met with a maid on the Brookland Road
That turned me back to school.
Where the liddle green lanterns shine—
O maids, I've done with 'ee all but one,
And she can never be mine!
With thunder duntin' round,
And I see her face by the fairy-light
That beats from off the ground.
She smiled and went away;
But when she'd gone my heart was broke
And my wits was clean astray.
Let be, O Brookland bells!
You'll ring Old Goodman out of the sea
Before I wed one else!
And was this thousand year;
But it shall turn to rich plough-land
Before I change my dear.
From autumn to the spring;
But it shall turn to high hill-ground
Before my bells do ring.
In the thunder and warm rain—
O, leave me look where my love goed,
And p'raps I'll see her again!
Where the liddle green lanterns shine—
O maids, I've done with 'ee all but one,
And she can never be mine!
THE SACK OF THE GODS
I was Lord of the Inca race, and she was Queen of the Sea.
Under the stars beyond our stars where the new-forged meteors glow,
Hotly we stormed Valhalla, a million years ago!
When the swords are out in the underworld, and the weary Gods come in.
Ever through high Valhalla Gate the Patient Angel goes.
He opens the eyes that are blind with hate—he joins the hands of foes.
Wrecks of our wrath dropped reeling down as we fought and we spurned and we strove.
Worlds upon worlds we tossed aside, and scattered them to and fro,
The night that we stormed Valhalla, a million years ago!
Their beds are made on the Lap of Time and they lie down and sleep.
They are forgiven as they forgive all those old wounds that bleed.
They shut their eyes from their worshippers; they sleep till the world has need.
Lost in the loom of the Night of Nights—lighted by worlds afire—
Met in a war against the Gods where the headlong meteors glow,
Hewing our way to Valhalla, a million years ago!
He never wasted a leaf or a tree. Do you think He would squander souls?
THE KINGDOM
And the State is thus and thus;
Our legions wait at the Palace gate—
Little it profits us.
Now we are come to our Kingdom!
And the Crown is ours to take—
With a naked sword at the Council board,
And under the throne the snake.
Now we are come to our Kingdom!
And the Realm is ours by right,
With shame and fear for our daily cheer,
And heaviness at night.
Now we are come to our Kingdom!
But my love's eyelids fall.
All that I wrought for, all that I fought for.
Delight her nothing at all.
My crown is of withered leaves,
For she sits in the dust and grieves.
Now we are come to our Kingdom!
TARRANT MOSS
That now is false to me,
And I slew the Reiver of Tarrant Moss
And set Dumeny free.
They are standing all arow—
Twenty knights in the peat-water,
That never struck a blow!
Their flesh shall not decay,
For Tarrant Moss holds them in trust
Until the Judgment Day.
Ah, God, that mine had gone,
Whenas I leaned on my love's truth
And not on my sword alone!
And not on my naked blade—
And I slew a thief, and an honest thief,
For the sake of a worthless maid.
They have set me up on high.
But the twenty knights in the peat-water
Are luckier than I!
And ever I mourn my loss—
For I struck the blow for my false love's sake
And not for the Men of the Moss!
SIR RICHARD'S SONG
(A.D. 1066)
To take from England fief and fee;
But now this game is the other way over—
But now England hath taken me!
And a boy's heart, so whole and free;
But now I sing in another manner—
But now England hath taken me!
Asking news of my ship at sea,
He will remember his own hour—
Tell him England hath taken me!
That rules my Father so cunningly,
She will remember a maiden's power—
Tell her England hath taken me!
A nimble and naughty page is he,
But he will come to suffer and pity—
Tell him England hath taken me!
In the pleasant orchards of Normandie,
Tell her youth is the time for mating—
Tell her England hath taken me!
That lift their eyebrows scornfully,
Tell them their way is not my way—
Tell them England hath taken me!
Knights and Captains in your degree;
Hear me a little before I am blamèd—
Seeing England hath taken me!
There are two things he cannot flee.
Love is the first, and Death is the second—
And Love in England hath taken me!
A TREE SONG
(A.D. 1200)
Old England to adorn,
Greater are none beneath the Sun
Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.
Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs,
(All of a Midsummer morn!)
Surely we sing no little thing
In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Or ever Æneas began.
Ash of the Loam was a lady at home
When Brut was an outlaw man.
Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town
(From which was London born);
Witness hereby the ancientry
Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
He breedeth a mighty bow.
Alder for shoes do wise men choose,
And beech for cups also.
But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,
And your shoes are clean outworn,
Back ye must speed for all that ye need
To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Till every gust be laid
To drop a limb on the head of him
That anyway trusts her shade.
But whether a lad be sober or sad,
Or mellow with ale from the horn,
He will take no wrong when he lieth along
'Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
Or he would call it a sin;
But—we have been out in the woods all night,
A-conjuring Summer in!
And we bring you news by word of mouth—
Good news for cattle and corn—
Now is the Sun come up from the South
With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
(All of a Midsummer morn)!
England shall bide till Judgment Tide
By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!
THE FLOODS
In the hills above us, in the hills;
And presently the floods break way
Whose strength is in the hills.
The trees they suck from every cloud,
The valley brooks they roar aloud—
Bank-high for the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
From the hills—the brishings off the hills;
And then come by the bats and all
We cut last year in the hills;
And then the roots we tried to cleave
But found too tough and had to leave—
Polting down through the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
To the hills, the doings in the hills!
And rivers mating in the dark
With tokens from the hills.
And what is strong must prove it so—
Stand fast in the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
Nor the hills above 'em, nor the hills—
Of any fence which man has made
Betwixt him and the hills.
The waters shall not reckon twice
For any work of man's device,
But bid it down to the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
By the hills, the blessing of the hills—
That more the meadows may be green
New-mended from the hills.
The crops and cattle shall increase,
Nor little children shall not cease.
Go—plough the lowlands, lowlands,
Lowlands under the hills!
CUCKOO SONG
(Spring begins in Southern England on the 14th April, on which date the Old Woman lets the Cuckoo out of her basket at Heathfield Fair—locally known as Heffle Cuckoo Fair.)
Cuckoo, bring your song here!
Warrant, Act and Summons, please,
For Spring to pass along here!
Tell old Winter, if he doubt,
Tell him squat and square—a!
Old Woman!
Old Woman!
Old Woman's let the Cuckoo out
At Heffle Cuckoo Fair—a!
'Tisn't long to May now.
Not so far to Whitsuntide
And Cuckoo's come to stay now!
Hear the valiant fellow shout
Down the orchard bare—a!
Old Woman!
Old Woman!
Old Woman's let the Cuckoo out
At Heffle Cuckoo Fair—a!
And the season rules it—
Work your works and play your play
'Fore the Autumn cools it!
Kiss you turn and turn-about,
But, my lad, beware—a!
Old Woman!
Old Woman!
Old Woman's let the Cuckoo out
At Heffle Cuckoo Fair—a!
A CHARM
As either hand may rightly clutch.
In the taking of it breathe
Prayer for all who lie beneath.
Not the great nor well-bespoke,
But the mere uncounted folk
Of whose life and death is none
Report or lamentation.
Lay that earth upon thy heart,
And thy sickness shall depart!
Fevered breath and festered soul.
It shall mightily restrain
Over-busied hand and brain.
'Gainst the immortal woe of life,
Till thyself, restored, shall prove
By what grace the Heavens do move.
Spring's full-facèd primroses,
Summer's wild wide-hearted rose,
Autumn's wall-flower of the close,
And, thy darkness to illume,
Winter's bee-thronged ivy-bloom.
Seek and serve them where they bide
From Candlemas to Christmas-tide,
For these simples, used aright,
Can restore a failing sight.
Webbed and inward-turning eye;
These shall show thee treasure hid
Thy familiar fields amid;
And reveal (which is thy need)
Every man a King indeed!
THE PRAIRIE
I see a river loop and run about a treeless land—
An empty plain, a steely pond, a distance diamond-clear,
And low blue naked hills beyond. And what is that to fear?”
You'll find its every winding tied and knotted round your heart.
Be wary as the seasons pass, or you may ne'er outrun
The wind that sets that yellowed grass a-shiver 'neath the sun.”
I hear the hard trail telephone a far-off horse's feet.
I hear the horns of Autumn blow to the wild-fowl overhead;
And I hear the hush before the snow. And what is that to dread?”
Or, bound among a million sheaves, your soul shall not escape.
Bar home the door of summer nights lest those high planets drown
The memory of near delights in all the longed-for town.”
My faithful seasons robe the year in silver and in gold.
Now I possess and am possessed of the land where I would be,
And the curve of half Earth's generous breast shall soothe and ravish me!”
JOBSON'S AMEN
Cursèd be the Infidels, Hereticks, and Turks!”
“Amen,” quo' Jobson, “but where I used to lie
Was neither Candle, Bell nor Book to curse my brethren by,
To a surf that drove unsparing at the brown, walled town—
Conches in a temple, oil-lamps in a dome—
And a low moon out of Africa said: ‘This way home!’”
Cursèd be the Savages that prance in nakedness!”
“Amen,” quo' Jobson, “but where I used to lie
Was neither shirt nor pantaloons to catch my brethren by:
By a water-channel leaking over drowned, warm ground—
Parrots very busy in the trellised pepper-vine—
And a high sun over Asia shouting: ‘Rise and shine!’”
Cursèd be the Infidels that bow to wood and stone!”
“Amen,” quo' Jobson, “but where I used to lie
Was neither pew nor Gospelleer to save my brethren by:
Where the piled mirages thicken under white-hot light—
A skull beneath a sand-hill and a viper coiled inside—
And a red wind out of Libya roaring: ‘Run and hide!’”
Cursèd be the Hereticks who doubt that this is true!”
“Amen,” quo' Jobson, “but where I mean to die
Is neither rule nor calliper to judge the matter by:
In a million summits bedding on the last world's past—
A certain sacred mountain where the scented cedars climb,
And—the feet of my Belovèd hurrying back through Time!”
CHAPTER HEADINGS
Plain Tales from the Hills
Lispeth.
Look, you have cast out Love! What Gods are theseYou bid me please?
The Three in One, the One in Three? Not so!
To my own Gods I go.
It may be they shall give me greater ease
Than your cold Christ and tangled Trinities.
The Other Man.
And the woods were rotted with rain,
The Dead Man rode through the autumn day
To visit his love again.
So heavy was her shame;
And tho' the babe within her stirred
She knew not that he came.
His Wedded Wife.
Cry “Murder” in the market-place, and eachWill turn upon his neighbour anxious eyes
Asking: “Art thou the man?” We hunted Cain
Some centuries ago across the world.
This bred the fear our own misdeeds maintain
To-day.
Pig.
Go, stalk the red deer o'er the heather,Ride, follow the fox if you can!
But, for pleasure and profit together,
Allow me the hunting of Man—
The chase of the Human, the search for the Soul
To its ruin—the hunting of Man.
In the Pride of his Youth.
“'Stopped in the straight when the race was his own—Look at him cutting it—cur to the bone!”
Ask ere the youngster be rated and chidden
What did he carry and how was he ridden?
Maybe they used him too much at the start.
Maybe Fate's weight-cloth is breaking his heart.
Thrown Away.
“And some are sulky, while some will plunge.(So ho! Steady! Stand still, you!)
Some you must gentle, and some you must lunge.
(There! There! Who wants to kill you?)
Some—there are losses in every trade—
Will break their hearts ere bitted and made,
Will fight like fiends as the rope cuts hard,
And die dumb-mad in the breaking-yard.”
Tods' Amendment.
The World hath set its heavy yokeUpon the old white-bearded folk
Who strive to please the King.
God's mercy is upon the young,
God's wisdom in the baby tongue
That fears not anything.
By Word of Mouth.
Not though you die to-night, O Sweet, and wail,A spectre at my door,
Shall mortal Fear make Love immortal fail—
I shall but love you more,
Who, from Death's House returning, give me still
One moment's comfort in my matchless ill.
In Error.
They burnt a corpse upon the sand—The light shone out afar;
It guided home the plunging dhows
That beat from Zanzibar.
Spirit of Fire, where'er Thy altars rise,
Thou art the Light of Guidance to our eyes!
The Conversion of Aurelian McGoggin.
Ride with an idle whip, ride with an unused heel,But, once in a way, there will come a day
When the colt must be taught to feel
The lash that falls, and the curb that galls, and the sting of the rowelled steel.
The Rout of the White Hussars.
It was not in the open fightWe threw away the sword,
But in the lonely watching
In the darkness by the ford.
The waters lapped, the night-wind blew,
Full-armed the Fear was born and grew,
And we were flying ere we knew
From panic in the night.
The Bronckhorst Divorce Case.
In the daytime, when she moved about me,In the night, when she was sleeping at my side,—
I was wearied, I was wearied of her presence.
Day by day and night by night I grew to hate her—
Would God that she or I had died!
In the House of Suddhoo.
A stone's throw out on either handFrom that well-ordered road we tread,
And all the world is wild and strange;
Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite
Shall bear us company to-night,
For we have reached the Oldest Land
Wherein the Powers of Darkness range.
False Dawn.
To-night, God knows what thing shall tide,The Earth is racked and fain—
Expectant, sleepless, open-eyed;
And we, who from the Earth were made,
Thrill with our Mother's pain.
Cupid's Arrows.
Pit where the buffalo cooled his hide,By the hot sun emptied, and blistered and dried;
Log in the plume-grass, hidden and lone;
Bund where the earth-rat's mounds are strown;
Cave in the bank where the sly stream steals;
Aloe that stabs at the belly and heels,
Jump if you dare on a steed untried—
Safer it is to go wide—go wide!
Hark, from in front where the best men ride;—
“Pull to the off, boys! Wide! Go wide!”
A Bank Fraud.
He drank strong waters and his speech was coarse;He purchased raiment and forbore to pay;
He stuck a trusting junior with a horse,
And won gymkhanas in a doubtful way.
Then, 'twixt a vice and folly, turned aside
To do good deeds—and straight to cloak them, lied.
The Rescue of Pluffles.
Thus, for a season, they fought it fair—She and his cousin May—
Tactful, talented, debonair,
Decorous foes were they;
But never can battle of man compare
With merciless feminine fray.
His Chance in Life.
Then a pile of heads he laid—Thirty thousand heaped on high—
All to please the Kafir maid
Where the Oxus rippled by.
Grimly spake Atulla Khan:—
‘Love hath made this thing a Man.’
Consequences.
Rosicrucian subtletiesIn the Orient had rise.
Ye may find their teachers still
Under Jacatâlâ's Hill.
Seek ye Bombast Paracelsus,
Read what Fludd the Seeker tells us
Of the Dominant that runs
Through the cycle of the Suns.
Read my story last and see
Luna at her apogee.
The Taking of Lungtungpen.
So we loosed a bloomin' volleyAn' we made the beggars cut,
An' when our pooch was emptied out
We used the bloomin' butt.
Ho! My! Don't you come anigh
When Tommy is a-playin' with the bay'nit an' the butt!
A Germ-Destroyer.
Pleasant it is for the Little Tin GodsWhen great Jove nods;
But Little Tin Gods make their little mistakes
In missing the hour when great Jove wakes.
Kidnapped.
There is a tide in the affairs of menWhich, taken any way you please, is bad,
And strands them in forsaken guts and creeks
No decent soul would think of visiting.
You cannot stop the tide; but, now and then,
You may arrest some rash adventurer,
Who—h'm—will hardly thank you for your pains.
The Broken-Link Handicap.
While the snaffle holds or the long-neck stings,While the big beam tilts or the last bell rings,
While horses are horses to train and to race,
Then women and wine take a second place
For me—for me—
While a short ‘ten-three’
Has a field to squander or fence to face.
The Bisara of Pooree.
Little Blind Fish, thou art marvellous wise!Little Blind Fish, who put out thy eyes?
Open thy ears while I whisper my wish.
Bring me a lover, thou little Blind Fish!
COLD IRON
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.”
“Good!” said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
“But Iron—Cold Iron—is master of them all.”
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
“Nay!” said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
“But Iron—Cold Iron—shall be master of you all!”
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron—Cold Iron—was master of it all!
“What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?”
“Nay!” said the Baron, “mock not at my fall,
For Iron—Cold Iron—is master of men all.”
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.”
“As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron—Cold Iron—must be master of men all!”
“Here is Bread and here is Wine—sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron—Cold Iron—can be master of men all!”
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
“See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron—Cold Iron—to be master of men all.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason—I redeem thy fall—
For Iron—Cold Iron—must be master of men all!”
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!”
“Nay!” said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
“But Iron—Cold Iron—is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!”
A SONG OF KABIR
Oh, heavy the tale of his fiefs and his lands!
He has gone from the guddee and put on the shroud,
And departed in guise of bairagi avowed!
The sal and the kikar must guard him from heat.
His home is the camp, and the waste, and the crowd—
He is seeking the Way as bairagi avowed!
(There was One; there is One, and but One, saith Kabir);
The Red Mist of Doing has thinned to a cloud—
He has taken the Path for bairagi avowed!
Of his brother the brute, and his brother the God,
He has gone from the council and put on the shroud,
(“Can ye hear?” saith Kabir), a bairagi avowed!
A CAROL
To kneel to Judah's King,
He binds His frost upon the land
To ripen it for Spring—
To ripen it for Spring, good sirs,
According to His Word.
Which well must be as ye can see—
And who shall judge the Lord?
Or shiver on the wold,
We hear the cry of a single tree
That breaks her heart in the cold—
And rendeth by the board.
Which well must be as ye can see—
And who shall judge the Lord?
Excepting as to burn,
That we may warm and make our mirth
Until the Spring return—
Until the Spring return, good sirs,
When Christians walk abroad;
Which well must be as ye can see—
And who shall judge the Lord?
And all who sleep therein!
And guard the fens from pirate folk,
And keep us all from sin,
To walk in honesty, good sirs,
Of thought and deed and word!
Which shall befriend our latter end. . . .
And who shall judge the Lord?
“MY NEW-CUT ASHLAR”
Where crimson-blank the windows flare.
By my own work before the night,
Great Overseer, I make my prayer.
Thy Hand compelled it, Master, Thine—
Where I have failed to meet Thy Thought
I know, through Thee, the blame was mine.
Stands all Eternity's offence.
Of that I did with Thee to guide,
To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.
The bitter paths wherein I stray—
Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,
Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay.
Bring'st Eden to the craftsman's brain—
Godlike to muse o'er his own Trade
And manlike stand with God again!
In that dread Temple of Thy worth.
It is enough that, through Thy Grace,
I saw nought common on Thy Earth.
Oh, whatsoe'er may spoil or speed.
Help me to need no aid from men
That I may help such men as need!
“NON NOBIS DOMINE!”
(Written for “The Pageant of Parliament,” 1934)
Not unto us, O Lord!
The Praise or Glory be
Of any deed or word;
For in Thy Judgment lies
To crown or bring to nought
All knowledge or device
That Man has reached or wrought.
How all too high we hold
That noise which men call Fame,
That dross which men call Gold.
For these we undergo
Our hot and godless days,
But in our hearts we know
Not unto us the Praise.
Creator, Judge, and Friend,
Upholdingly forgive
Nor fail us at the end:
But grant us well to see
In all our piteous ways—
Non nobis Domine!—
Not unto us the Praise!
EDDI'S SERVICE
(A.D. 687)
In his chapel at Manhood End,
Ordered a midnight service
For such as cared to attend.
And the night was stormy as well.
Nobody came to service,
Though Eddi rang the bell.
Said Eddi of Manhood End.
“But I must go on with the service
For such as care to attend.”
An old marsh-donkey came,
Bold as a guest invited,
And stared at the guttering flame.
The water splashed on the floor,
And a wet, yoke-weary bullock
Pushed in through the open door.
How do I know what is least?
That is My Father's business,”
Said Eddi, Wilfrid's priest.
Listen to me and attend.
I bring good news, my brethren!”
Said Eddi of Manhood End.
And a Stall in Bethlehem,
And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider
That rode to Jerusalem.
They listened and never stirred,
While, just as though they were Bishops,
Eddi preached them The Word,
And the windows showed the day,
And the Ox and the Ass together
Wheeled and clattered away.
Said Eddi of Manhood End,
“I dare not shut His chapel
On such as care to attend.”
OUR LADY OF THE SACKCLOTH
Tongue-tied, feeble, and old;
And the daily prayer to the Virgin
Was all the Office he could.
Mumbled and hard to hear;
But to Mary, the two-fold Virgin,
Always his voice rang clear.
And the weight of the years he bore,
And they sent word to the Bishop
That he should not serve them more.
When the Bread and the Body are one:
Oh, never the picture of Mary
Watching him serve her Son!)
Unto the Priest said he:—
“Patience till thou art stronger,
And keep meantime with me.
The Lord shall loosen thy tongue
And then thou shalt serve at the Offering
As it was when we were young.”
And the Bishop gave him leave
To walk alone in the desert
Where none should see him grieve.
When the Wine and the Blood are one!
Oh, never the picture of Mary
Watching him honour her Son!)
Ruling himself aright
With prayer and fast in the daytime
And scourge and vigil at night.
To add one penance the more—
A garment of harshest sackcloth
Under the robes he wore.
Lest any should know and praise—
The shears, the palm and the packthread—
And laboured it many ways.
And failed and fretted the while;
Till there stood a Woman before him,
Smiling as Mothers smile.
Like a desert-dweller she trod—
Even the two-fold Virgin,
Spouse and Bearer of God!
The needle and stubborn thread,
She cut, she shaped, and she sewed them,
And, “This shall be blessed,” she said.
On a wave of the quivering air;
And the Bishop's eyes were opened,
And he fell on his face in prayer.
Far from the chanted praise—
Oh, far from the pictures of Mary
That had watched him all his days—
The old Priest walked forlorn,
Till he saw at the head of her Riders
A Queen of the Desert-born.
Beautiful to behold:
And her beast was belled with silver,
And her veils were spotted with gold!
Soft she spoke in his ear:—
“Nay, I have watched thy sorrow!
Nay, but the end is near!
And thy tongue shall be loosed in praise,
And again thou shalt sing unto Mary
Who has watched thee all thy days.
Carry him word from me—
That the Woman who sewed the sackcloth
Would have him set thee free!”
THE LEGEND OF MIRTH
Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, Azrael,
Being first of those to whom the Power was shown,
Stood first of all the Host before The Throne,
Tumultuous-winged from out the assembly first.
Zeal was their spur that bade them strictly heed
Their own high judgment on their lightest deed.
Zeal was their spur that, when relief was given,
Urged them unwearied to new toils in Heaven;
For Honour's sake perfecting every task
Beyond what e'en Perfection's self could ask. . . .
And Allah, Who created Zeal and Pride,
Knows how the twain are perilous-near allied.
The Four and all the Host being gone their ways
Each to his Charge, the shining Courts were void
Save for one Seraph whom no charge employed,
With folden wings and slumber-threatened brow,
To whom The Word: “Belovèd, what dost thou?”
“By the Permission,” came the answer soft,
“Little I do nor do that little oft.
As is The Will in Heaven so on Earth
Where by The Will I strive to make men mirth.”
He ceased and sped, hearing The Word once more:
“Beloved, go thy way and greet the Four.”
The Seraph came upon the Four, at last,
Guiding and guarding with devoted mind
The tedious generations of mankind
Who lent at most unwilling ear and eye
When they could not escape the ministry. . . .
Yet, patient, faithful, firm, persistent, just
Toward all that gross, indifferent, facile dust,
The Archangels laboured to discharge their trust
By precept and example, prayer and law,
Advice, reproof, and rule, but, labouring, saw
Each in his fellows' countenance confessed,
The Doubt that sickens: “Have I done my best?”
The Seraph hailed them with observance due:
And, after some fit talk of higher things,
This they permitting, he, emboldened thus,
Prolused of humankind promiscuous.
And, since the large contention less avails
Than instances observed, he told them tales—
Tales of the shop, the bed, the court, the street,
Intimate, elemental, indiscreet:
Occasion where Confusion smiting swift
Piles jest on jest as snow-slides pile the drift
Whence, one by one, beneath deriding skies,
The victims' bare, bewildered heads arise—
Tales of the passing of the spirit, graced
With humour blinding as the doom it faced—
Stark tales of ribaldry that broke aside
To tears, by laughter swallowed ere they dried—
Tales to which neither grace nor gain accrue,
But only (Allah be exalted!) true,
And only, as the Seraph showed that night,
Delighting to the limits of delight.
And such pretence of memory at fault,
That soon the Four—so well the bait was thrown—
Came to his aid with memories of their own—
Matters dismissed long since as small or vain,
Whereof the high significance had lain
Hid, till the ungirt glosses made it plain.
Then, as enlightenment came broad and fast,
Each marvelled at his own oblivious past,
Until—the Gates of Laughter opened wide—
The Four, with that bland Seraph at their side,
While they recalled, compared, and amplified,
In utter mirth forgot both Zeal and Pride!
Ere, weak with merriment, the Four returned,
Not in that order they were wont to keep—
Pinion to pinion answering, sweep for sweep,
In awful diapason heard afar—
But shoutingly adrift 'twixt star and star;
Reeling a planet's orbit left or right
As laughter took them in the abysmal Night;
Or, by the point of some remembered jest,
Where the blank worlds that gather to the birth
Leaped in the Womb of Darkness at their mirth,
And e'en Gehenna's bondsmen understood
They were not damned from human brotherhood. . . .
That night took place beneath The Throne once more.
O lovelier than their morning majesty,
The understanding light behind the eye!
O more compelling than their old command,
The new-learned friendly gesture of the hand!
O sweeter than their zealous fellowship,
The wise half-smile that passed from lip to lip!
O well and roundly, when Command was given,
They told their tale against themselves to Heaven,
And in the silence, waiting on The Word,
Received the Peace and Pardon of The Lord!
SHIV AND THE GRASSHOPPER
Sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago,
Gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate,
From the King upon the guddee to the Beggar at the gate.
All things made he—Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo! He made all,—
Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,
And Mother's heart for sleepy head, O little Son of mine!
Broken scraps for holy men that beg from door to door;
Cattle to the tiger, carrion to the kite,
And rags and bones to wicked wolves without the wall at night.
Naught he found too lofty, none he saw too low—
Parbati beside him watched them come and go;
Thought to cheat her husband, turning Shiv to jest—
So she tricked him, Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo, turn and see!
Tall are the camels, heavy are the kine,
But this was Least of Little Things, O little Son of mine!
“Master, of a million mouths is not one unfed?”
Laughing, Shiv made answer, “All have had their part,
Even he, the little one, hidden 'neath thy heart.”
From her breast she plucked it, Parbati the thief,
Saw the Least of Little Things gnawed a new-grown leaf!
Saw and feared and wondered, making prayer to Shiv,
Who hath surely given meat to all that live!
All things made he—Shiva the Preserver.
Mahadeo! Mahadeo! He made all,—
Thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,
And Mother's heart for sleepy head, O little Son of mine!
THE FAIRIES' SIEGE
Well have I kept the same!
Playing with strife for the most of my life,
But this is a different game.
I'll not fight against swords unseen,
Or spears that I cannot view—
Hand him the keys of the place on your knees—
'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!
Quick, ere we anger him, go!
Never before have I flinched from the guns,
But this is a different show.
I'll not fight with the Herald of God
(I know what his Master can do!)
Open the gate, he must enter in state,
'Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!
I'd hold my road for a King—
To the Triple Crown I would not bow down—
I'll not fight with the Powers of Air,
Sentry, pass him through!
Drawbridge let fall, 'tis the Lord of us all,
The Dreamer whose dreams come true!
THE QUEST
Muddied and sore he came.
Battered of shield and crest,
Bannerless, bruised and lame.
Fighting we take no shame,
Better is man for a fall.
Merrily borne, the bugle-horn
Answered the warder's call:—
“Here is my lance to mend (Haro!),
Here is my horse to be shot!
Ay, they were strong, and the fight was long;
But I paid as good as I got!”
That mocked my battle-cry.
I could not miss my man,
But I could not carry by:
Utterly whelmed was I,
Flung under, horse and all.”
Merrily borne, the bugle-horn
Answered the warder's call!
But theirs my foemen cloaked.
Ye see my broken sword—
But never the blades she broke;
Paying them stroke for stroke,
Good handsel over all.”
Merrily borne, the bugle-horn
Answered the warder's call!
Ye say the quest is vain.
Ye have not seen my foe.
Ye have not told his slain.
Surely he fights again, again;
But when ye prove his line,
In the last, lost fight of mine!
And here is my lance to mend (Haro!),
And here is my horse to be shot!
Ay, they were strong, and the fight was long;
But I paid as good as I got!”
THE CHILDREN
We have only the memory left of their home-treasured sayings and laughter.
The price of our loss shall be paid to our hands, not another's hereafter.
Neither the Alien nor Priest shall decide on it. That is our right.
But who shall return us the children?
And raged against Man, they engaged, on the breasts that they bared for us,
The first felon-stroke of the sword he had long-time prepared for us—
Their bodies were all our defence while we wrought our defences.
Those hours which we had not made good when the Judgment o'ercame us.
They believed us and perished for it. Our statecraft, our learning
Delivered them bound to the Pit and alive to the burning
Whither they mirthfully hastened as jostling for honour—
Not since her birth has our Earth seen such worth loosed upon her.
The wounded, the war-spent, the sick received no exemption:
Being cured they returned and endured and achieved our redemption,
Hopeless themselves of relief, till Death, marvelling, closed on them.
To corruption unveiled and assailed by the malice of Heaven—
By the heart-shaking jests of Decay where it lolled on the wires—
To be blanched or gay-painted by fumes—to be cindered by fires—
To be senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation
From crater to crater. For this we shall take expiation.
But who shall return us our children?
A SONG TO MITHRAS
Hymn of the XXX Legion: circa A.D. 350
“Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!”
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!
Our helmets scorch our foreheads, our sandals burn our feet.
Now in the ungirt hour—now lest we blink and drowse,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!
Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again!
Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!
Look on Thy children in darkness. Oh, take our sacrifice!
Many roads Thou hast fashioned—all of them lead to the Light!
Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright!
THE NEW KNIGHTHOOD
“I,” said the wet,
Rank Jungle-sweat,
“I'll give him the Bath!”
“We,” said the Palms.
“As the hot wind becalms,
“We'll sing the psalms.”
“I,” said the Sun,
“Before he has done,
“I'll lay on the sword.”
“I,” said Short-Rations,
“I know all the fashions
“Of tightening a belt!”
“I,” said his Chief,
Exacting and brief,
“I'll give him the spur.”
“I,” said the Fever,
“And I'm no deceiver,
“I'll shake his hand.”
“I,” said Quinine,
“It's a habit of mine.
“I'll come with his wine.”
“I,” said All Earth.
“Whatever he's worth,
“I'll put to the proof.”
“I,” said his Mother,
“Before any other,
“My very own Knight.”
Was Sir Galahad made—as it might be last week!
THE WASTER
On the lonely little son
He is taught by precept, insult, and blows
The Things that Are Never Done.
Year after year, without favour or fear,
From seven to twenty-two,
His keepers insist he shall learn the list
Of the things no fellow can do.
(They are not so strict with the average Pict
And it isn't set to, etc.)
Or the good of his fellow-kind
He is and suffers unspeakable things
In body and soul and mind.
But the net result of that Primitive Cult,
Whatever else may be won,
Is definite knowledge ere leaving College
Of the Things that Are Never Done.
(An interdict which is strange to the Pict
And was never revealed to, etc.)
Only quick to despise,
Largely assessing his neighbour's worth
By the hue of his socks or ties,
A loafer-in-grain, his foes maintain,
And how shall we combat their view
When, atop of his natural sloth, he holds
There are Things no Fellow can do?
(Which is why he is licked from the first by the Pict
And left at the post by, etc.)
OUTSONG IN THE JUNGLE
BALOOFor the sake of him who showed
One wise Frog the Jungle-Road,
Keep the Law the Man-Pack make
For thy blind old Baloo's sake!
Clean or tainted, hot or stale,
Hold it as it were the Trail,
Through the day and through the night,
Questing neither left nor right.
For the sake of him who loves
Thee beyond all else that moves,
When thy Pack would make thee pain,
Say: “Tabaqui sings again.”
When thy Pack would work thee ill,
Say: “Shere Khan is yet to kill.”
When the knife is drawn to slay,
Keep the Law and go thy way.
(Root and honey, palm and spathe,
Guard a cub from harm and scathe!)
Wood and Water, Wind and Tree,
Jungle-Favour go with thee!
KAA
Anger is the egg of Fear—
Only lidless eyes see clear.
Cobra-poison none may leech—
Even so with Cobra-speech.
Strength, whose mate is Courtesy.
Send no lunge beyond thy length.
Lend no rotten bough thy strength.
Gauge thy gape with buck or goat,
Lest thine eye should choke thy throat.
After gorging, wouldst thou sleep?
Look thy den be hid and deep,
Lest a wrong, by thee forgot,
Draw thy killer to the spot.
East and West and North and South,
Wash thy hide and close thy mouth.
(Pit and rift and blue pool-brim,
Middle-Jungle follow him!)
Wood and Water, Wind and Tree,
Jungle-Favour go with thee!
BAGHEERA
In the cage my life began;
Well I know the worth of Man.
By the Broken Lock that freed—
Man-cub, 'ware the Man-cub's breed!
Scenting-dew or starlight pale,
Choose no tangled tree-cat trail.
Pack or council, hunt or den,
Cry no truce with Jackal-Men.
Feed them silence when they say:
“Come with us an easy way.”
Feed them silence when they seek
Help of thine to hurt the weak.
Make no bandar's boast of skill;
Hold thy peace above the kill.
Let nor call nor song nor sign
Turn thee from thy hunting-line.
(Morning mist or twilight clear,
Serve him, Wardens of the Deer!)
Wood and Water, Wind and Tree,
Jungle-Favour go with thee!
THE THREE
On the trail that thou must tread
To the thresholds of our dread,
Through the nights when thou shalt lie
Prisoned from our Mother-sky,
Hearing us, thy loves, go by;
In the dawns when thou shalt wake
To the toil thou canst not break,
Heartsick for the Jungle's sake;
Wood and Water, Wind and Tree,
Wisdom, Strength, and Courtesy,
Jungle-Favour go with thee!
HARP SONG OF THE DANE WOMEN
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
But one chill bed for all to rest in,
That the pale suns and the stray bergs nest in.
But the ten-times-fingering weed to hold you—
Out on the rocks where the tide has rolled you.
And the ice breaks, and the birch-buds quicken,
Yearly you turn from our side, and sicken—
You steal away to the lapping waters,
And look at your ship in her winter-quarters.
The kine in the shed and the horse in the stables—
To pitch her sides and go over her cables.
And the sound of your oar-blades, falling hollow,
Is all we have left through the months to follow.
And the hearth-fire and the home-acre,
To go with the old grey Widow-maker?
THE THOUSANDTH MAN
Will stick more close than a brother.
And it's worth while seeking him half your days
If you find him before the other.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend
On what the world sees in you,
But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend
With the whole round world agin you.
Will settle the finding for 'ee.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.
But if he finds you and you find him,
The rest of the world don't matter;
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.
Than he uses yours for his spendings,
And laugh and meet in your daily walk
As though there had been no lendings.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call
For silver and gold in their dealings;
But the Thousandth Man he's worth 'em all,
Because you can show him your feelings.
In season or out of season.
Stand up and back it in all men's sight—
With that for your only reason!
Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide
The shame or mocking or laughter,
But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot—and after!
THE WINNERS
When the night is thick and the tracks are blind
A friend at a pinch is a friend indeed,
But a fool to wait for the laggard behind.
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
Slipping the spur from the booted heel,
Tenderest voices cry “Turn again!”
Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel.
High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone—
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
Falls by himself with himself to blame.
One may attain and to him is pelf—
Loot of the city in Gold or Fame.
Plunder of earth shall be all his own
Who travels the fastest and travels alone.
Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil,
Sing the heretical song I have made—
His be the labour and yours be the spoil.
Win by his aid and the aid disown—
He travels the fastest who travels alone!
A ST. HELENA LULLABY
What makes you want to wander there with all the world between?
Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he'll run away.
(No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!)
I haven't time to answer now—the men are falling fast.
The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat.
(If you take the first step, you will take the last!)
You couldn't hear me if I told—so loud the cannon roar.
But not so far for people who are living by their wits.
(“Gay go up” means “Gay go down” the wide world o'er!)
I cannot see—I cannot tell—the Crowns they dazzle so.
The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance.
(After open weather you may look for snow!)
A longish way—a longish way—with ten year more to run.
It's South across the water underneath a falling star.
(What you cannot finish you must leave undone!)
An ill way—a chill way—the ice begins to crack.
But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice.
(When you can't go forward you must e'en come back!)
A near way—a clear way—the ship will take you soon.
A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do.
(Morning never tries you till the afternoon!)
That no one knows—that no one knows—and no one ever will.
But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face,
And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!
CHIL'S SONG
(For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)
Now come I to whistle them the ending of the fight.
(Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)
Word they gave me overhead of quarry newly slain.
Word I gave them underfoot of buck upon the plain.
Here's an end of every trail—they shall not speak again!
(For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)
They that bade the sambhur wheel, or pinned him as he passed—
(Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)
They that lagged behind the scent—they that ran before—
They that shunned the level horn—they that over-bore—
Here's an end of every trail—they shall not follow more.
(For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)
Now come I to comfort them that knew them in their pride.
(Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)
Tattered flank and sunken eye, open mouth and red,
Locked and lank and lone they lie, the dead upon their dead.
Here's an end of every trail—and here my hosts are fed!
THE CAPTIVE
Not with an outcry to Allah nor any complainingHe answered his name at the muster and stood to the chaining.
When the twin anklets were nipped on the leg-bars that held them,
He brotherly greeted the armourers stooping to weld them.
Ere the sad dust of the marshalled feet of the chain-gang swallowed him,
Observing him nobly at ease, I alighted and followed him.
Rather his red Yesterday and his regal To-morrow,
Wherein he statelily moved to the clink of his chains unregarded,
Nowise abashed but contented to drink of the potion awarded.
Saluting aloofly his Fate, he made haste with his story,
And the words of his mouth were as slaves spreading carpets of glory
Embroidered with names of the Djinns—a miraculous weaving—
But the cool and perspicuous eye overbore unbelieving.
So I submitted myself to the limits of rapture—
Bound by this man we had bound, amid captives his capture—
Till he returned me to earth and the visions departed.
But on him be the Peace and the Blessing; for he was great-hearted!
THE PUZZLER
His mental processes are plain—one knows what he will do,
And can logically predicate his finish by his start;
But the English—ah, the English!—they are quite a race apart.
They abandon vital matters to be tickled with a straw;
But the straw that they were tickled with—the chaff that they were fed with—
They convert into a weaver's beam to break their foeman's head with.
They arrive at their conclusions—largely inarticulate.
Being void of self-expression they confide their views to none;
But sometimes in a smoking-room, one learns why things were done.
Obliquely and by inference, illumination comes,
On some step that they have taken, or some action they approve—
Embellished with the argot of the Upper Fourth Remove.
They hint a matter's inwardness—and there the matter ends.
And while the Celt is talking from Valencia to Kirkwall,
The English—ah, the English!—don't say anything at all.
THE PRESS
The Sailorman the Sea,
The Mason may forget the Word
And the Priest his Litany:
The Maid may forget both jewel and gem,
And the Bride her wedding-dress—
But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem
Ere we forget the Press!
Ere, roaring like the gale,
The Harrild and the Hoe devour
Their league-long paper-bale,
And has lit his pipe in the morning calm
That follows the midnight stress—
He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art
We call the daily Press.
That all of a man can play,
No later love, no larger fame
Will lure him long away.
As the war-horse snuffeth the battle afar,
The entered Soul, no less,
He saith: “Ha! Ha!” where the trumpets are
And the thunders of the Press!
Or the Times that we bring forth?
Canst thou send the lightnings to do thy will,
And cause them reign on earth?
Hast thou given a peacock goodly wings,
To please his foolishness?
Sit down at the heart of men and things,
Companion of the Press!
The Union its decree,
But the bubble is blown and the bubble is pricked
By Us and such as We.
Remember the battle and stand aside
While Thrones and Powers confess
That King over all the children of pride
Is the Press—the Press—the Press!
HADRAMAUTI
What are his measures and balances? Which is his season
For laughter, forbearance or bloodshed, and what devils move him
When he arises to smite us? I do not love him.
Booted, bareheaded he enters. With shouts and embraces
He asks of us news of the household whom we reckon nameless.
Certainly Allah created him forty-fold shameless!
The Avenger of Blood on his track—I took him in keeping.
Demanding not whom he had slain, I refreshed him, I fed him
As he were even a brother. But Eblis had bred him.
He talked with his head, hands and feet. I endured him with loathing.
Whatever his spirit conceived his countenance showed it
As a frog shows in a mud-puddle. Yet I abode it!
His soul was too shallow for silence, e'en with Death hunting him.
I said: “'Tis his weariness speaks,” but, when he had rested,
He chirped in my face like some sparrow, and, presently, jested!
I saddled my mare, Bijli, I set him upon her.
I gave him rice and goat's flesh. He bared me to laughter.
When he was gone from my tent, swift I followed after,
Taking my sword in my hand. The hot wine had filled him.
Under the stars he mocked me—therefore I killed him!
CHAPTER HEADINGS
The Naulahka
[There was a strife 'twixt man and maid—]
There was a strife 'twixt man and maid—Oh, that was at the birth of time!
But what befell 'twixt man and maid,
Oh, that's beyond the grip of rhyme.
'Twas, “Sweet, I must not bide with you,”
And “Love, I cannot bide alone”;
For both were young and both were true,
And both were hard as the nether stone.
[Beware the man who's crossed in love]
Beware the man who's crossed in love;For pent-up steam must find its vent.
Stand back when he is on the move,
And lend him all the Continent.
[Your patience, Sirs. The Devil took me up]
Your patience, Sirs. The Devil took me upTo the burned mountain over Sicily
(Fit place for me) and thence I saw my Earth—
And that one spot I love—all Earth to me,
And her I love, my Heaven. What said I?
My love was safe from all the powers of Hell—
For you—e'en you—acquit her of my guilt—
But Sula, nestling by our sail-specked sea,
My city, child of mine, my heart, my home—
Mine and my pride—evil might visit there!
It was for Sula and her naked port,
Prey to the galleys of the Algerine,
Our city Sula, that I drove my price—
For love of Sula and for love of her.
The twain were woven—gold on sackcloth—twined
Past any sundering till God shall judge
The evil and the good.
[Now it is not good for the Christian's health to hustle the Aryan brown]
Now it is not good for the Christian's health to hustle the Aryan brown,For the Christian riles, and the Aryan smiles and he weareth the Christian down;
And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name of the late deceased,
And the epitaph drear: “A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.”
[There is pleasure in the wet, wet clay]
There is pleasure in the wet, wet clay,When the artist's hand is potting it.
There is pleasure in the wet, wet lay,
When the poet's pad is blotting it.
There is pleasure in the shine of your picture on the line
At the Royal Acade-my;
But the pleasure felt in these is as chalk to Cheddar cheese
When it comes to a well-made Lie.—
To a quite unwreckable Lie,
To a most impeccable Lie!
To a water-tight, fire-proof, angle-iron, sunk-hinge, time-lock, steel-faced Lie!
Not a private hansom Lie,
But a pair-and-brougham Lie,
Not a little-place-at-Tooting, but a country-house-with-shooting
And a ring-fence-deer-park Lie.
Looking for his love,
Azrael smiling sheathes his sword,
Heaven smiles above.
Earth and sea
His servants be,
And to lesser compass round,
That his love be sooner found!
[We meet in an evil land]
That is near to the gates of Hell.
I wait for thy command
To serve, to speed or withstand.
And thou sayest I do not well?
Are only tongues of flame,
The earth is full of the dead,
The new-killed, restless dead.
There is danger beneath and o'erhead,
And I guard thy gates in fear
Of words thou canst not hear,
Of peril and jeopardy,
Of signs thou canst not see—
And thou sayest 'tis ill that I came?
[This I saw when the rites were done]
This I saw when the rites were done,And the lamps were dead and the Gods alone,
And the grey snake coiled on the altar-stone—
Ere I fled from a Fear that I could not see,
And the Gods of the East made mouths at me.
[Beat off in our last fight were we?]
Beat off in our last fight were we?The greater need to seek the sea.
For Fortune changeth as the moon
To caravel and picaroon.
Then Eastward Ho! or Westward Ho!
Whichever wind may meetest blow.
Our quarry sails on either sea,
Fat prey for such bold lads as we,
And every sun-dried buccaneer
Must hand and reef and watch and steer,
Before the plate-ships wallow by.
Now, as our tall bows take the foam,
Let no man turn his heart to home,
Save to desire plunder more
And larger warehouse for his store,
When treasure won from Santos Bay
Shall make our sea-washed village gay.
[Because I sought it far from men]
In deserts and alone,
I found it burning overhead,
The jewel of a Throne.
And spent my days to find—
It blazed one moment ere it left
The blacker night behind.
[We be the Gods of the East—]
We be the Gods of the East—Older than all—
Masters of Mourning and Feast—
How shall we fall?
[Will they gape for the husks that ye proffer]
Or yearn to your song?
And we—have we nothing to offer
Who ruled them so long—
In the fume of the incense, the clash of the cymbals, the blare of the conch and the gong?
Low the day burns—
Back with the kine from the pools
Each one returns
To the life that he knows where the altar-flame glows and the tulsi is trimmed in the urns.
[CHAPTER HEADINGS]
The Light that Failed
[So we settled it all when the storm was done]
So we settled it all when the storm was doneAs comfy as comfy could be;
And I was to wait in the barn, my dears,
Because I was only three.
And Teddy would run to the rainbow's foot
Because he was five and a man—
And that's how it all began, my dears,
And that's how it all began!
[Then we brought the lances down—then the trumpets blew—]
Then we brought the lances down—then the trumpets blew—When we went to Kandahar, ridin' two an' two.
Ridin'—ridin'—ridin'—two an' two!
Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-a!
All the way to Kandahar,
Ridin' two an' two.
[The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn]
The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn,When the smoke of the cooking hung grey.
He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn,
And he looked to his strength for his prey.
But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away;
And he turned from his meal in the villager's close,
And he bayed to the moon as she rose.
[“I have a thousand men,” said he]
“To wait upon my will;
And towers nine upon the Tyne,
And three upon the Till.”
“Or towers from Tyne to Till?
Sith you must go with me,” said she,
“To wait upon my will.
Nor ever draw the rein,
But before you lead the Fairy Queen
'Twill burst your heart in twain.”
The bridle from his hand,
And he is bound by hand and foot
To the Queen of Fairy Land.
[“If I have taken the common clay]
And wrought it cunningly
In the shape of a God that was digged a clod,
The greater honour to me.”
And thy hands be not free
From the taint of the soil, thou hast made thy spoil
The greater shame to thee.”
[The lark will make her hymn to God]
The partridge call her brood,
While I forget the heath I trod,
The fields wherein I stood.
But greater dule to know
I can but hear the hunter's horn
That once I used to blow.
[There were three friends that buried the fourth]
The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes,
And they went south and east and north—
The strong man fights but the sick man dies.
The strong man fights but the sick man dies—
“And would he were here with us now,” they said,
“The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.”
[Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him]
Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him,Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save,
Yet at the last, with his masters around him,
He spoke of the Faith as a master to slave.
Yet at the last, though the Kafirs had maimed him,
Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver,
Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had claimed him,
He called upon Allah, and died a Believer!
GALLIO'S SONG
The crazed Provincials drew—
All day long at their ruler's feet
Howled for the blood of the Jew.
Insurrection with one accord
Banded itself and woke,
And Paul was about to open his mouth
When Achaia's Deputy spoke—
Or the Man ascend upon high,
Whether this maker of tents be Jove
Or a younger deity—
I will be no judge between your gods
And your godless bickerings.
Lictor, drive them hence with rods—
I care for none of these things!
Or Cæsar's rule denied,
Reason would I should bear with you
And order it well to be tried;
But this is a question of words and names.
I know the strife it brings.
I will not pass upon any your claims.
I care for none of these things.
As I pray you also see.
Claudius Cæsar hath set me here
Rome's Deputy to be.
It is Her peace that ye go to break—
Not mine, nor any king's.
But, touching your clamour of ‘Conscience sake,’
I care for none of these things.
Or riot in hope of spoil,
Equally will I punish the deed,
Equally check the broil;
Nowise permitting injustice at all
From whatever doctrine it springs—
But—whether ye follow Priapus or Paul,
I care for none of these things!”
THE BEES AND THE FLIES
Perused in Virgil's golden page
The story of the secret won
From Proteus by Cyrene's son—
How the dank sea-god showed the swain
Means to restore his hives again.
More briefly, how a slaughtered bull
Breeds honey by the bellyful.
A bull by stopping of its breath,
Disposed the carcass in a shed
With fragrant herbs and branches spread,
And, having well performed the charm,
Sat down to wait the promised swarm.
Impartial, quickening with his ray
Evil and good alike, beheld
The carcass—and the carcass swelled.
Big with new birth the belly heaves
Beneath its screen of scented leaves.
Past any doubt, the bull conceives!
To house the profit that arrives;
Sweet music that shall make 'em settle;
But when to crown the work he goes,
Gods! What a stink salutes his nose!
The gravid mistress of their care?
A busy scene, indeed, he sees,
But not a sign or sound of bees.
Worms of the riper grave unhid
By any kindly coffin-lid,
Obscene and shameless to the light,
Seethe in insatiate appetite,
Through putrid offal, while above
The hissing blow-fly seeks his love,
Whose offspring, supping where they supt,
Consume corruption twice corrupt.
ROAD-SONG OF THE BANDAR-LOG
Half-way up to the jealous moon!
Don't you envy our pranceful bands?
Don't you wish you had extra hands?
Wouldn't you like if your tails were—so—
Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow?
Now you're angry, but—never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
Thinking of beautiful things we know;
Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,
All complete, in a minute or two—
Something noble and grand and good,
Won by merely wishing we could.
Now we're going to—never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
Uttered by bat or beast or bird—
Jabber it quickly and all together!
Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!
Now we are talking just like men.
Let's pretend we are . . . Never mind!
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
This is the way of the Monkey-kind!
That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings.
By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,
Be sure—be sure, we're going to do some splendid things!
THE FABULISTS
Since Truth is seldom friend to any crowd,
Men write in fable, as old Æsop did,
Jesting at that which none will name aloud.
And this they needs must do, or it will fall
Unless they please they are not heard at all.
To work confusion upon all we have,
When diligent Sloth demandeth Freedom's death,
And banded Fear commandeth Honour's grave—
Even in that certain hour before the fall,
Unless men please they are not heard at all.
Needs must all toil, yet some not all for gain,
But that men taking pleasure may take heed,
Whom present toil shall snatch from later pain.
Thus some have toiled, but their reward was small
Since, though they pleased, they were not heard at all.
This was the yoke that we have undergone,
As in our time and generation.
Our pleasures unpursued age past recall,
And for our pains—we are not heard at all.
What man heeds aught save what each instant brings?
When each man's life all imaged life outruns,
What man shall pleasure in imaginings?
So it hath fallen, as it was bound to fall,
We are not, nor we were not, heard at all.
“OUR FATHERS ALSO”
Are changing 'neath our hand.
Our fathers also see these things
But they do not understand.
Wit or the works of Desire—
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.
Standeth no more to glean;
For the Gates of Love and Learning locked
When they went out between.
Signalled it was or told
By the dear lips long given to theirs
And longer to the mould.
Written it was or said
By the mighty men of their mighty youth,
Which is mighty being dead.
The Temple's Veil they call;
And the dust that on the Shewbread lies
Is holy over all.
Of slow-conspiring stars—
The ancient Front of Things unbroke
But heavy with new wars?
Wit or the waste of Desire—
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire!
A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG
(A.D. 406)
And I, belike, shall never come
To look on that so-holy spot—
The very Rome—
The equal work of Gods and Man,
City beneath whose oldest height—
The Race began!
Unshakeable, we pray, that clings
To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood—
In arduous things.
Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,
Age after Age, the Empire round—
In us thy Sons
Loving and serving much, require
Thee—thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills
The Imperial Fire!
A PICT SONG
Always her heavy hooves fall
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on—that is all,
And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
With only our tongues for our swords.
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you'll see
How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!
Rats gnawing cables in two—
Moths making holes in a cloak—
How they must love what they do!
Yes—and we Little Folk too,
We are busy as they—
Working our works out of view—
Watch, and you'll see it some day!
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along
To smash and destroy you in War!
We shall be slaves just the same?
Yes, we have always been slaves,
But you—you will die of the shame,
And then we shall dance on your graves!
THE STRANGER
He may be true or kind,
But he does not talk my talk—
I cannot feel his mind.
I see the face and the eyes and the mouth,
But not the soul behind.
They may do ill or well,
But they tell the lies I am wonted to,
They are used to the lies I tell;
And we do not need interpreters
When we go to buy and sell.
He may be evil or good,
But I cannot tell what powers control—
What reasons sway his mood;
Nor when the Gods of his far-off land
Shall repossess his blood.
Bitter bad they may be,
But, at least, they hear the things I hear,
And see the things I see;
And whatever I think of them and their likes
They think of the likes of me.
And this is also mine:
Let the corn be all one sheaf—
And the grapes be all one vine,
Ere our children's teeth are set on edge
By bitter bread and wine.
“RIMINI”
Marching Song of a Roman Legion of the Later Empire
By the Legions' Road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was mine to take
With me and my shield to Rimini—
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini—)
And I've tramped Britain, and I've tramped Gaul,
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage—
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
And I've lost Britain, and I've lost Gaul,
And I've lost Rome and, worst of all,
I've lost Lalage!
As thousands have travelled before,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who never saw Rome any more!
Oh, dear was the sweetheart that kissed him,
And dear was the mother that bore;
But his shield was picked up in the heather,
And he never saw Rome any more!
That runs from the City to Gaul,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who rose to be master of all!
He carried the sword and the buckler,
He mounted his guard on the Wall,
Till the Legions elected him Cæsar,
And he rose to be master of all!
It's forty-five more up the Rhone,
And the end may be death in the heather
Or life on an Emperor's throne.
Or we go to the Ravens—alone,
I'd sooner be Lalage's lover
Than sit on an Emperor's throne!
“POOR HONEST MEN”
(A.D. 1800)
Will cost you a guinea,
Which you reckon too much by five shillings or ten;
But light your churchwarden
And judge it according,
When I've told you the troubles of poor honest men.
As you are well aware,
We sail with tobacco for England—but then,
Our own British cruisers,
They watch us come through, sirs,
And they press half a score of us poor honest men!
(Thick weather prevailing)
We leave them behind (as we do now and then)
We are sure of a gun from
Each frigate we run from,
Which is often destruction to poor honest men!
We tumble short-handed,
With shot-holes to plug and new canvas to bend;
And off the Azores,
Dutch, Dons and Monsieurs
Are waiting to terrify poor honest men.
Is laid on all cargo
Which comfort or aid to King George may intend;
And since roll, twist and leaf,
Of all comforts is chief,
They try for to steal it from poor honest men!
We take refuge in flight,
But fire as we run, our retreat to defend;
Until our stern-chasers
Cut up her fore-braces,
And she flies off the wind from us poor honest men!
South-eastward the drift is,
And so, when we think we are making Land's End,
Alas, it is Ushant
With half the King's Navy,
Blockading French ports against poor honest men!
(Which is our salvation)
So swiftly we stand to the Nor'ard again;
And finding the tail of
A homeward-bound convoy,
We slip past the Scillies like poor honest men.
We hand our stuff over,
Though I may not inform how we do it, nor when.
But a light on each quarter,
Low down on the water,
Is well understanded by poor honest men.
From meddlesome strangers,
Who spy on our business and are not content
To take a smooth answer,
Except with a handspike . . .
And they say they are murdered by poor honest men!
Is our natural lot,
Why should we, moreover, be hanged in the end—
After all our great pains
For to dangle in chains
As though we were smugglers, not poor honest men?
“WHEN THE GREAT ARK”
Rode stately through the half-manned fleet,
From every ship about her way
She heard the mariners entreat—
“Before we take the seas again
Let down your boats and send us men!
With work—God knows!—enough for all,
To hand and reef and watch and steer,
Because our present strength is small.
While your three decks are crowded so
Your crews can scarcely stand or go.
Confusion and divided will;
In storm, the mindless deep obeys
Not multitudes but single skill.
In calm, your numbers, closely pressed,
Must breed a mutiny or pest.
Dare not adventure where we would,
But forfeit brave advantages
For lack of men to make 'em good;
Whereby, to England's double cost,
Honour and profit both are lost!”
PROPHETS AT HOME
Except in the village where they were born,
Where such as knew them boys from birth
Nature-ally hold 'em in scorn.
They make a won'erful grievance of it;
(You can see by their writings how they complain),
But O, 'tis won'erful good for the Prophet!
(Nor being swallowed by whales between),
Makes up for the place where a man's folk live,
Which don't care nothing what he has been.
He might ha' been that, or he might ha' been this,
But they love and they hate him for what he is.
JUBAL AND TUBAL CAIN
And the curse of thistle and thorn—
But Tubal got him a pointed rod,
And scrabbled the earth for corn.
Old—old as that early mould,
Young as the sprouting grain—
Yearly green is the strife between
Jubal and Tubal Cain!
And the love that its waves divide—
But Tubal hollowed a fallen tree
And passed to the further side.
Black—black as the hurricane-wrack,
Salt as the under-main—
Bitter and cold is the hate they hold—
Jubal and Tubal Cain!
When wars and wounds shall cease—
But Tubal fashioned the hand-flung spears
And showèd his neighbours peace.
New—new as the Nine-point-Two,
Older than Lamech's slain—
Roaring and loud is the feud avowed
Twix' Jubal and Tubal Cain!
And the peaks that none may crown—
But Tubal clambered by jut and scar
And there he builded a town.
High—high as the snowsheds lie,
Low as the culverts drain—
Wherever they be they can never agree—
Jubal and Tubal Cain!
THE VOORTREKKER
The gull shall whistle in his wake, the blind wave break in fire.He shall fulfil God's utmost will, unknowing His desire.
And he shall see old planets change and alien stars arise,
And give the gale his seaworn sail in shadow of new skies.
Strong lust of gear shall drive him forth and hunger arm his hand,
To win his food from the desert rude, his pittance from the sand.
His neighbours' smoke shall vex his eyes, their voices break his rest.
He shall go forth till south is north, sullen and dispossessed.
He shall desire loneliness and his desire shall bring,
Hard on his heels, a thousand wheels, a People and a King.
He shall come back on his own track, and by his scarce-cooled camp
There shall he meet the roaring street, the derrick and the stamp:
There he shall blaze a nation's ways with hatchet and with brand,
Till on his last-won wilderness an Empire's outposts stand!
A SCHOOL SONG
Men of little showing—
For their work continueth,
And their work continueth,
Broad and deep continueth,
Greater than their knowing!
Took us from our mothers—
Flung us on a naked shore
(Twelve bleak houses by the shore!
Seven summers by the shore!)
'Mid two hundred brothers.
Set in office o'er us;
And they beat on us with rods—
Faithfully with many rods—
Daily beat us on with rods,
For the love they bore us!
Over Himalaya—
Far and sure our bands have gone—
Hy-Brazil or Babylon,
Islands of the Southern Run,
And Cities of Cathaia!
Ancients of the College;
For they taught us common sense—
Tried to teach us common sense—
Truth and God's Own Common Sense,
Which is more than knowledge!
Strung about Creation
Seeth one or more of us
(Of one muster each of us),
Diligent in that he does,
Keen in his vocation.
Knowing not its uses,
When they showed, in daily work,
Man must finish off his work—
Right or wrong, his daily work—
And without excuses.
Mine and fuse and grapnel—
Some, before the face of Kings,
Stand before the face of Kings;
Bearing gifts to divers Kings—
Gifts of case and shrapnel.
Teaching in our borders,
Who declarèd it was best,
Safest, easiest, and best—
Expeditious, wise, and best—
To obey your orders.
Bear the greater burden:
Set to serve the lands they rule,
(Save he serve no man may rule),
Serve and love the lands they rule;
Seeking praise nor guerdon.
Knowing not we learned it.
Only, as the years went by—
Lonely, as the years went by—
Far from help as years went by,
Plainer we discerned it.
From whose bays we borrow—
They that put aside To-day—
All the joys of their To-day—
And with toil of their To-day
Bought for us To-morrow!
Men of little showing—
For their work continueth,
And their work continueth,
Broad and deep continueth,
Great beyond their knowing!
THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep.
Remember the Wolf is a hunter—go forth and get food of thine own.
And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair.
Lie down till the leaders have spoken—it may be fair words shall prevail.
Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war.
Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come.
The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again.
Lest ye frighten the deer from the crops, and the brothers go empty away.
But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man!
Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide.
And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies.
But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill.
Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same.
One haunch of each kill for her litter; and none may deny her the same.
He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone.
In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of the Head Wolf is Law.
But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is—Obey!
“A SERVANT WHEN HE REIGNETH”
And four she cannot brook
The godly Agur counted them
And put them in a book—
Those Four Tremendous Curses
With which mankind is cursed;
But a Servant when He Reigneth
Old Agur entered first.
We need not call upon.
A Fool when he is full of Meat
Will fall asleep anon.
May bear a babe and mend;
But a Servant when He Reigneth
Is Confusion to the end.
His hands are slow to toil,
His ears are deaf to reason,
His lips are loud in broil.
He knows no use for power
Except to show his might.
He gives no heed to judgment
Unless it prove him right.
Before his Kingship came,
And hid in all disaster
Behind his master's name,
So, when his Folly opens
The unnecessary hells,
A Servant when He Reigneth
Throws the blame on some one else.
His faith is hard to bind,
His trust is easy broken,
He fears his fellow-kind.
The nearest mob will move him
To break the pledge he gave—
Oh, a Servant when He Reigneth
Is more than ever slave!
MACDONOUGH'S SONG
In Heaven as well as on Earth:
If it be wiser to kill mankind
Before or after the birth—
Where State-kept schoolmen are;
But Holy State (we have lived to learn)
Endeth in Holy War.
Or lured by the loudest throat:
If it be quicker to die by the sword
Or cheaper to die by vote—
These are things we have dealt with once,
(And they will not rise from their grave)
For Holy People, however it runs,
Endeth in wholly Slave.
Seeketh to take or give
Power above or beyond the Laws,
Suffer it not to live!
Holy State or Holy King—
Or Holy People's Will—
Have no truck with the senseless thing.
Order the guns and kill!
Saying—after—me:—
Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth.
Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, O ye slain!
Once there was The People—it shall never be again!
THE FLIGHT
Too near to where they lay,
They lifted neither voice nor head,
But took themselves away.
There went no warning call.
The steely, sheltering rushes stirred
A little—that was all.
And the drowned meadows spied
What else than wreckage of a flood
Stole outward on that tide.
Gather and greet and grow
By myriads on the naked banks
Watching their sign to go;
The shivering shoals to foam,
Flight after flight took air and turned
To find a safer home;
They heard (and hastened on)
Men thresh and clamour through the sedge
Aghast that they were gone!
And nest where they were bred,
“Nay, fools foretell what knaves will do,”
Was all the grey geese said.
“OUR FATHERS OF OLD”
Excellent herbs to ease their pain—
Alexanders and Marigold,
Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane—
Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue,
(Almost singing themselves they run)
Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you—
Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun.
Anything green that grew out of the mould
Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old.
Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars—
The Sun was Lord of the Marigold,
Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars.
Pat as a sum in division it goes—
(Every herb had a planet bespoke)—
Who but Venus should govern the Rose?
Who but Jupiter own the Oak?
Simply and gravely the facts are told
In the wonderful books of our fathers of old.
Wonderful little our fathers knew.
Half their remedies cured you dead—
Most of their teaching was quite untrue—
“Look at the stars when a patient is ill
(Dirt has nothing to do with disease),
Bleed and blister as much as you will,
Blister and bleed him as oft as you please.”
Whence enormous and manifold
Errors were made by our fathers of old.
And neither planets nor herbs assuaged,
They took their lives in their lancet-hand
And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged!
Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door—
(Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled!)
Excellent courage our fathers bore—
Excellent heart had our fathers of old.
None too learned, but nobly bold
Into the fight went our fathers of old.
And sage Hippocrates holds as much—
“That those afflicted by doubts and dismays
Are mightily helped by a dead man's touch,”
Then, be good to us, stars above!
Then, be good to us, herbs below!
We are afflicted by what we can prove,
We are distracted by what we know.
So—ah, so!
Down from your heaven or up from your mould,
Send us the hearts of our fathers of old!
DOCTORS
His days are counted and reprieve is vain:
Who shall entreat with Death to stay his hand,
Or cloke the shameful nakedness of pain?
The passionless, the unshakeable of soul,
Who serve the inmost mysteries of man's clay,
And ask no more than leave to make them whole.
THE HERITAGE
Ere yet the Earth was small,
Ensured to us an heritage,
And doubted not at all
That we, the children of their heart,
Which then did beat so high,
In later time should play like part
For our posterity.
To 'vantage us and ours,
The Walls that were a world's despair,
The sea-constraining Towers:
Yet in their midmost pride they knew,
And unto Kings made known,
Not all from these their strength they drew,
Their faith from brass or stone.
With age's judgment wise,
They spent, and counted not they spent,
At daily sacrifice.
Not lambs alone nor purchased doves
Or tithe of trader's gold—
Their lives most dear, their dearer loves,
They offered up of old.
They bowed the neck to bear
The unadornèd yoke that brings
Stark toil and sternest care.
Wherefore through them is Freedom sure;
Wherefore through them we stand,
From all but sloth and pride secure,
In a delightsome land.
So great a charge to keep,
Nor dream that awestruck Time shall save
Their labour while we sleep.
Dear-bought and clear, a thousand year,
Our fathers' title runs.
Make we likewise their sacrifice,
Defrauding not our sons.
CHAPTER HEADINGS
written for John Lockwood Kipling's Beast and Man in India
The Goat.
In Earth's young penitence,
And I have bled in that Babe's stead
Because of innocence.
That have no sin of my own,
They drive me forth to Heaven's wrath
Unpastured and alone.
The ransom of man's guilt,
For they give my life to the altar-knife
Wherever shrine is built.
The Oxen.
Up from the river as the twilight falls,
Across the dust-beclouded plain they pass
On to the village walls.
But over all the labouring ploughman's blade—
For on its oxen and its husbandmen
An Empire's strength is laid.
The Elephant.
The saplings reeling in the path he trod,
Declare his might—our lord the Elephant,
Chief of the ways of God.
The bowed head toiling where the guns careen,
Declare our might—our slave the Elephant,
And servant of the Queen.
Pigs and Buffaloes.
Wallow and waste and lea,
Outcaste they wait at the village gate
With folk of low degree.
Their food the cattle's scorn;
Their rest is mire and their desire
The thicket and the thorn.
And woe to those that dare
To rouse the herd-bull from his keep,
The wild boar from his lair!
[The beasts are very wise]
The beasts are very wise,Their mouths are clean of lies,
They talk one to the other,
Bullock to bullock's brother
Each in stall with his neighbours.
But man with goad and whip
Breaks up their fellowship,
Shouts in their silky ears
Filling their soul with fears.
When he has ploughed the land,
He says: “They understand.”
But the beasts in stall together,
Freed from the yoke and tether,
Say as the torn flanks smoke:
“Nay, 'twas the whip that spoke.”
[CHAPTER HEADINGS]
Life's Handicap
The Return of Imray.
The doors were wide, the story saith,Out of the night came the patient wraith.
He might not speak, and he could not stir
A hair of the Baron's miniver.
Speechless and strengthless, a shadow thin,
He roved the castle to find his kin.
And oh! 'twas a piteous sight to see
The dumb ghost follow his enemy!
Without Benefit of Clergy.
Before my Spring I garnered Autumn's gain,Out of her time my field was white with grain,
The year gave up her secrets, to my woe.
Forced and deflowered each sick season lay,
In mystery of increase and decay;
I saw the sunset ere men see the day,
Who am too wise in all I should not know.
The Head of the District.
Behind the old mud wall;
There's a lifter less on the Border trail,
And the Queen's Peace over all,
Dear boys,
The Queen's Peace over all!
On us the shame will fall,
If we lift our hand from a fettered land
And the Queen's Peace over all,
Dear boys,
The Queen's Peace over all!
The Man Who Was.
Into our camp he came,
And said his say and went his way,
And left our hearts aflame.
The vengeance we must take
When God shall bring full reckoning
For our dead comrade's sake!
At the End of the Passage.
The sky is lead, and our faces are red,And the Gates of Hell are opened and riven,
And the winds of Hell are loosened and driven,
And the dust flies up in the face of Heaven,
And the clouds come down in a fiery sheet,
Heavy to raise and hard to be borne.
And the soul of man is turned from his meat,
Turned from the trifles for which he has striven,
Sick in his body and heavy-hearted,
And his soul flies up like the dust in the street—
Breaks from his flesh and is gone and departed
Like the blasts that they blow on the cholera-horn.
[CHAPTER HEADINGS]
Kim
[Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised]
Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised,With idiot moons and stars retracting stars?
Creep thou between—thy coming's all unnoised.
Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars.
Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fray
(By Adam's, fathers', own, sin bound alway);
Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say
Which planet mends thy threadbare fate, or mars.
[CHAPTER HEADINGS]
Many Inventions
My Lord the Elephant.
'Less you want your toes trod off you'd better get back at once,For the bullocks are walking two by two,
The byles are walking two by two,
And the elephants bring the guns.
Ho! Yuss!
Great—big—long—black—forty-pounder guns.
Jiggery-jolty to and fro,
Each as big as a launch in tow—
Blind—dumb—broad-breeched—beggars o' battering-guns!
[CHAPTER HEADINGS]
The Day's Work
The Ship that Found Herself.
We now, held in captivity,Spring to our bondage nor grieve—
See now, how it is blesseder,
Brothers, to give than receive!
Keep trust, wherefore we were made,
Paying the debt that we owe;
For a clean thrust, and the shear of the blade,
Will carry us where we would go.
[CHAPTER HEADINGS]
Collected.
[All the world over, nursing their scars]
Sit the old fighting-men broke in the wars—
Sit the old fighting-men, surly and grim
Mocking the lilt of the conquerors' hymn.
Fame never found them for aught that they did.
Wounded and spent to the lazar they drew,
Lining the road where the Legions roll through.
(Worthy God's pity most—you who succeed!)
Ere you go triumphing, crowned, to the stars,
Pity poor fighting-men, broke in the wars!
[Put forth to watch, unschooled, alone]
'Twixt hostile earth and sky;
The mottled lizard 'neath the stone
Is wiser here than I.
What omen down the wind?
The buck that break before my feet—
They know, but I am blind!
[CHAPTER HEADINGS]
The Fringes of the Fleet.
[Farewell and adieu to you, Harwich Ladies]
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies ashore!
For we've received orders to work to the eastward
Where we hope in a short time to strafe 'em some more.
We'll duck and we'll dive underneath the North Seas,
Until we strike something that doesn't expect us.
From here to Cuxhaven it's go as you please!
Which isn't a place where repairs should be done;
And there we lay doggo in twelve-fathom water
With tri-nitro-toluol hogging our run.
With his shiny big belly half blocking the sky.
But what in the—Heavens can you do with six-pounders?
So we fired what we had and we bade him good-bye.
SONG OF THE FIFTH RIVER
The Four Great Rivers ran,
To each was appointed a Man
Her Prince and Ruler to be.
(The ancient legends tell),
There came dark Israel,
For whom no River remained.
Said to him: “Fling on the ground
A handful of yellow clay,
And a Fifth Great River shall run,
Mightier than these Four,
In secret the Earth around;
And Her secret evermore
Shall be shown to thee and thy Race.”
And, deep in the veins of Earth,
And, fed by a thousand springs
That comfort the market-place,
Or sap the power of Kings,
The Fifth Great River had birth,
Even as it was foretold—
The Secret River of Gold!
His sceptre and his crown,
To brood on that River bank,
Where the waters flashed and sank
And burrowed in earth and fell,
And bided a season below,
For reason that none might know,
Save only Israel.
The Fifth, most wonderful, Flood.
He hears Her thunder past
And Her Song is in his blood.
He can foresay: “She will fall,”
For he knows which fountain dries
Behind which desert-belt
A thousand leagues to the South.
He knows what far snows melt
Along what mountain-wall
A thousand leagues to the North.
He snuffs the coming drouth
As he snuffs the coming rain,
He knows what each will bring forth,
And turns it to his gain.
A Prince without a Sword,
Israel follows his quest.
In every land a guest,
Of many lands a lord,
In no land King is he.
But the Fifth Great River keeps
The secret of Her deeps
For Israel alone.
As it was ordered to be.
THE CHILDREN'S SONG
Our love and toil in the years to be;
When we are grown and take our place
As men and women with our race.
Oh, help Thy children when they call;
That they may build from age to age
An undefilèd heritage.
With steadfastness and careful truth;
That, in our time, Thy Grace may give
The Truth whereby the Nations live.
Controlled and cleanly night and day;
That we may bring, if need arise,
No maimed or worthless sacrifice.
On Thee for judge, and not our friends;
That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed
By fear or favour of the crowd.
By deed or thought, to hurt the weak;
That, under Thee, we may possess
Man's strength to comfort man's distress.
And Mirth that has no bitter springs;
Forgiveness free of evil done,
And Love to all men 'neath the sun!
For whose dear sake our fathers died;
Oh, Motherland, we pledge to thee
Head, heart, and hand through the years to be!
PARADE-SONG OF THE CAMP-ANIMALS
ELEPHANTS OF THE GUN-TEAMS
We lent to Alexander the strength of Hercules,The wisdom of our foreheads, the cunning of our knees.
We bowed our necks to service—they ne'er were loosed again,—
Make way there, way for the ten-foot teams
Of the Forty-Pounder train!
GUN-BULLOCKS
Those heroes in their harnesses avoid a cannon-ball,And what they know of powder upsets them one and all;
Then we come into action and tug the guns again,—
Make way there, way for the twenty yoke
Of the Forty-Pounder train!
CAVALRY HORSES
Is played by the Lancers, Hussars, and Dragoons,
And it's sweeter than “Stables” or “Water” to me,
The Cavalry Canter of “Bonnie Dundee!”
And give us good riders and plenty of room,
And launch us in column of squadron and see
The Way of the War-horse to “Bonnie Dundee!”
SCREW-GUN MULES
The path was lost in rolling stones, but we went forward still;
For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere,
And it's our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to spare!
Bad luck to all the driver-men that cannot pack a load!
For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere,
And it's our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to spare!
COMMISSARIAT CAMELS
To help us trollop along,
But every neck is a hair-trombone
(Rtt-ta-ta-ta! is a hair-trombone!)
And this is our marching-song:
Pass it along the line!
Somebody's pack has slid from his back,
'Wish it were only mine!
Somebody's load has tipped off in the road—
Cheer for a halt and a row!
Urrr! Yarrh! Grr! Arrh!
Somebody's catching it now!
ALL THE BEASTS TOGETHER
Children of the Camp are we,Serving each in his degree;
Children of the yoke and goad,
Pack and harness, pad and load.
See our line across the plain,
Like a heel-rope bent again,
Reaching, writhing, rolling far,
Sweeping all away to war!
While the men that walk beside,
Dusty, silent, heavy-eyed,
Cannot tell why we or they
March and suffer day by day.
Children of the Camp are we,
Serving each in his degree;
Children of the yoke and goad,
Pack and harness, pad and load!
IF—
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!
GREAT-HEART
(THEODORE ROOSEVELT)
Our age hath made known
For all men to honour,
One standeth alone,
Of whom, o'er both oceans,
Both peoples may say:
“Our realm is diminished
With Great-Heart away.”
In action no less,
The labours he praised
He would seek and profess
Through travail and battle,
At hazard and pain. . . .
And our world is none the braver
Since Great-Heart was ta'en!
And plain words for false things,
Plain faith in plain dealing
'Twixt neighbours or kings,
He used and he followed,
However it sped. . . .
Oh, our world is none more honest
Now Great-Heart is dead!
Struck warm through all lands;
For he loved such as showed
'Emselves men of their hands;
In love, as in hate,
Paying home to the last. . . .
But our world is none the kinder
Now Great-Heart hath passed!
Yet most humble of mind
Where aught that he was
Might advantage mankind.
Leal servant, loved master,
Rare comrade, sure guide. . . .
Oh, our world is none the safer
Now Great-Heart hath died!
Make sure they can wield
His far-reaching sword
And his close-guarding shield;
For those who must journey
Henceforward alone
Have need of stout convoy
Now Great-Heart is gone.
THE PRODIGAL SON
WESTERN VERSION
Fed, forgiven and known again,
Claimed by bone of my bone again
And cheered by flesh of my flesh.
The fatted calf is dressed for me,
But the husks have greater zest for me.
I think my pigs will be best for me,
So I'm off to the Yards afresh.
(And it weighs on my brother's mind, you see)
But there's no reproach among swine, d'you see,
For being a bit of a swine.
So I'm off with wallet and staff to eat
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be!—there's a laugh to it,
Which isn't the case when we dine.
My brother sulks and despises me,
And Mother catechises me
Till I want to go out and swear.
And, in spite of the butler's gravity,
I know that the servants have it I
Am a monster of moral depravity,
And I'm damned if I think it's fair!
On riotous living, so I did,
But there's nothing on record to show I did
More than my betters have done.
They talk of the money I spent out there—
They hint at the pace that I went out there—
But they all forget I was sent out there
Alone as a rich man's son.
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once,
But I didn't give up and knock under at once.
I worked in the Yards, for a spell,
Where I spent my nights and my days with hogs,
And shared their milk and maize with hogs,
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs
And—I have that knowledge to sell!
Not so easy to rob again,
Or quite so ready to sob again
On any neck that's around.
I'm leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you!
God bless you, Mater! I'll write to you. . . .
I wouldn't be impolite to you,
But, Brother, you are a hound!
CAIN AND ABEL
WESTERN VERSION
(Koop-la! Come along, cows!)
One raised cattle and one raised corn.
(Koop-la! Come along! Co-hoe!)
So he did not care how much it dried.
(And the Corn don't care for the Horn)—
A-half Euphrates out of her bed
To water his dam' Corn!
Where you have to go by the dams and the rains.
The wells, and the springs, and the dams gave out.
(They wanted water so!—)
With the hot red Sun between their brows,
Sayin' “Give us water for our pore cows!”
But Cain he told 'em—“No!”
With the cold white Moon between their brows,
Sayin' “Give some water to us pore cows!”
But Cain he told 'em—“No!”
With the Evenin' Star between their brows,
Sayin' “Give us water an' we'll be cows!”
But Cain he told 'em—“No!”
An' Abel went an' said to Cain:—
“Oh, sell me water, my brother dear,
Or there will be no beef this year.”
And Cain he answered—“No!”
An' let a little water through.”
But Cain he answered:—“No!
An' not a drop goes through or round
Till she's done her duty by the Corn.
An' if you breach, I'll have the Law,
As sure as you are born!”
An' holed a dyke on the Eden road.
An' let Euphrates loose on the land.
So's all his cattle could drink again.
But, in those days, there was no Gun!
An' halted Abel an' said to him:—
An' now you've breached I'll have the Law.
Hell-hoofin' over my cucumbers!
An' you loose your steers in my garden-truck:
You can keep on prayin' but not to me!”
But, in those days, there was no Knife:
But—Cain hit first and dropped him dead!
An' horned an' pawed in that Red Mud.
The Calves they bawled, and the Steers they milled,
Because it was the First Man Killed;
An' the whole Herd broke for the Land of Nod,
An' Cain was left to be judged by God!
I never could call the Judgment fair!
THE NECESSITARIAN
To empty upon earth
From unsuspected ambuscade
The very Urns of Mirth;
And cheer our solemn round—
The Jest beheld with streaming eyes
And grovellings on the ground;
Behind the prey preferred,
And thrones on Shrieking Circumstance
The Sacredly Absurd,
Waves mute appeal and sore,
Above the midriff's deep distress,
For breath to laugh once more.
No raptured choirs proclaim,
And Nature's strenuous Overword
Hath nowhere breathed His Name.
The selfsame Power bestows
The selfsame power as went to shape
His Planet or His Rose.
REBIRTH
“I will restore
The world her yesterday
Whole as before
My Judgment blasted it”—who would not lift
Heart, eye, and hand in passion o'er the gift?
To wipe from mind
The memory of this ill
Which is mankind
In soul and substance now—who would not bless
Even to tears His loving-tenderness?
Us leave to fly
These present deaths we live,
And safely die
In those lost lives we lived ere we were born—
What man but would not laugh the excuse to scorn?
So broke to blood
And the strict works of war—
So long subdued
To sacrifice, that threadbare Death commands
Hardly observance at our busier hands.
And, fashioned so,
It pleases us to stare
At the far show
Of unbelievable years and shapes that flit,
In our own likeness, on the edge of it.
THE JESTER
At the foot of Allah's Throne,
And the highest place is his
Who saves a brother's soul
At peril of his own.
There is the Power made known!
In the Gardens of Paradise,
And the second place is his
Who saves his brother's soul
By excellent advice.
For there the Glory lies!
And three abodes of the Blest,
And the lowest place is his
Who has saved a soul by a jest
And a brother's soul in sport . . .
But there do the Angels resort!
PHILADELPHIA
You mustn't take my stories for a guide.
There's little left, indeed, of the city you will read of,
And all the folk I write about have died.
Or remember what his cunning and his skill did;
And the cabmen at the wharf do not know Count Zinzendorf,
Nor the Church in Philadelphia he builded.
(Never say I didn't give you warning).
In Seventeen Ninety-three 'twas there for all to see,
But it's not in Philadelphia this morning.
You mustn't go by anything I've said.
Bob Bicknell's Southern Stages have been laid aside for ages,
But the Limited will take you there instead.
Toby Hirte can't be seen at One Hundred and Eighteen
North Second Street—no matter when you call;
And I fear you'll search in vain for the wash-house down the lane
Where Pharaoh played the fiddle at the ball.
(Never say I didn't give you warning).
In Seventeen Ninety-four 'twas a famous dancing floor—
But it's not in Philadelphia this morning.
You must telegraph for rooms at some Hotel.
You needn't try your luck at Epply's or “The Buck,”
Though the Father of his Country liked them well.
It is not the slightest use to inquire for Adam Goos,
Or to ask where Pastor Meder has removed—so
You must treat as out of date the story I relate
Of the Church in Philadelphia he loved so.
(Never say I didn't give you warning).
In Seventeen Ninety-five he was (rest his soul!) alive,
But he's not in Philadelphia this morning.
And wish to prove the truth of what I say,
I pledge my word you'll find the pleasant land behind
Unaltered since Red Jacket rode that way.
Still the pine-woods scent the noon; still the catbird sings his tune;
Still autumn sets the maple-forest blazing;
Still the grape-vine through the dusk flings her soul-compelling musk;
Still the fire-flies in the corn make night amazing!
(Citizens, I give you friendly warning).
The things that truly last when men and times have passed,
They are all in Pennsylvania this morning!
A SONG OF TRAVEL
Once to call Leander home?
Equal Time hath shovelled it
'Neath the wrack of Greece and Rome.
Neither wait we any more
That worn sail which Argo bore.
All the Vestal Virgins' care;
And the oldest altar shows
But an older darkness there.
Age-encamped Oblivion
Tenteth every light that shone.
Wall our wanderings from desire?
Or, because the Moon is high,
Scorn to use a nearer fire?
Lest some envious Pharaoh stir,
Make our lives our sepulchre?
Prison us and Emperors,
By our Arts do we create
That which Time himself devours—
Such machines as well may run
'Gainst the Horses of the Sun.
Space, our tyrant King no more,
Lays the long lance of the road
At our feet and flees before,
Breathless, ere we overwhelm,
To submit a further realm!
THE TWO-SIDED MAN
More to the Lives that fed—
But most to Allah Who gave me two
Separate sides to my head.
In the Faiths beneath the sun,
But most upon Allah Who gave me two
Sides to my head, not one.
White or yellow or bronze,
Shaman, Ju-ju or Angekok,
Minister, Mukamuk, Bonze—
However your prayers are said,
And praised be Allah Who gave me two
Separate sides to my head!
Friend, tobacco or bread,
Sooner than lose for a minute the two
Separate sides of my head!
HORACE, Bk. V. Ode 3
A TRANSLATION
And to attentive schools rehearse
How something mixed with something else
Makes something worse.
The clients of our body—these,
Increasing without Venus, cure,
Or cause, disease.
And all its offspring, whose concern
Is how to make it farthest roll
And fastest turn.
Present, or to be paid for, brings
Me to Brundusium by the power
Of wheels or wings;
Life-long, save that by Pindar lit,
Such lore leaves cold. I am not turned
Aside to it
Of what the unaltering Gods require,
My steward (friend but slave) brings round
Logs for my fire.
“LUKANNON”
Song of the Seal-Rookeries, Aleutian Islands
Where roaring on the ledges the summer ground-swell rolled.
I heard them lift the chorus that drowned the breakers' song—
The Beaches of Lukannon—two million voices strong!
The song of blowing squadrons that shuffled down the dunes,
The song of midnight dances that churned the sea to flame—
The Beaches of Lukannon—before the sealers came!
They came and went in legions that darkened all the shore.
And through the foam-flecked offing as far as voice could reach
We hailed the landing-parties and we sang them up the beach.
The dripping, crinkled lichens, and the sea-fog drenching all!
The platforms of our playground, all shining smooth and worn!
The Beaches of Lukannon—the home where we were born!
Men shoot us in the water and club us on the land;
Men drive us to the Salt House like silly sheep and tame,
And still we sing Lukannon—before the sealers came.
And tell the Deep-Sea Viceroys the story of our woe;
Ere, empty as the shark's egg the tempest flings ashore,
The Beaches of Lukannon shall know their sons no more!
AN ASTROLOGER'S SONG
O look and behold
The Planets that love us
All harnessed in gold!
What chariots, what horses
Against us shall bide
While the Stars in their courses
Do fight on our side?
That are under the sun,
Are one with their fires,
As we also are one.
All matter, all spirit,
All fashion, all frame,
Receive and inherit
Their strength from the same.
All power save thine own,
Their power in the highest
Is mightily shown.
Not less in the lowest
That power is made clear.
(Oh, man, if thou knowest,
What treasure is here!)
And we wonder for why.
But the blind planet knows
When her ruler is nigh;
And, attuned since Creation
To perfect accord,
She thrills in her station
And yearns to her Lord.
The springs are unbound—
The floods break their prison,
And ravin around.
Their fury will last,
Till the Sign that commands 'em
Sinks low or swings past.
O'er gulfs beyond thought,
Our portion is woven,
Our burden is brought.
Yet They that prepare it,
Whose Nature we share,
Make us who must bear it
Well able to bear.
We'll not be afraid.
No Power can unmake us
Save that which has made:
Nor yet beyond reason
Or hope shall we fall—
All things have their season,
And Mercy crowns all!
The Eternal is King—
Up, heart, and be cheerful,
And lustily sing:—
What chariots, what horses,
Against us shall bide
While the Stars in their courses
Do fight on our side?
“THE POWER OF THE DOG”
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Love unflinching that cannot lie—
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find—it's your own affair—
But . . . you've given your heart to a dog to tear.
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long—
So why in—Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?
THE RABBI'S SONG
2 Samuel xiv. 14.
On Heaven let it dwell,
For fear thy Thought be given
Like power to reach to Hell.
And darkness of thy mind
Perplex an habitation
Which thou hast left behind.
No whimpering ghost remain,
In wall, or beam, or rafter,
Of any hate or pain.
Cleanse and call home thy spirit,
Deny her leave to cast,
On aught thy heirs inherit,
The shadow of her past.
What road our griefs may take;
Whose brain reflect our madness,
Or whom our terrors shake:
For think, lest any languish
By cause of thy distress—
The arrows of our anguish
Fly farther than we guess.
Are spilled upon the ground;
God giveth no man quarter,
Yet God a means hath found,
Though Faith and Hope have vanished,
And even Love grows dim—
A means whereby His banished
Be not expelled from Him!
THE BEE-BOY'S SONG
“Hide from your neighbours as much as you please,
But all that has happened, to us you must tell,
Or else we will give you no honey to sell!”
Upon her wedding-day,
Must tell her Bees the story,
Or else they'll fly away.
Fly away—die away—
Dwindle down and leave you!
But if you don't deceive your Bees,
Your Bees will not deceive you.
News across the seas,
All you're sad or merry in,
You must tell the Bees.
Tell 'em coming in an' out,
Where the Fanners fan,
'Cause the Bees are just about
As curious as a man!
When the lightnings play,
Nor don't you hate where Bees are,
Or else they'll pine away.
Pine away—dwine away—
Anything to leave you!
But if you never grieve your Bees,
Your Bees'll never grieve you.
THE SONG OF SEVEN CITIES
Seven roaring Cities paid me tribute from afar.
Ivory their outposts were—the guardrooms of them gilded,
And garrisoned with Amazons invincible in war.
Neither King nor Army vexed my peoples at their toil.
Never horse nor chariot irked or overbore my Cities.
Never Mob nor Ruler questioned whence they drew their spoil.
Singing while they sacked it, they possessed the land at large.
Yet when men would rob them, they resisted, they made onset
And pierced the smoke of battle with a thousand-sabred charge.
To-day there is no mark or mound of where my Cities stood.
For the River rose at midnight and it washed away my Cities.
They are evened with Atlantis and the towns before the Flood.
Freshet backed on freshet swelled and swept their world from sight;
Till the emboldened floods linked arms and, flashing forward, drowned them—
Drowned my Seven Cities and their peoples in one night!
The beams wherein they trusted and the plinths whereon they built—
My rulers and their treasure and their unborn populations,
Dead, destroyed, aborted, and defiled with mud and silt!
My silver-tongued Princesses, and the promise of their May—
Their bridegrooms of the June-tide—all have perished in my Cities,
With the harsh envenomed virgins that can neither love nor play.
Seven, set on rocks, above the wrath of any flood.
Nor will I rest from search till I have filled anew my Cities
With peoples undefeated of the dark, enduring blood.
Wealthy and well-weaponed, that once more may I behold
All the world go softly when it walks before my Cities,
And the horses and the chariots fleeing from them as of old!
THE RETURN OF THE CHILDREN
Holding hands forlornly the Children wandered beneath the Dome,
Plucking the splendid robes of the passers-by, and with pitiful faces
Begging what Princes and Powers refused:—“Ah, please will you let us go home?”
Kneeled and caressed and made promise with kisses, and drew them along to the gateway—
Yea, the all-iron unbribeable Door which Peter must guard and none other.
Straightway She took the Keys from his keeping, and opened and freed them straightway.
What didst Thou care for a love beyond mine or a heaven that was not my arm?
Didst Thou push from the nipple, O Child, to hear the angels adore Thee
When we two lay in the breath of the kine?” And He said:—“Thou hast done no harm.”
Looking neither to left nor right where the breathless Heavens stood still.
And the Guards of the Void resheathed their swords, for they heard the Command:
“Shall I that have suffered the Children to come to Me hold them against their will?”
MERROW DOWN
I
A grassy track to-day it is—
An hour out of Guildford town,
Above the river Wey it is.
The ancient Britons dressed and rode
To watch the dark Phœnicians bring
Their goods along the Western Road.
To hold their racial talks and such—
To barter beads for Whitby jet,
And tin for gay shell torques and such.
(When bison used to roam on it)
Did Taffy and her Daddy climb
That Down, and had their home on it.
And made a swamp where Bramley stands;
And bears from Shere would come and look
For Taffimai where Shamley stands.
Was more than six times bigger then;
And all the Tribe of Tegumai
They cut a noble figure then!
II
Who cut that figure, none remain,—
On Merrow Down the cuckoos cry—
The silence and the sun remain.
And hearts unwounded sing again,
Comes Taffy dancing through the fern
To lead the Surrey spring again.
And golden elf-locks fly above;
Her eyes are bright as diamonds
And bluer than the sky above.
Unfearing, free and fair she flits,
And lights her little damp-wood smoke
To show her Daddy where she flits.
So far she cannot call to him,
Comes Tegumai alone to find
The daughter that was all to him!
TO JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
(On receiving a copy of his “Rhymes for Children”)
And mine to my own place;
There is water between our lodges,
And I have not seen your face.
'Tis easy to guess the rest,—
Because in the hearts of the children
There is neither East nor West.
Of good or evil hap,
Once they were kings together,
Throned in a mother's lap.
Yellow and black and white—
When they meet as kings together
In innocent dreams at night.
Grubby and grimed and unshod,
Very happy together,
And very near to God.
And mine to my own place:
There is water between our lodges,
And you cannot see my face.—
Should neither be written nor seen,
But if I call you Smoke-in-the-Eyes,
I know you will know what I mean.
OLD MOTHER LAIDINWOOL
She heard the hops was doing well, an' so popped up her head,
For said she: “The lads I've picked with when I was young and fair,
They're bound to be at hopping and I'm bound to meet 'em there!”
Back to the work I know, Lord!
Back to the work I know, Lord!
For it's dark where I lie down, My Lord!
An' it's dark where I lie down!
An' trotted down the churchyard-path as fast as she could make.
She met the Parson walking, but she says to him, says she:—
“Oh, don't let no one trouble for a poor old ghost like me!”
She saw the folks get into 'em with stockin's on their hands;
An' none of 'em was foreigners but all which she had known,
And old Mother Laidinwool she blessed 'em every one.
An' she moved among the babies an' she stilled 'em when they cried.
She saw their clothes was bought, not begged, an' they was clean an' fat,
An' Old Mother Laidinwool she thanked the Lord for that.
Until it come too dark to see an' people went away—
Until it come too dark to see an' lights began to show,
An' old Mother Laidinwool she hadn't where to go.
An' trotted back to churchyard-mould as fast as she could make.
She went where she was bidden to an' there laid down her ghost, . . .
An' the Lord have mercy on you in the Day you need it most!
Out of the wet an' rain, Lord!
Out of the wet an' rain, Lord!
For it's best as You shall say, My Lord!
An' it's best as You shall say!
THE LAND
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius—a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: “What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?”
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen.”
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.
Much he knew of foaming waters—not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: “What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no good?”
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!”
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in 't.—
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
“Hob, what about that River-bit—the Brook's got up no bounds?”
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.
Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!”
And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.
Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
All sorts of powers and profits which—are neither mine nor theirs.
I can fish—but Hobden tickles. I can shoot—but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.
Would I lose his large sound counsel, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher—'tain't for me to interfere.
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
“Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but”—and here he takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.
[CHAPTER HEADINGS]
JUST SO VERSES
How the Whale Got his Throat.
When the cabin port-holes are dark and greenBecause of the seas outside;
When the ship goes wop (with a wiggle between)
And the steward falls into the soup-tureen,
And the trunks begin to slide;
When Nursey lies on the floor in a heap,
And Mummy tells you to let her sleep,
And you aren't waked or washed or dressed,
Why, then you will know (if you haven't guessed)
You're “Fifty North and Forty West!”
How the Camel Got his Hump.
Which well you may see at the Zoo;
But uglier yet is the hump we get
From having too little to do.
If we haven't enough to do-oo-oo,
We get the hump—
Cameelious hump—
The hump that is black and blue!
And a snarly-yarly voice.
We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl
At our bath and our boots and our toys;
(And I know there is one for you)
When we get the hump—
Cameelious hump—
The hump that is black and blue!
Or frowst with a book by the fire;
But to take a large hoe and a shovel also,
And dig till you gently perspire;
And the Djinn of the Garden too,
Have lifted the hump—
The horrible hump—
The hump that is black and blue!
If I haven't enough to do-oo-oo!
We all get hump—
Cameelious hump—
Kiddies and grown-ups too!
How the Leopard Got his Spots.
I am the Most Wise Baviaan, saying in most wise tones,“Let us melt into the landscape—just us two by our lones.”
People have come—in a carriage—calling. But Mummy is there. . . .
Yes, I can go if you take me—Nurse says she don't care.
Let's go up to the pig-styes and sit on the farmyard rails!
Let's say things to the bunnies, and watch 'em skitter their tails!
Let's—oh, anything, daddy, so long as it's you and me,
And going truly exploring, and not being in till tea!
Here's your boots (I've brought 'em), and here's your cap and stick,
And here's your pipe and tobacco. Oh, come along out of it—quick!
The Elephant's Child.
(They taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.
I send them over land and sea,
I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me,
I give them all a rest.
For I am busy then,
As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,
For they are hungry men.
But different folk have different views.
I know a person small—
She keeps ten million serving-men,
Who get no rest at all!
From the second she opens her eyes—
One million Hows, two million Wheres,
And seven million Whys!
The Sing-Song of Old Man Kangaroo.
Run in a single burst—only event of its kind—
Started by Big God Nqong from Warrigaborrigarooma,
Old Man Kangaroo first, Yellow-Dog Dingo behind.
Bounded from morning till dark, twenty-five feet at a bound.
Yellow-Dog Dingo lay like a yellow cloud in the distance—
Much too busy to bark. My! but they covered the ground!
For that Continent hadn't been given a name.
They ran thirty degrees, from Torres Straits to the Leeuwin
(Look at the Atlas, please), then they ran back as they came.
For an afternoon's run—half what these gentlemen did—
You would feel rather hot, but your legs would develop terrific—
Yes, my importunate son, you'd be a Marvellous Kid!
The Beginning of the Armadilloes.
I've never reached Brazil;
But the Don and Magdalena,
They can go there when they will!
Great steamers, white and gold,
Go rolling down to Rio
(Roll down—roll down to Rio!).
And I'd like to roll to Rio
Some day before I'm old!
Nor yet an Armadill-
o dilloing in his armour,
And I s'pose I never will,
These wonders to behold—
Roll down—roll down to Rio—
Roll really down to Rio!
Oh, I'd love to roll to Rio
Some day before I'm old!
The Crab that Played with the Sea.
Pass Pau Amma's playground close,
And his Pusat Tasek lies
Near the track of most B.I.'s.
N.Y.K. and N.D.L.
Know Pau Amma's home as well
As the Fisher of the Sea knows
“Bens,” M.M.'s and Rubattinos.
But (and this is rather queer)
A.T.L.'s can not come here;
O. and O. and D.O.A.
Must go round another way.
Orient, Anchor, Bibby, Hall,
Never go that way at all.
U.C.S. would have a fit
If it found itself on it.
And if “Beavers” took their cargoes
To Penang instead of Lagos,
Or a fat Shaw-Savill bore
Passengers to Singapore,
Or a White Star were to try a
Little trip to Sourabaya,
Past Natal to Cheribon,
Then great Mr. Lloyds would come
With a wire and drag them home!
When you've eaten mangosteens.
The Cat that Walked by Himself.
Pussy can climb a tree,
Or play with a silly old cork and string
To 'muse herself, not me.
But I like Binkie my dog, because
He knows how to behave;
So, Binkie's the same as the First Friend was,
And I am the Man in the Cave!
It's time to wet her paw
And make her walk on the window-sill
(For the footprint Crusoe saw);
Then she fluffles her tail and mews,
And scratches and won't attend.
But Binkie will play whatever I choose,
And he is my true First Friend!
Pretending she loves me hard;
But the very minute I go to my bed
Pussy runs out in the yard,
And there she stays till the morning-light;
So I know it is only pretend;
But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night,
And he is my Firstest Friend!
How the Rhinoceros got his Skin.
This Uninhabited IslandIs near Cape Gardafui;
But it's hot—too hot—off Suez
For the likes of you and me
Ever to go in a P. & O.
To call on the Cake Parsee.
The Butterfly that Stamped.
From here to the wide world's end;
But Balkis talked to a butterfly
As you would talk to a friend.
Not since the world began;
But Solomon talked to a butterfly
As a man would talk to a man.
And he was Asia's Lord—
But they both of 'em talked to butterflies
When they took their walks abroad!
THE LOOKING-GLASS
A Country Dance
In ruff and stomacher and gown
She danced King Philip down-a-down,
And left her shoe to show 'twas true—
(The very tune I'm playing you)
In Norgem at Brickwall!
Her petticoat was satin, and her stomacher was gold.
Backwards and forwards and sideways did she pass,
Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was!
There came Queen Mary's spirit and It stood behind her chair,
Singing “Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,
But I will stand behind you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!”
There came Lord Leicester's spirit and It scratched upon the door,
Singing “Backwards and forwards and sideways may you pass,
But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass,
As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!”
She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:—
“Backwards and forwards and sideways though I've been,
Yet I am Harry's daughter and I am England's Queen!”
And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was)
And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass
In the cruel looking-glass, that can always hurt a lass
More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!
THE QUEEN'S MEN
Have latterly gone hence
To certain death by certain shame attended.
Envy—ah! even to tears!—
The fortune of their years
Which, though so few, yet so divinely ended.
Life's full and fiery cup,
Than they had set it down untouched before them.
Before their day arose
They beckoned it to close—
Close in confusion and destruction o'er them.
What prize should crown their task—
Well sure that prize was such as no man strives for;
But passed into eclipse,
Her kiss upon their lips—
Even Belphœbe's, whom they gave their lives for!
A PAGEANT OF ELIZABETH
Like Demi-Gods they wrought,
When the New World lay before them
In headlong fact and thought.
Fate and their foemen proved them
Above all meed of praise,
And Gloriana loved them,
And Shakespeare wrote them plays!
In flames of wondrous deed, and thought sublime—
Lightly to mould new worlds or lightly loose
Words that shall shake and shape all after-time!
And England—England—England takes the breath
Of morning, body and soul, till the great Age
Fulfils in one great chord:—Elizabeth!
THE CITY OF SLEEP
Where the single lamplight gleams,
Know ye the road to the Merciful Town
That is hard by the Sea of Dreams—
And the sick may forget to weep?
But we—pity us! Oh, pity us!
We wakeful; ah, pity us!—
We must go back with Policeman Day—
Back from the City of Sleep!
Fetter and prayer and plough—
They that go up to the Merciful Town,
For her gates are closing now.
It is their right in the Baths of Night
Body and soul to steep,
But we—pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; oh, pity us!—
We must go back with Policeman Day—
Back from the City of Sleep!
Ere the tender dreams begin,
Look—we may look—at the Merciful Town,
But we may not enter in!
Outcasts all, from her guarded wall
Back to our watch we creep:
We—pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; ah, pity us!—
We that go back with Policeman Day—
Back from the City of Sleep!
“HELEN ALL ALONE”
For an hour's space—
Darkness that we knew was given
Us for special grace.
Sun and moon and stars were hid,
God had left His Throne,
When Helen came to me, she did,
Helen all alone!
Damned us ere our birth)
Looking for the Earth.
Hand in pulling hand amid
Fear no dreams have known,
Helen ran with me, she did,
Helen all alone!
Hunted us along,
Each laid hold on each, and each
Found the other strong.
In the teeth of Things forbid
And Reason overthrown,
Helen stood by me, she did,
Helen all alone!
Dull and die away,
When, at last, our linked desires
Dragged us up to day;
When, at last, our souls were rid
Of what that Night had shown,
Helen passed from me, she did,
Helen all alone!
As I will find a bride,
Knowing naught of Limbo Gate
Or Who are penned inside.
There is knowledge God forbid
More than one should own.
So Helen went from me, she did,
Oh, my soul, be glad she did!
Helen all alone!
THE WIDOWER
For a little, little space
I shall lose the sight of her face,
Take back the old life again
While She is at rest in her place.
For a little, little while
Till Time shall work me a cure,
And the pitiful days beguile.
For a little length of years,
Till my life's last hour nears,
And, above the beat of my heart,
I hear Her voice in my ears.
Being set on some later love,
Shall not know her for whom I strove,
Till she reach me forth her hand,
Saying, “Who but I have the right?”
And out of a troubled night
Shall draw me safe to the land.
THE PRAYER OF MIRIAM COHEN
Deliver us, Good Lord,
And we will face the wrath of Kings,
The faggot and the sword!
Nor vex us with Thy Wars,
Lest we should feel the straining skies
O'ertrod by trampling stars.
Of saving flesh and bone,
Lest we should dream what Dream awaits
The Soul escaped alone.
From our beleaguered realm,
Lest any shattering whisper steal
Upon us and o'erwhelm.
A veil 'twixt us and Thee—
Lest we should hear too clear, too clear,
And unto madness see!
THE COMFORTERS
Advise not wayside folk,
Nor till thy back has borne the Load
Break in upon the broke.
Of sympathy the heart
Which, knowing her own bitterness,
Presumes to dwell apart.
The God-forgotten head
To Heaven and all the neighbours' gaze—
Cover thy mouth instead.
The cold and sweating brow,
Later may yearn for fellowship—
Not now, you ass, not now!
Life, not thy views thereon,
Shall furnish or deny to each
His consolation.
Exhort, uplift, advise,
Lend not a base, betraying ear
To all the victim's cries.
When those first pangs begin,
How much is reflex action and
How much is really sin.
And tremblingly admit
There is no anodyne for pain
Except the shock of it.
Unchallenged canst thou say:
“I never worried you at all,
For God's sake go away!”
THE SONG OF THE LITTLE HUNTER
Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,
Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh—
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
And the whisper spreads and widens far and near.
And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now—
He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!
When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,
Comes a breathing hard behind thee—snuffle-snuffle through the night—
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;
In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear!
But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek—
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer,
Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all—
It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!
Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap—
Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clear—
But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy side
Hammers: Fear, O Little Hunter—this is Fear!
GOW'S WATCH
(Enlarged from various sources including “The Prophet and the Country” and “A Madonna of the Trenches”— Debits and Credits)
Act II. Scene 2
The Pavilion in the Gardens. Enter Ferdinand and the KingFerdinand.
Your tiercel's too long at hack, Sir. He's no eyass
But a passage-hawk that footed ere we caught him,
Dangerously free o' the air. 'Faith were he mine
(As mine's the glove he binds to for his tirings)
I'd fly him with a make-hawk. He's in yarak—
Plumed to the very point. So manned, so weathered!
Give him the firmament God made him for
And what shall take the air of him?
The King.
A young wing yet.
Bold—overbold on the perch, but think you, Ferdinand,
He can endure the raw skies yonder? Cozen
Advantage out of the teeth of the hurricane?
Choose his own mate against the lammer-geier?
Ride out a night-long tempest, hold his pitch
Between the lightning and the cloud it leaps from,
Never too pressed to kill?
Ferdinand.
I'll answer for him.
Bating all parable, I know the Prince.
There's a bleak devil in the young, my Lord;
God put it there to save 'em from their elders
And break their fathers' hearts, but bear them scatheless
Through mire and thorns and blood if need be. Think
What our prime saw! Such glory, such achievements
As now our children, wondering at, examine
Themselves to see if they shall hardly equal.
But what cared we while we wrought the wonders? Nothing!
The rampant deed contented.
The King.
Little enough, God knows! But afterwards—after—
Then comes the reckoning. I would save him that.
Save him dry scars that ache of winter nights,
Worn-out self-pity and as much of knowledge
As makes old men fear judgment? Then loose him—loose him
A' God's name loose him to adventure early!
And trust some random pike, or half-backed horse,
Besides what's caught in Italy, to save him.
The King.
I know. I know. And yet. . . . What stirs in the garden?
Enter Gow and a Gardener bearing the Prince's body
Ferdinand.
(Gods give me patience!) Gow and a gardener
Bearing some load along in the dusk to the dunghill.
Nay—a dead branch—But as I said, the Prince—
The King.
They've laid it down. Strange they should work so late.
Gow
(setting down the body).
Heark, you unsanctified fool, while I set out our story. We found it, this side the North Park wall which it had climbed to pluck nectarines from the alley. Heark again! There was a nectarine in its hand when we found it, and the naughty brick that slipped from the coping beneath its foot and so caused its death, lies now under the wall for the King to see.
The King
(above).
The King to see! Why should he? Who's the man?
Gow.
That is your tale. Swerve from it by so much as the breadth of my dagger and here's your instant reward. You heard not, saw not, and by the Horns of ninefold-cuckolded Jupiter you thought not nor dreamed not anything more or other!
The King.
Ninefold-cuckolded Jupiter. That's a rare oath! Shall we look closer?
Not yet, my Lord! (I cannot hear him breathe.)
Gardener.
The North Park wall? It was so. Plucking nectarines. It shall be. But how shall I say if any ask why our Lady the Queen—
Gow
(stabs him).
Thus! Hie after the Prince and tell him y'are the first fruits of his nectarine tree. Bleed there behind the laurels.
The King.
Why did Gow buffet the clown? What said he? I'll go look.
Ferdinand.
(above).
Save yourself! It is the King!
Enter the King and Ferdinand to GowGow.
God save you! This was the Prince!
The King.
The Prince! Not a dead branch?
(Uncovers the face.)My flesh and blood! My son! my son! my son!
Ferdinand
(to Gow).
I had feared something of this. And that fool yonder?
Gow
Dead, or as good. He cannot speak.
Ferdinand.
Better so.
The King.
“Loosed to adventure early!” Tell the tale.
Gow.
Saddest truth alack! I came upon him not a half hour since, fallen from the North Park wall over against the Deerpark side—dead—dead!—a nectarine in his hand that the dear lad must have climbed for, and plucked the very instant, look you, that a brick slipped on the coping. 'Tis there now. So I lifted him, but his neck was as you see— and already cold.
The King.
Oh, very cold. But why should he have
Gow.
Surely God knows!
The King.
A lad's trick. But I love him the better for it. . . . True, he's past loving. . . . And now we must tell our Queen. What a coil at the day's end! She'll grieve for him. Not as I shall, Ferdinand, but as youth for youth. They were much of the same age. Playmate for playmate. See, he wears her colours. That is the knot she gave him last—last. . . . Oh, God! When was yesterday?
Ferdinand.
Come in! Come in, my Lord. There's a dew falling.
The King.
He'll take no harm of it. I'll follow presently. . . .
He's all his mother's now and none of mine—
Her very face on the bride-pillow. Yet I tricked her.
But that was later—and she never guessed.
I do not think he sinned much—he's too young—
Much the same age as my Queen. God must not judge him
Too hardly for such slips as youth may fall in.
But I'll entreat that Throne.
(Prays by the body.)
Gow.
The Heavens hold up still. Earth opens not and this dew's mere water. What shall a man think of it all?
(To Gardener.)Not dead yet, sirrah? I bade you follow the Prince. Despatch!
Gardener.
Some kind soul pluck out the dagger. Why did you slay me? I'd done no wrong. I'd ha' kept it secret till my dying day. But not now—not now! I'm dying. The Prince fell from the Queen's chamber window. I saw it in the nut-alley. He was—
Ferdinand.
But what made you in the nut-alley at that hour?
Gardener.
No wrong. No more than another man's wife. Jocasta of the still-room. She'd kissed me goodnight
Gow.
Count it your fortune, honest man. You would have revealed it to your woman at the next meeting. You fleshmongers are all one feather.
(Plucks out the dagger.)Go in peace and lay your death to Fortune's door. He's sped—thank Fortune!
Ferdinand.
Who knows not Fortune, glutted on easy thrones,
Stealing from feasts as rare to coney-catch
Privily in the hedgerows for a clown,
With that same cruel-lustful hand and eye,
Those nails and wedges, that one hammer and lead
And the very gerb of long-stored lightnings loosed
Yesterday 'gainst some King!
The King.
I have pursued with prayers where my heart warns me
My soul shall overtake—
Enter the Queen
The King.
Look not! Wait till I tell you, dearest ---
Air! . . .
“Loosed to adventure early” . . . I go late.
(Dies.)
Gow.
So! God hath cut off the Prince in his pleasures. Gow, to save the King, hath silenced one poor fool who knew how it befell, and, now the King's dead, 'needs only that the Queen should kill Gow and all's safe for her this side o' the Judgment. . . . Señor Ferdinand, the wind's easterly. I'm for the road.
Ferdinand.
My horse is at the gate. God speed you. Whither?
Gow.
To the Duke, if the Queen does not lay hands on me before. However it goes, I charge you bear witness, Señor Ferdinand, I served the old King faithfully. To the death, Señor Ferdinand—to the death!
Act IV. Scene 4
The Head of the Bargi Pass—in snow. Gow and Ferdinand with their CaptainsGow
(to Ferdinand).
The Queen's host would be delivered me to-day—but that these Mountain Men have sent battalia to hold the Pass. They're shod, helmed and torqued with soft gold. For the rest, naked. By no argument can I persuade 'em their gilt carcasses against my bombards avail not. What's to do, Fox?
Ferdinand.
Fatherless folk go furthest. These loud pagans
Are doubly fatherless. Consider; they came
Over the passes, out of all man's world—
Adullamites, unable to endure
Its ancient pinch and belly-ache—full of revenges,
Or wilfully forgetful. The land they found
Was manless—her raw airs uncloven by speech,
Earth without wheel-track, hoof-mark, hearth or plough-share
Since God created; nor even a cave where men,
When night was a new thing, had hid themselves.
Gow.
Excellent. Do I fight them, or let go?
Ferdinand.
Unused earth, air and water for their spoil,
And none to make comparison of their deeds.
No unbribed dead to judge, accuse 'em or comfort—
Their present all their future and their past.
What should they know of reason—litters of folk—
New whelped to emptiness?
Gow.
Nothing. They bar my path.
Ferdinand.
Give them their triumph. They'll be wiser anon—
Some thirty generations hence.
Gow.
Amen! I'm no disposed murderer.
(To the Mountain Men)Most magnificent Señors? Lords of all
The Priest of the Mountain Men.
There are are none beside ourselves to lead the world!
Gow.
That is common knowledge. I supplicate you, allow us the head of the Pass, that we may better reach the Queen's host yonder. Ye will not? Why?
The Priest.
Because it is our will. There is none other law for the earth.
Gow.
(That a few feet of snow on a nest of rocky mountains should have hatched this dream-people!)
(To Priest)Ye have reason in nature—all you've known of it. . . . But—a thousand years—I fear they will not suffice.
The Priest.
Go you back! We hold the passes into and out of the world. Do you defy us?
Ferdinand.
(To Gow)
I warned you. There's none like them under Heaven. Say it!
Gow.
Defy your puissance, Señors? Not I. We'll have our bombards away, all, by noon; and our poor hosts with them. And you, Señors, shall have your triumph upon us.
Ferdinand.
Ah! That touches! Let them shout and blow their horns half a day and they'll not think of aught else!
Gow.
Fall to your riots then! Señors, ye have won. We'll leave you the head of the Pass—for thirty generations.
(Loudly)The mules to the bombards and away!
Ferdinand.
Most admirably you spoke to my poor text.
Gow.
Maybe the better, Fox, because the discourse has drawn them to the head of the Pass. Meantime, our main body has taken the lower road, with all the Artillery.
Ferdinand.
Had you no bombards here, then?
None, Innocence, at all! None, except your talk and theirs!
Act V. Scene 3
After the Battle. The Princess by the Standard on the Ravelin.Enter Gow, with the Crown of the Kingdom.
Gow.
Here's earnest of the Queen's submission. This by her last herald—and in haste.
Princess.
'Twas ours already. Where is the woman?
Gow.
'Fled with her horse. They broke at dawn. Noon has not struck, and you're Queen questionless.
Princess.
By you—through you. How shall I honour you?
Gow.
Me? But for what?
Princess.
For all—all—all—
Since the realm sunk beneath us! Hear him! “For what?”
Your body 'twixt my bosom and her knife,
Your lips on the cup she proffered for my death;
Your one cloak over me, that night in the snows,
We held the Pass at Bargi. Every hour
New strengths, to this most unbelievable last.
“Honour him?” I will honour—will honour you— . . .
'Tis at your choice.
Gow.
Child, mine was long ago. Enter Ferdinand, as from horse
But here's one worthy honour. Welcome, Fox!
Ferdinand.
And to you, Watchdog. This day clenches all.
We've made it and seen it.
Is the city held?
Ferdinand.
Loyally. Oh, they're drunk with loyalty yonder.
A virtuous mood. Your bombards helped 'em to it . . .
But here's my word for you. The Lady Frances—
Princess.
I left her sick in the city. No harm, I pray.
Ferdinand.
Nothing that she called harm. In truth, so little
That (to Gow)
I am bidden tell you, she'll be here
Almost as soon as I.
Gow.
She says it?
Ferdinand.
Writes.
This. (Gives him letter.)
Yester eve 'twas given me by the priest—
He with her in her hour.
Gow.
So? (Reads)
So it is.
She will be here. (To Ferdinand)
And all is safe in the city?
Ferdinand.
As thy long sword and my lean wits can make it.
You've naught to stay for. Is it the road again?
Gow.
Ay. This time, not alone . . . She will be here?
Princess.
I am here. You have not looked at me awhile.
Gow.
The rest is with you, Ferdinand . . . Then free.
Princess.
And at my service more than ever. I claim— (Our wars have taught me)—being your Queen, now, claim You wholly mine.
Gow.
Then free . . . She will be here? A little while—
Princess
(to Ferdinand).
He looks beyond, not at me.
Weariness.
We are not so young as once was. 'Two days' fight—
A worthy servitor—to be allowed
Some freedom.
Princess.
I have offered him all he would.
Ferdinand.
He takes what he has taken.
The Spirit of the Lady Frances appears to Gow
Gow.
Frances!
Princess.
Distraught!
Ferdinand.
An old head-blow, maybe. He has dealt in them.
Gow
(to the Spirit).
What can the Grave against us, O my Heart,
Comfort and light and reason in all things
Visible and invisible—my one God?
Thou that wast I these barren unyoked years
Of triflings now at end! Frances!
Princess.
She's old.
Ferdinand.
True. By most reckonings old.
They must keep other count.
Princess.
He kisses his hand to the air!
Ferdinand.
His ring, rather, he kisses. Yes—for sure—the ring.
Gow.
Dear and most dear. And now—those very arms!
(Dies.)
Princess.
Oh, look! He faints. Haste, you! Unhelm him! Help!
Ferdinand.
Needless. No help avails against that poison. He is sped.
By his own hand? This hour? When I had offered—
Ferdinand.
He had made other choice—an old, old choice,
Ne'er swerved from, and now patently sealed in death.
Princess.
He called on—the Lady Frances, was it? Wherefore?
Ferdinand.
Because she was his life. Forgive, my friend— (covers Gow's face).
God's uttermost beyond me in all faith,
Service and passion—that I unveil at last
The secret. (To the Princess)
Thought—dreamed you, it was for you
He poured himself—for you resoldered the Crown?
Struck here, held there, amended, broke, built up
His multiplied imaginings for you?
Princess.
I thought—I thought he—
Ferdinand.
Looked beyond. Her wish
Was the sole Law he knew. She did not choose
Your House should perish. Therefore he bade it stand.
Enough for him when she had breathed a word:
'Twas his to make it iron, stone, or fire,
Driving our flesh and blood before his ways
As the wind straws. Her one face unregarded
Waiting you with your mantle or your glove—
That is the God whom he is gone to worship. Trumpets without. Enter the Prince's Heralds
And here's the craft of Kingship begun again.
These from the Prince of Bargi—to whose sword
You owe such help as may, he thinks, be paid . . .
He's equal in blood, in fortune more than peer,
Young, most well favoured, with a heart to love—
And two States in the balance. Do you meet him?
Princess.
God and my Misery! I have seen Love at last.
What shall content me after?
THE WISHING-CAPS
I've only myself to give.
What shall I do for a living?
I've only one life to live.
End it? I'll not find another.
Spend it? But how shall I best?
Sure the wise plan is to live like a man
And Luck may look after the rest!
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
Give or hold at your will.
If I've no care for Fortune,
Fortune must follow me still.
But the commonest wench on the street,
Shuffling, shabby and shady,
Shameless to pass or meet.
Walk with her once—it's a weakness!
Talk to her twice—it's a crime!
Thrust her away when she gives you “good day”
And the besom won't board you next time.
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
What is Your Ladyship's mood?
If I've no care for Fortune,
My Fortune is bound to be good!
But the cursedest quean alive!
Tricksy, wincing and jady,
Kittle to lead or drive.
Greet her—she's hailing a stranger!
Meet her—she's busking to leave.
Let her alone for a shrew to the bone,
And the hussy comes plucking your sleeve!
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
I'll neither follow nor flee.
If I don't run after Fortune,
Fortune must run after me!
“BY THE HOOF OF THE WILD GOAT”
From the cliff where she lay in the Sun
Fell the Stone
To the Tarn where the daylight is lost,
So she fell from the light of the Sun
And alone!
With the Goat and the Cliff and the Tarn,
But the Stone
Knows only her life is accursed
As she sinks from the light of the Sun
And alone!
O Thou Who hast lighted the Sun,
O Thou Who hast darkened the Tarn,
Judge Thou
The sin of the Stone that was hurled
By the goat from the light of the Sun,
As she sinks in the mire of the Tarn,
Even now—even now—even now!
SONG OF THE RED WAR-BOAT
(A.D. 683)
Watch for a smooth! Give way!
If she feels the lop already
She'll stand on her head in the bay.
It's ebb—it's dusk—it's blowing—
The shoals are a mile of white,
But (snatch her along!) we're going
To find our master to-night.
Of shipwreck, storm, or sword,
A Man must stand by his Master
When once he has pledged his word.
But we seldom saw them thus,
Our master is angry with Odin—
Odin is angry with us!
Heavy odds have we taken,
But never before such odds.
The Gods know they are forsaken.
We must risk the wrath of the Gods!
Into its hollow she drops,
Cringes and clears her eyes from
The wind-torn breaker-tops,
Ere out on the shrieking shoulder
Of a hill-high surge she drives.
Meet her! Meet her and hold her!
Pull for your scoundrel lives!
The harm that they mean to do!
There goes Thor's own Hammer
Cracking the dark in two!
Close! But the blow has missed her,
Here comes the wind of the blow!
Row or the squall'll twist her
Broadside on to it!—Row!
We are not here for a jest—
For wager, warfare, or plunder,
Or to put your power to test.
This work is none of our wishing—
We would house at home if we might—
But our master is wrecked out fishing.
We go to find him to-night.
As the Gods Themselves have said—
A Man must stand by his Master
Till one of the two is dead.
Now you can do as you will,
While we try to save her from sinking
And hold her head to it still.
Bale her and keep her moving,
Or she'll break her back in the trough. . . .
Who said the weather's improving,
Or the swells are taking off?
Gone in the loins and knees—
No matter—the day is breaking,
And there's far less weight to the seas!
Up mast, and finish baling—
In oars, and out with the mead—
The rest will be two-reef sailing. . . .
That was a night indeed!
(And faith, we have found it true!)
If only you stand by your Master.
The Gods will stand by you!
MINE SWEEPERS
Jumbled and short and steep—
Black in the hollows and bright where it's breaking—
Awkward water to sweep.
“Mines reported in the fairway,
“Warn all traffic and detain.
“'Sent up Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain.”
Lumpy and strong in the bight.
Boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking
And the jackdaws wild with fright!
“Mines located in the fairway,
“Boats now working up the chain,
“Sweepers—Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain.”
And the traffic crowding through,
And five damned trawlers with their syreens blowing
Heading the whole review!
“Sweep completed in the fairway.
“No more mines remain.
“'Sent back Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden Gain.”
MORNING SONG IN THE JUNGLE
No shadow on the plain;
Now clear and black they stride our track,
And we run home again.
In morning-hush, each rock and bush
Stands hard, and high, and raw:
Then give the Call: “Good rest to all
That keep the Jungle Law!”
In covert to abide;
Now, crouched and still, to cave and hill
Our Jungle Barons glide.
Now, stark and plain, Man's oxen strain,
That draw the new-yoked plough;
Now, stripped and dread, the dawn is red
Above the lit talao.
Behind the breathing grass:
And creaking through the young bamboo
The warning whispers pass.
By day made strange, the woods we range
With blinking eyes we scan;
While down the skies the wild duck cries:
“The Day—the Day to Man!”
Or washed about our way;
And where we drank, the puddled bank
Is crisping into clay.
The traitor Dark gives up each mark
Of stretched or hooded claw:
Then hear the Call: “Good rest to all
That keep the Jungle Law!
BLUE ROSES
Plucked I for my love's delight.
She would none of all my posies—
Bade me gather her blue roses.
Seeking where such flowers grew.
Half the world unto my quest
Answered me with laugh and jest.
But my silly love had died
Seeking with her latest breath
Roses from the arms of Death.
She shall find what she would have.
Mine was but an idle quest—
Roses white and red are best!
A RIPPLE SONG
In the golden sunset burning—
Lapped against a maiden's hand,
By the ford returning.
Here, across, be glad and rest.
“Maiden, wait,” the ripple saith;
“Wait awhile, for I am Death!”
Shame it were to treat him coldly—
'Twas a fish that circled so,
Turning over boldly.”
Wait the loaded ferry-cart.
“Wait, ah, wait!” the ripple saith;
“Maiden, wait, for I am Death!”
Dame Disdain was never wedded!”
Ripple-ripple round her waist,
Clear the current eddied.
Little feet that touched no land.
Far away the ripple sped,
Ripple—ripple running red!
BUTTERFLIES
The children follow the butterflies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.
And sting their toes on the nettle-tops,
Till, after a thousand scratches and scrambles,
They wipe their brows and the hunting stops.
And stills the riot of pain and grief,
Saying, “Little ones, go and gather
Out of my garden a cabbage-leaf.
Dull grey eggs that, properly fed,
Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of
Glorious butterflies raised from the dead.” . . .
The three-dimensioned preacher saith;
So we must not look where the snail and the slug lie
For Psyche's birth. . . . And that is our death!
MY LADY'S LAW
Was never Law to me,
But 'tis enough that she approves
Whatever Law it be.
My constant course I'll steer;
Not that I heed or deem it dread,
But that she holds it dear.
Her richest argosies,
Those would I spurn, and bid return,
If that should give her ease.
Each spicèd sail from sight;
Sans bitterness, desiring less
Great gear than her delight.
My proven sword to hire—
I would not go nor serve 'em so—
Except at her desire.
Adventure and acclaim,
And clean give o'er, esteeming more
Her favour than my fame.
Sore bond and freest free,
The Law that sways my lady's ways
Is mystery to me!
THE NURSING SISTER
(Maternity Hospital)
And we must bow to her behests.
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.
A flower withheld from sun or bee,
An alien in the Courts of Love,
And—teacher unto such as we!
We laugh, but sobs are mixed with laughter;
Our sister hath no time to smile,
She knows not what must follow after.
From beds of spice thy locks shake free;
Breathe on her heart that she may know,
Breathe on her eyes that she may see!
And maze her with most tender scorn,
Who stands beside the Gates of Birth,
Herself a child—a child unborn!
And we must bow to her behests.
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.
THE LOVE SONG OF HAR DYAL
I turn and watch the lightnings in the sky—
The glamour of thy footsteps in the North.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die.
Far, far below the weary camels lie—
The camels and the captives of thy raid.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!
And drudge of all my father's house am I—
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!
A DEDICATION (To “Soldiers Three”)
That digged the Ruby from the earth—
More cunning brains that made it worth
The large desire of a king,
And stouter hearts that through the brine
Went down the perfect Pearl to bring.
Rude figures of a rough-hewn race,
Since pearls strew not the market-place
In this my town of banishment,
Where with the shifting dust I play,
And eat the bread of discontent.
O thou who knowest, turn and see—
As thou hast power over me
So have I power over these,
Because I wrought them for thy sake,
And breathed in them mine agonies.
I lift the cloth that cloaks the clay,
And, wearied, at thy feet I lay
My wares, ere I go forth to sell.
The long bazar will praise, but thou—
Heart of my heart—have I done well?
MOTHER O' MINE
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
THE ONLY SON
For she heard a whimper under the sill and a great grey paw came through.
The fresh flame comforted the hut and shone on the roofbeam,
And the Only Son lay down again and dreamed that he dreamed a dream.
The last ash fell from the withered log with the click of a falling spark,
And the Only Son woke up again, and called across the dark:—
“Now was I born of womankind and laid in a mother's breast?
For I have dreamed of a shaggy hide whereon I went to rest.
And was I born of womankind and laid on a father's arm?
For I have dreamed of clashing teeth that guarded me from harm.
For I have dreamed of comrades twain that bit me to the bone.
And did I break the barley-cake and steep it in the tyre?
For I have dreamed of a youngling kid new-riven from the byre:
For I have dreamed of a midnight sky and a midnight call to blood
And red-mouthed shadows racing by, that thrust me from my food.
'Tis an hour yet and an hour yet to the rising of the moon,
But I can see the black roof-tree as plain as it were noon.
'Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the trooping blackbuck go;
But I can hear the little fawn that bleats behind the doe.
But I can smell the wet dawn-wind that wakes the sprouting wheat.
Unbar the door. I may not bide, but I must out and see
If those are wolves that wait outside or my own kin to me!”
And a grey bitch-wolf came out of the dark and fawned on the Only Son!
MOWGLI'S SONG AGAINST PEOPLE
I will call in the Jungle to stamp out your lines!
The roofs shall fade before it,
The house-beams shall fall;
And the Karela, the bitter Karela,
Shall cover it all!
In the doors of these your garners the Bat-folk shall cling;
And the snake shall be your watchman,
By a hearthstone unswept;
For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
Shall fruit where ye slept!
By night, before the moon-rise, I will send for my cess,
And the wolf shall be your herdsman
By a landmark removed;
For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
Shall seed where ye loved!
Ye shall glean behind my reapers for the bread that is lost;
And the deer shall be your oxen
On a headland untilled;
For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
Shall leaf where ye build!
I have sent in the Jungle to swamp out your lines!
The trees—the trees are on you!
The house-beams shall fall;
And the Karela, the bitter Karela,
Shall cover you all!
ROMULUS AND REMUS
When first he planned his home,
What City should arise and bear
The weight and state of Rome.
Checked by the Tiber flood,
He reared a wall around his camp
Of uninspired mud.
And mocked its height and make,
He guessed the future of it all
And slew him for its sake.
Which showed him in that hour
How unbelief may bring to naught
The early steps of Power.
Of Glory, Grace, and Love—
All singers, Cæsars, artists, Popes—
Would fail if Remus throve,
And, when the fit was o'er,
Went on collecting turves and clods
To build the Wall once more!
CHAPTER HEADINGS
The Jungle Books
Mowgli's Brothers.
Now Chil the Kite brings home the nightThat Mang the Bat sets free—
The herds are shut in byre and hut,
For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power,
Talon and tush and claw.
Oh, hear the call!—Good hunting all
That keep the Jungle Law!
Kaa's Hunting.
His spots are the joy of the Leopard: his horns are the Buffalo's pride,Be clean, for the strength of the hunter is known by the gloss of his hide.
If ye find that the bullock can toss you, or the heavy-browed Sambhur can gore;
Ye need not stop work to inform us. We knew it ten seasons before.
Oppress not the cubs of the stranger, but hail them as Sister and Brother,
For though they are little and fubsy, it may be the Bear is their mother.
“There is none like to me!” says the Cub in the pride of his earliest kill;
But the Jungle is large and the Cub he is small. Let him think and be still.
How Fear Came.
The stream is shrunk—the pool is dry,And we be comrades, thou and I;
With fevered jowl and dusty flank
Each jostling each along the bank;
Forgoing thought of quest or kill.
Now 'neath his dam the fawn may see
The lean Pack-wolf as cowed as he,
And the tall buck, unflinching, note
The fangs that tore his father's throat.
The pools are shrunk—the streams are dry,
And we be playmates, thou and I,
Till yonder cloud—Good Hunting!—loose
The rain that breaks our Water Truce.
“Tiger-Tiger!”
What of the hunting, hunter bold?Brother, the watch was long and cold.
What of the quarry ye went to kill?
Brother, he crops in the jungle still.
Where is the power that made your pride?
Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side.
Where is the haste that ye hurry by?
Brother, I go to my lair to die!
Letting in the Jungle.
Veil them, cover them, wall them round—Blossom, and creeper, and weed—
Let us forget the sight and the sound,
The smell and the touch of the breed!
Fat black ash by the altar-stone,
Here is the white-foot rain,
And the does bring forth in the fields unsown,
And none shall affright them again;
And the blind walls crumble, unknown, o'erthrown,
And none shall inhabit again!
The King's Ankus.
These are the Four that are never content, that have never been filled since the Dews began—Jacala's mouth, and the glut of the Kite, and the hands of the Ape, and the Eyes of Man.
Red Dog.
For our white and our excellent nights—for the nights of swift running,Fair ranging, far seeing, good hunting, sure cunning!
For the rush through the mist, and the quarry blind-started!
For the cry of our mates when the sambhur has wheeled and is standing at bay!
For the risk and the riot of night!
For the sleep at the lair-mouth by day!
It is met, and we go to the fight.
Bay! O bay!
The Spring Running.
He that was our Brother goes away.
Hear, now, and judge, O ye People of the Jungle,—
Answer, who can turn him—who shall stay?
He that was our Brother sorrows sore!
Man goes to Man! (Oh, we loved him in the Jungle!)
To the Man-Trail where we may not follow more.
Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.
Red-Eye called to Wrinkle-Skin.
Hear what little Red-Eye saith:
“Nag, come up and dance with death!”
(Keep the measure, Nag.)
This shall end when one is dead;
(At thy pleasure, Nag.)
(Run and hide thee, Nag.)
Hah! The hooded Death has missed!
(Woe betide thee, Nag!)
The White Seal.
And black are the waters that sparkled so green.
The moon, o'er the combers, looks downward to find us
At rest in the hollows that rustle between.
Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,
Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.
The White Seal.
You mustn't swim till you're six weeks old,Or your head will be sunk by your heels;
And summer gales and Killer Whales
Are bad for baby seals.
Are bad for baby seals, dear rat,
As bad as bad can be.
But splash and grow strong,
And you can't be wrong,
Child of the Open Sea!
Toomai of the Elephants.
I will remember my old strength and all my forest-affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane.
I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.
Out to the winds' untainted kiss, the waters' clean caress.
I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket-stake.
I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!
Quiquern.
The People of the Eastern Ice, they are melting like the snow—They beg for coffee and sugar; they go where the white men go.
The People of the Western Ice, they learn to steal and fight;
They sell their furs to the trading-post; they sell their souls to the white.
The People of the Southern Ice, they trade with the whaler's crew;
Their women have many ribbons, but their tents are torn and few.
Their spears are made of the narwhal-horn, and they are the last of the Men!
The Undertakers.
When ye say to Tabaqui, “My Brother!” when ye call the Hyæna to meat,Ye may cry the Full Truce with Jacala—the Belly that runs on four feet.
The Miracle of Purun Bhagat.
We stole and plucked him by the hand,
Because we loved him with the love
That knows but cannot understand.
And all our world fell down in rain,
We saved him, we the Little Folk;
But lo! he does not come again!
Of such poor love as wild ones may.
Mourn ye! Our brother will not wake,
And his own kind drive us away!
THE EGG-SHELL
The fog came up with the tide,
When the Witch of the North took an Egg-shell
With a little Blue Devil inside.
“Sink,” she said, “or swim,” she said,
“It's all you will get from me.
And that is the finish of him!” she said,
And the Egg-shell went to sea.
The fog shut down like a sheet,
Feeling by hand for a fleet.
“Get!” she said, “or you're gone,” she said,
But the little Blue Devil said “No!
The sights are just coming on,” he said,
And he let the Whitehead go.
The fog blew off with the rain,
When the Witch of the North saw the Egg-shell
And the little Blue Devil again.
“Did you swim?” she said. “Did you sink?” she said,
And the little Blue Devil replied:
“For myself I swam, but I think,” he said,
“There's somebody sinking outside.”
“THE TRADE”
Letters and numbers on their skin.
They play their grisly blindfold games
In little boxes made of tin.
Sometimes they stalk the Zeppelin,
Sometimes they learn where mines are laid,
Or where the Baltic ice is thin.
That is the custom of “The Trade.”
They seldom tow their targets in.
They follow certain secret aims
Down under, far from strife or din.
When they are ready to begin
No flag is flown, no fuss is made
More than the shearing of a pin.
That is the custom of “The Trade.”
A mark from Sweden to the Swin,
The Cruiser's thund'rous screw proclaims
Her comings out and goings in:
Or creamy rings that fizz and fade
Show where the one-eyed Death has been.
That is the custom of “The Trade.”
Are hidden from their nearest kin;
No eager public backs or blames,
No journal prints the yarn they spin
(The Censor would not let it in!)
When they return from run or raid.
Unheard they work, unseen they win.
That is the custom of “The Trade.”
“TIN FISH”
And ensnare us beneath.
We arise, we lie down, and we move
In the belly of Death.
To mark where we come . . .
But the mirth of a seaport dies
When our blow gets home.
THE KING'S TASK
In the years that the lights were darkened, or ever St. Wilfrid came,
Low on the borders of Britain (the ancient poets sing)
Between the Cliff and the Forest there ruled a Saxon King.
Stubborn all were his people from cottar to overlord—
Not to be cowed by the cudgel, scarce to be schooled by the sword;
And set on paths of their choosing as the hogs of Andred's Wood.
Laws they made in the Witan—the laws of flaying and fine—
Common, loppage and pannage, the theft and the track of kine—
Statutes of tun and of market for the fish and the malt and the meal—
The tax on the Bramber packhorse and the tax on the Hastings keel.
Over the graves of the Druids and under the wreck of Rome,
Rudely but surely they bedded the plinth of the days to come.
Behind the feet of the Legions and before the Norseman's ire
Rudely but greatly begat they the framing of State and Shire.
Rudely but deeply they laboured, and their labour stands till now,
If we trace on our ancient headlands the twist of their eight-ox plough. . . .
There came a king from Hamtun, by Bosenham he came,
He filled Use with slaughter, and Lewes he gave to flame.
He smote while they sat in the Witan—sudden he smote and sore,
That his fleet was gathered at Selsea ere they mustered at Cymen's Ore.
Blithe went the Saxons to battle, by down and wood and mere,
But thrice the acorns ripened ere the western mark was clear.
Thrice was the beechmast gathered, and the Beltane fires burned
Thrice, and the beeves were salted thrice ere the host returned.
They drove that king from Hamtun, by Bosenham o'erthrown,
Out of Rugnor to Wilton they made his land their own.
Camps they builded at Gilling, at Basing and Alresford,
But wrath abode in the Saxons from cottar to overlord.
Wrath at the weary war-game, at the foe that snapped and ran,
Wolf-wise feigning and flying, and wolf-wise snatching his man.
Wrath for their spears unready, their levies new to the blade—
Shame for the helpless sieges and the scornful ambuscade.
Shame and wrath had the Saxons because of their boasts of old.
And some would drink and deny it, and some would pray and atone;
But the most part, after their anger, avouched that the sin was their own.
Wherefore, girding together, up to the Witan they came,
And as they had shouldered their bucklers so did they shoulder their blame;
(For that was the wont of the Saxons, the ancient poets sing),
And first they spoke in the Witan and then they spoke to the King:
“Edward King of the Saxons, thou knowest from sire to son,
“One is the King and his People—in gain and ungain one.
“Count we the gain together. With doubtings and spread dismays
“We have broken a foolish people—but after many days.
“Count we the loss together. Warlocks hampered our arms.
“We were tricked as by magic, we were turned as by charms.
“We went down to the battle and the road was plain to keep,
“But our angry eyes were holden, and we struck as they strike in sleep—
“Men new shaken from slumber, sweating, with eyes a-stare,
“Little blows uncertain, dealt on the useless air.
“Also a vision betrayed us and a lying tale made bold,
“That we looked to hold what we had not and to have what we did not hold:
“That a shield should give us shelter—that a sword should give us power—
“A shield snatched up at a venture and a hilt scarce handled an hour:
“That being rich in the open, we should be strong in the close—
“And the Gods would sell us a cunning for the day that we met our foes.
“This was the work of wizards, but not with our foe they bide,
“Our pride was before the battle, our sloth ere we lifted spear,
“But hid in the heart of the people, as the fever hides in the mere,
“Waiting only the war-game, the heat of the strife to rise
“As the ague fumes round Oxeney when the rotting reed-bed dries.
“But now we are purged of that fever—cleansed by the letting of blood,
“Something leaner of body—something keener of mood.
“And the men new-freed from the levies return to the fields again,
“Matching a hundred battles, cottar and lord and thane;
“And they talk loud in the temples where the ancient war-gods are;
“They thumb and mock and belittle the holy harness of war.
“They jest at the sacred chariots, the robes and the gilded staff.
“These things fill them with laughter, they lean on their spears and laugh.
“The men grown old in the war-game, hither and thither they range—
“And scorn and laughter together are sire and dam of change;
“And change may be good or evil—but we know not what it will bring;
“Therefore our King must teach us. That is thy task, O King!”
POSEIDON'S LAW
His fragile raft, Poseidon laughed, and “Mariner,” said he,
“Behold, a Law immutable I lay on thee and thine,
That never shall ye act or tell a falsehood at my shrine.
At easy-cheated altars win oblivion for the fault,
But you the unhoodwinked wave shall test—the immediate gulf condemn—
Except ye owe the Fates a jest, be slow to jest with them.
The twinkling shoal, the leeward beach, or Hadria's white-lipped wrath;
Nor tempt with painted cloth for wood my fraud-avenging hosts;
Nor make at all, or all make good, your bulwarks and your boasts.
A present and oppressive God, but take, to aid, my gifts—
The wide and windward-opening eye, the large and lavish hand,
The soul that cannot tell a lie—except upon the land!”
He kept Poseidon's Law intact (his ship and freight beside),
But, once discharged the dromond's hold, the bireme beached once more,
Splendaciously mendacious rolled the Brass-bound Man ashore. . . .
And where three hundred blades bit white the twin-propellers ply.
The God that hailed, the keel that sailed, are changed beyond recall,
But the robust and Brass-bound Man he is not changed at all!
He strongly occupies the seat about the tavern fire,
And, moist with much Falernian or smoked Massilian juice,
Revenges there the Brass-bound Man his long-enforcèd truce!
THE LOWESTOFT BOAT
Mark well what I do say!
And she was built for the herring-trade,
But she has gone a-rovin', a-rovin', a-rovin',
The Lord knows where!
And a Q.F. gun at bow and stern,
And sent her out a-rovin', etc.
Which always killed one man per trip,
So he is used to rovin', etc.
And so he fights in topper and tails—
Religi-ous tho' rovin', etc.
So he's prepared to meet his fate,
Which ain't unlikely rovin', etc.
So he don't know what the Judgments mean,
Unless he cops 'em rovin', etc.
Mark well what I do say!
And I'm sorry for Fritz when they all come
A-rovin', a-rovin', a-roarin' and a-rovin',
Round the North Sea rovin',
The Lord knows where!
A TRUTHFUL SONG
The Bricklayer:Just by way of convincing you
How very little, since things were made,
Things have altered in the building trade.
We was building flats near the Marble Arch,
When a thin young man with coal-black hair
Came up to watch us working there.
Which this young man hadn't seen or known;
Nor there wasn't a tool from trowel to maul
But this young man could use 'em all!
Which was laying the pipes for the hot and cold:
“Since you with us have made so free,
Will you kindly say what your name might be?”
“It might be Lot or Methusalem,
Or it might be Moses (a man I hate),
Whereas it is Pharaoh surnamed the Great.
But otherwise I perceive no change;
And in less than a month if you do as I bid
I'd learn you to build me a Pyramid!”
The Sailor:
Just by way of convincing you
How very little, since things was made,
Things have altered in the shipwright's trade.
A China barque re-fitting lay,
When a fat old man with snow-white hair
Came up to watch us working there.
But the old man made it—and better too;
Nor there wasn't a sheet, or a lift, or a brace,
But the old man knew its lead and place.
Which was packing the pump in the afterhold:
“Since you with us have made so free,
Will you kindly tell what your name might be?”
“It might be Japheth, it might be Shem,
Or it might be Ham (though his skin was dark),
Whereas it is Noah, commanding the Ark.
But otherwise I perceive no change;
And in less than a week, if she did not ground,
I'd sail this hooker the wide world round!”
Both:
Just by way of convincing you
How very little, since things was made,
Anything alters in any one's trade!
A SMUGGLER'S SONG
Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,
Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie.
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
Five and twenty ponies
Trotting through the dark—
Brandy for the Parson,
'Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.
Put the brishwood back again—and they'll be gone next day!
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining's wet and warm—don't you ask no more!
You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.
If they call you “pretty maid,” and chuck you 'neath the chin,
Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!
You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.
Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie—
They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!
You'll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood—
A present from the Gentlemen, along o' being good!
Five and twenty ponies
Trotting through the dark—
Brandy for the Parson,
'Baccy for the Clerk.
Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie—
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
KING HENRY VII. AND THE SHIPWRIGHTS
(A.D. 1487)
And comen to Hamull on the Hoke in the Countie of Suthampton.
For there lay the Mary of the Tower, his ship of war so strong,
And he would discover, certaynely, if his shipwrights did him wrong.
(But only my Lord of Arundel) and meanly did he show,
In an old jerkin and patched hose that no man might him mark.
With his frieze hood and cloak above, he looked like any clerk.
And saw the Mary haled into dock, the winter to abide,
With all her tackle and habiliments which are the King his own;
But then ran on his false shipwrights and stripped her to the bone.
And they wrote down it was spent and lost by force of weather at sea.
But they sawen it into planks and strakes as far as it might go,
To maken beds for their own wives and little children also.
Crying: “Good felawes, come and see! The ship is nigh a wreck!
For the storm that took our tall main-mast, it blew so fierce and fell,
Alack! it hath taken the kettles and pans, and this brass pott as well!”
While all the shipwrights ran below to find what they might snatch;
All except Bob Brygandyne and he was a yeoman good.
He caught Slingawai round the waist and threw him on to the mud.
After the custom of Portesmouth, but I will not suffer a thief.
Nay, never lift up thy hand at me—there's no clean hands in the trade.
Steal in measure,” quo' Brygandyne. “There's measure in all things made!”
And he pulled a whistle out of his neck and whistled whistles three.
Then came my Lord of Arundel pricking across the down,
And behind him the Mayor and Burgesses of merry Suthampton town.
And bound them round the forecastle to wait the King's commands.
But “Sith ye have made your beds,” said the King, “ye needs must lie thereon.
For the sake of your wives and little ones—felawes, get you gone!”
Our King appointed Brygandyne to be Clerk of all his ships.
“Nay, never lift up thy hands to me—there's no clean hands in the trade.
But steal in measure,” said Harry our King. “There's measure in all things made!”
The Sweepstakes and the Mary Fortune, and the Henry of Bristol too!
All tall ships that sail on the sea, or in our harbours stand,
That they may keep measure with Harry our King and peace in Engeland!
THE WET LITANY
Blurs 'twixt glance and second glance;
When our tattered smokes forerun
Ashen 'neath a silvered sun;
When the curtain of the haze
Shuts upon our helpless ways—
Hear the Channel Fleet at sea:
Libera nos Domine!
Scarcely thrills the nosing hulls;
When the wash along the side
Sounds, a-sudden, magnified;
When the intolerable blast
Marks each blindfold minute passed;
Guides us through the haggard night;
When the warning bugle blows;
When the lettered doorways close;
When our brittle townships press,
Impotent, on emptiness;
Questioning a deep unseen;
When their lessened count they tell
To a bridge invisible;
When the hid and perilous
Cliffs return our cry to us;
Swallows up our next-ahead;
When her siren's frightened whine
Shows her sheering out of line;
When—her passage undiscerned—
We must turn where she has turned,
Hear the Channel Fleet at sea:
Libera nos Domine!
THE BALLAD OF MINEPIT SHAW
And men can buy no beer,
Two lads went up to the keepers' hut
To steal Lord Pelham's deer.
They laughed and talked no bounds,
Till they waked the keepers on their beds
And the keepers loosed the hounds.
Ready to carry away,
When they heard a whimper down the wind
And they heard a bloodhound bay.
Their crossbows in their hand,
Till they met a man with a green lantérn
That called and bade 'em stand.
And what's your foolish will,
That you must break into Minepit Wood
And wake the Folk of the Hill?”
And killed Lord Pelham's deer,
And if ever you heard a little dog bark
You'll know why we come here.
As fast as we can flee,
For if ever you heard a bloodhound bay
You'll know how pressed we be.”
And drop the knives from your hand,
And though the hounds be at your flank
I'll save you where you stand!”
They threw their knives in the wood,
And the ground before them opened and sank
And saved 'em where they stood.
That strikes us well-nigh dumb?”
“Oh, that is just how things appears
According as they come.”
That strike us well-nigh blind?”
“Oh, that is just how things arise
According as you find.”
Excepting where it's cold?”
“Oh, that's because it is precious stones
Excepting where 'tis gold.
For I tell you without fail,
If you haven't got into Fairyland
You're not in Lewes Gaol.”
And, come the dawn, they saw
They'd tumbled into a great old pit,
At the bottom of Minepit Shaw.
And broke her neck in the fall;
So they picked up their knives and their crossbows
And buried the dog. That's all.
Or a Pharisee so bold—
I reckon there's more things told than are true,
And more things true than are told!
HERIOT'S FORD
The foe that you must fight, my lord.
“That rides as fast as I can ride?”
The shadow of your might, my lord.
He's down and overpast, my lord.
You war against the sunset-glow,
The judgment follows fast, my lord!
King Joshua he is dead, my lord.
“I need an hour to repent!”
'Tis what our sister said, my lord.
You're safe awhile with us, my lord.
“Nay, kill me ere my fear begins!”
We would not serve you thus, my lord.
Three little leagues away, my lord.
“Then mend the horses' laggard pace!”
We need them for next day, my lord.
Our sister needed none, my lord.
You had no mind to face our swords,
And—where can cowards run, my lord?
'Twas thus our sister cried, my lord.
“I dare not die with none to shrive.”
But so our sister died, my lord.
It runnels forth afresh, my lord.
“Uphold me—for the flesh is weak.”
You've finished with the Flesh, my lord!
FRANKIE'S TRADE
(A-hay O! To me O!)
“Now where did Frankie learn his trade?
For he ran me down with a three-reef mains'l.”
(All round the Horn!)
You'd better ask the cold North Sea,
For he ran me down under all plain canvas.”
(All round the Horn!)
For he came to me when he began—
Frankie Drake in an open coaster.
(All round the Sands!)
So you never shall startle Frankie more,
Without capsizing Earth and her waters.
(All round the Sands!)
I made him pull and I made him haul—
And stand his trick with the common sailors.
(All round the Sands!)
And kicked him home with his road to find
By what he could see in a three-day snow-storm.
(All round the Sands!)
'Twixt Mardyk Fort and Dunkirk lights,
On a five-knot tide with the forts a-firing.
(All round the Sands!)
I showed him the length of the Spaniard's foot—
And I reckon he clapped the boot on it later.
(All round the Sands!)
That's worse than he was used to take
Nigh every week in the way of his business;
(All round the Sands!)
Which he hasn't met in time gone by,
Not once or twice, but ten times over;
(All round the Sands!)
(A-hay O! To me O!)
I'll give you Bruges and Niewport too,
And the ten tall churches that stand between 'em!”
Storm along, my gallant Captains!
(All round the Horn!)
THE JUGGLER'S SONG
Down the street,
When the poles are fetched and guyed,
When the tight-rope's stretched and tied,
When the dance-girls make salaam,
When the snake-bag wakes alarm,
When the pipes set up their drone,
When the sharp-edged knives are thrown,
When the red-hot coals are shown,
To be swallowed by-and-by—
Arré, Brethren, here come I!
Search me well and watch me close!
Tell me how my tricks are done—
Tell me how the mango grows!
To his trade
Swords to fling and catch again,
Coins to ring and snatch again,
Men to harm and cure again,
Snakes to charm and lure again—
He'll be hurt by his own blade,
By his serpents disobeyed,
By his clumsiness bewrayed,
By the people laughed to scorn—
So 'tis not with juggler born!
Chance-flung nut or borrowed staff,
Serve his need and shore his power,
Bind the spell or loose the laugh.
THE NORTH SEA PATROL
And the balmy night-breezes blow straight from the Pole,
I heard a Destroyer sing: “What an enjoya-
ble life does one lead on the North Sea Patrol!
Which means there are mine-fields wherever you stroll.
Unless you've particular wish to die quick, you'll a-
void steering close to the North Sea Patrol.
Who takes in high Dudgeon our life-saving rôle,
For every one's grousing at Docking and Dowsing
The marks and the lights on the North Sea Patrol.”
I watched her head out through the swell off the shoal,
And I heard her propellers roar: “Write to poor fellers
Who run such a Hell as the North Sea Patrol!”
THORKILD'S SONG
Out oars for Stavanger!
Forward all for Stavanger!
So we must wake the white-ash breeze,
Let fall for Stavanger!
A long pull for Stavanger!
(A long pull for Stavanger!)
She thinks she smells the Northland rain!
(A long pull for Stavanger!)
And she's as glad as we to go.
And the dear dark nights of winter-time.
To shift her sails and standing gear.
To strip herself and go to bed.
And we—we want it ten times more!
Send us a three-reef gale again!
With close-cropped canvas slashing home!
A long pull for Stavanger!
So we must wake the white-ash breeze.
A long pull for Stavanger!
“ANGUTIVAUN TAINA”
Song of the Returning Hunter (Esquimaux)
Our furs with the drifted snow,
As we come in with the seal—the seal!
In from the edge of the floe.
And the yelping dog-teams go;
And the long whips crack, and the men come back,
Back from the edge of the floe!
We heard him scratch below,
We made our mark, and we watched beside,
Out on the edge of the floe.
We drove it downward—so!
And we played him thus, and we killed him thus,
Out on the edge of the floe.
Our eyes with the drifting snow;
But we come back to our wives again,
Back from the edge of the floe!
And the loaded dog-teams go;
And the wives can hear their men come back,
Back from the edge of the floe!
HUNTING-SONG OF THE SEEONEE PACK
Once, twice and again!
And a doe leaped up, and a doe leaped up
From the pond in the wood where the wild deer sup.
This I, scouting alone, beheld,
Once, twice and again!
Once, twice and again!
And a wolf stole back, and a wolf stole back
To carry the word to the waiting pack,
And we sought and we found and we bayed on his track
Once, twice and again!
Once, twice and again!
Feet in the jungle that leave no mark!
Eyes that can see in the dark—the dark!
Tongue—give tongue to it! Hark! O Hark!
Once, twice and again!
SONG OF THE MEN'S SIDE
(Neolithic)
Ran very fast though we knew
It was not right that The Beast should master Man;
But what could we Flint-workers do?
The Beast only grinned at our spears round his ears—
Grinned at the hammers that we made;
But now we will hunt him for the life with the Knife—
And this is the Buyer of the Blade!
To left and right—stand clear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade—be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
For he knew it was not right
(And it is not right) that The Beast should master Man;
So he went to the Children of the Night.
He begged a Magic Knife of their make for our sake.
When he begged for the Knife they said:
“The price of the Knife you would buy is an eye!”
And that was the price he paid.
Shout it so the Women's Side can hear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade—be afraid!
This is the great god Tyr!
As far as we can see them and beyond.
We shall not be anxious for our sheep when we keep
Tally at the shearing-pond.
We can eat with both our elbows on our knees, if we please,
We can sleep after meals in the sun,
For Shepherd-of-the-Twilight is dismayed at the Blade,
Feet-in-the-Night have run!
Dog-without-a-Master goes away (Hai, Tyr, aie!),
Devil-in-the-Dusk has run!
Then:
Room for his shadow on the grass—let it pass!To left and right—stand clear!
This is the Buyer of the Blade—be afraid!
This is the great gold Tyr!
THE RUNES ON WELAND'S SWORD
To betray my Man
In my first fight.
At the world's end
I am sent.
Comes into England
Out of deep Water.
Then it descends
Into deep Water.
For goods or gear,
But for The Thing.
A king covets
For an ill use.
Is drawn up
Out of deep Water.
Then it descends
Into deep Water.
For goods or gear,
But for The Thing.
DARZEE'S CHAUNT
Sung in honour of Rikki-tikki-tavi
Doubled the joys that I know—
Proud of my lilt to the sky,
Proud of the house that I sew—
Over and under, so weave I my music—so weave I the house that I sew.
Mother, O lift up your head!
Evil that plagued us is slain,
Death in the garden lies dead.
Terror that hid in the roses is impotent—flung on the dunghill and dead!
Tell me his nest and his name.
Rikki, the valiant, the true,
Tikki, with eyeballs of flame,
Rik-tikki-tikki, the ivory-fangèd, the Hunter with eyeballs of flame.
Bowing with tail-feathers spread!
Praise him in nightingale-words—
Nay, I will praise him instead.
Hear! I will sing you the praise of the bottle-tailed Rikki, with eyeballs of red!
SONG OF THE GALLEY-SLAVES
We pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails were low.Will you never let us go?
We ate bread and onions when you took towns, or ran aboard quickly when you were beaten back by the foe.
The Captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather singing songs, but we were below.
We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that we were idle, for we still swung to and fro.
Will you never let us go?
The salt made the oar-handles like shark-skin; our knees were cut to the bone with salt-cracks; our hair was stuck to our foreheads; and our lips were cut to the gums, and you whipped us because we could not row.
Will you never let us go?
But, in a little time, we shall run out of the port-holes as the water runs along the oar-blade, and though you tell the others to row after us you will never catch us till you catch the oar-thresh and tie up the winds in the belly of the sail. Aho!
Will you never let us go?
THE FOUR ANGELS
The Angel of the Earth came down, and offered Earth in fee;
But Adam did not need it,
Nor the plough he would not speed it,
Singing:—“Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire?”
(The Apple Tree's in bud.)
The Angel of the Waters offered all the Seas in fee;
But Adam would not take 'em,
Nor the ships he wouldn't make 'em,
Singing:—“Water, Earth and Air and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire?”
(The Apple Tree's in leaf.)
The Angel of the Air he offered all the Air in fee;
But Adam did not crave it,
Nor the flight he wouldn't brave it,
Singing:—“Air and Water, Earth and Fire,
What more can mortal man desire?”
(The Apple Tree's in bloom.
The Angel of the Fire rose up and not a word said he;
But he wished a flame and made it,
And in Adam's heart he laid it,
Singing:—“Fire, Fire, burning Fire!
Stand up and reach your heart's desire!”
(The Apple Blossom's set.)
He used the Earth, he used the Seas, he used the Air and all;
Till out of black disaster
He arose to be the master
Of Earth and Water, Air and Fire,
But never reached his heart's desire!
(The Apple Tree's cut down!)
THE BEGINNINGS
It came to them very late
With long arrears to make good,
When the English began to hate.
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud,
When the English began to hate.
It will not swiftly abate,
Through the chill years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the English began to hate.
THE PRAYER
My brother kneels, so saith Kabir,To stone and brass in heathen wise,
But in my brother's voice I hear
My own unanswered agonies.
His God is as his fates assign,
His prayer is all the world's—and mine.
THE MUSE AMONG THE MOTORS 1900–1930
SEPULCHRAL
(FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGIES)
Swifter than aught 'neath the sun the car of Simonides moved him.Two things he could not out-run—Death and a Woman who loved him.
ARTERIAL
(EARLY CHINESE)
I
Frost upon small rain—the ebony-lacquered avenueReflecting lamps as a pool shows goldfish.
The sight suddenly emptied out of the young man's eyes
Entering upon it sideways.
II
In youth, by hazard, I killed an old man.In age I maimed a little child.
Dead leaves under foot reproach not:
But the lop-sided cherry-branch—whenever the sun rises,
How black a shadow!
CARMEN CIRCULARE
(Q. H. FLACCUS)
Lightnings and thunders arm and scourge—
Tumultuous down the Appian Way—
Be slow to urge.
And Telephus o'ertaking jeer,
Nay, sit and strongly occupy
The lower gear.
Such as delight in dust collected—
Until arrives (I too have raced!)
The unexpected.
Or inauspicious hound, may bring
Thee 'twixt two kisses to the throne
Of Hades' King,
No warning ere their bolts arrive.
'Tis best to reach our chosen end
Late but alive.
THE ADVERTISEMENT
(IN THE MANNER OF THE EARLIER ENGLISH)
Whether to wend through straight streets strictly,Trimly by towns perfectly paved;
Or after office, as fitteth thy fancy,
Faring with friends far among fields;
There is none other equal in action,
Sith she is silent, nimble, unnoisome,
Lordly of leather, gaudily gilded,
Burgeoning brightly in a brass bonnet,
Certain to steer well between wains.
THE JUSTICE'S TALE
(CHAUCER)
With them there rode a lustie EngineereWel skilled to handel everich waie her geere,
Hee was soe wise ne man colde showe him naught
And out of Paris was hys learnynge brought.
Frontlings mid brazen wheeles and wandes he sat,
And on hys heade he bare an leathern hat.
Hee was soe certaine of his gouvernance,
That, by the Road, he tooke everie chaunce.
For simple people and for lordlings eke
Hee wolde not bate a del but onlie squeeke
Behinde their backés on an horné hie
Until they crope into a piggestie.
He was more wood than bull in china-shoppe,
And yet for cowes and doggés wolde hee stop,
Not out of Marcie but for Preudence-sake—
Than hys dependaunce ever was hys brake.
THE CONSOLATIONS OF MEMORY (Circa 1904)
Blessèd was our first age and morning-time. Then were no waies tarren, ne no cars numberen, but each followed his owne playinge-busyness to go about singly or by large interspaces, for to leden his viage after his luste and layen under clene hedge. Jangling there was not, nor the overtaking wheele, and all those now cruel clarions were full-hushed and full-still. Then nobile horses, lest they should make the chariots moveable to run by cause of this new feare, we did not press, and were apayed by sweete thankes of him that drave. There was not cursings ne adventure of death blinded bankes betweene, but good-fellowship of yoke-mates at ignorance equal, and a one pillar of dust covered all exodus. . . . But, see now how the blacke road hath strippen herself of hearte and beauty where the dumbe lampe of Tartarus winketh red, etc.
THE FOUR POINTS
(THOMAS TUSSER)
Is a charm that thy daies may be long in the land.
O'ertaking at corners is Death in the end.
Both to slow and to blow when thou enterest there.
For Drink with men's Driving makes Crowners to Quest.
TO A LADY, PERSUADING HER TO A CAR
(BEN JONSON)
Love's fiery chariot, Delia, takeWhich Vulcan wrought for Venus' sake.
Wings shall not waft thee, but a flame
Hot as my heart—as nobly tame:
Than linkèd lightnings of thine eyes!
Seated and ready to be drawn
Come not in muslins, lace or lawn,
But, for thy thrice imperial worth,
Take all the sables of the North,
With frozen diamonds belted on,
To face extreme Euroclydon!
Thus in our thund'ring toy we'll prove
Which is more blind, the Law or Love;
And may the jealous Gods prevent
Our fierce and uncontrouled descent!
THE PROGRESS OF THE SPARK (XVIth Circuit)
(DONNE)
This spark now set, retarded, yet forbearsTo hold her light however so he swears
That turns a metalled crank and, leather-cloked,
With some small hammers tappeth hither and yon;
Peering as when she showeth and when is gone;
For wait he must till the vext Power's evoked
That's one with the lightnings. Wait in the showers soaked;
Or by the road-side sunned. She'll not progress.
Poor soul, here taught how great things may by less
Be stayed, to file contacts doth himself address!
THE BRAGGART
(MAT. PRIOR)
Petrolio, vaunting his Mercedes' power,Vows she can cover eighty miles an hour.
I tried the car of old and know she can.
But dare he ever make her? Ask his man!
“WHEN THE JOURNEY WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY”
(MILTON)
When that with meat and drink they had fulfilledNot temperately but like him conceived
In monstrous jest at Meudon, whose regale
Stands for exemplar of Gargantuan greed,
In his own name supreme, they issued forth
Beneath new firmaments and stars astray,
Circumvoluminant; nor had they felt
Neither the passage nor the sad effect
Of many cups partaken, till that frost
Wrought on them hideous, and their minds deceived.
Thus choosing from a progeny of roads,
That seemed but were not, one most reasonable,
Of purest moonlight fashioned on a wall,
Thither they urged their chariot whom that flint
Buttressed received, itself unscathed—not they.
TO MOTORISTS
(HERRICK)
Since ye distemper and defileSweet Herè by the measured mile,
Nor aught on jocund highways heed
Except the evidence of speed;
And bear about your dreadful task
Faces beshrouded 'neath a mask;
Great goblin eyes and gluey hands
And souls enslaved to gears and bands;
Here shall no graver curse be said
Than, though y'are quick, that ye are dead!
THE TOUR
(BYRON)
He was a publisher. The new Police
Have neater ways of bringing men to book,
So Juan found himself before J.P.'s
At practically any pace you please.
The Dogberry, and the Waterbury, made
It fifty mile—five pounds. And Juan paid!
THE IDIOT BOY
(WORDSWORTH)
Beyond the speed assigned—
A youth whom Justice often stayed
And generally fined.
If he could drive or steer.
Now he is in the ditch, and Oh!
The differential gear!
THE LANDAU
(PRAED)
Cushioned for Sleep's own self to sit on—
The glory of the country-side
From Tanner's End to Marlow Ditton.
John of the broad and brandied cheek
(Well I recall its eau-de-vie hues!)
Drove staid Sir Ralph five days a week
At speeds which we considered Jehu's. . . .
And neither hears nor smells the fuss
Of the young Squire's nine-hundred-pound—
Er—Mors communis omnibus.
And I who in my daily stroll
Observe the reckless chauffeur crowd her,
Laudator temporis, extol
The times before the Act allowed her.
CONTRADICTIONS
(LONGFELLOW)
To the drowsy horses' tramp.
His axles winnow the sprays
Of the hedge where the rabbit plays
In the light of his single lamp.
A howl, a hoot, and a yell,
A headlight strikes him blind
And a stench o'erpowers the wind
Like a blast from the mouth of Hell.
And loud his curses ring;
But a mother watching afar
Hears the hum of the doctor's car
Like the beat of an angel's wing!
Motor or carrier's van,
Properly understood,
Are neither evil nor good—
Ormuzd nor Ahriman!
FASTNESS
(TENNYSON)
Before thy coachman guessed his fate,—
How thou shouldst leave thy 'scutcheoned gate
On that new wheel which is the oiled—
(Oh, Earth, 'tis long since Shallow died!
Yet by yon farrowed sow may hide
Some blue deep minion of the Law)—
By Lyonnesse to Locksley Hall,
Or haply, nearer home, appal
Thy father's sister's staid barouche.
THE BEGINNER
(After he has been extemporising on an instrument not of his own invention)
(BROWNING)
Lo! what is this that I make—sudden, supreme, unrehearsed—This that my clutch in the crowd pressed at a venture has raised?
Forward and onward I sprang when I thought (as I ought) I reversed,
And a cab like a martagon opes and I sit in the wreckage dazed.
And someone is taking my name, and the driver is rending the air
With cries for my blood and my gold, and a snickering newsboy brings
My cap, wheel-pashed from the kerb. I must run her home for repair,
Where she leers with her bonnet awry—flat on the nether springs!
LADY GERALDINE'S HARDSHIP
(E. B. BROWNING)
To broken reeds, mistaken so for pine
That shame forbids confession—a handle I turned
(The wrong one, said the agent afterwards)
And so flung clean across your English street
Through the shrill-tinkling glass of the shop-front—paused,
Artemis mazed 'mid gauds to catch a man,
And piteous baby-caps and christening-gowns,
The worse for being worn on the radiator.
Propounding one sleek forty-shillinged law
That takes no count of the Woman's oversoul.
I should have entered, purred he, by the door—
The man's retort—the open obvious door—
And since I chose not, he—not he—could change
The man's rule, not the Woman's, for the case.
Ten pounds or seven days . . . Just that . . . I paid!
THE BOTHER
(CLOUGH)
Petrol nigh at end and something wrong with a sprocket
Made him speer for the nearest town, when lo! at the crossways
Four blank letterless arms the virginal signpost extended.
“Look!” thundered Hugh the Radical. “This is the England we boast of—
Bland, white-bellied, obese, but utterly useless for business.
They are repainting the signs and have left the job in the middle.
They are repainting the signs and traffic may stop till they've done it,
Which is to say till the son-of-a-gun of a local contractor,
Having laboriously wiped out every name for
Probably thirty miles round, be minded to finish his labour!
Had not the fool the sense to paint out and paint in together?”
(Which is to paint out the earth and then write “Damn” on the shutter),
Hugh embroidered the theme imperially and stretched it
From some borough in Wales through our Australian possessions,
Making himself, reformer-wise, a bit of a nuisance
Till, with the help of Adam, we cast him out on the landscape.
THE DYING CHAUFFEUR
(ADAM LINDSAY GORDON)
Wheel me gently to the garage, since my car and I must part—No more for me the record and the run.
That cursèd left-hand cylinder the doctors call my heart
Is pinking past redemption—I am done!
They'll never strike a mixture that'll help me pull my load.
My gears are stripped—I cannot set my brakes.
I am entered for the finals down the timeless untimed Road
To the Maker of the makers of all makes!
THE INVENTOR
(R. W. EMERSON)
But little Man was quick to note:
When Time and Space said Man might not,
Bravely he answered, “Nay! I mote.”
Time and Space stood fast.
Men built altars to Distance
At every mile they passed.
Making mock of all they did,
Ready at the appointed hour
To yield up to Prometheus
The secular and well-drilled Power
The Gods secreted thus.
Emulous my lightnings ran,
Unregarded but afret,
To fall in with my plan.
One of air and one of earth—
At a thought I married these,
And my New Age came to birth!
Though oft it seem to pause,
And rods and cylinders
Obey my planets' laws.
And Franklin's spark from its blue;
Time and Distance fell,
And Man went forth anew.
So long as my chariots roll
I bind wings to Adam's feet,
And, presently, to his soul!
THE BALLAD OF THE CARS
(Wardour Street Border Ballad)
The kneeling doctor said.
And syne he bade them take him up,
For he saw that the man was dead.
(And, oh, he did not stir),
And they had him into the nearest town
To wait the Coroner.
They closed the doors upon,
And the cars that were parked in the market-place
Made talk of it anon.
That carries the slatted tank:—
“'Tis we must purge the country-side
And no man will us thank.
That souls should turn from sin,
We cock our bonnets to the work,
And gather the drunken in.—
Or their comrades jack them free,—
They learn more under our dumb-iròns
Than they learned at their mother's knee.”
And Siddeley was his name:—
“I saw a man lie stark and cold
By Grantham as I came.
A guard-rail and a fall:
But the drunken loon that overtook
He got no hurt at all!
But and the shady lane;
And why the guiltless soul should die,
Good reason find I nane.”
Had barely room for two—
“'Tis time and place that make the sin,
And not the deed they do.
I ha' seen it come to pass
That an arm too close or a lip too near
Has killed both lad and lass.
And a sidelings kiss to steal—
The God knows how the couple died,
But I mind the inquest weel.
But and the cobble-stone;
And why the young go to their death,
Good reason find I none.”
('Was kin to a Cowley Friar):—
“How shall we judge the ways of the Lord
That are but steel and fire?
And the levin-spark from the skies,
We but adventure and go forth
As our man shall devise:
No kinship can us move
To draw him home in his market-sleep
Or spare his waiting love.
Where a mellow man can go,
But he must look on either hand
And back and front also.
At prick of horn, to leap
Either to hide in ditch beside
Or in the bankès steep.
Or for his love be bound,
We have no wit to mark and chuse,
But needs must slay or wound.”
The Crowner looked thereon;
And the cars that were parked in the market-place
Went all their ways anon.
A CHILD'S GARDEN
(R. L. STEVENSON)
Except—I think it's called T.B.
And that is why I have to lay
Out in the garden all the day.
And cars go by on either side,
And make an angry-hooty noise
That rather startles little boys.
Me out in cars that growl and shake,
With charabancs so dreadful-near
I have to shut my eyes for fear.
I watch the Croydon aeroplane
That flies across to France, and sings
Like hitting thick piano-strings.
The things I'm truly wishful to,
I'll never use a car or train
But always have an aeroplane;
And frighten Nursey with the sound,
And see the angel-side of clouds,
And spit on all those motor-crowds!
THE MORAL
(AUTHOR UNKNOWN)
You mustn't groom an Arab with a file.You hadn't ought to tension-spring a mule.
You couldn't push a brumby fifty mile
And drop him in a boiler-shed to cool.
I'll sling you through six counties in a day.
I'll hike you up a grade of one in ten.
I am Duty, Law and Order under way,
I'm the Mentor of banana-fingered men!
I will make you know your left hand from your right.
I will teach you not to drink about your biz.
I'm the only temperance advocate in sight!
I am all the Education Act there is!
THE MARRÈD DRIVES OF WINDSOR
PREFACE BY SAMUEL JOHNSON
It is to be observed of this play that, though its plan is irregular, it has been made instrumental to the production of many discriminate characters who deliver themselves with candour and propriety, as they approach towards, or recede from, the operations of Justice. The juxtaposition of Hamlet and Falstaff may be questioned by the learned or the delicate, but the conjectural critic of an author neither systematic nor consequential can affirm that those same forces of natural genius, which expatiate in splendour and passion, demand for their refreshment and sanity an abruptness of release and a lawlessness of invention, proportioned to precedent constrictions. He only who hath never toiled in the anfractuous mines of Philosophy or Letters, nor subdued himself to the ignoble needs of the Stage, will dispute the proposition.
There is a tradition that this play was composed after a drinking bout. I would prefer to credit that it owed its birth to some such concatenation of circumstances as I have adumbrated. The more so since, amid much that is ill-considered, or even depraved, our author has assigned to the crafty and careless Falstaff an awful, if fleeting, visitation of self-knowledge. Let us now be told no more of the illegitimacy of this play.
Act I
Argument.
Falstaff, Nym, Poins, Bardolph and Fluellen having accompanied Prince Henry in a motor drive through the city of London, their car breaks down, and Falstaff returns to the Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap, where he is followed by the Prince and Fluellen.
Falstaff,
habited as a motorist
Here's all at an end between us, or I'll never taste sack again. Prince or no Prince, I'll not ride with him to Coventry on the hinder parts of a carbonadoed stink, not though he call her all the car in Christendom. Sack! Sack! Sack!
Hostess.
I spied her out of the lattice. A' fizzled and a' groaned and a' shook from the bones out, Sir John, and a' ran on her own impulsidges back and forth o' Chepe, and I knew that there was but one way to it when I saw them fighting at the handles. She died of a taking of pure wind on the heart, and they be about her body now with tongs. A marvellous searching perfume, Sir John!
He hath called me ribs; he hath called me tallow. There is no name in the extremer oiliness of comparisons which I have not borne meekly. But to go masked at midday; to wrap my belly in an horse-hide cloak of ten thousand buttons till I looked like a mushroomed dunghill; to be smoked over burnt oils; to be enseamed, moreover, with intolerable greases; and thus scented, thus habited, thus vizarded, to leap out—for I leaped, mark you . . . Another cup of sack! But there's vengeance for my case! These eyes have seen the Lord's Anointed on his knees in Chepe, foining with the key of Shrewsbury Castle, which Poins had bent to the very crook of Nym's theftuous elbow, to wake the dumb devil in the guts of her. “Sweet Hal,” said I, “are all horses sold out of England, that thou must kneel before the lieges to any petrol-piddling turnspit?” Then he, Poins, and Bardolph whose nose blanched with sheer envy of her bodywork, begged a shoulder of me to thrust her into some alley, the street being full of Ephesians of the old Church. Whereat I . . .
Enter Prince and FluellenPrince.
Whereat thou, hearing her once or twice tenderly backfire—
Falstaff.
Heaven forgive thee, Hal! She thundered and lightened a full half-hour, so that Jove Himself could not have bettered the instruction. There's a pit beneath her now, which she blew out of thy father's highway the while I watched, where Sackerson could stand to six dogs.
Prince.
Hearing, I say, her gentle outcry against Poins' mishandling, thou didst flee up Chepe, calling upon the Sheriff's Watch for a red flag.
Falstaff.
I? Call me Jack if I were not jack to each of her wheels in turn till I am stamped like a butter-pat with the imprint of her underpinnings. I seek a red flag?
Prince.
Ay, roaring like a bull.
Falstaff.
Groans, Hal, groans such as Atlas heaved. But she overbore me at the last. Why hast thou left her?—
Prince.
There was Bardolph in the buckbasket behind, nosing fearfully overside like a full-wattled turkey-poult from Norfolk. There was Poins upon his belly beneath her, thrice steeped in pure plumbago, most despairfully clanking of chains like the devil in Brug's Hall window; and there were some four thousand 'prentices at her tail, crying, “What ho!” and that she bumped. Methought 'twas no place for my father's son.
Falstaff.
Take any man's horses and hale her to bed! The laws of England are at thy commandment, that the Heir should not be made a common stink in the nostrils of the lieges.
Prince.
She'd not stir for all Apollo's team—not though Phæton himself, drunk with nectar, lashed 'em stark mad. Poor Phæton!
Hostess.
A' was a King's son, was a' not, and came to's end by keeping of bad company?
Falstaff.
No more than a little horseflesh. I tell thee, Hal, this England of ours has never looked up since the nobles fell to puking over oil-buckets by the side of leather-jerkined Walloons.
Prince.
He that drives me now is French as our princely cousin.
Falstaff.
Dumain? Hang him for a pestilent, poke-eyed, chicken-chopping, hump-backed, leather-hatted, muffle-gloved ape! He hath been fined as often as he hath broken down; and that is at every tavern 'twixt here and York. Dumain! He's the most notorious widow-maker on the Windsor road. His mother was a corn-cutter at Ypres, and his father a barber at Rouen, by which beastly conjunction he rightly draws every infirmity that damns him in his trade. Item: He cuts corners niggardly and upon the wrong side. Item: He'll look behind him after a likely wench in the hottest press of Holborn, though he skid into the kennel
Prince.
Strange that clear knowledge should so long outlive mere nerve! I'll dub Dumain knight when I come to the throne, if he be not hanged first for murder on the highway. 'Twill save the state a pension.
Falstaff.
So the lean vice goes ever before the solid virtue.
(Confused noise without.)
What riot's afoot now?
Fluellen.
Riots, look you, by my vizaments, make one noise, but murders another. There's riots in Monmouth; but, by my vizaments, look you, there's murders in Chepe. Pabes and old 'oomen—they howl so tamnably.
Falstaff.
Rebellion rather! Half London's calling on thy name, Hal, and half on thy father's. Well, if it be successful, forget not who was promised the reversion of the Chief Justiceship. Ha! Unquestioned rebellion, if broken crowns signify aught.
Enter
Heralds
(wounded)
Too long neglected and adjudged acold,
Hath, without warning or advertisement,
Risen refreshed from her supposèd stand
In unattended revolution.
Prince.
This it is to be a King's son! That a pitiful twelve-horse touring-car cannot jar off her brakes but they
Heralds.
'Twas Bardolph's art that waked her, whereat she
Skipped thunderously before our mazèd eyes,
Drew out o'er several lieges (all with God!),
Battered a house or so to laths, and now
Fumes on her side in Holborn. Please you, come!
Prince.
Anon! Seek each a physician according to his needs and revenues. I'll be with you anon.
(To Falstaff)The third in three weeks! These whoreson German clock-cases no sooner dint honest English paving-stone than they incontinent lay their entrails on the street. Five hundred and seventy pounds! I'll out and pawn the Duchy!
Heralds.
In thy dread father's Court at Westminster.
Falstaff.
A Star Chamber matter, Hal—a Star Chamber matter! Glasses, Doll! We'll drink to his deliverance.
Heralds.
You, too, Sir John, as party to these broils
And breakings-forth, in like attainder stand
For judgment: wherein fail not at your peril!
Falstaff.
I do remember now to have had some dealings with this same Chief Justice. An old feeble man, drawn abroad in a cart by horses. We must enlighten— enlighten him, Hal.
(Exeunt.)
Act II
Argument.
Prince Henry, Poins, Fluellen, Nym, and
Sir John Falstaff (Bardolph having escaped) are charged,
on Dogberry's evidence, before the Lord Chief Justice
at Westminster, with exceeding the speed-limit and leaving
Where's our red rear-lamp? Where's Bardolph?
Poins.
Shining over Southwark if he be not puffed out by now. He ran when the watch came. The Chief Justice looks sourly. Is any appointed to speak for us, Hal?
Prince.
Thy notorious innocence, my known virtue, and if these fail, Sir John's big belly. I have fed my father's exchequer here twice since Easter.
Ch. Justice.
Intemperate, rash, and ill-advisèd men—
Yoke-fellows at unsavoury enterprise—
Harry, and you, Sir John, stand forth for sentence!
Fluellen.
Put—put there is no indictments discharged upon us yet. To pronounce sentences, look you, pefore the indictments is discharged is ropperies and oppressions.
Nym.
Ay, that's the humour of it. When they cry Budget we must cry mum.
Falstaff.
Cram the Welsh flannel down his own throat, or we are imprisoned after the fine. I know the Chief Justice is sick of me.
Shallow
(to Ch. Justice).
My lord, my lord, if you suffer yon fat knight to talk, he'll cozen the teeth out of your lordship's head, while his serving-man steals the steeped crust you'd mumble to. I lent him a thousand pounds, my lord.
Falstaff.
I deny it not. For the which I promised thee advancement. And art thou not now visibly next the Chief Justice himself?
Shallow.
Not on my merits, Sir John. I sit here simple of courtesy as visiting-justice. I'd do as much for my lord if he came to Gloucestershire, 'faith!
Shallow! Shallow! I say I gave thee occasion and opportunity to rise. Promotion is in thy hands.
(To Ch. Justice)Have a care, my lord! He fingers his dagger already.
Shallow.
My dagger? My ink-horn, la! I'll sit further off. I told you how he'd talk, my lord. But I'll sit further off. My dagger, 'faith!
Ch. Justice.
Sir John! Sir John! The licence of inveterate humour overstretched rends like an outworn garment— with like shame to the enduer. Answer me roundly, what defence make you to the charge you have run through Chepe at ten leagues the hour?
Falstaff.
Roundly, my lord, my shape—my evident shape.
Ch. Justice.
But 'tis so charged, and will be so witnessed.
Dogberry.
Yes, and by one that hath a stopped watch and everything forsworn about him. Write it down fifteen leagues, my lord.
Prince
(to Ch. Justice).
We knights of the road have ever been fair quarry for your knights of the post to bind to, but this passes endurance. We left our car, my lord, extinct and combust in the kennel, while we sought an engineer to hoist her. In which stay she would have continued, but for the prying vulgar who found on her some handle to their curiosity, which, doubtless, they turned. For in such a car as this—
Ch. Justice.
The enfranchised 'prentices of London quash
Our harmless babes and necessary wives
At morning to the sound of Sabbath bells
Through panicked Huntingdon.
Portia.
Slides young Desire athwart the mountain-tops,
Drinking the airs that part him from his dear
'Twixt Berwick and Glamorgan.
In such a car as this,
The lecherous Israelite to Brighthelmstone
Convoys his Jessica.
Portia.
In such a car as this,
The lean chirurgeon burns the midnight oil
Impetuous over England. Where his lamp
Strikes pale the hedgerow, all the affrighted fays,
Their misty revels in the dew divulged,
Flee to the coney's burrow, or divide
His antre with the squirrel—whom that ministrant
Marks not, his eyes being bent to thrid the dark,
Indifferent beneath the morning star,
To the poor cot that summoned him, and the life—
Some hour-old, mother-naked life, scarce held
By the drowsy midwife but it yarks and squeaks
Batlike, and batlike, would to the void again.
This he forbids, and yet not he, whose art,
His car unaiding, else had ne'er o'erleaped
The largess of a county in an hour.
Shallow.
Neat, faith, la! For how a brace of twins now, the far side Cotsall, of a snowy night, my lord?
Falstaff.
A pregnant wit. Which of thy misdeeds, Hal, hath raised this angel to help us? I'll ask Doll.
Prince.
Peace, dunghill, peace! She was never of Doll's company.
Portia.
Extreme and urgent need, hath visited you,
Or, in the unprobeable decree of Time,
May visit and masterfully constrain, think well
Ere your abhorrence of new enginery
Seal up the avenues of mercy here!
Ch. Justice.
(Albeit it was called Northumberland)
With hellish engines drawn across the street
In an opposed and desperate barrier
Unto the lieges' progress.
It was a passing humour of the car—
Gusty incontinence which, overlooked,
As unregard oft cows pretension,
May well not chance again.
Ch. Justice.
But if it chance?
Portia.
Memory and record of miracle
Vouchsafed, like this your prayed-for mercy, once,
And, in default of quail, rain from her gate
Heaven's sweetest choristers—then it may fall,
But not till then!
Fluellen.
Put—put—look you, she is telling the old shentlemans to wait till the sky shall rain larks! It is open contempts of Courts!
Nym.
Ay, there's humours in them all. But I think the old man's humour is sweeter.
Ch. Justice.
Not gratitude, but livelier insolence,
And through my softened verdict after years
Grow bold to break the law? How if our England—
Loverly, temperate, the midmost close of peace—
Dissolve in smoke and oils along the green,
Till sickened memory conceive no minute
Unharried, unpollutable, unhooted?
If I loose these, what do I loose on England?
Portia.
The hour we dread o'ertops us while we wonder,
Not asking sufferance, but imposing change,
Most multitudinously. Hark, it sings i' the wind!
Ariel
(invisible) sings:
In a sunbeam's path I lie!
There I crouch while crowds do cry,
After somersaults muddily!
Where I lie, where I lie, shall I live now
Under the bonnet that bangs on my brow?
(to Prince).
The Chief Justice is mazed by the fairies. He hath great motions towards virtue. He'll let us go.
Ch. Justice.
And more our horses who, poor winkered fools,
Hearing their dooms outstrip them, cast aside
And pole the all-shattered house-fronts.
We ourselves,
Of purpose to repair to Westminster,
Infirmity and age consenting, signalled
From her hot lair an horseless chariot
Which, in the recorded twelfth part of an hour,
Bore our inviolate ermines half a league.
It is, and woe it is, the chill refuge,
The lean, unenvied privilege of Age,
To meet new changes with old courtesy,
Not as averting change but sparing souls
Worn weak, and bodies extenuate with the years
That heed nor never heeded! Set them free.
What has been was, and what will be, must be!
Act III
Argument.
A room in the Boar's Head Tavern set for a banquet to celebrate the discharge of the motorists from the King's Justice. Enter Prince Henry with Portia and several others. Also Falstaff drunk.
“When that I had and a little tinny car—
With a heigh-ho, the wind and the screen—”
Empty the radiator!
Hostess.
Sir John, there's one without says he's your twin-brother.
Falstaff.
I'll be the wise child. Have him in!
(Enter Hamlet drunk.)Ha! 'Begot a night's ride the cooler side o' the blanket! But if I be knight, he's Blood-Royal.
(To Prince Henry)Here's thy meat, Hal. I stay by our commons.
Prince.
Lions know lions, tho' they pride apart,
And Princes Princes. (To Hamlet)
For these, my companions
Rejoicingly from Justice, your pardon, Brother,
And, if it so far please, your title.
Hamlet.
Prince. Hamlet of Denmark. Your pardon too. 'Tis the Rhenish ... But conceive, sirrah, how it comes about 'neath the unjust stars, that by a few ink-spirts and frail pretences of the plays, a bald-pated ostler to Pegasus conjures life into such as we. In which continuance, mark you, we live and inextinguishably shake spheres: he having left the globe—how long? But I'll go find my double.
Prince
Rumour wrongs not the Danes. They drink too deep.
He is full proof. (To Hamlet)
Welcome, distracted Sir.
We have a foolish feast in hand, whereat,
Wine and our near escapes making familiar,
You shall be richer by a score of brothers
Before the score is paid. Seek and make merry.
(To Nym)
When the fate gentleman stumbles, lay him against
the arras, head highest. There's a crown waiting.
For him—not me. That's an old humour.
Prince
(to Portia).
Lovely lady,
To whom we go in bondage, first, of beauty,
And next of golden advocacy, snatching
Us from deservèd Bridewells,—name thy fee.
Portia.
I here confess I never owned a car;
Never, in all my life, have driven car;
And, touching any uses of a car,
From airiest hearsays were my pleadings drawn.
Therefore, I ask no guerdon but a car,
To experience on the heels of phantasy.
Prince.
A car? A car?
Portia.
I said even so—one car.
Hamlet
(to Falstaff).
Women have dread affections, for their spirit,
Out-plumbing ours, their easier sympathies
Frame both the passion and the appurtenance;
Else they go mad.
Falstaff.
True! Doll's a she-kite of the same feather.
But moulting—moulting!
Prince
(to Portia).
Nay, entertain conjecture of a time
When, horses fed to hounds, the thrice-stuffed streets
Ring, reek and rumble with opprobrious wains
Inveterately unheedful. Straw between
Their bulks the rash and pillioned amorists
Whose so mis-timed embracements on the wood
Sling hose and cap to inquest.
Beatrice.
Signor Prince, spare thyself a dry mouth and
Nym.
That's the new humour. To over-run the law and the lieges and say “I am a maid!”
Benedick.
To have at a man sideways out of a blind lane, and if he give natural vent on some broken head, arm, or running-board, her husband or lover must challenge him as though he were Claudio.
Beatrice.
That, Signor Benedick, shall never be. For when I drive you shall stay at home.
Shylock.
Whose virtue is—for every pound of flesh,
Or drop of blood, on such mistakings drawn,
Or push of market-bestial—being signed
(And some poor ducats paid) assures the holder
'Gainst every act and charge of law or leech.
Portia.
Shylock and I. He pays upon such bonds,
As, in mine office, I can well avouch;
Having prepared the like for Jessica
Whose paths are wayward. Let them see it, Jew.
(Shylock shows the company a Third Party Risks Policy. Hamlet and Falstaff talk apart'
Falstaff
(to Hamlet).
Unconfined truth! Cowards natural, both of us, with each some huddled deliverance of jest or philosophy to piece out the skirts of 'voided occasion. 'You drive?
Hamlet.
For action to be taken on the instant? I'd liever . . .! But, oh, God—I have no choice, being what I am and informed of myself past endurance.
Falstaff.
I have some same cause. How, now, of drink and lechery to drown self-knowledge?
Hamlet.
'Serves me not. There's a mad woman whom I drowned floats in my every cup, like borage. But I am not brave.
Falstaff.
Women in liquor! Double damnation and half satisfaction. Think you, Ham, that he who made us twins knew his work?
Hamlet.
I set no limit, being born of that soul—
One spark in all its hells. Flesh, canst thou tremble?
Falstaff.
I am too young to 'scape the cold fit o' mornings.
Hamlet.
Unlawful, and what darkness, whereto ours
Is the sun's targe, had he adventured down
(Holding the poised brain ice) till he arraigned
A murderess, a Moor, a mad King—me!
For ensample of all uttermosts of woe
Man bears or shall be designate to suffer
Inly or of the Gods!
Falstaff.
True enough. But the sack's here, and I have 'scaped Justice an hour. What a plague does the Jew with his papers?
Prince
(taking Insurance Policy from Shylock).
Behind the bond, are all my doubts resolved.
My fears? (To Portia)
Fair lady, warn me of thy comings
When that car rolls its fifty roystering steeds
Which is our instant, grateful, deadly gift!
Sir A. Aguecheek.
There's simply no back-alley left in
Prince.
Put cars away, and revel comrades all!
Feste.
When all about the joiners thrive—
And coffins quick as man can saw;—
When learning lady-owners drive,
And beaks sit brooding on the Law;
When roasting cabs hiss on the grass,
Then lightly brays the headlong ass:—
“Where to? To Hell!” Oh, word of fear,
Unpleasing to the charioteer!
... After the transparent reference to “the unjust stars,” the word “ink-spirts” leaps to the eye of the initiated as the simplest anagram of “scripsit” (the “k” being used, of course, for the desiderated “c,” and the apparently superfluous “n,” for the initial of Nicholas, Bacon's father). “Frail pretences” (taking the first three letters of the first, and the last four of the second, word) reveals, beyond negation, the same “Frances” who wrote to his King (Mar. 25, 1631) that he might be “frail and partake, etc.” The “bald-pated ostler” who “conjures life into, etc.,” is even more palpable and needs not the additional “continuance” which follows. Nor does this exhaust the category. Miss Nessa Droenbergh acutely explains Hamlet's opening remark to Prince Henry as a well-bred man's apology for phenomena due to liquor-excess— briefly a hiccough. But we must remember that Bacon, where possible, always “doubles his clues,” on the principle of the British railroads' “distant” and “home” signals. Thus after “Your pardon too,” comes “'Tis the Rhenish,” a German wine long traded into Britain and the Baltic, and later known as “hoc(k).” So we have, all but en clair, the author of “Shakespeare's” plays proclaiming, “Hoc scripsit Frances Bacon.” (Francis Bacon wrote this.) What more, in the name of sanity, is needed to convince anyone who is not delivered over to the “man of Stratford” complex? —From Professor O. P. Callowitz's William the World-Impostor.
The text is corrupt. It is impossible to imagine a street paved with wood. But mis-timed embracements might well be “untoward.” —Johnson.
At this epoch the London 'prentices wore cloth caps, and their female companions stockings, which had then been largely discovered by the vulgar. —Theobald.
Running aboard—in the sense of vessels falling “foul” of each other at sea. (Conjectural.) —Johnson.
An allusion to the old distich:—
Give Courage.’
Mr. Malone says that this word should be “arrayed,” in the sense of displaying before the public; but considering that each one of the characters enumerated is, in various forms, arraigned by Conscience, that most dreadful of judges, I incline towards the former reading. —M. Mason.
“Sexton.” This word, through corruption, has been lost, and is now restored to its original meaning. —Sir T. Hanmer.
SONGS WRITTEN FOR C. R. L. FLETCHER'S “A HISTORY OF ENGLAND”
THE RIVER'S TALE
(PREHISTORIC)
(Twenty bridges or twenty-two)—
Wanted to know what the River knew,
For they were young and the Thames was old,
And this is the tale that the River told:—
Five hours up and seven down.
Up I go till I end my run
At Tide-end-town, which is Teddington.
Down I come with the mud in my hands
And plaster it over the Maplin Sands.
But I'd have you know that these waters of mine
Were once a branch of the River Rhine,
When hundreds of miles to the East I went
And England was joined to the Continent.
The Age of Ice and the mammoth herds,
And the giant tigers that stalked them down
Through Regent's Park into Camden Town.
And I remember like yesterday
The earliest Cockney who came my way,
When he pushed through the forest that lined the Strand,
With paint on his face and a club in his hand.
He was death to feather and fin and fur.
He trapped my beavers at Westminster.
He netted my salmon, he hunted my deer,
He killed my heron off Lambeth Pier.
He fought his neighbour with axes and swords,
Flint or bronze, at my upper fords,
While down at Greenwich, for slaves and tin,
The tall Phoenician ships stole in,
And North Sea war-boats, painted and gay,
Flashed like dragon-flies, Erith way;
And Norseman and Negro and Gaul and Greek
Drank with the Britons in Barking Creek,
And I was a mile across at Kew!
But the Roman came with a heavy hand,
And bridged and roaded and ruled the land,
And the Roman left and the Danes blew in—
And that's where your history-books begin!”
THE ROMAN CENTURION'S SONG
(ROMAN OCCUPATION OF BRITAIN, A.D. 300)
By ship to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.
I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.
Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near
That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.
Here where my dearest dead are laid—my wife—my wife and son;
Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love,
Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?
What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies,
Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze—
The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days?
Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean
To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on,
Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!
Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines.
You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but—will you e'er forget
The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?
A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.
Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep,
Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.
I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind—the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!
THE PIRATES IN ENGLAND
(SAXON INVASION, A.D. 400–600)
And the sceptre passed from her hand,
The pestilent Picts leaped over the wall
To harry the English land.
So quick to laughter and tears,
They came panting with hate and haste
For the loot of five hundred years.
They ruined temple and town—
They swept like wolves through the standing crops
Crying that Rome was down.
Of beauty and strength and worth,
But they could not wipe out the Viking's Wind
That brings the ships from the North.
Nor what those gales set free—
The pirate ships with their close-reefed sails,
Leaping from sea to sea.
Seen nearer and more plain,
Dipping into the troughs like a gull,
And gull-like rising again—
In the high snake-headed stem,
Searching the beach while her sail comes down,
They had forgotten them!
To meet her hand to hand,
As she took the beach with a grind and a roar,
And the pirates rushed inland!
DANE-GELD
(A.D. 980–1016)
To call upon a neighbour and to say:—
“We invaded you last night—we are quite prepared to fight,
Unless you pay us cash to go away.”
And the people who ask it explain
That you've only to pay 'em the Dane-geld
And then you'll get rid of the Dane!
To puff and look important and to say:—
“Though we know we should defeat you, we have not the time to meet you.
We will therefore pay you cash to go away.”
But we've proved it again and again,
That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld
You never get rid of the Dane.
For fear they should succumb and go astray;
So when you are requested to pay up or be molested,
You will find it better policy to say:—
No matter how trifling the cost;
For the end of that game is oppression and shame,
And the nation that plays it is lost!”
THE ANVIL
(NORMAN CONQUEST, 1066)
Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne!
Never was a blacksmith like our Norman King—
England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into line!
(But the work will be a marvel when it's done.
Little bits of Kingdoms cannot stand against their foes.
England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into one!
(Neither Priest nor Baron shall escape!)
It shall have one speech and law, soul and strength and sword.
England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into shape!
NORMAN AND SAXON
(A.D. 1100)
To all the broad acres in England that William gave me for my share
When we conquered the Saxon at Hastings, and a nice little handful it is.
But before you go over to rule it I want you to understand this:—
But he never means anything serious till he talks about justice and right.
When he stands like an ox in the furrow with his sullen set eyes on your own,
And grumbles, ‘This isn't fair dealing,’ my son, leave the Saxon alone.
But don't try that game on the Saxon; you'll have the whole brood round your ears.
From the richest old Thane in the county to the poorest chained serf in the field,
They'll be at you and on you like hornets, and, if you are wise, you will yield.
Don't trust any clerk to interpret when they come with the tale of their wrongs.
Yes, even when you want to go hunting, hear 'em out if it takes you all day.
It's the sport not the rabbits they're after (we've plenty of game in the park).
Don't hang them or cut off their fingers. That's wasteful as well as unkind,
For a hard-bitten, South-country poacher makes the best man-at-arms you can find.
Be polite but not friendly to Bishops; be good to all poor parish priests.
Say ‘we,’ ‘us’ and ‘ours’ when you're talking, instead of ‘you fellows’ and ‘I.’
Don't ride over seeds; keep your temper; and never you tell 'em a lie!”
THE REEDS OF RUNNYMEDE
(MAGNA CHARTA, JUNE 15, 1215)
What say the reeds at Runnymede?
The lissom reeds that give and take,
That bend so far, but never break.
They keep the sleepy Thames awake
With tales of John at Runnymede.
Oh, hear the reeds at Runnymede:—
“You mustn't sell, delay, deny,
A freeman's right or liberty.
It wakes the stubborn Englishry,
We saw 'em roused at Runnymede!
With little thought of praise or blame,
But resolute to play the game,
They lumbered up to Runnymede;
And there they launched in solid line
The first attack on Right Divine—
The curt, uncompromising ‘Sign!’
That settled John at Runnymede.
Your rights were won at Runnymede!
No freeman shall be fined or bound,
Or dispossessed of freehold ground,
Except by lawful judgment found
And passed upon him by his peers.
Forget not, after all these years,
The Charter signed at Runnymede.”
Too rude a hand on English ways,
The whisper wakes, the shudder plays,
Across the reeds at Runnymede.
And Thames, that knows the moods of kings,
And crowds and priests and suchlike things,
Rolls deep and dreadful as he brings
Their warning down from Runnymede!
MY FATHER'S CHAIR
(PARLIAMENTS OF HENRY III., 1265)
Priest and People and Lords and Crown.
I sits on all of 'em fair and square,
And that is the reason it don't break down.
To carry my weight when I sets me down.
I wants all four of 'em under me—
Priest and People and Lords and Crown.
Priest, nor People, nor Lords, nor Crown:
And I never tilts in my chair, my son,
And that is the reason it don't break down.
Remember your Father's habits and rules.
Sit on all four legs, fair and square,
And never be tempted by one-legged stools!
THE DAWN WIND
(THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY)
You will hear the feet of the Wind that is going to call the sun.
And the trees in the shadow rustle and the trees in the moonlight glisten,
And though it is deep, dark night, you feel that the night is done.
Dozing and chewing the cud; or a bird in the ivy wakes,
Chirrups one note and is still, and the restless Wind strays on,
Fidgeting far down the road, till, softly, the darkness breaks.
Gentle but waking the world, as he shouts: “The Sun! The Sun!”
And the light floods over the fields and the birds begin to sing,
And the Wind dies down in the grass. It is day and his work is done.
Out of some long, bad dream that makes her mutter and moan,
Suddenly, all men arise to the noise of fetters breaking,
And every one smiles at his neighbour and tells him his soul is his own!
THE KING'S JOB
(THE TUDOR MONARCHY)
Once on a time was a King anxious to understandWhat was the wisest thing a man could do for his land.
Most of his population hurried to answer the question,
Each with a long oration, each with a new suggestion.
They interrupted his meals—he wasn't safe in his bed from 'em—
They hung round his neck and heels, and at last His Majesty fled from 'em.
He put on a leper's cloak (people leave lepers alone),
Out of the window he broke, and abdicated his throne.
All that rapturous day, while his Court and his Ministers mourned him,
He danced on his own highway till his own Policemen warned him.
Gay and cheerful he ran (lepers don't cheer as a rule)
Till he found a philosopher-man teaching an infant-school.
The windows were open wide, the King sat down on the grass,
And heard the children inside reciting “Our King is an ass.”
The King popped in his head: “Some people would call this treason,
But I think you are right,” he said; “Will you kindly give me your reason?”
Lepers in school are as rare as kings with a leper's dress on,
But the class didn't stop or stare; it calmly went on with the lesson:
“The wisest thing, we suppose, that a man can do for his land,
Is the work that lies under his nose, with the tools that lie under his hand.”
He said: “My dear little folk, Ex ore parvulorum—
(Which is Latin for “Children know more than grown-ups would credit”)
You have shown me the road to go, and I propose to tread it.”
Back to his Kingdom he ran, and issued a Proclamation,
“Let every living man return to his occupation!”
Then he explained to the mob who cheered in his palace and round it,
“I've been to look for a job, and Heaven be praised I've found it!”
WITH DRAKE IN THE TROPICS
(A.D. 1580)
Our Admiral leads us on,
Above, undreamed-of planets shine—
The stars we knew are gone.
Around, our clustered seamen mark
The silent deep ablaze
With fires, through which the far-down shark
Shoots glimmering on his ways.
That plagued us all day through;
Like molten silver hangs our sail,
Our decks are dark with dew.
Now the rank moon commands the sky.
Ho! Bid the watch beware
And rouse all sleeping men that lie
Unsheltered in her glare.
How still our lanthorns burn!
How strange our whispered words that tell
Of England and return!
We name them each to each,
While the lit face of Heaven removes
Them farther from our reach.
When mind and body sink,
And loneliness and gathering fright
O'erwhelm us, if we think—
Yet, look, where in his room apart,
All windows opened wide,
Our Admiral thrusts away the chart
And comes to walk outside.
With comfort, praise, or jest,
Quick to suspect our childish woes,
Our terror and unrest.
It is as though the sun should shine—
Our midnight fears are gone!
South and far south below the Line,
Our Admiral leads us on!
“TOGETHER”
(ENGLAND AT WAR)
It takes a fence and more than a fence to pound that happy pair;
For the one will do what the other demands, although he is beaten and blown,
And when it is done, they can live through a run that neither could face alone.
It takes a gale and more than a gale to put their ship ashore;
For the one will do what the other commands, although they are chilled to the bone,
And both together can live through weather that neither could face alone.
It takes a foe and more than a foe to knock that country out;
For the one will do what the other requires as soon as the need is shown;
And hand in hand they can make a stand which neither could make alone!
For she was theirs and they were hers, as well the Spaniard knew;
For when his grim Armada came to conquer the Nation and Throne,
Why, back to back they met an attack that neither could face alone!
Will save your land when the enemy's hand is tightening round your throat.
But a King and a People who thoroughly trust each other in all that is done
Can sleep on their bed without any dread—for the world will leave 'em alone!
JAMES I.
A shifty mother's shiftless son,
Bred up among intrigues and plots,
Learnèd in all things, wise in none.
Ungainly, babbling, wasteful, weak,
Shrewd, clever, cowardly, pedantic,
The sight of steel would blanch his cheek.
The smell of baccy drive him frantic.
He was the author of his line—
He wrote that witches should be burnt;
He wrote that monarchs were divine,
And left a son who—proved they weren't!
EDGEHILL FIGHT
(CIVIL WARS, 1642)
Beneath the autumn sun,
And the stubble-fields on either hand
Where Stour and Avon run.
There is no change in the patient land
That has bred us every one.
And saved us from this sin
Of war—red war—'twixt child and sire,
Household and kith and kin,
In the heart of a sleepy Midland shire,
With the harvest scarcely in.
On the brow-head or the plain,
And the raw astonished ranks stand fast
To slay or to be slain
By the men they knew in the kindly past
That shall never come again—
In the tavern or the hall,
At the justice-bench and the market-place,
At the cudgel-play or brawl—
Of their own blood and speech and race,
Comrades or neighbours all!
Whichever way it go,
For the brothers of the maids we love
Make ready to lay low
Their sisters' sweethearts, as we move
Against our dearest foe.
Before our strength gives way.
For King or for the Commonweal—
No matter which they say,
The first dry rattle of new-drawn steel
Changes the world to-day!
THE DUTCH IN THE MEDWAY
(1664–72)
Or victory by song,
Or safety found in sleeping sound,
How England would be strong!
But honour and dominion
Are not maintainèd so.
They're only got by sword and shot,
And this the Dutchmen know!
You spend on your delight,
How can you then have sailor-men
To aid you in your fight?
Our fish and cheese are rotten,
Which makes the scurvy grow—
We cannot serve you if we starve,
And this the Dutchmen know!
Be neither whole nor sound,
And, when we seek to mend a leak,
No oakum can be found;
Or, if it is, the caulkers,
And carpenters also,
For lack of pay have gone away,
And this the Dutchmen know!
We scarce can get at all;
Their price was spent in merriment
And revel at Whitehall,
While we in tattered doublets
From ship to ship must row,
Beseeching friends for odds and ends—
And this the Dutchmen know!
No Court will pay our claims—
Our King and Court for their disport
Do sell the very Thames!
For, now De Ruyter's topsails
Off naked Chatham show,
We dare not meet him with our fleet—
And this the Dutchmen know!
“BROWN BESS”
(THE ARMY MUSKET—1700–1815)
Brown Bess was a partner whom none could despise—
An out-spoken, flinty-lipped, brazen-faced jade,
With a habit of looking men straight in the eyes—
At Blenheim and Ramillies fops would confess
They were pierced to the heart by the charms of Brown Bess.
Yet her actions were winning, her language was clear;
And everyone bowed as she opened the ball
On the arm of some high-gaitered, grim grenadier.
Half Europe admitted the striking success
Of the dances and routs that were given by Brown Bess.
And people wore pigtails instead of perukes,
Brown Bess never altered her iron-grey locks.
She knew she was valued for more than her looks.
“Oh, powder and patches was always my dress,
And I think I am killing enough,” said Brown Bess.
From the heights of Quebec to the plains of Assaye,
From Gibraltar to Acre, Cape Town and Madrid,
And nothing about her was changed on the way;
(But most of the Empire which now we possess
Was won through those years by old-fashioned Brown Bess.)
From the Portugal coast to the cork-woods of Spain,
She had puzzled some excellent Marshals of France
Till none of them wanted to meet her again:
But later, near Brussels, Napoleon—no less—
Arranged for a Waterloo ball with Brown Bess.
She danced till the dusk of more terrible night,
And before her linked squares his battalions gave way,
And her long fierce quadrilles put his lancers to flight:
And when his gilt carriage drove off in the press,
“I have danced my last dance for the world!” said Brown Bess.
Where old weapons are shown with their names writ beneath,
You will find her, upstanding, her back to the wall,
As stiff as a ramrod, the flint in her teeth.
And if ever we English had reason to bless
Any arm save our mothers', that arm is Brown Bess!
THE AMERICAN REBELLION
(1776)
BEFORE
Put half a world to flight,
Nor while their new-built cities breathed
Secure behind her might;
Not while she poured from Pole to Line
Treasure and ships and men—
These worshippers at Freedom's shrine
They did not quit her then!
By England o'er the main—
Not till the Frenchman from the North
Had gone with shattered Spain;
Not till the clean-swept oceans showed
No hostile flag unrolled,
Did they remember what they owed
To Freedom—and were bold!
AFTER
The ice on the Delaware,
But the poor dead soldiers of King George
They neither know nor care.
On the sunny side of the lane,
And scuffling rookeries awake
Their England's spring again.
Or the ice melts out of the bay:
And the men that served with Washington
Lie all as still as they.
In the moist dark woods of pine,
And every rock-strewn pasture shows
Mullein and columbine.
Encountered, strove, and died,
And the kindly earth that knows no spite
Covers them side by side.
She has all the world to make gay;
And, behold, the yearly flowers are
Where they were in our fathers' day!
When the columbine is dead,
And sumach leaves that turn, in fall,
Bright as the blood they shed.
THE FRENCH WARS
(NAPOLEONIC)
To Dieppe and Boulogne and to Calais cross over;
And in each of those runs there is not a square yard
Where the English and French haven't fought and fought hard!
They'd stretch like a raft from the shore to the shore,
And we'd see, as we crossed, every pattern and plan
Of ship that was built since sea-fighting began.
Cogs, carracks and galleons with gay gilded poops—
Hoys, caravels, ketches, corvettes and the rest,
As thick as regattas, from Ramsgate to Brest.
And Nelson's crack frigates are hid from our eyes,
Where the high Seventy-fours of Napoleon's days
Lie down with Deal luggers and French chasse-marées.
With their honey-combed guns and their skeleton crews—
And racing above them, through sunshine or gale,
The Cross-Channel packets come in with the Mail.
Must open their trunks on the Custom-house bench,
While the officers rummage for smuggled cigars
And nobody thinks of our blood-thirsty wars!
BIG STEAMERS
With England's own coal, up and down the salt seas?”
“We are going to fetch you your bread and your butter,
Your beef, pork, and mutton, eggs, apples, and cheese.”
And where shall I write you when you are away?”
“We fetch it from Melbourne, Quebec, and Vancouver—
Address us at Hobart, Hong-Kong, and Bombay.”
And suppose you were wrecked up and down the salt sea?”
“Then you'd have no coffee or bacon for breakfast,
And you'd have no muffins or toast for your tea.”
For little blue billows and breezes so soft.”
“Oh, billows and breezes don't bother Big Steamers,
For we're iron below and steel-rigging aloft.”
With plenty wise pilots to pilot you through.”
“Oh, the Channel's as bright as a ball-room already,
And pilots are thicker than pilchards at Looe.”
Oh, what can I do for your comfort and good?”
“Send out your big warships to watch your big waters,
That no one may stop us from bringing you food.
The sweets that you suck and the joints that you carve,
They are brought to you daily by all us Big Steamers—
And if any one hinders our coming you'll starve!”
THE SECRET OF THE MACHINES
(MODERN MACHINERY)
We were melted in the furnace and the pit—
We were cast and wrought and hammered to design,
We were cut and filed and tooled and gauged to fit.
Some water, coal, and oil is all we ask,
And a thousandth of an inch to give us play:
And now, if you will set us to our task,
We will serve you four and twenty hours a day!
We can print and plough and weave and heat and light,
We can run and race and swim and fly and dive,
We can see and hear and count and read and write!
If you'll let us have his name and town and state,
You shall see and hear your crackling question hurled
Across the arch of heaven while you wait.
You can start this very evening if you choose,
And take the Western Ocean in the stride
Of seventy thousand horses and some screws!
You will find the Mauretania at the quay,
Till her captain turns the lever 'neath his hand,
And the monstrous nine-decked city goes to sea.
And lay their new-cut forests at your feet?
Do you want to turn a river in its bed,
Or plant a barren wilderness with wheat?
Shall we pipe aloft and bring you water down
From the never-failing cisterns of the snows,
To work the mills and tramways in your town,
And irrigate your orchards as it flows?
Watch the iron-shouldered rocks lie down and quake,
As the thirsty desert-level floods and fills,
And the valley we have dammed becomes a lake.
We are not built to comprehend a lie,
We can neither love nor pity nor forgive.
If you make a slip in handling us you die!
We are greater than the Peoples or the Kings—
Be humble, as you crawl beneath our rods!—
Our touch can alter all created things,
We are everything on earth—except The Gods!
It will vanish and the stars will shine again,
Because, for all our power and weight and size,
We are nothing more than children of your brain!
THE BELLS AND QUEEN VICTORIA
To ring the Bells of London Town.”
When London Town's asleep in bed
You'll hear the Bells ring overhead.
In excelsis gloria!
Ringing for Victoria,
Ringing for their mighty mistress—ten years dead!
Than Gloriana guessed or Indies bring—
Than golden Indies bring. A Queen confessed—
A Queen confessed that crowned her people King.
Her people King, and crowned all Kings above,
Above all Kings have crowned their Queen their love—
Have crowned their love their Queen, their Queen their love!
Disowning her are we ourselves disowned.
Mirror was she of our fidelity,
And handmaid of our destiny enthroned;
The very marrow of Youth's dream, and still
Yoke-mate of wisest Age that worked her will!
Her praise the years had proven past all speech.
And past all speech our loyal hearts always,
Always our hearts lay open, each to each—
Therefore men gave the treasure of their blood
To this one woman—for she understood!
Oh, London Bells, to all the world declare
The Secret of the Empire—read who will!
The Glory of the People—touch who dare!
Power that has reached itself all kingly powers,
St. Margaret's:
By love o'erpowered—
St. Martin's:
By love o'erpowered—
St. Clement Danes:
By love o'erpowered,
The greater power confers!
The Bells:
For we were hers, as she, as she was ours,
Bow Bells:
And she was ours—
St. Paul's:
And she was ours—
Westminster:
And she was ours,
As we, even we, were hers!
The Bells:
As we were hers!
THE GLORY OF THE GARDEN
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.
You find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all;
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks,
The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.
Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.
By singing:—“Oh, how beautiful!” and sitting in the shade,
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.
There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick,
But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.
If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.
That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden, that it may not pass away!
And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!
VERSES FROM “LAND AND SEA TALES” 1919–1923
A PREFACE
[To all to whom this little book may come—]
Health for yourselves and those you hold most dear!
Content abroad, and happiness at home,
And—one grand Secret in your private ear:—
Nations have passed away and left no traces,
And History gives the naked cause of it—
One single, simple reason in all cases;
They fell because their peoples were not fit.
Lame, feverish, lacking substance, power or skill,
Certain it is that men can school the Mind
To school the sickliest Body to her will—
As many have done, whose glory blazes still
Like mighty flames in meanest lanterns lit:
Wherefore, we pray the crippled, weak and ill—
Be fit—be fit! In mind at first be fit!
Stubborn as clay or shifting as the sand,
Strengthen the Body, and the Body shall
Strengthen the Spirit till she take command;
As a bold rider brings his horse in hand
At the tall fence, with voice and heel and bit,
And leaps while all the field are at a stand.
Be fit—be fit! In body next be fit!
No Fame, no Wealth—outweighs the want of it.
This is the Law which every law embraces—
Be fit—be fit! In mind and body be fit!
The cool head weighing what that heart desires—
The measuring eye that guides the hands and feet—
The Soul unbroken when the Body tires—
These are the things our weary world requires
Far more than superfluities of wit;
Wherefore we pray you, sons of generous sires,
Be fit—be fit! For Honour's sake be fit.
One changeless Truth on all things changing writ,
For boys and girls, men, women, nations, races—
Be fit—be fit! And once again, be fit!
THE JUNK AND THE DHOW
(One-piecee stick-pidgin—two-piecee man.
Straddle-um—paddle-um—push-um off to sea.
That way Foleign Debbil-boat began.)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Any shape of sailing-craft was known,
The Junk and Dhow had a stern and a bow,
And a mast and a sail of their own—ahoy! alone!
As they crashed across the Oceans on their own!
(Plitty soon pilum up, s'posee no can tack.
Seven-piecee stlong man pullum sta'boa'd oar.
That way bling her head alound and sail-o back.)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Grand Commander Noah took the wheel,
The Junk and-the Dhow, though they look like anyhow,
Had rudders reaching deep below their keel—ahoy! akeel!
As they laid the Eastern Seas beneath their keel!
(Too much foolee side-slip. How can stop?
Man catchee tea-box lid—lasha longaside.
That way make her plenty glip and sail first-chop.)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Any such contrivances were used,
The whole Confucian sea-board had standardised the leeboard,
And hauled it up or dropped it as they choosed—or chose—or chused!
According to the weather, when they cruised!
(Ca'go shiftee—alla dliftee—no can livee long.
S'posum' nail-o boa'd acloss—makee ploper hol'?
That way, ca'go sittum still, an' ship mo' stlong.)
Any square-rigged vessel hove in sight,
The Canton deep-sea craft carried bulkheads fore and aft,
And took good care to keep 'em water-tight—atite—atite!
From Amboyna to the Great Australian Bight!
(Too muchee yowl-o, sickum best flend!
Singee all-same pullee lope—haul and belay!
Hully up and coilum down an'—bite off end!)
But before, and before, and ever so long before
Any sort of chanty crossed our lips,
The Junk and the Dhow, though they look like anyhow,
Were the Mother and the Father of all Ships—ahoy!—a'ships!
And of half the new inventions in our Ships!
From Tarifa to Formosa in our Ships!
From Socotra to Selankhor of the windlass and the anchor,
And the Navigators' Compass in our Ships—ahoy!—our Ships!
(O, hully up and coilum down and—bite—off—end!)
THE MASTER-COOK
From the Rochelle which is neere Angoulême.
Littel hee was, but rounder than a topp,
And his small berd hadde dipped in manie a soppe.
His honde was smoother than beseemeth mann's,
And his discoorse was all of marzipans,
Of tripes of Caen, or Burdeux snailés swote,
And Seinte Menhoulde wher cooken piggés-foote.
To Thoulouse and to Bress and Carcasson
For pyes and fowles and chesnottes hadde hee wonne;
And well hee knew what Princes hadde on plate
At Christmas-tide, from Artois to Gascogne.
By bred, but meatés rost and seethed, and broth,
And purchasable deinties, on mine othe.
Honey and hote gingere well liketh hee,
And whalés-flesch mortred with spicerie.
For, lat be all how man denie or carpe,
Him thries a daie his honger maketh sharpe,
And setteth him at boorde with hawkés eyne,
Snuffing what dish is set beforne to deyne,
Nor, till with meate he all-to fill to brim,
None other matter nowher mooveth him.
Lat holie Seintés sterve as bookés boast,
Most mannés soule is in his bellie most.
For, as man thinketh in his hearte is hee,
But, as hee eateth so his thought shall bee.
And Holie Fader's self (with reveraunce)
Oweth to Cooke his port and his presaunce.
Wherbye it cometh past disputison
Cookes over alle men have dominion,
Which follow them as schippe her gouvernail.
Enoff of wordes—beginneth heere my tale:—
They grill pigs'-feet still at St. Menehoulde, not far from Verdun, better than anywhere else in all the world.
Gone—to get pâtés of ducks' liver at Toulouse; fatted poultry at Bourg in Bresse, on the road to Geneva; and very large chestnuts in sugar at Carcassonne, about forty miles from Toulouse.
THE HOUR OF THE ANGEL
Sooner or late—in earnest or in jest—(But the stakes are no jest) Ithuriel's Hour
Will spring on us, for the first time, the test
Of our sole unbacked competence and power
Up to the limit of our years and dower
Of judgment—or beyond. But here we have
Prepared long since our garland or our grave.
Act, habit, thought, and passion, shall be cast
In one addition, be it more or less,
And as that reading runs so shall we do;
Meeting, astounded, victory at the last,
Or, first and last, our own unworthiness.
And none can change us though they die to save!
THE LAST LAP
Where the mired and sulky oxen wait,
And it looks as though we might wait for ever,
How do we know that the floods abate?
There is no change in the current's brawling—
Louder and harsher the freshet scolds;
Yet we can feel she is falling, falling,
And the more she threatens the less she holds.
Down to the drift, with no word spoken,
The wheel-chained wagons slither and slue. . . .
Achtung! The back of the worst is broken!
And—lash your leaders!—we're through—we're through!
Moored and helpless, a mile from the pier,
And the week-long summer smother enfolds us—
How do we know it is going to clear?
There is no break in the blindfold weather,
But, one and another, about the bay,
The unseen capstans clink together,
Getting ready to up and away.
A pennon whimpers—the breeze has found us—
A headsail jumps through the thinning haze.
The whole hull follows, till—broad around us—
The clean-swept ocean says: “Go your ways!”
On the old, stale front that we cannot shake,
And it looks as though we were locked for ages,
How do we know they are going to break?
Nothing has shifted except the sun.
Yet we can feel they are tiring, tiring—
Yet we can tell they are ripe to run.
Something wavers, and, while we wonder,
Their centre-trenches are emptying out,
And, before their useless flanks go under,
Our guns have pounded retreat to rout!
A DEPARTURE
By Hengist's horde unfurled,
Nothing has changed on land or sea
Of the things that steer the world.
(As it was when the long-ships scudded through the gale
So it is where the Liners go.)
Time and Tide, they are both in a tale—
“Woe to the weaker—woe!”
Or smooth the fretting swell.
No gift can alter the grey Sea's mind,
But she serves the strong man well.
(As it is when her uttermost deeps are stirred
So it is where the quicksands show,)
All the waters have but one word—
“Woe to the weaker—woe!”
The dawn is overdue,
And we meet on the quay in the whistling cold
Where the galley waits her crew.
Out with the torches, they have flared too long,
And bid the harpers go.
Wind and warfare have but one song—
“Woe to the weaker—woe!”
As the beach begins to slide!
Hail to the war-shields' click and play
As they lift along our side!
Hail to the first wave over the bow—
Slow for the sea-stroke! Slow!—
All the benches are grunting now:—
“Woe to the weaker—woe!”
THE NURSES
Howls himself black in the face, toothlessly striving to curse;
And the six-months-old Mother begins to inquire of the Gods if it may be
Tummy, or Temper, or Pins—what does the adequate Nurse?
She juggles (unscared by his throes) with drops of hot water and spoons,
Till the hiccoughs are broken by smiles, and the smiles pucker up into laughter,
And he lies o'er her shoulder and crows, and she, as she nurses him, croons! . . .
Pours the belated Express, roars at the night, and draws clear,
Redly obscured or displayed by her fire-door's opening and shutting—
Symbol of strength under stress—what does her small engineer?
No!—nor the pace he must keep. He, being used to these things,
Placidly follows his work, which is laying his mileage behind him,
While his passengers placidly sleep, and he, as he nurses her, sings! . . .
Rolling through forty degrees, combing the stars with her tops,
What says the man at the wheel, holding her straight as she hovers
On the summits of wind-screening seas; steadying her as she drops?
Heaving up, heaping high, slamming home, the surges he must not regard:
Beneath him the crazy wet deck, and all Ocean on end to undo him:
Above him one desperate sail, thrice-reefed but still buckling the yard!
And she bows and makes shift to obey their behest, till the master-wave comes
And her gunnel goes under in thunder and smokes, and she chokes in the trough of the sea again—
Ere she can lift and make way to its crest; and he, as he nurses her, hums! . . .
Holding three-fifths of their brain in reserve for whatever betide.
So, when catastrophe threatens, of colic, collision or sinking,
They shunt the full gear into train, and take that small thing in their stride.
A COUNTING-OUT SONG
When doorway lilacs bloom in Spring,
And the Schools are loosed, and the games are played
That were deadly earnest when Earth was made?
After dinner-time, out in the yard,
As the sides are chosen and all submit
To the chance of the lot that shall make them “It.” (Singing)
“Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
Catch a nigger by the toe!
If he hollers let him go!
Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
You—are—It!”
Were the First Big Four of the Long Ago,
When the Pole of the Earth sloped thirty degrees,
And Central Europe began to freeze,
And they needed Ambassadors staunch and stark
To steady the Tribes in the gathering dark:
But the frost was fierce and flesh was frail,
So they launched a Magic that could not fail. (Singing)
“Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
Hear the wolves across the snow!
Some one has to kill 'em—so
Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo
Make—you—It!”
Central Europe thawed out at last;
And, under the slush of the melting snows,
The first dim shapes of the Nations rose.
Rome, Britannia, Belgium, Gaul—
Flood and avalanche fathered them all;
And the First Big Four, as they watched the mess,
Pitied Man in his helplessness. (Singing)
“Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
Trouble starts when Nations grow.
Some one has to stop it—so
Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo
Make—you—It!”
What was the Power behind the spell—
Fear, or Duty, or Pride, or Faith—
That sent men shuddering out to death—
Work, more work, when they looked for ease—
To the day's discomfort, the night's despair,
In the hope of a prize that they never could share. (Singing)
“Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
Man is born to Toil and Woe.
One will cure the other—so
Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo
Make—you—It.”
The grass crept up to the Firth of Forth.
Once and again, as the Ice came South
The glaciers ground over Lossiemouth.
But, grass or glacier, cold or hot,
The men went out who would rather not,
And fought with the Tiger, the Pig and the Ape,
To hammer the world into decent shape. (Singing)
“Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!
What's the use of doing so?
Ask the Gods, for we don't know;
But Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo
Make—us—It!”
But a tag of gibberish tacked to a tune
That ends the waiting and settles the claims
Of children arguing over their games;
For never yet has a boy been found
To shirk his turn when the turn came round;
Nor even a girl has been known to say
“If you laugh at me I shan't play.” For—
“Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo,
(Don't you let the grown-ups know!)
You may hate it ever so,
But if you're chose you're bound to go,
When Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo
Make—you—It!”
VERSES FROM “DEBITS AND CREDITS” 1919–1926
THE CHANGELINGS
(R.N.V.R.)
With their passengers to the dark,
I was head of a Walworth Bank,
And you were a grocer's clerk.
And you in butters and teas;
And we both abandoned our own affairs
And took to the dreadful seas.
Panic, onset, and flight—
Had us in charge for a thousand days
And a thousand-year-long night.
More than the waves could keep—
And—certain faces over the side
Which do not go from our sleep.
While the pied craft fled by,
And the swinging mounds of the Western swell
Hoisted us Heavens-high . . .
To witness what we have been;
And I am returned to my Walworth Bank,
And you to your margarine!
THE VINEYARD
But his wages were the same
As ours who all day long had trod
The wine-press of the Wrath of God.
Of our cropped and mangled vines,
His unjaded eye could scan
How each hour had marked its man.
With the hosts of noon had died;
And our noon contingents lay
Dead with twilight's spent array.)
Virtue still in him abode;
So he swiftly made his own
Those last spoils we had not won.
Grudging him no recompense
Till he portioned praise or blame
To our works before he came.
Deaf to mirth, and blind to scorn—
How we might have best withstood
Burdens that he had not borne!
“BANQUET NIGHT”
Watching his quarrymen drill the stone,
“We will club our garlic and wine and bread
And banquet together beneath my Throne.
And all the Brethren shall come to that mess
As Fellow-Craftsmen—no more and no less.
Felling and floating our beautiful trees,
Say that the Brethren and I desire
Talk with our Brethren who use the seas.
And we shall be happy to meet them at mess
As Fellow-Craftsmen—no more and no less.
Excellent Master of forge and mine:—
I and the Brethren would like it if
He and the Brethren will come to dine
(Garments from Bozrah or morning-dress)
As Fellow-Craftsmen—no more and no less.
Also the Bramble, the Fig and the Thorn—
But that is no reason to black a man's face
Because he is not what he hasn't been born.
And, as touching the Temple, I hold and profess
We are Fellow-Craftsmen—no more and no less.”
And the hewers of wood and the Masons of Mark,
With foc'sle hands of the Sidon run
And Navy Lords from the Royal Ark,
Came and sat down and were merry at mess
As Fellow-Craftsmen—no more and no less.
No one is safe from the dog-whips' reach.
It's mostly snowing up Lebanon gorge,
And it's always blowing off Joppa beach;
But once in so often, the messenger brings
Solomon's mandate: “Forget these things!
Brother to Beggars and Fellow to Kings,
Companion of Princes—forget these things!
Fellow-Craftsman, forget these things!”
TO THE COMPANIONS
HORACE, Bk. V. Ode 17.
When level beams should show most truth,
Man, failing, takes unfailing pride
In memories of his frolic youth?
The games engage, the law-courts prove;
Till hardened life breeds love of power
Or Avarice, Age's final love.
Nor any triumph Fate decrees—
Compared with glorious, unforgot-
ten innocent enormities
When, instant on the casual jest,
The God Himself of Mirth appeared
And snatched us to His heaving breast.
But certain He would come again—
Accepted all He brought to pass
As Gods accept the lives of men . . .
Nor left a shrine. How comes it now,
While Charon's keel grates on the beach,
He calls so clear: “Rememberest thou?”?
THE CENTAURS
Curious, awkward, afraid.
Burrs on their hocks and their tails, they were branded and gathered in
Mobs and run up to the yard to be made.
Buckings and whirlings and bolts;
Greener than grass, but full-ripe for their bridlings and lungings,
Up to the yards and to Chiron they bustled the colts . . .
To jingle and turn on the tongue. Then, with cocked ears,
The hours of watching and envy, while comrades at ease
Passaged and backed, making naught of these terrible gears.
Too oft and too easily taken—the world-beheld fall!
And none in the yard except Chiron to doubt the immense,
Irretrievable shame of it all! . . .
Through dust and spun clods, and strong kicks, pelted in as they went,
And repaid at top-speed; till the order to halt without slowing
Showed every colt on his haunches—and Chiron content!
“LATE CAME THE GOD”
Late, but in wrath;
Saying: “The wrong shall be paid, the contempt be rewarded
On all that she hath.”
He poisoned the blade and struck home, the full bosom receiving
The wound and the venom in one, past cure or relieving.
Daily renewed and nightly pursued through her soul to her flesh—
Mornings of memory, noontides of agony, midnights unslaked for her,
Till the stones of the streets of her Hells and her Paradise ached for her.
And she called on the Night for a sign, and a Sign was allowed,
And she builded an Altar and served by the light of her Vision—
Alone, without hope of regard or reward, but uncowed,
Resolute, selfless, divine.
These things she did in Love's honour . . .
What is a God beside Woman? Dust and derision!
RAHERE
For his eye that pierced their bosoms, for his tongue that shamed their swords;
Feed and flattered by the Churchmen—well they knew how deep he stood
In dark Henry's crooked counsels—fell upon an evil mood.
Stripped and barren, fixed and fruitless, as those leagues of naked sand
When St. Michael's ebb slinks outward to the bleak horizon-bound,
And the trampling wide-mouthed waters are withdrawn from sight and sound.
(Who had seen him wince and whiten as he turned to walk alone)
Followed Gilbert the Physician, and muttered in his ear,
“Thou hast it, O my brother?” “Yea, I have it,” said Rahere.
'Tis a humour of the Spirit which abhorreth all excess;
And, whatever breed the surfeit—Wealth, or Wit, or Power, or Fame
(And thou hast each) the Spirit laboureth to expel the same.
Hence the burden of Wanhope that aches thy soul and body now.
Ay, the merriest fool must face it, and the wisest Doctor learn;
For it comes—it comes,” said Gilbert, “as it passes—to return.”
Till he came to reeking Smithfield where the crowded gallows are,
(Followed Gilbert the Physician) and beneath the wrynecked dead,
Sat a leper and his woman, very merry, breaking bread.
Mere corruption swaddled man-wise, but the woman whole and clean;
And she waited on him crooning, and Rahere beheld the twain,
Each delighting in the other, and he checked and groaned again.
'Tis a motion of the Spirit that revealeth God to man.
In the shape of Love exceeding, which regards not taint or fall,
Since in perfect Love, saith Scripture, can be no excess at all.
Hence the Soul assured the Essence and the Substance are the same.
Nay, the meanest need not miss it, though the mightier pass it by;
For it comes—it comes,” said Gilbert, “and, thou seest, it does not die!”
THE SURVIVAL
HORACE, Bk. V. Ode 22.
Unnumbered, I behold
Kings mourn that promised praise
Their cheating bards foretold.
Of Princes passed in chains,
Of deeds out-shining stars,
No word or voice remains.
And to fresh praise restore,
Mere breath of flutes at eve,
Mere seaweed on the shore.
A chosen myrtle-wreath;
An harlot's altered eyes;
A rage 'gainst love or death;
The surge of storm-bowed trees—
The Cæsars perished soon,
And Rome Herself: But these
And Gods for Gods make room . . . .
Which greater God than all
Imposed the amazing doom?
JANE'S MARRIAGE
That was only fair.
Good Sir Walter followed her,
And armed her up the stair.
Henry and Tobias,
And Miguel of Spain,
Stood with Shakespeare at the top
To welcome Jane—
Offered out of hand
Anything in Heaven's gift
That she might command.
Azrael's eyes upon her,
Raphael's wings above,
Michael's sword against her heart,
Jane said: “Love.”
standing Seraphim
Laid their fingers on their lips
And went to look for him.
Stole across the Zodiac,
Harnessed Charles's Wain,
And whispered round the Nebulæ
“Who loved Jane?”
Where none had thought to look,
Sat a Hampshire gentleman
Reading of a book.
It was called Persuasion,
And it told the plain
Story of the love between
Him and Jane.
Circle Heaven through—
Closed the book and answered:
“I did—and do!”
(As Captain Wentworth moved)
Entered into Paradise
The man Jane loved!
Praise the Lord for making her, and her for all she made.
And, while the stones of Winchester—or Milsom Street—remain,
Glory, Love, and Honour unto England's Jane!
THE PORTENT
HORACE, Bk. V. Ode 20
And following dreams we never knew!
Varus, what dream has Fate assigned
To trouble you?
Of Virtue to the vulgar horde
Suffices not. You needs must draw
A righteous sword;
The priests of Bacchus at their fane,
Lest any worshipper invite
The God again.
And—deadlier than the cup you shun—
A people schooled to mock, in time,
All law—not one.
Nor give thy children cause to doubt
That Virtue springs from iron within—
Not lead without.
ALNASCHAR AND THE OXEN
And a Herd lies down and ruminates in peace;
Where the pheasant rules the nooning, and the owl the twilight-tide,
And the war-cries of our world die out and cease.
Here I cast aside the burden that each weary week-day brings
And, delivered from the shadows I pursue,
On peaceful, postless Sabbaths I consider Weighty Things—
Such as Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
I know the pride that Lobengula felt,
When he bade the bars be lowered of the Royal Cattle Kraal,
And fifteen miles of oxen took the veldt.
From the walls of Bulawayo in unbroken file they came
To where the Mount of Council cuts the blue . . .
I have only six and twenty, but the principle's the same
With my Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
Level-backed and level-bellied watch 'em move—
See those shoulders, guess that heart-girth, praise those loins, admire those hips,
And the tail set low for flesh to make above!
Count the broad unblemished muzzles, test the kindly mellow skin,
And, where yon heifer lifts her head at call,
Mark the bosom's just abundance 'neath the gay and clean-cut chin,
And those eyes of Juno, overlooking all!
And, next season, in my lodges shall be born
Some very Bull of Mithras, flawless from his agate hoof
To his even-branching, ivory, dusk-tipped horn.
While I multiply his stock a thousandfold,
Till an hungry world extol me, builder of a lofty strain
That turns one standard ton at two years old!
In the milky breath of cattle laid at ease,
Till the moon o'ertops the alders, and her image chills the stream,
And the river-mist runs silver round their knees!
Now the footpaths fade and vanish; now the ferny clumps deceive;
Now the hedgerow-folk possess their fields anew;
Now the Herd is lost in darkness, and I bless them as I leave,
My Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!
GIPSY VANS
That steals by night and day,
Lock your heart with a double lock
And throw the key away.
Bury it under the blackest stone
Beneath your father's hearth,
And keep your eyes on your lawful own
And your feet to the proper path.
Then you can stand at your door and mock
When the gipsy vans come through . . .
For it isn't right that the Gorgio stock
Should live as the Romany do.
That takes and never spares,
Bide content with your given good
And follow your own affairs.
Plough and harrow and roll your land,
And sow what ought to be sowed;
But never let loose your heart from your hand,
Nor flitter it down the road!
As the gipsy vans come through . . .
For it isn't nature the Gorgio blood
Should love as the Romany do.
That see but seldom weep,
Keep your head from the naked skies
Or the stars'll trouble your sleep.
Watch your moon through your window-pane
And take what weather she brews;
But don't run out in the midnight rain
Nor home in the morning dews.
Then you can huddle and shut your eyes
As the gipsy vans come through . . .
For it isn't fitting the Gorgio ryes
Should walk as the Romany do.
That counts all time the same,
Be you careful of Time and Place
And Judgment and Good Name:
Lose your life for to live your life
The way that you ought to do;
And when you are finished, your God and your wife
And the Gipsies'll laugh at you!
Then you can rot in your burying-place
As the gipsy vans come through . . .
For it isn't reason the Gorgio race
Should die as the Romany do.
THE BIRTHRIGHT
And long received, none marvel when 'tis shown!
Had not or (having) scattered not so wide;
Nor with such arrant prodigality
Beneath her any pagan's foot let lie . . .
Lo! Diamond that cost some half their days
To find and t'other half to bring to blaze:
The fiercer and more fiery heart of man:
Emerald that with the uplifted billow vies,
And Sapphires evening remembered skies:
Pearl perfect, as immortal tears must show,
Bred, in deep waters, of a piercing woe;
And tender Turkis, so with charms y-writ,
Of woven gold, Time dares not bite on it.
Thereafter, in all manners worked and set,
Jade, coral, amber, crystal, ivories, jet,—
Showing no more than various fancies, yet
Each a Life's token or Love's amulet. . . .
Which things, through timeless arrogance of use,
We neither guard nor garner, but abuse;
So that our scholars—nay, our children—fling
In sport or jest treasure to arm a King;
And the gross crowd, at feast or market, hold
Traffic perforce with dust of gems and gold!
A LEGEND OF TRUTH
Truth, rising from the bottom of her well,
Looked on the world, but, hearing how it lied,
Returned to her seclusion horrified.
There she abode, so conscious of her worth,
Not even Pilate's Question called her forth,
Nor Galileo, kneeling to deny
The Laws that hold our Planet 'neath the sky.
Meantime, her kindlier sister, whom men call
Fiction, did all her work and more than all,
With so much zeal, devotion, tact, and care,
That no one noticed Truth was otherwhere.
Truth rose once more, perforce, to meet mankind,
And through the dust and glare and wreck of things,
Beheld a phantom on unbalanced wings,
Reeling and groping, dazed, dishevelled, dumb,
But semaphoring direr deeds to come.
Clung to her knees and babbled, “Sister, aid!
I am—I was—thy Deputy, and men
Besought me for my useful tongue or pen
To gloss their gentle deeds, and I complied,
And they, and thy demands, were satisfied.
But this—” she pointed o'er the blistered plain,
Where men as Gods and devils wrought amain—
“This is beyond me! Take thy work again.”
And Truth assumed the record of the War . . .
She saw, she heard, she read, she tried to tell
Facts beyond precedent and parallel—
Unfit to hint or breathe, much less to write,
But happening every minute, day and night.
She called for proof. It came. The dossiers grew.
She marked them, first, “Return. This can't be true.”
Then, underneath the cold official word:
“This is not really half of what occurred.”
And telegraphed her sister: “Come at once.
Facts out of hand. Unable overtake
Without your aid. Come back for Truth's own sake!
Co-equal rank and powers if you agree.
They need us both, but you far more than me!”
WE AND THEY
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
While We live over the way,
But—would you believe it?—They look upon We
As only a sort of They!
With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
Are horrified out of Their lives;
And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn't it scandalous?) look upon We
As a simply disgusting They!
They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
As an utterly ignorant They!
We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
As a quite impossible They!
And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They!
UNTIMELY
But it was shown long since to man in ages
Lost as the name of the maker of it,
Hate, avoidance, and scorn in his daily dealings—
Until he perished, wholly confounded.
Souls which foresaw the evil of loosing
Knowledge or Art before time, and aborted
Noble devices and deep-wrought healings,
Lest offence should arise.
Neither advanced, at the price of a world nor a soul, and its Prophet
Comes through the blood of the vanguards who dreamed—too soon—it had sounded.
THE LAST ODE: NOV. 27, 8 B.C.
HORACE, Bk. V. Ode 31
Hearing the dawn-wind stir,
Know that the present strength of night is broke
Though no dawn threaten her
Till dawn's appointed hour—so Virgil died,
Aware of change at hand, and prophesied
And on the Gods alike—
Fated as dawn but, as the dawn, delayed
Till the just hour should strike—
And the lost shades that were our loves restored
As lovers, and for ever. So he said;
Having received the word . . .
Thither to-night go I. . . .
And shall this dawn restore us, Virgil mine,
To dawn? Beneath what sky?
THE BURDEN
Each day of every year,
Wherein no soul can aid,
Whereof no soul can hear:
Whereto no end is seen
Except to grieve again—
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
Where is there greater pain?
Each hour of every day—
To bring no honest face
To aught I do or say:
To lie from morn till e'en—
To know my lies are vain—
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
Where can be greater pain?
Attend mine every way
Each day of every year—
Each hour of every day:
To burn, and chill between—
To quake and rage again—
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
Where shall be greater pain?
To guard till Judgment Day—
But God looked down from Heaven
And rolled the Stone away!
One day of all my years—
One hour of that one day—
His Angel saw my tears
And rolled the Stone away!
THE SUPPORTS
Song of the Waiting Seraphs
Full Chorus.
To Him Who bade the Heavens abide, yet cease not from their motion,To Him Who tames the moonstruck tide twice a day round Ocean—
Let His Names be magnified in all poor folks' devotion!
Powers and Gifts.
Not for Prophecies or Powers, Visions, Gifts, or Graces,But the unregardful hours that grind us in our places
With the burden on our backs, the weather in our faces.
Toils.
Not for any Miracle of easy Loaves and Fishes,But for doing, 'gainst our will, work against our wishes—
Such as finding food to fill daily-emptied dishes.
Glories.
Not for Voices, Harps or Wings or rapt illumination,But the grosser Self that springs of use and occupation,
Unto which the Spirit clings as her last salvation.
Powers, Glories, Toils, and Gifts.
(He Who launched our Ship of Fools many anchors gave us,Lest one gale should start them all—one collision stave us.
Praise Him for the petty creeds
That prescribe in paltry needs
Solemn rites to trivial deeds and, by small things, save us!)
Services and Loves.
Heart may fail, and Strength outwear, and Purpose turn to Loathing,But the everyday affair of business, meals, and clothing,
Builds a bulkhead 'twixt Despair and the Edge of Nothing.
Patiences.
(Praise Him, then, Who orders it that, though Earth be flaring,And the crazy skies are lit
By the searchlights of the Pit,
Man should not depart a whit from his wonted bearing.)
Hopes.
He Who bids the wild-swans' host still maintain their flight onAir-roads over islands lost—
Ages since 'neath Ocean lost—
Beaches of some sunken coast their fathers would alight on—
Faiths.
He shall guide us through this dark, not by new-blown glories,But by every ancient mark our fathers used before us,
Till our children ground their ark where the proper shore is.
Services, Patiences, Faiths, Hopes, and Loves.
He Who used the clay that clings on our boots to make us,Shall not suffer earthly things to remove or shake us:
But, when Man denies His Lord,
Habit without Fleet or Sword
(Custom without threat or word)
Sees the ancient fanes restored—the timeless rites o'ertake us!
Full Chorus.
For He Who makes the Mountains smoke and rives the Hills asunder,And, to-morrow, leads the grass—
Mere unconquerable grass—
Where the fuming crater was, to heal and hide it under,
He shall not—He shall not—
Shall not lay on us the yoke of too long Fear and Wonder!
VERSES FROM “LIMITS AND RENEWALS”
GERTRUDE'S PRAYER
Nor water out of bitter well make clean;
All evil thing returneth at the end,
Or elseway walketh in our blood unseen.
Whereby the more is sorrow in certaine—
Dayspring mishandled cometh not againe.
Out of the oake's rind that should betide
A branch of girt and goodliness, straightway
Her spring is turnèd on herself, and wried
And knotted like some gall or veiney wen.—
Dayspring mishandled cometh not agen.
Sith noon to morn is incomparable;
And, so it be our dawning goth amiss,
None other after-hour serveth well.
Ah! Jesu-Moder, pitie my oe paine—
Dayspring mishandled cometh not againe!
DINAH IN HEAVEN
But, when the pang was o'er,
Sat down to wait her Master's tread
Upon the Golden Floor,
Impatiently resigned;
But ignorant that Paradise
Did not admit her kind.
Assembled and reproved;
Or talked to her of Heavenly things,
But Dinah never moved.
That led to Heaven's Gate;
And, till she heard it, her affair
Was—she explained—to wait.
Bared lip and milky tooth—
Storming against Ithuriel's Spear
That only proved her truth!
That anxious spirits clomb—
She caught that step in all the hosts,
And knew that he had come.
But not a doubt had she.
Swifter than her own squeal she flew
Across the Glassy Sea;
And skidding as she ran,
She refuged under Peter's Chair
And waited for her man.
'Said:—“Have you any here
That saved a fool from drunkenness,
And a coward from his fear?
When other help was vain;
That snatched it from Wanhope and made
A cur a man again?”
And set The Gate ajar.
“If I know aught of women and men
I trow she is not far.”
Nor hope of grace to win;
But godless innocence of heart
That never heard of sin:
Nor white example shown.
Something a wanton—more a thief—
But—most of all—mine own.”
“And send you well to speed;
But, for all that I know of women and men
Your riddle is hard to read.”
Into his arms she flew—
And licked his face from chin to hair
And Peter passed them through!
FOUR-FEET
And pushed it out of my mind;
But I can't forget, if I wanted to,
Four-Feet trotting behind.
Wherever my road inclined—
Four-Feet said, “I am coming with you!”
And trotted along behind.
Which I shall never find—
Somewhere that does not carry the sound
Of Four-Feet trotting behind.
THE TOTEM
On my lips, the Brethren came—
Tore me from my nurse's side,
And bestowed on me a name
Such as “Bunny,” “Stinker,” “Podge”;—
But, whatever I should do,
Mine for ever in the Lodge.
Then I learned with yelps and tears—
All the Armoured Man should know
Through his Seven Secret Years . . .
I was loosed to go my ways
With a Totem on my breast
Governing my nights and days—
By the virtue of its Name—
Which, however oft I fell,
Lashed me back into The Game.
Saw no more beneath my chin
Than a patch of rainbow-hue,
Mixed as Life and crude as Sin.
THE DISCIPLE
To loose upon Mankind,
Though he serve it utterly—
Body, soul and mind—
Though he go to Calvary
Daily for its gain—
It is His Disciple
Shall make his labour vain.
For all earth to own—
Though he etch it on the steel,
Or carve it on the stone—
Through the after-days—
It is His Disciple
Shall read it many ways.
(Ere Those Bones are dust)
Who shall change the Charter,
Who shall split the Trust—
Amplify distinctions,
Rationalise the Claim;
Preaching that the Master
Would have done the same.
Who shall tell us how
Much the Master would have scrapped
Had he lived till now—
What he would have modified
Of what he said before.
It is His Disciple
Shall do this and more. . . .
Whereby Heaven is won
(Carpenter, or cameleer,
Or Maya's dreaming son),
Many swords shall pierce Him,
Mingling blood with gall;
But His Own Disciple
Shall wound Him worst of all!
THE PLAYMATE
Her steadfast eyelids tell me so
When, at the hour the lights divide,
She steals as summonsed to my side.
In secret, mirthful fellowship,
She, heralding new-framed delights,
Breathes, “This shall be a Night of Nights!”
Is built an Hour and a Place
Where all an earnest, baffled Earth
Blunders and trips to make us mirth;
Rise unconceived miscarryings,
Outrageous but immortal, shown,
Of Her great love, to me alone. . . .
Wiser than all the Norns is She:
And more than Wisdom I prefer
To wait on Her,—to wait on Her!
NAAMAN'S SONG
Nay, not for any Prophet will I plunge a toe therein!
For the banks of curious Jordan are parcelled into sites,
Commanded and embellished and patrolled by Israelites.
Whose plinths are laid at midnight, and whose streets are packed at morn;
And here come hired youths and maids that feign to love or sin
In tones like rusty razor-blades to tunes like smitten tin.
And furious hordes with guns and swords, and clamberings over rooves;
And horrid tumblings down from Heaven, and flights with wheels and wings;
And always one weak virgin who is chased through all these things.
And every door of ancient dirt reopened to the old;
And Israel watcheth over each, and—doth not watch for nought. . . .
They perish fighting desert-sands beyond Damascus-town.
But yet their pulse is of the snows—their strength is from on high—
And, if they cannot cure my woes, a leper will I die!
THE MOTHER'S SON
A dream that is never done.
I watch a man go out of his mind,
And he is My Mother's Son.
And that is like the grave:
For they do not let you sleep upstairs,
And you aren't allowed to shave.
Which got him landed there,
But because They laid on My Mother's Son
More than a man could bear.
Waking, and wounds and cold,
They filled the Cup for My Mother's Son
Fuller than it could hold.
And yet They made him live,
And They asked more of My Mother's Son
Than any man could give.
Nor been discharged nor sick,
Longer than he could stick. . . .
So, there he'll have to be:
And, 'spite of the beard in the looking-glass,
I know that man is me!
THE COINER
(Circa 1611)
(To be sung by the unlearned to the tune of “King John and the Abbot of Canterbury,” and by the learned to “Tempest-a-brewing.”)
This Master, that Swabber, yon Bo'sun, and I
(Our pinnace and crew being drowned in the main)
Must beg for our bread through old England again.
We'll tell you such marvels as man never saw,
On a Magical Island which no one did spy
Save this Master, that Swabber, yon Bo'sun, and I.
And Voices that howl in the cedars o' nights,
With further enchantments we underwent there.
Good Sirs, 'tis a tale to draw guts from a bear!
Where we found some poor players were labouring a play;
And, willing to search what such business might be,
We entered the yard, both to hear and to see.
Did guide us apart to a tavern near by
Where we told him our tale (as to many of late),
And he gave us good cheer, so we gave him good weight.
With beef and black pudding do strengthen the mind;
From plain salted truth to flat leasing we passed.
Says, “Never match coins with a Coiner by trade,
Or he'll turn your lead pieces to metal as rare
As shall fill him this globe, and leave something to spare. . . .”
'Was a crown or five shillings in every man's poke.
We bit them and rang them, and, finding them good,
We drank to that Coiner as honest men should!
AKBAR'S BRIDGE
Moved his standards out of Delhi to Jaunpore of lower Hind,
Where a mosque was to be builded, and a lovelier ne'er was planned;
And Munim Khan, his Viceroy, slid the drawings 'neath his hand.
Deep as Faith and dark as Judgment her unplumbed foundations dove.
Wide as Mercy, white as moonlight, stretched her forecourts to the dawn;
And Akbar gave commandment, “Let it rise as it is drawn.”)
And he walked beside the Goomti while the flaming sunset cooled,
Simply, without mark or ensign—singly, without guard or guide,
Till he heard an angry woman screeching by the river-side.
In haste to cross the ferry, but the ferry-man had gone.
So she cursed him and his office, and hearing Akbar's tread,
(She was very old and darkling) turned her wrath upon his head.
Called her “Mother,” stowed her bundles, worked the clumsy scow from shore,
Till they grounded on a sand-bank, and the Widow loosed her mind;
And the stars stole out and chuckled at the Guardian of Mankind.
Waiting hungry on the threshold; for I cannot bring their food,
Till a fool has learned his business at their virtuous grandam's cost,
And a greater fool, our Viceroy, trifles while her name is lost!
As it suits a drunken boatman, or this ox who cannot row.
Munim Khan, the Owl's Own Uncle—Munim Khan, the Capon's seed,
Must build a mosque to Allah when a bridge is all we need!
Snake and crocodile and fever, flood and drouth, beset my ways.
But Munim Khan must tax us for his mosque whate'er befall;
Allah knowing (May He hear me!) that a bridge would save us all!”
Laughing brought her on his shoulder to her hovel's very door.
But his mirth renewed her anger, for she thought he mocked the weak;
So she scored him with her talons, drawing blood on either cheek. . . .
Spoke with Munim Khan his Viceroy, ere the midnight stars declined—
Girt and sworded, robed and jewelled, but on either cheek appeared
Four shameless scratches running from the turban to the beard.
One has shown me by sure token, there was wisdom on her tongue.
Yes, I ferried her for hire. Yes,” he pointed, “I was paid.”
And he told the tale rehearsing all the Widow did and said.
I—most impotent of bunglers—I—this ox who cannot row—
I—Jelaludin Muhammed Akbar, Guardian of Mankind—
Bid thee build the hag her bridge and put our mosque from out thy mind.”
Still the bridge his Viceroy builded throws her arch o'er Akbar's Ford!
AT HIS EXECUTION
(St. Paul)Hebrew, Roman, and Greek—
In each one's tongue I speak,
Suiting to each my word,
That some may be drawn to the Lord!
In City or Wilderness
Praising the crafts they profess
That some may be drawn to the Lord—
By any means to my Lord!
By that great Light and Word,
I have forgot or forgone
The self men call their own
(Being made all things to all men)
So that I might save some,
At such small price, to the Lord,
As being all things to all men.
But now my course is done—
And now is my reward . . .
Ah, Christ, when I stand at Thy Throne
With those I have drawn to the Lord,
Restore me my self again!
THE THRESHOLD
They pictured the Gods of Food—
The Horse, the Elk, and the Bison
That the hunting might be good;
With the Gods of Death and Terror—
The Mammoth, Tiger, and Bear.
And the pictures moved in the torchlight
To show that the Gods were there!
But that was before Ionia—
(Or the Seven Holy Islands of Ionia)
Any of the Mountains of Ionia,
Had bared their peaks to the air.
As the glaciers bite and grind,
Filling the new-gouged valleys
With Gods of every kind.
Gods of all-reaching power—
Gods of all-searching eyes—
But each to be wooed by worship
And won by sacrifice.
(Strange men brooding in Ionia)
Crystal-eyed Sages of Ionia
Who said, “These tales are lies.
“That blows all things between.
“We dream one Matter in all things—
“Eternal, changeless, unseen.
“'That the heart of the Matter is single
“Till the Breath shall bid it bring forth—
“By choosing or losing its neighbour—
“All things made upon Earth.”
But Earth was wiser than Ionia
(Babylon and Egypt than Ionia)
And they overlaid the teaching of Ionia
And the Truth was choked at birth.
The Key to the Gate in its hand—
And the anxious priests and wizards
Re-blinded the wakening land;
For they showed, by answering echoes,
And chasing clouds as they rose,
How shadows should stand for bulwarks
Between mankind and its woes.
It was then that men bethought them of Ionia
(The few that had not allforgot Ionia)
Or the Word that was whispered in Ionia;
And they turned from the shadows and the shows.
That moves all things between.
They proved one Matter in all things—
Eternal, changeless, unseen;
'That the heart of the Matter was single
Till the Breath should bid it bring forth—
Even as men whispered in Ionia,
(Resolute, unsatisfied Ionia)
Ere the Word was stifled in Ionia—
All things known upon earth!
NEIGHBOURS
And stops to consider his likes and dislikes,
His blood shall be wholesome whatever his labour,
His luck shall be with him whatever he strikes.
The Splendour of Morning shall duly possess him,
That he may not be sad at the falling of eve.
And, when he has done with mere living—God bless him!—
A many shall sigh, and one Woman shall grieve!
Through the ways, and the works, and the woes of this life,
Him food shall not fatten, him drink shall not mellow;
And his innards shall brew him perpetual strife.
His eye shall be blind to God's Glory above him;
His ear shall be deaf to Earth's Laughter around;
His Friends and his Club and his Dog shall not love him;
And his Widow shall skip when he goes underground!
THE EXPERT
And to second life returns,
Squanders little time or breath
On his fellow-man's concerns.
Earnèd peace is all he asks
To fulfil his broken tasks.
(Waspish and importunate),
He hath means to overcome
Any warrior at his gate;
For the past he buried brings
Back unburiable things—
Whence and when the raid might start;
Or prepared in secrecy
Sudden blows to break its heart—
All the lore of No-Man's Land
Steels his soul and arms his hand.
Where he thought all conflict done,
He, resuming ancient strife,
Springs his mine or trains his gun;
And, in mirth more dread than wrath,
Wipes the nuisance from his path!
THE CURÉ
Trebled the mileage man could cover;
When Sh---nks's Mare was H---bs---n's Choice,
And Bl---r---ot had not flown to Dover:
When good hoteliers looked askance
If any power save horse-flesh drew vans—
'Time was in easy, hand-made France,
I met the Curé of Saint Juvans.
One learned from things he left unspoken
How in some fiery, far-off past,
His, and a woman's, heart were broken.
He sought for death, but found it not,
Yet, seeking, found his true vocation,
And fifty years, by all forgot,
Toiled at a simple folk's salvation.
The piteous little church he tended
Had neither roof nor vestments whole
Save what his own hard fingers mended:
While, any hour, at every need
(As Conscience or La Grippe assailed 'em),
His parish bade him come with speed,
And, foot or cart, he never failed 'em.
From pure Parisian to gross peasant,
With interludes North African
If any Légionnaire were present:
His office or the Faith he knelt in,
He left the sinner dumb and shocked
By oaths his old Battalion dealt in.
And he was Logic's self (as France is).
He knew his flock—man, maid, and wife—
Their forebears, failings, and finances.
Spite, Avarice, Devotion, Lies—
Passion ablaze or sick Obsession—
He dealt with each physician-wise;
Stern or most tender, at Confession . . .
His Cross of weathered beads above him:
But one not worthy to untie
His shoe-string, prays you read—and love him!
SONG OF SEVENTY HORSES
Easing the car-trays on to the quay. Release her!
Sign—refill, and let me away with my horses.
(Seventy Thundering Horses!)
Slow through the traffic, my horses! It is enough—it is France!
Endlessly ending in rain between beet and tobacco;
Or that wind we shave by—the brutal North-Easter,
Rasping the newly dunged Somme.
(Into your collars, my horses!) It is enough—it is France!
Either horizon with ghosts; or exquisite, carven
Villages hewn from the cliff, the torrents behind them
Feeding their never-quenched lights.
(Look to your footing, my horses!) It is enough—it is France!
Herds and heads her seas at the Landes, but defeated
Bellowing smokes along Spain, till the uttermost headlands
Make themselves dance in the mist.
(Breathe—breathe deeply, my horses!) It is enough—it is France!
Cream under white-hot sun; the rosemary bee-bloom
Sleepily noisy at noon and, somewhere to Southward,
Sleepily noisy, the Sea.
(Yes, it is warm here, my horses!) It is enough—it is France!
Hampered by slips or drifts; the gentians, under
Turbaned snow, pushing up the heavens of Summer
Though the stark moors lie black.
(Neigh through the icicled tunnels:—“It is enough—it is France!”)
HYMN TO PHYSICAL PAIN
Who, when Thy reign begins,
Wipest away the Soul's distress,
And memory of her sins.
The steadfast Fire also,
By Thy contrivance are forgot
In a completer woe.
That stare upon our tears,
Through certain hours which in our sight
Exceed a thousand years:
That presses in our pain,
Life's grinning face again.
No promise shall relieve,
That says at eve, “Would God 'twere morn!”
At morn, “Would God 'twere eve!”
And life unvexed is due,
Instant upon the false release
The Worm and Fire renew.
And on our beds we pray
For Thy return that Thou may'st keep
The Pains of Hell at bay!
THE PENALTY
But I whistled, “Let her go!
There are others, fairer far,
Which my favouring skies shall show.”
Here I lied, and herein I
Stood to pay the penalty.
As I ranged from coast to coast;
But beyond comparison
Rode the Star that I had lost.
I had lied, and only I
Did not guess the penalty! . . .
When the dark had filled my day,
Furthest, but most faithful, stood
That lone Star I cast away.
I had loved myself, and I
Have not lived and dare not die!
AZRAEL'S COUNT
Lost in the wind-plaited sand-dunes—athirst in the maze of them.
Hot-foot she follows those foot-prints—the thrice-tangled ways of them.
Her soul is shut save to one thing—the love-quest consuming her.
Fearless she lows past the camp, our fires affright her not.
Ranges she close to the tethered ones—the mares by the lances held.
Noses she softly apart the veil in the women's tent.
Next—withdrawn under moonlight, a shadow afar off—
Fades. Ere men cry, “Hold her fast!” darkness recovers her.
She the all-crazed and forlorn, when the dogs threaten her,
Only a side-tossed horn, as though a fly troubled her,
Shows she hath heard, till a lance in the heart of her quivereth.
—Lo, from that carcass aheap—where speeds the soul of it?
Where is the tryst it must keep? Who is her pandar? Death!
Crying, “Why seekest Thou me first? Are not my kin unslain?”
Shrinking aside from the Sword-edge, blinking the glare of it,
Sinking the chin in the neck-bone. How shall that profit them?
Yet, among men a ten thousand, few meet me otherwise.
Arms open, breasts open, mouth open—hot is her need on her.
Crying, “Ho, Servant, acquit me, the bound by Love's promises!
Haste Thou! He waits! I would go! Handle me lustily!”
Lo! her eyes stare past my wings, as things unbeheld by her.
Lo! her lips summonsing part. I am not whom she calls!
More than the dust of a journey, her garments brushed clear of it.
Lo! Ere the blood-gush has ceased, forward her soul rushes.
She is away to her tryst. Who is her pandar? Death!
MISCELLANEOUS VERSE
THE GODS OF THE COPYBOOK HEADINGS
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place;
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch.
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.”
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “The Wages of Sin is Death.”
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “If you don't work you die.”
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four—
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:—
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!
THE SCHOLARS
Nay, watch my Lords of the Admiralty, for they have the work in train.
They have taken the men that were careless lads at Dart-mouth in 'Fourteen
And entered them at the landward schools as though no war had been.
They have piped the children off all the seas from the Falklands to the Bight,
And quartered them on the Colleges to learn to read and write!
Their teachers were the hornèd mines and the hump-backed Death below.
Their schools were walled by the walking mist and roofed by the waiting skies,
When they conned their task in a new-sown field with the Moonlight Sacrifice.
When they formed their class on Helles' beach at the bows of the “River Clyde.”
Their feet are drawn by the wet sea-boots they changed not night or day
When they guarded the six-knot convoy's flank on the road to Norroway.
Their ears are stuffed with the week-long roar of the West-Atlantic gale
When the sloops were watching the Irish Shore from Galway to Kinsale.
Their hands are scored where the life-lines cut or the dripping funnel-stays
When they followed their leader at thirty knot between the Skaw and the Naze.
Their mouths are filled with the magic words they learned at the collier's hatch
When they coaled in the foul December dawns and sailed in the forenoon-watch;
Or measured the weight of a Pentland tide and the wind off Ronaldshay,
Till the target mastered the breathless tug and the hawser carried away.
Or a picket-boat to the gangway brought bows-on and full-ahead,
Or the drowsy second's lack of thought that costs a dozen dead.
They have touched a knowledge outreaching speech—as when the cutters were sent
To harvest the dreadful mile of beach after the Vanguard went.
They have learned great faith and little fear and a high heart in distress,
And how to suffer each sodden year of heaped-up weariness.
They have borne the bridle upon their lips and the yoke upon their neck,
Since the chests were slung down the College stair at Dart-mouth in 'Fourteen,
And now they are quit of the sea-affair as though no war had been.
Far have they steamed and much have they known, and most would they fain forget;
But now they are come to their joyous own with all the world in their debt.
Though the cams they use are not of your kind, and they bump, for choice, by steam.
Lightly dance with them, Newnham maid—but none too lightly believe.
They are hot from the fifty-month blockade, and they carry their hearts on their sleeve.
Tenderly, Proctor, let them down, if they do not walk as they should:
For, by God, if they owe you half a crown, you owe 'em your four years' food!
Hallowed River, most gracious Trees, Chapel beyond compare,
Here be gentlemen sick of the seas—take them into your care.
Far have they come, much have they braved. Give them their hour of play,
While the hidden things their hands have saved work for them day by day:
Till the grateful Past their youth redeemed return them their youth once more,
And the Soul of the Child at last lets fall the unjust load that it bore!
THE CLERKS AND THE BELLS
(OXFORD IN 1920)
Unhelmeted on unbleached sward beneath unshrivelled trees.
For the leaves, the leaves, are on the bough, the bark is on the bole,
And East and West men's housen stand all even-roofed and whole . . .
(Men's housen doored and glazed and floored and whole at every turn!)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:—“Time it is to learn!”
Of famous men who drew the sword in furious fights of old.
They heark and mark it faithfully, but never clerk will write
What vision rides 'twixt book and eye from any nearer fight.
(Whose supplication rends the soul? Whose night-long cries repeat?)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:—“Time it is to eat!”
At tables fair with silver-ware and naperies thereon,
Free to refuse or dainty choose what dish shall seem them good;
For they have done with single meats, and waters streaked with blood . . .
(That three days' fast is overpast when all those guns said “Nay”!)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:—“Time it is to play!”
Or band in companies abroad to ride, or row, or run
By waters level with fair meads all goldenly bespread,
Where flash June's clashing dragon-flies—but no man bows his head,
(Though bullet-wise June's dragon-flies deride the fearless air!)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:—“Time it is for prayer!”
For to receive and well believe the Word of Him Who died.
And, though no present wings of Death hawk hungry round that place,
Their brows are bent upon their hands that none may see their face—
(Who set aside the world and died? What life shall please Him best?)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:—“Time it is to rest!”
Lest they should rake the midnight clouds or chase a sliding star.
In fear of fine and dread rebuke, they round their full-night sleep,
And leave that world which once they took for older men to keep.
(Who walks by dreams what ghostly wood in search of playmate slain?)
Until the Bells of Oxenford ring in the light again.
In this way live the merry clerks,—the clerks of Oxenford!
A RECTOR'S MEMORY
(ST. ANDREWS, 1923)
But kinder than Life have made sure
No mortal may boast in the morning
That even will find him secure.
With naught for fresh faith or new trial,
With little unsoiled or unsold,
Can the shadow go back on the dial,
Or a new world be given for the old?
But he knows not what time shall awaken,
As he knows not what tide shall lay bare,
The heart of a man to be taken—
Taken and changed unaware.
The far, guarded City arise—
The steel of the North in Her eyes;
The sheer hosts of Heaven above—
The grey warlock Ocean beside;
And shall feel the full centuries move
To Her purpose and pride.
Though a stranger shall he understand,
As though it were old in his blood,
The lives that caught fire 'neath Her hand—
The fires that were tamed to Her mood.
And the roar of the wind shall refashion,
And the wind-driven torches recall,
The passing of Time and the passion
Of Youth over all!
And, by virtue of magic unspoken
(What need She should utter Her power?)
The frost at his heart shall be broken
And his spirit be changed in that hour—
Changed and renewed in that hour!
LOLLIUS
HORACE, Bk. V. Ode 13
To purchase in the city's sight,
With nard and roses for his hair,
The name of Knight?
Enriched by trade in Afric corn,
His wealth allows, his wife requires,
Him to be born.
At lesser wage for longer whiles,
And school- and station-masters rude
Receive with smiles.
By learned doctors; all his sons
And nubile daughters shall enlarge
Their horizons.
Their upward-climbing sisters down,
Shall smooth their plumes and oft invite
The brood to town.
The State enormous benefice,
But—by the head of either George—
He pays not twice!
Nor itch to make orations, vex—
Content to honour his own self
With his own cheques—
Springs cleanly from untainted gold—
Not from a conscience or a spouse
Sold and resold.
Such arts, and rose by Virtue guided?
The tables rock with laughter—you
Not least derided.
A SONG OF FRENCH ROADS
That bring a heart's desire,
And lay the joyous roads of France
Once more beneath the tyre—
So numbered by Napoleon,
The veriest ass can spy
How Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame
And Ten is for Hendaye.
From Dunkirk to Péronne,
And Thirty-nine and Twenty-nine
Can show where it has gone,
Which slant through Arras and Bapaume,
And join outside Cambrai,
While Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.
Where Thirty-seven ran,
And even ghostly Forty-four
Is all restored to man.
Oh, swift as shell-hole poppies pass
The blurring years go by,
And Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye!
Where chill Mont Louis stands?
And we the rounder gales that blow
Full-lunged across the Landes—
So you will use the Orleans Gate,
While we slip through Versailles;
Since Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.
On every vine appear
Those four first cautious leaves that test
The temper of the year;
The dust is white at Angoulême,
The sun is warm at Blaye;
And Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye.
The highway drops her line
Past Langon down that grey-walled aisle
Of resin-scented pine;
The kilometres fly—
What was your pace to Bourg-Madame?
We sauntered to Hendaye.
And Bidassoa shows,
At issue with each whispering shoal
In violet, pearl and rose,
Ere crimson over ocean's edge
The sunset banners die . . .
Yes—Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
But Ten is for Hendaye!
That ease the long control,
And bring the glorious soul of France
Once more to cheer our soul
With beauty, change and valiancy
Of sun and soil and sky,
Where Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
And Ten is for Hendaye!
CHARTRES WINDOWS
By each man's light the unjudging glass betrays
All men's surrender, each man's holiest hour
And all the lit confusion of our days—
Purfled with iron, traced in dusk and fire,
Challenging ordered Time who, at the last,
Shall bring it, grozed and leaded and wedged fast,
To the cold stone that curbs or crowns desire.
Yet on the pavement that all feet have trod—
Even as the Spirit, in her deeps and heights,
Turns only, and that voiceless, to her God—
There falls no tincture from those anguished lights.
And Heaven's one light, behind them, striking through
Blazons what each man dreamed no other knew.
LONDON STONE
(Grieving—grieving!)
Bring your flowers and lay them down
At the place of grieving.
(Grieving—grieving!)
Bow your head and mourn your own,
With the others grieving.
(Grieving—grieving!)
All the empty-heart and ache
That is not cured by grieving.
(Grieving—grieving!)
“Grave, this is thy victory;
And the sting of death is grieving.”
(Grieving—grieving!)
To comfort us for what we've given,
And only gained the grieving?
(Grieving—grieving!)
But our neighbour's standing here,
Grieving as we're grieving.
(Grieving—grieving!)
Nothing man can count or weigh,
But loss and love's own grieving.
(Grieving—grieving!)
That must last our whole lives through?
“As I suffer, so do you.”
That may ease the grieving.
THE KING'S PILGRIMAGE
King George V's Visit to War Cemeteries in France
His prayers and vows to pay
To them that saved our heritage
And cast their own away.
Or prows of belted steel,
For the clean-swept oceans every side
Lay free to every keel.
Where the broader seas begin,
And a pale tide grieving at the broken harbour-mouth
Where they worked the death-ships in.
Nor wave that could not tell
Of the bodies that were buckled in the life-buoy's ring
That slid from swell to swell.
For these are those that have no grave where any heart may mourn.
Where once the cities stood,
But the man-high thistle had been master of it all,
Or the bulrush by the flood.
Nor lone star in the sky,
But shook to see some spirit pass
And took its agony.
Where once the bread-corn grew,
But the fields were cankered and the water was defiled,
And the trees were riven through.
Nor secret path in the wood,
But had borne its weight of the broken clay
And darkened 'neath the blood.
An hundred thousand men that died whose graves shall no man know.
About a carven stone,
And a stark Sword brooding on the bosom of the Cross
Where high and low are one.
And the flowers of the spring,
And there lay gentlemen from out of all the seas
That ever called him King.
Five hundred thousand gentlemen of those that served their King.
In sure and single faith.
There can no knowledge reach the grave
To make them grudge their death
Save only if they understood
That, after all was done,
We they redeemed denied their blood
And mocked the gains it won.
A SONG IN THE DESERT
(P. L. Ob. Jan. 1927)
To decree which rock-ridge shall receive—shall be chosen for targe of it?
Which crown among palms shall go down, by the thunderbolt broken;
While the floods drown the sere wadis where no bud is token?
First in his ear, before all, I made sure of my measure.
If it were good—what acclaim! None other so moved me.
If it were faulty—what shame? While he mocked me he loved me.
One silent, swart, swift-striding camel, oceanward wending?
Browbound and jawbound the rider, his shadow in front of him,
Ceaselessly eating the distances? That was the wont of him.
Whether the wave-crested dunes—a single sword bared for him—
Whether cold danger fore-weighed, or quick peril that took him
Alone, out of comfort or aid, no breath of it shook him.
There was no proof of the matter—no sign was delivered.
Whatever this dust or that heat, or those fools that he laboured with,
He forgot and forbore no observance towards any he neighboured with.
One face among faces that leaped to the light and were hidden?
One voice among night-wasting voices of boasting and shouting?
And that face and that voice abide with thee? His beyond doubting!
That he might see from afar, shall I wait his returning;
Or the roar of his beast as she knelt and he leaped to unlade her,
Two-handedly tossing me jewels. He was no trader!
Tales of far magic unrolled—to me only he told them,
With the light, easy laugh of dismissal 'twixt story and story—
As a man brushes sand from his hand, or the great dismiss glory.
Whether I sing or am silent, he shall not come back to me!
There is no measure for trial, nor treasure for bringing.
Allah divides the Companions. (Yet he said—yet he said:—“Cease not from singing.”)
BRAZILIAN VERSES
THE FRIENDS
Who used to dance with lanterns round a little boy in bed;
Green and white lanterns that waved to and fro:
But I haven't seen a Firefly since ever so long ago!
Who used to nod and whisper when a little boy went by,
As the nuts began to tumble and the breeze began to blow:
And I haven't seen a Cocoa-palm since ever so long ago!
With a Coal-sack on his shoulder when a little boy was born.
He heard me learn to talk, and he helped me thrive and grow:
But I haven't seen the Southern Cross since ever so long ago!
Till I found my dream was foolish, for my friends were all alive.
The Cocoa-palms were real, and the Southern Cross was true:
And the Fireflies were dancing—so I danced too!
A SONG OF BANANAS
“Nay, but we have them certainly.
“We buy them off the barrows, with the vegetable-marrows
“And the cabbage of our own country,
“(From the costers of our own country.)”
(Plantains from Canaryward maybe!)
For the true are red and gold, and they fill no steamer's hold,
But flourish in a rare country,
(That men go far to see.)
Or rear against the breezes off the sea;
Or duck and loom again, through the curtains of the rain
That the loaded hills let free—
(Bellying 'twixt the uplands and the sea.)
Jewelled things no bigger than a bee;
And the opal butterflies plane and settle, flare and rise,
Through the low-arched greenery,
(That is malachite and jade of the sea.)
Day and night in rank fecundity,
That the Blossom and the Snake lie open and awake,
As it was by Eden Tree,
(When the First Moon silvered through the Tree) . . .
By 'bus and train and tram and tube must flee!
For your Pharpars and Abanas do not include Bananas
(And Jordan is a distant stream to drink of, simple townsmen),
Which leaves the more for me!
SONG OF THE DYNAMO
Me into being?
I only know, if you do certain things,
I must become your Hearing and your Seeing;
Also your Strength, to make great wheels go round,
And save your sons from toil, while I am bound!
The Powers that move me?
I only know that I am one with those
True Powers which rend the firmament above me,
And, harrying earth, would save me at the last—
But that your coward foresight holds me fast!
“SUCH AS IN SHIPS”
Into the Seas descend
Shall learn how wholly on those Arks
Our Victuals do depend.
For, when a Man would bite or sup,
Or buy him Goods or Gear,
He needs must call the Oceans up,
And move an Hemisphere.
Which groweth o'er the Main,
With Teas and Cottons for our Need,
And Sugar of the Cane—
Their Comings We no more regard
Than daily Corn or Oil:
Yet, when Men waft Them Englandward,
How infinite the Toil!
The tropique Lands among,
And Engines of tumultuous Breath
Do draw the Yield along—
Yea, even as by Hecatombs
Which, presently struck down
Into our Navies' labouring Wombs
Make Pennyworths in Town.
“POISON OF ASPS”
(A Brazilian Snake-Farm)
Why do you seek us, then?
Breaking our knotted fellowships
With your noisy-footed men?
Hearing and slipping aside;
Until they followed and troubled us—so
We struck back, and they died.
Why do you wrench them apart?
To learn how the venom makes and drips
And works its way to the heart?
All that a serpent should,
You gather our poisons, one by one,
And thin them out to your good.
That is your answer? No!
Because we hissed at Adam's eclipse
Is the reason you hate us so.
THE OPEN DOOR
Excepting for the draughts along the floor.
And that is why you're told,
When the passages are cold:
“Darling, you've forgot to shut the Door!”
Pussy on the Hearthrug shows it,
Aunty at the Writing-table knows it—
“Darling, you've forgot to shut the Door!”
Always shut the Door behind you, but
You can go when you are old
Where there isn't any cold—
The deep Verandah shows it—
The pale Magnolia knows it—
And the bold, white Trumpet-flower blows it:—
There isn't any Door that need be shut!
The midnight Firefly shows it—
And the Beams of the Moon disclose it:—
There isn't any Door that need be shut!
The silky Breezes blow it—
And the Shafts of the Sunrise show it:—
There isn't any Door that need be shut!
TWO RACES
He dreads not what my spirit fears.
Our Heavens have shown us separate fires.
Our dooms have dealt us differing years.
Ordained for us and still control
Lives sundered at the fountain-head,
And distant, now, as Pole from Pole.
When we encounter each is free
To bare that larger, liberal heart
Our kin and neighbours seldom see.
Weakness delivered without shame—
And certain common sins confessed
Which all men know, and none dare blame.)
It should be so a moment's space,
Each finds the other excellent,
And—runs to follow his own race!
THE GLORIES
Give every soul her choice.
For such as follow divers ends
In divers lights rejoice.
('Pity it passeth soon!)
But those whose work is nearer done
Look, rather, towards the Moon.
When the hot hours have run;
But such as have not touched their noon
Give worship to the Sun.
Perfect on stilly ways;
But such as follow present wars
Pursue the Comet's blaze.
But each must find his own,
Sufficient for his reckonings,
Which is to him alone.
“VERY MANY PEOPLE”
I heard the Old Gods say:
“Here come Very Many People:
“We must go away.
“But their delight destroys.
“They flay the turf from the sheep-walk.
“They load the Denes with noise.
“They seize the oast and the mill.
“They camp beside Our dew-ponds.
“They mar the clean-flanked hill.
“To fence their souls from thought,
“Till Our deep-breathed Oaks are silent,
“And Our muttering Downs tell nought.
“They cannot bide alone.
“It shall be best for their doings
“When We Old Gods are gone.”
And the Weald and the Forest known
Before there were Very Many People,
And the Old Gods had gone!
SUPPLICATION OF THE BLACK ABERDEEN
Of years is Thine, my Owner and my Man.
For Thou hast made me—unto Thee I owe
This dim, distressed half-soul that hurts me so,
Compact of every crime, but, none the less,
Broken by knowledge of its naughtiness.
Put me not from Thy Life—'tis all I know.
If Thou forsake me, whither shall I go?
Thy Foot my refuge, even in my sins.
Thine Honour hurls me forth to testify
Against the Unclean and Wicked passing by.
(But when Thou callest they are of Thy Friends,
Who readier than I to make amends?)
I was Thy Deputy with high and low—
If Thou dismiss me, whither shall I go?
That took no reckoning of my penitence.
And, in my desolation—faithless me!—
Have crept for comfort to a woman's knee!
Now I return, self-drawn, to meet the just
Reward of Riot, Theft and Breach of Trust.
Put me not from Thy Life—though this is so.
If Thou forsake me, whither shall I go?
From head to tail, I do confess it all.
Mine was the fault—deal me the stripes—but spare
The Pointed Finger which I cannot bear!
The Dreadful Tone in which my Name is named.
That sends me 'neath the sofa-frill ashamed!
(Yet, to be near Thee, I would face that woe.)
If Thou reject me, whither shall I go?
My Secret Bone, my Throwing-Stick, my Ball.
Or wouldst Thou sport? Then watch me hunt awhile,
Chasing, not after conies, but Thy Smile,
Content, as breathless on the turf I sit,
Thou shouldst deride my little legs and wit—
Ah! Keep me in Thy Life for a fool's show!
If Thou deny me, whither shall I go? . . .
The Countenance turned meward, O my Lord?
The Paw accepted, and—for all to see—
The Abject Sinner throned upon the Knee?
The Ears bewrung, and Muzzle scratched because
He is forgiven, and All is as It was? . . .
Now am I in Thy Life, and since 'tis so—
That Cat awaits the Judgment. May I go?
“HIS APOLOGIES”
He is mainly Head and Tummy. His legs are uncontrolled.
But Thou hast forgiven his ugliness, and settled him on Thy knee . . .
Art Thou content with Thy Servant? He is very comfy with Thee.
He hath defiled Thy Premises through being kept in too long.
Wherefore his nose has been rubbed in the dirt, and his self-respect has been bruisèd.
Master, pardon Thy Sinner, and see he is properly loosèd.
He has found and taken and carried aside, as fitting matter to chew.
Now there is neither blacking nor tongue, and the Housemaid has us in tow.
Master, remember Thy Servant is young, and tell her to let him go!
There has been fighting all over the Shop—and into the Shop also!
Till cruel umbrellas parted the strife (or I might have been choking him yet),
But Thy Servant has had the Time of his Life—and now shall we call on the vet?
And because they fought to caress him, Thy Servant wentedst away.
But now that the Little Beasts have gone, he has returned to see
(Brushed—with his Sunday collar on) what they left over from tea.
He cannot catch Thy Commandments. He cannot read Thy Mind.
Oh, leave him not to his loneliness; nor make him that kitten's scorn.
He hath had none other God than Thee since the year that he was born.
There is no heat in the midday sun, nor health in the wayside grass.
His bones are full of an old disease—his torments run and increase.
Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a quick release!
HYMN OF THE TRIUMPHANT AIRMAN
(FLYING EAST TO WEST AT 1000 M.P.H.)
With bridle and girth
Ere those horses were haltered
That gave us the Earth—
The Spark and the Wheel,
Sank Ocean and Mountain
Alike 'neath our keel.
The bird on the wind,
Made naught of our going,
And left us behind.
The gull overflown,
And there matched us in Heaven
The Sun-God alone.
We leagued to o'erthrow,
He only the faster
And, therefore, our foe!
The dim-shaping skies
That arch and make certain
Where he shall arise.
We challenge anew.
From sunrise to sunset,
Apollo, pursue!
Thy Chariot is still?
What Power has withholden
The Way from the Will?
Nor darkness withdrawn.
The Hours have availed not
To lead forth the Dawn!
The Coursers of Day?
The shade on our dial
Moves swifter than they!
A God unreleased;
And still thou delayest
Low down in the East—
A glare that decays
As the blasts of our spurning
Blow backward its blaze.
Night rushes to meet,
And the curve of Earth's shoulder
Heaves up thy defeat.
We have thee in prison!
Apollo, immortal,
Thou hast not arisen!
FOX-HUNTING
(The Fox Meditates)
To spoil the Timnites' barley,
I made my point for Leicestershire
And left Philistia early.
Through Gath and Rankesborough Gorse I fled,
And took the Coplow Road, sir!
And was a Gentleman in Red
When all the Quorn wore woad, sir!
And nothing much was doing,
Her bored Centurions heard my call
O' nights when I went wooing.
They raised a pack—they ran it well
(For I was there to run 'em)
From Aesica to Carter Fell,
And down North Tyne to Hunnum.
And Harold's hosts were smitten,
I lay at earth in Battle Wood
While Domesday Book was written.
Whatever harm he did to man,
I owe him pure affection;
For in his righteous reign began
The first of Game Protection.
And Oliver dropped his'n,
I found those Northern Squires a task,
To keep 'em out of prison.
In boots as big as milking-pails,
With holsters on the pommel,
They chevied me across the Dales
Instead of fighting Cromwell.
And hedging came in fashion,
The March of Progress gave my realm
Enclosure and Plantation.
'Twas then, to soothe their discontent,
I showed each pounded Master,
However fast the Commons went,
I went a little faster!
And Steam had linked the Shires,
I broke the staid Victorian age
To posts, and rails, and wires.
Then fifty mile was none too far
To go by train to cover,
Till some dam' sutler pupped a car,
And decent sport was over!
For fear the Law might try 'em,
The Car put up an average bag
Of twenty dead per diem.
Then every road was made a rink
For Coroners to sit on;
And so began, in skid and stink,
The real blood-sport of Britain!
MEMORIES
The Socialist Government speaks:
And razed were every tomb,
The Worm—the Worm that dieth not
Compels Us to our doom.
Though all which once was England stands
Subservient to Our will,
The Dead of whom we washed Our hands,
They have observance still.
We multiplied Their woes.
We used Their dearly-opened road
To traffic with Their foes:
And yet to Them men turn their eyes,
To Them are vows renewed
Of Faith, Obedience, Sacrifice,
Honour and Fortitude!
Comes not by staves or swords
So much as, subtly, through the power
Of small corroding words.
No need to make the plot more plain
By any open thrust;
But—see Their memory is slain
Long ere Their bones are dust!
Lay some proud rite aside—
And daily tarnish with Our breath
The ends for which They died.
Distract, deride, decry, confuse—
(Or—if it serve Us—pray!)
So presently We break the use
And meaning of Their day!
THE ENGLISH WAY
Before the ravens came,
The Witch-wife rode across the fern
And spoke Earl Percy's name.
I bid you answer true,
If England's King has under his hand
A Captain as good as you?”
Oh, but his wound was sore!
“Five hundred Captains as good,” said he,
“And I trow five hundred more.
And the young wind over the grass,
That you take your eyes from off my eyes,
And let my spirit pass.”
I charge you answer true,
If ever you dealt in steel and brand,
How went the fray with you?”
“As every fight must go;
For some they fought and some they fled,
And some struck ne'er a blow.
And the first call from the nest,
That you turn your eyes away from my eyes,
And let me to my rest.”
I will that you answer true,
If you and your men were quick again,
How would it be with you?”
And the red deer where they rove,
And the merry foxes the country round,
And the maidens that we love.
Except to grudge the cost;
And he that had done the doughtiest deed
Would mock himself the most.
And the tables in my hall,
And I pray you by my lady's bower
(Ah, bitterest of all!)
Your hand from off my breast,
And cover my face from the red sun-rise,
And loose me to my rest!”
Her palm from off his breast,
And covered his face from the red sun-rise,
And loosed him to his rest.
You shall not speak again,
And the word you have said 'twixt quick and dead
I lay on Englishmen.
Or Humber to the East,
That they who bore themselves the best
Shall count themselves the least.
Or flood along the Tweed,
That they shall choose the lesser word
To cloke the greater deed.
The fair fight and the fame—
With an ill face and an ill grace
Shall they rehearse the same.
Lightly to laugh it away,
Shall be the mark of the English breed
Until the Judgment Day!”
THE STORM CONE
Delude us—dawn is very far.
This is the tempest long foretold—
Slow to make head but sure to hold.
Signals the storm is near, not past;
And worse than present jeopardy
May our forlorn to-morrow be.
Let no man look for his relief.
Only the darkness hides the shape
Of further peril to escape.
The weight of gale against the tide
And those huge waves the outer main
Sends in to set us back again.
The pulses of her labouring gear,
Till the deep throb beneath us proves,
After each shudder and check, she moves!
To make her offing from the coast;
But, till she fetches open sea,
Let no man deem that he is free!
THE KING AND THE SEA
To bare their hearts to the King they loved,
Tendering themselves in homage and devotion,
The Tide Wave up the Channel spoke
To all those eager, exultant folk:—
“Hear now what Man was given you by the Ocean!
When the single wooden chest went down
To the steering-flat, and the careless Gunroom haled him
To learn by ancient and bitter use,
How neither Favour nor Excuse,
Nor aught save his sheer self henceforth availed him.
By the slung hammock or scrubbed plank
In the steel-grated prisons where I cast him;
But niggard hours and a narrow space
For rest—and the naked light on his face—
While the ship's traffic flowed, unceasing, past him.
To speak at the word—at a sign be dumb;
To stand to his task, not seeking others to aid him;
To share in honour what praise might fall
For the task accomplished, and—over all—
To swallow rebuke in silence. Thus I made him.
On him, a child and sick for sleep,
Through the long watches that no time can measure,
When I drove him, deafened and choked and blind,
At the wave-tops cut and spun by the wind;
Lashing him, face and eyes, with my displeasure.
Their sullen, swift-sprung treacheries,
I showed him Worth by Folly concealed,
And the flaw in the soul that a chance revealed
(Lessons remembered—to bear fruit thereafter).
For trial and proof, with his first Command—
Himself alone, and no man to gainsay him.
On him the End, the Means, and the Word,
And the harsher judgment if he erred,
And—outboard—Ocean waiting to betray him.
Strength in Duty held him bound,
So that no Power misled nor ease ensnared him
Who had spared himself no more than his seas had spared him!”
Had laid their hands between His hands,
And His ships thundered service and devotion,
The Tide Wave, ranging the Planet, spoke
On all Our foreshores as it broke:—
“Know now what Man I gave you—I, the Ocean!”
THE APPEAL
BY AUGHT THAT I HAVE DONE,
LET ME LIE QUIET IN THAT NIGHT
WHICH SHALL BE YOURS ANON:
THE DEAD ARE BORNE IN MIND,
SEEK NOT TO QUESTION OTHER THAN
THE BOOKS I LEAVE BEHIND.
Rudyard Kipling's Verse | ||