The Project Gutenberg EBook of Verses 1889-1896, by Rudyard Kipling

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Title: Verses 1889-1896

Author: Rudyard Kipling

Release Date: June 29, 2008 [EBook #323]
Last Updated: March 9, 2018

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8


Produced by Judith Boss and David Widger




VERSES 1889-1896

































































































  Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled —
To T. A.
  I have made for you a song,
  “What are the bugles blowin' for?” said Files-on-Parade.
  I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
   We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool,
  I've a head like a concertina:  I've a tongue like a button-stick:
  You may talk o' gin and beer
  Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire?
  If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back,
   This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps,
  'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor?
  There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,
  When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East,
  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
  Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea,
  “Where have you been this while away?”
  Kabul town's by Kabul river,
  To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,
  We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,
  My name is O'Kelly, I've heard the Revelly,


  Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
  Udai Chand lay sick to death,
  Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told,
  When spring-time flushes the desert grass,
  The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck,
  This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,
  O woe is me for the merry life,
  . . . At the close of a winter day,
   It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
   Seven men from all the world back to Docks again,
  Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai,
  Love and Death once ceased their strife,
  The dead child lay in the shroud,
  Read here:  This is the story of Evarra — man —,
  When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
  This is the sorrowful story,
  Winds of the World, give answer!  They are whimpering to and fro,
   Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,
  Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed,
  Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square,
   My new-cut ashlar takes the light,
  There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,

[In India, the swastika is an ancient symbol of good fortune. Kipling frequently used the swastika in this context.]

  The Cities are full of pride,


  Fair is our lot — O goodly is our heritage!
The Coastwise Lights
  Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees,
The Song of the Dead
  Hear now the Song of the Dead — in the North by the torn berg-edges,
The Deep-Sea Cables
  The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar —,
The Song of the Sons
  One from the ends of the earth — gifts at an open door —,
The Song of the Cities
  Royal and Dower-royal, I the Queen,
England's Answer
  Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than to ban,
  Mine was the woman to me, darkling I found her,
  Thus said The Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim,
  King Solomon drew merchantmen,
  Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,
  I sent a message to my dear,
  We've drunk to the Queen — God bless her!
  “Farewell, Romance!” the Cave-men said,
  Away by the lands of the Japanee,
  I was the staunchest of our fleet,
  A Rose, in tatters, on the garden path,
  You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile,
  The Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds,
  The fear was on the cattle, for the gale was on the sea,
  Heh!  Walk her round.  Heave, ah heave her short again!
  There's a Legion that never was 'listed,
  There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,
  The earth is full of anger,
  Thy face is far from this our war,
  Buy my English posies!
  The king has called for priest and cup,
  In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage,
  Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,
  Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail,
  If the Led Striker call it a strike,
   I've paid for your sickest fancies; I've humoured your crackedest whim,
  Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all,


   I'm 'ere in a ticky ulster an' a broken billycock 'at,
  March!  The mud is cakin' good about our trousies,
   As I was spitting into the Ditch aboard o' the Crocodile,
  When the Waters were dried an' the Earth did appear,
  It got beyond all orders an' it got beyond all 'ope,
   The men that fought at Minden, they was rookies in their time,
  We've got the cholerer in camp — it's worse than forty fights,
  I've taken my fun where I've found it,
  “'As anybody seen Bill 'Awkins?”
  There was Rundle, Station Master,
   There was no one like 'im, 'Orse or Foot,
  'E was warned agin 'er,
  Through the Plagues of Egyp' we was chasin' Arabi,
  The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone,
  Sez the Junior Orderly Sergeant,
   You call yourself a man,
  The Injian Ocean sets an' smiles,
  When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,




  Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled —
  Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled —
  Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world.

  They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays,
  They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days,
  It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth our Father's praise.

  'Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael's outposts are,
  Or buffet a path through the Pit's red wrath when God goes out to war,
  Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star.

  They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth —
            they dare not grieve for her pain —
  They know of toil and the end of toil, they know God's law is plain,
  So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that Sin is vain.

  And ofttimes cometh our wise Lord God, master of every trade,
  And tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made;
  And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid.

  To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame —
  Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame,
  Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother's spirit came.

  He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth —
  E'en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth,
  In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth.

  So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high
  And made him place at the banquet board — the Strong Men ranged thereby,
  Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die.

  Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled,
  Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled,
  Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world.


     To T. A.
         I have made for you a song,
         And it may be right or wrong,
     But only you can tell me if it's true;
         I have tried for to explain
         Both your pleasure and your pain,
     And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you!

         O there'll surely come a day
         When they'll give you all your pay,
     And treat you as a Christian ought to do;
         So, until that day comes round,
         Heaven keep you safe and sound,
     And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you!
                                                  R. K.

  “What are the bugles blowin' for?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “To turn you out, to turn you out”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
  “What makes you look so white, so white?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
      For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
      The regiment's in 'ollow square — they're hangin' him to-day;
      They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
      An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

  “What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
  “What makes that front-rank man fall down?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
      They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,
      They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;
      An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound —
      O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!

  “'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine”, said Files-on-Parade.
  “'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
  “I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times”, said Files-on-Parade.
  “'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
      They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,
      For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' — you must look 'im in the face;
      Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace,
      While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

  “What's that so black agin' the sun?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
  “What's that that whimpers over'ead?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “It's Danny's soul that's passin' now”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
      For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play,
      The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away;
      Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day,
      After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.


  I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
  The publican 'e up an' sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
   The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
  I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
      O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' “Tommy, go away”;
      But it's “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,
      The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
      O it's “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.

  I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
  They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
  They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
  But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
      For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' “Tommy, wait outside”;
      But it's “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper's on the tide,
      The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
      O it's “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper's on the tide.

  Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
  Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
  An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
  Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
      Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' “Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?”
       But it's “Thin red line of 'eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
      The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
      O it's “Thin red line of 'eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

  We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
  But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
  An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
  Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
      While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' “Tommy, fall be'ind”,
      But it's “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there's trouble in the wind,
      There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
      O it's “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there's trouble in the wind.

  You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
  We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
  Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
  The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
      For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' “Chuck him out, the brute!”
       But it's “Saviour of 'is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
      An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
      An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool — you bet that Tommy sees!


  (Soudan Expeditionary Force)
  We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
    An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
  The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
    But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
  We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:
    'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,
  'E cut our sentries up at 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.

  We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,
    The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
  The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
    An' a Zulu 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 papers of 'is own,
    'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,
  So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
    In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
  When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
    With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,
  An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
    Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.
      So 'ere's 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!

  'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
    An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;
  'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,
    An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.
  'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!
    'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
  'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn
    For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
      So 'ere's 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 come from the wars,
  Why don't you march with my true love?”
   “We're fresh from off the ship an' 'e's maybe give the slip,
  An' you'd best go look for a new love.”
       New love!  True love!
      Best go look for a new love,
      The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes,
      An' you'd best go look for a new love.

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  What did you see o' my true love?”
   “I seed 'im serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle-green,
  An' you'd best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  Did ye see no more o' my true love?”
   “I seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun to fly —
  But you'd best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  Did aught take 'arm to my true love?”
   “I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white —
  An' you'd best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  I'll up an' tend to my true love!”
   “'E's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead,
  An' you'd best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  I'll down an' die with my true love!”
   “The pit we dug'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men beside 'im —
  An' you'd best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  Do you bring no sign from my true love?”
   “I bring a lock of 'air that 'e allus used to wear,
  An' you'd best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  O then I know it's true I've lost my true love!”
   “An' I tell you truth again — when you've lost the feel o' pain
  You'd best take me for your true love.”
       True love!  New love!
      Best take 'im for a new love,
      The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes,
      An' you'd best take 'im for your true love.


  Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool,
  I walks in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule,
  With seventy gunners be'ind me, an' never a beggar forgets
  It's only the pick of the Army
            that handles the dear little pets — 'Tss! 'Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns — the screw-guns they all love you!
      So when we call round with a few guns,
                o' course you will know what to do — hoo! hoo!
      Jest send in your Chief an' surrender —
                it's worse if you fights or you runs:
      You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees,
                but you don't get away from the guns!

  They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where they ain't:
  We'd climb up the side of a sign-board an' trust to the stick o' the paint:
  We've chivied the Naga an' Looshai, we've give the Afreedeeman fits,
  For we fancies ourselves at two thousand,
            we guns that are built in two bits — 'Tss! 'Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns . . .

  If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'im an' teaches 'im 'ow to behave;
  If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'im an' rattles 'im into 'is grave.
  You've got to stand up to our business an' spring without snatchin' or fuss.
  D'you say that you sweat with the field-guns?
            By God, you must lather with us — 'Tss! 'Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns . . .

  The eagles is screamin' around us, the river's a-moanin' below,
  We're clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub,
            we're out on the rocks an' the snow,
  An' the wind is as thin as a whip-lash what carries away to the plains
  The rattle an' stamp o' the lead-mules —
            the jinglety-jink o' the chains — 'Tss! 'Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns . . .

  There's a wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin',
            an' a wheel on the edge o' the Pit,
  An' a drop into nothin' beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit:
  With the sweat runnin' out o' your shirt-sleeves,
            an' the sun off the snow in your face,
  An' 'arf o' the men on the drag-ropes
            to hold the old gun in 'er place — 'Tss! 'Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns . . .

  Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool,
  I climbs in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule.
  The monkey can say what our road was —
            the wild-goat 'e knows where we passed.
  Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin's!
            Out drag-ropes!  With shrapnel!  Hold fast — 'Tss! 'Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns — the screw-guns they all love you!
      So when we take tea with a few guns,
                o' course you will know what to do — hoo! hoo!
      Jest send in your Chief an' surrender —
                it's worse if you fights or you runs:
      You may hide in the caves, they'll be only your graves,
                but you can't get away from the guns!


  I've a head like a concertina:  I've a tongue like a button-stick:
  I've a mouth like an old potato, and I'm more than a little sick,
  But I've had my fun o' the Corp'ral's Guard:  I've made the cinders fly,
  And I'm here in the Clink for a thundering drink
            and blacking the Corporal's eye.
      With a second-hand overcoat under my head,
      And a beautiful view of the yard,
    O it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
      For “drunk and resisting the Guard!”
       Mad drunk and resisting the Guard —
      'Strewth, but I socked it them hard!
    So it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
      For “drunk and resisting the Guard.”

  I started o' canteen porter, I finished o' canteen beer,
  But a dose o' gin that a mate slipped in, it was that that brought me here.
  'Twas that and an extry double Guard that rubbed my nose in the dirt;
  But I fell away with the Corp'ral's stock
            and the best of the Corp'ral's shirt.

  I left my cap in a public-house, my boots in the public road,
  And Lord knows where, and I don't care, my belt and my tunic goed;
  They'll stop my pay, they'll cut away the stripes I used to wear,
  But I left my mark on the Corp'ral's face, and I think he'll keep it there!

  My wife she cries on the barrack-gate, my kid in the barrack-yard,
  It ain't that I mind the Ord'ly room — it's that that cuts so hard.
  I'll take my oath before them both that I will sure abstain,
  But as soon as I'm in with a mate and gin, I know I'll do it again!
      With a second-hand overcoat under my head,
      And a beautiful view of the yard,
    Yes, it's pack-drill for me and a fortnight's C.B.
      For “drunk and resisting the Guard!”
       Mad drunk and resisting the Guard —
      '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.”


  You may talk o' gin and beer
  When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
  An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
  But when it comes to slaughter
  You will do your work on water,
  An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
  Now in Injia's sunny clime,
  Where I used to spend my time
  A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
  Of all them blackfaced crew
  The finest man I knew
  Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
        He was “Din! Din! Din!
    You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
        Hi! slippery hitherao!
        Water, get it!  Panee lao!                   [Bring water swiftly.]
    You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”

  The uniform 'e wore
  Was nothin' much before,
  An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
  For a piece o' twisty rag
  An' a goatskin water-bag
  Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
  When the sweatin' troop-train lay
  In a sidin' through the day,
  Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
  We shouted “Harry By!”           [Mr. Atkins's equivalent for “O brother.”]
  Till our throats were bricky-dry,
  Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
        It was “Din! Din! Din!
    You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
        You put some juldee in it                               [Be quick.]
        Or I'll marrow you this minute                           [Hit you.]
    If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

  'E would dot an' carry one
  Till the longest day was done;
  An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
  If we charged or broke or cut,
  You could bet your bloomin' nut,
  'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
  With 'is mussick on 'is back,                               [Water-skin.]
  'E would skip with our attack,
  An' watch us till the bugles made “Retire”,
  An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
  'E was white, clear white, inside
  When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
        It was “Din! Din! Din!”
     With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
        When the cartridges ran out,
        You could hear the front-files shout,
    “Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!”

  I shan't forgit the night
  When I dropped be'ind the fight
  With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
  I was chokin' mad with thirst,
  An' the man that spied me first
  Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
  'E lifted up my 'ead,
  An' he plugged me where I bled,
  An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
  It was crawlin' and it stunk,
  But of all the drinks I've drunk,
  I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
        It was “Din! Din! Din!
    'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
        'E's chawin' up the ground,
        An' 'e's kickin' all around:
    For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!”

  'E carried me away
  To where a dooli lay,
  An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
  'E put me safe inside,
  An' just before 'e died,
  “I 'ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din.
  So I'll meet 'im later on
  At the place where 'e is gone —
  Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
  'E'll be squattin' on the coals
  Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
  An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
        Yes, Din! Din! Din!
    You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
        Though I've belted you and flayed you,
        By the livin' Gawd that made you,
    You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!


  (Northern India Transport Train)
  Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire?
  It isn't standin' up to charge nor lyin' down to fire;
  But it's everlastin' waitin' on a everlastin' road
  For the commissariat camel an' 'is commissariat load.
      O the oont*, O the oont, O the commissariat oont!
       With 'is silly neck a-bobbin' like a basket full o' snakes;
      We packs 'im like an idol, an' you ought to 'ear 'im grunt,
       An' when we gets 'im loaded up 'is blessed girth-rope breaks.

       * Camel: — oo is pronounced like u in “bull”, but
       by Mr. Atkins to rhyme with “front”.

  Wot makes the rear-guard swear so 'ard when night is drorin' in,
  An' every native follower is shiverin' for 'is skin?
  It ain't the chanst o' being rushed by Paythans from the 'ills,
  It's the commissariat camel puttin' on 'is bloomin' frills!
      O the oont, O the oont, O the hairy scary oont!
       A-trippin' over tent-ropes when we've got the night alarm!
      We socks 'im with a stretcher-pole an' 'eads 'im off in front,
       An' when we've saved 'is bloomin' life 'e chaws our bloomin' arm.

  The 'orse 'e knows above a bit, the bullock's but a fool,
  The elephant's a gentleman, the battery-mule's a mule;
  But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said an' done,
  'E's a devil an' a ostrich an' a orphan-child in one.
      O the oont, O the oont, O the Gawd-forsaken oont!
       The lumpy-'umpy 'ummin'-bird a-singin' where 'e lies,
      'E's blocked the whole division from the rear-guard to the front,
       An' when we get him up again — the beggar goes an' dies!

  'E'll gall an' chafe an' lame an' fight — 'e smells most awful vile;
  'E'll lose 'isself for ever if you let 'im stray a mile;
  'E's game to graze the 'ole day long an' 'owl the 'ole night through,
  An' when 'e comes to greasy ground 'e splits 'isself in two.
      O the oont, O the oont, O the floppin', droppin' oont!
       When 'is long legs give from under an' 'is meltin' eye is dim,
      The tribes is up be'ind us, and the tribes is out in front —
       It ain't no jam for Tommy, but it's kites an' crows for 'im.

  So when the cruel march is done, an' when the roads is blind,
  An' when we sees the camp in front an' 'ears the shots be'ind,
  Ho! then we strips 'is saddle off, and all 'is woes is past:
  'E thinks on us that used 'im so, and gets revenge at last.
      O the oont, O the oont, O the floatin', bloatin' oont!
       The late lamented camel in the water-cut 'e lies;
      We keeps a mile be'ind 'im an' we keeps a mile in front,
       But 'e gets into the drinkin'-casks, and then o' course we dies.


  If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back,
   If you've ever snigged the washin' from the line,
  If you've ever crammed a gander in your bloomin' 'aversack,
   You will understand this little song o' mine.
  But the service rules are 'ard, an' from such we are debarred,
   For the same with English morals does not suit.
      (Cornet:  Toot! toot!)
  W'y, 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!

  If you've knocked a nigger edgeways when 'e's thrustin' for your life,
   You must leave 'im very careful where 'e fell;
  An' may thank your stars an' gaiters if you didn't feel 'is knife
   That you ain't told off to bury 'im as well.
  Then the sweatin' Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars under
   Why lootin' should be entered as a crime;
  So if my song you'll 'ear, I will learn you plain an' clear
   'Ow to pay yourself for fightin' overtime.
  (Chorus)  With the loot, . . .

  Now remember when you're 'acking round a gilded Burma god
   That 'is eyes is very often precious stones;
  An' if you treat a nigger to a dose o' cleanin'-rod
   'E's like to show you everything 'e owns.
  When 'e won't prodooce no more, pour some water on the floor
   Where you 'ear it answer 'ollow to the boot
      (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! . . .

  When from 'ouse to 'ouse you're 'unting, you must always work in pairs —
   It 'alves the gain, but safer you will find —
  For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs,
   An' a woman comes and clobs 'im from be'ind.
  When you've turned 'em inside out, an' it seems beyond a doubt
   As if there weren't enough to dust a flute
      (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! . . .

  You can mostly square a Sergint an' a Quartermaster too,
   If you only take the proper way to go;
  I could never keep my pickin's, but I've learned you all I knew —
   An' don't you never say I told you so.
  An' now I'll bid good-bye, for I'm gettin' rather dry,
   An' I see another tunin' up to toot
      (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!


  This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps
  Which is first among the women an' amazin' first in war;
  An' what the bloomin' battle was I don't remember now,
  But Two's off-lead 'e answered to the name o' 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!

  They was movin' into action, they was needed very sore,
  To learn a little schoolin' to a native army corps,
  They 'ad nipped against an uphill, they was tuckin' down the brow,
  When a tricky, trundlin' roundshot give the knock to Snarleyow.

  They cut 'im loose an' left 'im — 'e was almost tore in two —
  But he tried to follow after as a well-trained 'orse should do;
  'E went an' fouled the limber, an' the Driver's Brother squeals:
  “Pull up, pull up for Snarleyow — 'is head's between 'is 'eels!”

  The Driver 'umped 'is shoulder, for the wheels was goin' round,
  An' there ain't no “Stop, conductor!” when a batt'ry's changin' ground;
  Sez 'e:  “I broke the beggar in, an' very sad I feels,
  But I couldn't pull up, not for you — your 'ead between your 'eels!”

  'E 'adn't 'ardly spoke the word, before a droppin' shell
  A little right the batt'ry an' between the sections fell;
  An' when the smoke 'ad cleared away, before the limber wheels,
  There lay the Driver's Brother with 'is 'ead between 'is 'eels.

  Then sez the Driver's Brother, an' 'is words was very plain,
  “For Gawd's own sake get over me, an' put me out o' pain.”
   They saw 'is wounds was mortial, an' they judged that it was best,
  So they took an' drove the limber straight across 'is back an' chest.

  The Driver 'e give nothin' 'cept a little coughin' grunt,
  But 'e swung 'is 'orses 'andsome when it came to “Action Front!”
   An' if one wheel was juicy, you may lay your Monday head
  'Twas juicier for the niggers when the case begun to spread.

  The moril of this story, it is plainly to be seen:
  You 'avn't got no families when servin' of the Queen —
  You 'avn't got no brothers, fathers, sisters, wives, or sons —
  If you want to win your battles take an' work your bloomin' guns!
      Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;
      Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears;
      But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog
      Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!


  'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor
   With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?
  She 'as ships on the foam — she 'as millions at 'ome,
   An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
      (Ow, poor beggars in red!)
  There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,
   There's 'er mark on the medical stores —
  An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind
   That takes us to various wars.
      (Poor beggars! — barbarious wars!)
         Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,
          An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,
         The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces
          O' Missis Victorier's sons.
         (Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)

  Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
   For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
  We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
   An' we've salted it down with our bones.
      (Poor beggars! — it's blue with our bones!)
  Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
   Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
  For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
   When the Widow at Windsor says “Stop”!
      (Poor beggars! — we're sent to say “Stop”!)
         Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
          From the Pole to the Tropics it runs —
         To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
          An' open in form with the guns.
         (Poor beggars! — it's always they guns!)

  We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,
   It's safest to let 'er alone:
  For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land
   Wherever the bugles are blown.
      (Poor beggars! — an' don't we get blown!)
  Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',
   An' flop round the earth till you're dead;
  But you won't get away from the tune that they play
   To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.
      (Poor beggars! — it's 'ot over'ead!)
         Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,
          Wherever, 'owever they roam.
         'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require
          A speedy return to their 'ome.
         (Poor beggars! — they'll never see 'ome!)


  There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,
  Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree;
  It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark:
  The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park.
      For it was: — “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!”
       An' it was “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!”
       O buckle an' tongue
      Was the song that we sung
      From Harrison's down to the Park!

  There was a row in Silver Street — the regiments was out,
  They called us “Delhi Rebels”, an' we answered “Threes about!”
   That drew them like a hornet's nest — we met them good an' large,
  The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.
      Then it was: — “Belts . . .

  There was a row in Silver Street — an' I was in it too;
  We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru!
  I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm
  A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
      O it was: — “Belts . . .

  There was a row in Silver Street — they sent the Polis there,
  The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care;
  But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,
  Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es.
      For it was: — “Belts . . .

  There was a row in Silver Street — it might ha' raged till now,
  But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how;
  'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run:
  An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun.
      While it was: — “Belts . . .

  There was a row in Silver Street — but that put down the shine,
  Wid each man whisperin' to his next:  “'Twas never work o' mine!”
   We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him,
  The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him.
      When it was: — “Belts . . .

  There was a row in Silver Street — it isn't over yet,
  For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;
  'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:
  There was a row in Silver Street — begod, I wonder why!
      But it was: — “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!”
       An' it was “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!”
       O buckle an' tongue
      Was the song that we sung
      From Harrison's down to the Park!


  When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
  'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
  An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
     Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
        Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
        Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
        Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
           So-oldier OF the Queen!

  Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
  You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
  An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
     A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
        Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

  First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
  For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts —
  Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts —
     An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
        Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

  When the cholera comes — as it will past a doubt —
  Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
  For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
     An' it crumples the young British soldier.
        Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

  But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
  You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
  If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
     An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
        Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

  If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
  Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
  Be handy and civil, and then you will find
     That it's beer for the young British soldier.
        Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

  Now, if you must marry, take care she is old —
  A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
  For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
     Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
        'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

  If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
  To shoot when you catch 'em — you'll swing, on my oath! —
  Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er:  that's Hell for them both,
     An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
        Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

  When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
  Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
  Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
     And march to your front like a soldier.
        Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

  When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
  Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
  She's human as you are — you treat her as sich,
     An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
        Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

  When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
  The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
  Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
     For noise never startles the soldier.
        Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

  If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
  Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
  So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
     And wait for supports like a soldier.
        Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

  When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
  And the women come out to cut up what remains,
  Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
     An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
        Go, go, go like a soldier,
        Go, go, go like a soldier,
        Go, go, go like a soldier,
           So-oldier of the Queen!


  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
  There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
  For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
  “Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!”
       Come you back to Mandalay,
      Where the old Flotilla lay:
      Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
      On the road to Mandalay,
      Where the flyin'-fishes play,
      An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

  'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
  An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat — jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
  An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
  An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
      Bloomin' idol made o'mud —
      Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd —
      Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
      On the road to Mandalay . . .

  When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
  She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing “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 . . .

  But that's all shove be'ind me — long ago an' fur away,
  An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
  An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
  “If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else.”
       No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
      But them spicy garlic smells,
      An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
      On the road to Mandalay . . .

  I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
  An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
  Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
  An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
      Beefy face an' grubby 'and —
      Law! wot do they understand?
      I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
      On the road to Mandalay . . .

  Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
  Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
  For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be —
  By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
      On the road to Mandalay,
      Where the old Flotilla lay,
      With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
      On the road to Mandalay,
      Where the flyin'-fishes play,
      An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!


  (Our Army in the East)
  Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea:
  'Ere's September come again — the six-year men are free.
  O leave the dead be'ind us, for they cannot come away
  To where the ship's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome to-day.
     We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,
      Our ship is at the shore,
     An' you must pack your 'aversack,
      For we won't come back no more.
     Ho, don't you grieve for me,
      My lovely Mary-Ann,
     For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit
      As a time-expired man.

  The Malabar's in 'arbour with the Jumner at 'er tail,
  An' the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders for to sail.
  Ho! the weary waitin' when on Khyber 'ills we lay,
  But the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders 'ome to-day.

  They'll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an' wet an' rain,
  All wearin' Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain;
  They'll kill us of pneumonia — for that's their little way —
  But damn the chills and fever, men, we're goin' 'ome to-day!

  Troopin', troopin', winter's round again!
  See the new draf's pourin' in for the old campaign;
  Ho, you poor recruities, but you've got to earn your pay —
  What's the last from Lunnon, lads?  We're goin' there to-day.

  Troopin', troopin', give another cheer —
  'Ere's to English women an' a quart of English beer.
  The Colonel an' the regiment an' all who've got to stay,
  Gawd's mercy strike 'em gentle — Whoop! we're goin' 'ome to-day.
      We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome,
       Our ship is at the shore,
      An' you must pack your 'aversack,
       For we won't come back no more.
      Ho, don't you grieve for me,
       My lovely Mary-Ann,
      For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit
       As a time-expired man.


  “Where have you been this while away,
      Johnnie, Johnnie?”
   'Long with the rest on a picnic lay,
      Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
  They called us out of the barrack-yard
  To Gawd knows where from Gosport Hard,
  And you can't refuse when you get the card,
      And the Widow gives the party.
         (Bugle:  Ta—rara—ra-ra-rara!)

  “What did you get to eat and drink,
      Johnnie, Johnnie?”
   Standing water as thick as ink,
      Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
  A bit o' beef that were three year stored,
  A bit o' mutton as tough as a board,
  And a fowl we killed with a sergeant's sword,
      When the Widow give the party.

  “What did you do for knives and forks,
      Johnnie, Johnnie?”
   We carries 'em with us wherever we walks,
      Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
  And some was sliced and some was halved,
  And some was crimped and some was carved,
  And some was gutted and some was starved,
      When the Widow give the party.

  “What ha' you done with half your mess,
      Johnnie, Johnnie?”
   They couldn't do more and they wouldn't do less,
      Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
  They ate their whack and they drank their fill,
  And I think the rations has made them ill,
  For half my comp'ny's lying still
      Where the Widow give the party.

  “How did you get away — away,
      Johnnie, Johnnie?”
   On the broad o' my back at the end o' the day,
      Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
  I comed away like a bleedin' toff,
  For I got four niggers to carry me off,
  As I lay in the bight of a canvas trough,
      When the Widow give the party.

  “What was the end of all the show,
      Johnnie, Johnnie?”
   Ask my Colonel, for I 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.
         (Bugle:  Ta—rara—ra-ra-rara!)


  Kabul town's by Kabul river —
   Blow the bugle, draw the sword —
  There I lef' my mate for ever,
   Wet an' drippin' by the ford.
      Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
      There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin'
       'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

  Kabul town's a blasted place —
   Blow the bugle, draw the sword —
  'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is face
   Wet an' drippin' by the ford!
      Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
      Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you
       'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

  Kabul town is sun and dust —
   Blow the bugle, draw the sword —
  I'd ha' sooner drownded fust
   'Stead of 'im beside the ford.
      Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
      You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin',
       'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

  Kabul town was ours to take —
   Blow the bugle, draw the sword —
  I'd ha' left it for 'is sake —
   'Im that left me by the ford.
      Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
      It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there,
       'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark?

  Kabul town'll go to hell —
   Blow the bugle, draw the sword —
  'Fore I see him 'live an' well —
   'Im the best beside the ford.
      Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
      Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under,
       By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.

  Turn your 'orse from Kabul town —
   Blow the bugle, draw the sword —
  'Im an' 'arf my troop is down,
   Down an' drownded by the ford.
      Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river,
       Ford o' Kabul river in the dark!
      There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin'
       'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark.


  To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,
   To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,
  Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely crammed,
   And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.
  Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own six horses,
   And faith he went the pace and went it blind,
  And the world was more than kin while he held the ready tin,
   But to-day the Sergeant's something less than kind.
      We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
         Baa!  Baa!  Baa!
      We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
      Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
      Damned from here to Eternity,
      God ha' mercy on such as we,
         Baa!  Yah!  Bah!

  Oh, it's sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty kitchen slops,
   And it's sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,
  To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops
   And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.
  Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be “Rider” to your troop,
   And branded with a blasted worsted spur,
  When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being cleanly
   Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you “Sir”.

  If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep,
   And all we know most distant and most dear,
  Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep,
   Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?
  When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters
   And the horror of our fall is written plain,
  Every secret, self-revealing on the aching white-washed ceiling,
   Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?

  We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth,
   We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,
  And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.
   God help us, for we knew the worst too young!
  Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence,
   Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,
  And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us
   And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.
      We're poor little lambs who've lost our way,
         Baa!  Baa!  Baa!
      We're little black sheep who've gone astray,
      Gentlemen-rankers out on the spree,
      Damned from here to Eternity,
      God ha' mercy on such as we,
         Baa!  Yah!  Bah!


  We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,
  A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;
  Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
  There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
      With its best foot first
      And the road a-sliding past,
      An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
      While the Big Drum says,
      With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!” —
      “Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?”*

  * Why don't you get on?

  Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,
  There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,
  An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,
  An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.
      While it's best foot first, . . .

  At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come,
  Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome.
  But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts,
  While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts.
      An' it's best foot first, . . .

  Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings,
  An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things,
  An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at,
  An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.*
      An' it's best foot first, . . .

  * Language.  Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that
  he is a profound Orientalist and a fluent speaker of Hindustani.
  As a matter of fact, he depends largely on the sign-language.

  It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease,
  To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees,
  For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards,
  So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards.
      Till it's best foot first, . . .

  So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore,
  There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore;
  An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell,
  You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well.
      For it's best foot first, . . .

  We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand,
  Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;
  Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
  There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
      With its best foot first
      And the road a-sliding past,
      An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
      While the Big Drum says,
      With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!” —
      “Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?


  My name is O'Kelly, I've heard the Revelly
  From Birr to Bareilly, from Leeds to Lahore,
  Hong-Kong and Peshawur,
  Lucknow and Etawah,
  And fifty-five more all endin' in “pore”.
  Black Death and his quickness, the depth and the thickness,
  Of sorrow and sickness I've known on my way,
  But I'm old and I'm nervis,
  I'm cast from the Service,
  And all I deserve is a shillin' a day.
   (Chorus)  Shillin' a day,
               Bloomin' good pay —
               Lucky to touch it, a shillin' a day!

  Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days I
  Went slap for the Ghazi, my sword at my side,
  When we rode Hell-for-leather
  Both squadrons together,
  That didn't care whether we lived or we died.
  But it's no use despairin', my wife must go charin'
  An' me commissairin' the pay-bills to better,
  So if me you be'old
  In the wet and the cold,
  By the Grand Metropold, won't you give me a letter?
   (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.



       Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
       Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
       But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
       When two strong men stand face to face,
         tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

  Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,
  And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride:
  He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,
  And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.
  Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides:
  “Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?”
   Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
  “If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.
  At dusk he harries the Abazai — at dawn he is into Bonair,
  But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,
  So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
  By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.
  But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,
  For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.
  There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
  And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.”
   The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
  With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell
    and the head of the gallows-tree.
  The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat —
  Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
  He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
  Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,
  Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,
  And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.
  He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
  “Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said.  “Show now if ye can ride.”
   It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,
  The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
  The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,
  But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.
  There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
  And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen.
  They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,
  The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.
  The dun he fell at a water-course — in a woful heap fell he,
  And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
  He has knocked the pistol out of his hand — small room was there to strive,
  “'Twas only by favour of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive:
  There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
  But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
  If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
  The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:
  If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
  The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.”
   Lightly answered the Colonel's son:  “Do good to bird and beast,
  But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
  If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,
  Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.
  They will feed their horse on the standing crop,
    their men on the garnered grain,
  The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
  But if thou thinkest the price be fair, — thy brethren wait to sup,
  The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, — howl, dog, and call them up!
  And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
  Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!”
   Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
  “No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet.
  May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
  What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?”
   Lightly answered the Colonel's son:  “I hold by the blood of my clan:
  Take up the mare for my father's gift — by God, she has carried a man!”
   The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast;
  “We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger best.
  So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
  My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.”
   The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,
  “Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he;
    “will ye take the mate from a friend?”
   “A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb.
  Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!”
   With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest —
  He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.
  “Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides,
  And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.
  Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,
  Thy life is his — thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.
  So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,
  And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line,
  And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power —
  Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.”

  They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,
  They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:
  They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,
  On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.
  The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,
  And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
  And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear —
  There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.
  “Ha' done! ha' done!” said the Colonel's son.
    “Put up the steel at your sides!
  Last night ye had struck at a Border thief —
    to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!”

       Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
       Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
       But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
       When two strong men stand face to face,
         tho' they come from the ends of the earth!


       Not many years ago a King died in one of the Rajpoot States.
       His wives, disregarding the orders of the English against Suttee,
       would have broken out of the palace had not the gates been barred.
       But one of them, disguised as the King's favourite dancing-girl,
       passed through the line of guards and reached the pyre.  There,
       her courage failing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court,
       to kill her.  This he did, not knowing who she was.
  Udai Chand lay sick to death
      In his hold by Gungra hill.
  All night we heard the death-gongs ring
  For the soul of the dying Rajpoot King,
  All night beat up from the women's wing
      A cry that we could not still.

  All night the barons came and went,
      The lords of the outer guard:
  All night the cressets glimmered pale
  On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail,
  Mewar headstall and Marwar mail,
      That clinked in the palace yard.

  In the Golden room on the palace roof
      All night he fought for air:
  And there was sobbing behind the screen,
  Rustle and whisper of women unseen,
  And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen
      On the death she might not share.

  He passed at dawn — the death-fire leaped
      From ridge to river-head,
  From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars:
  And wail upon wail went up to the stars
  Behind the grim zenana-bars,
      When they knew that the King was dead.

  The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth
      And robe him for the pyre.
  The Boondi Queen beneath us cried:
  “See, now, that we die as our mothers died
  In the bridal-bed by our master's side!
      Out, women! — to the fire!”

  We drove the great gates home apace:
      White hands were on the sill:
  But ere the rush of the unseen feet
  Had reached the turn to the open street,
  The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat —
      We held the dovecot still.

  A face looked down in the gathering day,
      And laughing spoke from the wall:
  “Oh]/e, they mourn here:  let me by —
  Azizun, the  Lucknow nautch-girl, I!
  When the house is rotten, the rats must fly,
      And I seek another thrall.

  “For I ruled the King as ne'er did Queen, —
      To-night the Queens rule me!
  Guard them safely, but let me go,
  Or ever they pay the debt they owe
  In scourge and torture!”  She leaped below,
      And the grim guard watched her flee.

  They knew that the King had spent his soul
      On a North-bred dancing-girl:
  That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god,
  And kissed the ground where her feet had trod,
  And doomed to death at her drunken nod,
      And swore by her lightest curl.

  We bore the King to his fathers' place,
      Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand:
  Where the gray apes swing, and the peacocks preen
  On fretted pillar and jewelled screen,
  And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen
      On the drift of the desert sand.

  The herald read his titles forth,
      We set the logs aglow:
  “Friend of the English, free from fear,
  Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer,
  Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer,
      King of the Jungle, — go!”

  All night the red flame stabbed the sky
      With wavering wind-tossed spears:
  And out of a shattered temple crept
  A woman who veiled her head and wept,
  And called on the King — but the great King slept,
      And turned not for her tears.

  Small thought had he to mark the strife —
      Cold fear with hot desire —
  When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame,
  And thrice she beat her breast for shame,
  And thrice like a wounded dove she came
      And moaned about the fire.

  One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze,
      The silent streets between,
  Who had stood by the King in sport and fray,
  To blade in ambush or boar at bay,
  And he was a baron old and gray,
      And kin to the Boondi Queen.

  He said:  “O shameless, put aside
      The veil upon thy brow!
  Who held the King and all his land
  To the wanton will of a harlot's hand!
  Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand?
      Stoop down, and call him now!”

  Then she:  “By the faith of my tarnished soul,
      All things I did not well,
  I had hoped to clear ere the fire died,
  And lay me down by my master's side
  To rule in Heaven his only bride,
      While the others howl in Hell.

  “But I have felt the fire's breath,
      And hard it is to die!
  Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord
  To sully the steel of a Thakur's sword
  With base-born blood of a trade abhorred,” —
      And the Thakur answered, “Ay.”

  He drew and struck:  the straight blade drank
      The life beneath the breast.
  “I had looked for the Queen to face the flame,
  But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame —
  Sister of mine, pass, free from shame,
      Pass with thy King to rest!”

  The black log crashed above the white:
      The little flames and lean,
  Red as slaughter and blue as steel,
  That whistled and fluttered from head to heel,
  Leaped up anew, for they found their meal
      On the heart of — the Boondi Queen!


            Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told.
            His mercy fills the Khyber hills — his grace is manifold;
            He has taken toll of the North and the South —
              his glory reacheth far,
            And they tell the tale of his charity from Balkh to Kandahar.

  Before the old Peshawur Gate, where Kurd and Kaffir meet,
  The Governor of Kabul dealt the Justice of the Street,
  And that was strait as running noose and swift as plunging knife,
  Tho' he who held the longer purse might hold the longer life.

  There was a hound of Hindustan had struck a Euzufzai,
  Wherefore they spat upon his face and led him out to die.
  It chanced the King went forth that hour when throat was bared to knife;
  The Kaffir grovelled under-hoof and clamoured for his life.

  Then said the King:  “Have hope, O friend!  Yea, Death disgraced is hard;
  Much honour shall be thine”; and called the Captain of the Guard,
  Yar Khan, a bastard of the Blood, so city-babble saith,
  And he was honoured of the King — the which is salt to Death;
  And he was son of Daoud Shah, the Reiver of the Plains,
  And blood of old Durani Lords ran fire in his veins;
  And 'twas to tame an Afghan pride nor Hell nor Heaven could bind,
  The King would make him butcher to a yelping cur of Hind.

  “Strike!” said the King.  “King's blood art thou —
    his death shall be his pride!”
   Then louder, that the crowd might catch:  “Fear not — his arms are tied!”
   Yar Khan drew clear the Khyber knife, and struck, and sheathed again.
  “O man, thy will is done,” quoth he; “a King this dog hath slain.”

            Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, to the North and the South is sold.
            The North and the South shall open their mouth
              to a Ghilzai flag unrolled,
            When the big guns speak to the Khyber peak, and his dog-Heratis fly:
            Ye have heard the song — How long?  How long?
              Wolves of the Abazai!

  That night before the watch was set, when all the streets were clear,
  The Governor of Kabul spoke:  “My King, hast thou no fear?
  Thou knowest — thou hast heard,” — his speech died at his master's face.
  And grimly said the Afghan King:  “I rule the Afghan race.
  My path is mine — see thou to thine — to-night upon thy bed
  Think who there be in Kabul now that clamour for thy head.”

  That night when all the gates were shut to City and to throne,
  Within a little garden-house the King lay down alone.
  Before the sinking of the moon, which is the Night of Night,
  Yar Khan came softly to the King to make his honour white.
  The children of the town had mocked beneath his horse's hoofs,
  The harlots of the town had hailed him “butcher!” from their roofs.
  But as he groped against the wall, two hands upon him fell,
  The King behind his shoulder spake:  “Dead man, thou dost not well!
  'Tis ill to jest with Kings by day and seek a boon by night;
  And that thou bearest in thy hand is all too sharp to write.
  But three days hence, if God be good, and if thy strength remain,
  Thou shalt demand one boon of me and bless me in thy pain.
  For I am merciful to all, and most of all to thee.
  My butcher of the shambles, rest — no knife hast thou for me!”

            Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief,
              holds hard by the South and the North;
            But the Ghilzai knows, ere the melting snows,
              when the swollen banks break forth,
            When the red-coats crawl to the sungar wall,
              and his Usbeg lances fail:
            Ye have heard the song — How long?  How long?
              Wolves of the Zuka Kheyl!

  They stoned him in the rubbish-field when dawn was in the sky,
  According to the written word, “See that he do not die.”

  They stoned him till the stones were piled above him on the plain,
  And those the labouring limbs displaced they tumbled back again.

  One watched beside the dreary mound that veiled the battered thing,
  And him the King with laughter called the Herald of the King.

  It was upon the second night, the night of Ramazan,
  The watcher leaning earthward heard the message of Yar Khan.
  From shattered breast through shrivelled lips broke forth the rattling breath,
  “Creature of God, deliver me from agony of Death.”

  They sought the King among his girls, and risked their lives thereby:
  “Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that he die!”

  “Bid him endure until the day,” a lagging answer came;
  “The night is short, and he can pray and learn to bless my name.”

  Before the dawn three times he spoke, and on the day once more:
  “Creature of God, deliver me, and bless the King therefor!”

  They shot him at the morning prayer, to ease him of his pain,
  And when he heard the matchlocks clink, he blessed the King again.

  Which thing the singers made a song for all the world to sing,
  So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy of the King.

            Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told,
            He has opened his mouth to the North and the South,
              they have stuffed his mouth with gold.
            Ye know the truth of his tender ruth — and sweet his favours are:
            Ye have heard the song — How long?  How long?
              from Balkh to Kandahar.


  When spring-time flushes the desert grass,
  Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass.
  Lean are the camels but fat the frails,
  Light are the purses but heavy the bales,
  As the snowbound trade of the North comes down
  To the market-square of Peshawur town.

  In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill,
  A kafila camped at the foot of the hill.
  Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose,
  And tent-peg answered to  hammer-nose;
  And the picketed ponies, shag and wild,
  Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled;
  And the bubbling camels beside the load
  Sprawled for a furlong adown the road;
  And the Persian pussy-cats, brought for sale,
  Spat at the dogs from the camel-bale;
  And the tribesmen bellowed to hasten the food;
  And the camp-fires twinkled by Fort Jumrood;
  And there fled on the wings of the gathering dusk
  A savour of camels and carpets and musk,
  A murmur of voices, a reek of smoke,
  To tell us the trade of the Khyber woke.

  The lid of the flesh-pot chattered high,
  The knives were whetted and — then came I
  To Mahbub Ali the muleteer,
  Patching his bridles and counting his gear,
  Crammed with the gossip of half a year.
  But Mahbub Ali the kindly said,
  “Better is speech when the belly is fed.”
   So we plunged the hand to the mid-wrist deep
  In a cinnamon stew of the fat-tailed sheep,
  And he who never hath tasted the food,
  By Allah! he knoweth not bad from good.

  We cleansed our beards of the mutton-grease,
  We lay on the mats and were filled with peace,
  And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south,
  With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth.
  Four things greater than all things are, —
  Women and Horses and Power and War.
  We spake of them all, but the last the most,
  For I sought a word of a Russian post,
  Of a shifty promise, an unsheathed sword
  And a gray-coat guard on the Helmund ford.
  Then Mahbub Ali lowered his eyes
  In the fashion of one who is weaving lies.
  Quoth he:  “Of the Russians who can say?
  When the night is gathering all is gray.
  But we look that the gloom of the night shall die
  In the morning flush of a blood-red sky.
  Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise
  To warn a King of his enemies?
  We know what Heaven or Hell may bring,
  But no man knoweth the mind of the King.
  That unsought counsel is cursed of God
  Attesteth the story of Wali Dad.

  “His sire was leaky of tongue and pen,
  His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen;
  And the colt bred close to the vice of each,
  For he carried the curse of an unstanched speech.
  Therewith madness — so that he sought
  The favour of kings at the Kabul court;
  And travelled, in hope of honour, far
  To the line where the gray-coat squadrons are.
  There have I journeyed too — but I
  Saw naught, said naught, and — did not die!
  He harked to rumour, and snatched at a breath
  Of `this one knoweth' and `that one saith', —
  Legends that ran from mouth to mouth
  Of a gray-coat coming, and sack of the South.
  These have I also heard — they pass
  With each new spring and the winter grass.

  “Hot-foot southward, forgotten of God,
  Back to the city ran Wali Dad,
  Even to Kabul — in full durbar
  The King held talk with his Chief in War.
  Into the press of the crowd he broke,
  And what he had heard of the coming spoke.

  “Then Gholam Hyder, the Red Chief, smiled,
  As a mother might on a babbling child;
  But those who would laugh restrained their breath,
  When the face of the King showed dark as death.
  Evil it is in full durbar
  To cry to a ruler of gathering war!
  Slowly he led to a peach-tree small,
  That grew by a cleft of the city wall.
  And he said to the boy:  `They shall praise thy zeal
  So long as the red spurt follows the steel.
  And the Russ is upon us even now?
  Great is thy prudence — await them, thou.
  Watch from the tree.  Thou art young and strong,
  Surely thy vigil is not for long.
  The Russ is upon us, thy clamour ran?
  Surely an hour shall bring their van.
  Wait and watch.  When the host is near,
  Shout aloud that my men may hear.'

  “Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise
  To warn a King of his enemies?
  A guard was set that he might not flee —
  A score of bayonets ringed the tree.
  The peach-bloom fell in showers of snow,
  When he shook at his death as he looked below.
  By the power of God, who alone is great,
  Till the seventh day he fought with his fate.
  Then madness took him, and men declare
  He mowed in the branches as ape and bear,
  And last as a sloth, ere his body failed,
  And he hung as a bat in the forks, and wailed,
  And sleep the cord of his hands untied,
  And he fell, and was caught on the points and died.

  “Heart of my heart, is it meet or wise
  To warn a King of his enemies?
  We know what Heaven or Hell may bring,
  But no man knoweth the mind of the King.
  Of the gray-coat coming who can say?
  When the night is gathering all is gray.
  Two things greater than all things are,
  The first is Love, and the second War.
  And since we know not how War may prove,
  Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!”


       More than a hundred years ago, in a great battle fought near Delhi,
       an Indian Prince rode fifty miles after the day was lost
       with a beggar-girl, who had loved him and followed him in all his camps,
       on his saddle-bow.  He lost the girl when almost within sight of safety.
       A Maratta trooper tells the story:—
  The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck,
   Our hands and scarfs were saffron-dyed for signal of despair,
  When we went forth to Paniput to battle with the Mlech, —
   Ere we came back from Paniput and left a kingdom there.

  Thrice thirty thousand men were we to force the Jumna fords —
   The hawk-winged horse of Damajee, mailed squadrons of the Bhao,
  Stark levies of the southern hills, the Deccan's sharpest swords,
   And he the harlot's traitor son the goatherd Mulhar Rao!

  Thrice thirty thousand men were we before the mists had cleared,
   The low white mists of morning heard the war-conch scream and bray;
  We called upon Bhowani and we gripped them by the beard,
   We rolled upon them like a flood and washed their ranks away.

  The children of the hills of Khost before our lances ran,
   We drove the black Rohillas back as cattle to the pen;
  'Twas then we needed Mulhar Rao to end what we began,
   A thousand men had saved the charge; he fled the field with ten!

  There was no room to clear a sword — no power to strike a blow,
   For foot to foot, ay, breast to breast, the battle held us fast —
  Save where the naked hill-men ran, and stabbing from below
   Brought down the horse and rider and we trampled them and passed.

  To left the roar of musketry rang like a falling flood —
   To right the sunshine rippled red from redder lance and blade —
  Above the dark Upsaras* flew, beneath us plashed the blood,
   And, bellying black against the dust, the Bhagwa Jhanda swayed.

  * The Choosers of the Slain.

  I saw it fall in smoke and fire, the banner of the Bhao;
   I heard a voice across the press of one who called in vain: —
  “Ho! Anand Rao Nimbalkhur, ride!  Get aid of Mulhar Rao!
   Go shame his squadrons into fight — the Bhao — the Bhao is slain!”

  Thereat, as when a sand-bar breaks in clotted spume and spray —
   When rain of later autumn sweeps the Jumna water-head,
  Before their charge from flank to flank our riven ranks gave way;
   But of the waters of that flood the Jumna fords ran red.

  I held by Scindia, my lord, as close as man might hold;
   A Soobah of the Deccan asks no aid to guard his life;
  But Holkar's Horse were flying, and our chiefest chiefs were cold,
   And like a flame among us leapt the long lean Northern knife.

  I held by Scindia — my lance from butt to tuft was dyed,
   The froth of battle bossed the shield and roped the bridle-chain —
  What time beneath our horses' feet a maiden rose and cried,
   And clung to Scindia, and I turned a sword-cut from the twain.

  (He set a spell upon the maid in woodlands long ago,
   A hunter by the Tapti banks she gave him water there:
  He turned her heart to water, and she followed to her woe.
   What need had he of Lalun who had twenty maids as fair?)

  Now in that hour strength left my lord; he wrenched his mare aside;
   He bound the girl behind him and we slashed and struggled free.
  Across the reeling wreck of strife we rode as shadows ride
   From Paniput to Delhi town, but not alone were we.

  'Twas Lutuf-Ullah Populzai laid horse upon our track,
   A swine-fed reiver of the North that lusted for the maid;
  I might have barred his path awhile, but Scindia called me back,
   And  I — O woe for Scindia! — I listened and obeyed.

  League after league the formless scrub took shape and glided by —
   League after league the white road swirled behind the white mare's feet —
  League after league, when leagues were done, we heard the Populzai,
   Where sure as Time and swift as Death the tireless footfall beat.

  Noon's eye beheld that shame of flight, the shadows fell, we fled
   Where steadfast as the wheeling kite he followed in our train;
  The black wolf warred where we had warred, the jackal mocked our dead,
   And terror born of twilight-tide made mad the labouring brain.

  I gasped: — “A kingdom waits my lord; her love is but her own.
   A day shall mar, a day shall cure for her, but what for thee?
  Cut loose the girl:  he follows fast.  Cut loose and ride alone!”
    Then Scindia 'twixt his blistered lips: — “My Queens' Queen shall she be!

  “Of all who ate my bread last night 'twas she alone that came
   To seek her love between the spears and find her crown therein!
  One shame is mine to-day, what need the weight of double shame?
   If once we reach the Delhi gate, though all be lost, I win!”

  We rode — the white mare failed — her trot a staggering stumble grew, —
   The cooking-smoke of even rose and weltered and hung low;
  And still we heard the Populzai and still we strained anew,
   And Delhi town was very near, but nearer was the foe.

  Yea, Delhi town was very near when Lalun whispered: — “Slay!
   Lord of my life, the mare sinks fast — stab deep and let me die!”
   But Scindia would not, and the maid tore free and flung away,
   And turning as she fell we heard the clattering Populzai.

  Then Scindia checked the gasping mare that rocked and groaned for breath,
   And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a hand's-breadth in her side —
  The hunter and the hunted know how that last pause is death —
   The blood had chilled about her heart, she reared and fell and died.

  Our Gods were kind.  Before he heard the maiden's piteous scream
   A log upon the Delhi road, beneath the mare he lay —
  Lost mistress and lost battle passed before him like a dream;
   The darkness closed about his eyes — I bore my King away.


            This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,
            Erst a Pretender to Theebaw's throne,
            Who harried the district of Alalone:
            How he met with his fate and the V.P.P.*
            At the hand of Harendra Mukerji,
            Senior Gomashta, G.B.T.

     * Value Payable Parcels Post:  in which the Government
     collects the money for the sender.

  Boh Da Thone was a warrior bold:
  His sword and his Snider were bossed with gold,

  And the Peacock Banner his henchmen bore
  Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore.

  He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weak
  From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak:

  He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean,
  He filled old ladies with kerosene:

  While over the water the papers cried,
  “The patriot fights for his countryside!”

  But little they cared for the Native Press,
  The worn white soldiers in Khaki dress,

  Who tramped through the jungle and camped in the byre,
  Who died in the swamp and were tombed in the mire,

  Who gave up their lives, at the Queen's Command,
  For the Pride of their Race and the Peace of the Land.

  Now, first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone
  Was Captain O'Neil of the “Black Tyrone”,

  And his was a Company, seventy strong,
  Who hustled that dissolute Chief along.

  There were lads from Galway and Louth and Meath
  Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth,

  And worshipped with fluency, fervour, and zeal
  The mud on the boot-heels of “Crook” O'Neil.

  But ever a blight on their labours lay,
  And ever their quarry would vanish away,

  Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone
  Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone:

  And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends,
  The Boh and his trackers were best of friends.

  The word of a scout — a march by night —
  A rush through the mist — a scattering fight —

  A volley from cover — a corpse in the clearing —
  The glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring —

  The flare of a village — the tally of slain —
  And. . .the Boh was abroad “on the raid” again!

  They cursed their luck, as the Irish will,
  They gave him credit for cunning and skill,

  They buried their dead, they bolted their beef,
  And started anew on the track of the thief

  Till, in place of the “Kalends of Greece”, men said,
  “When Crook and his darlings come back with the head.”

  They had hunted the Boh from the hills to the plain —
  He doubled and broke for the hills again:

  They had crippled his power for rapine and raid,
  They had routed him out of his pet stockade,

  And at last, they came, when the Day Star tired,
  To a camp deserted — a village fired.

  A black cross blistered the Morning-gold,
  And the body upon it was stark and cold.

  The wind of the dawn went merrily past,
  The high grass bowed her plumes to the blast.

  And out of the grass, on a sudden, broke
  A spirtle of fire, a whorl of smoke —

  And Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone
  Was blessed with a slug in the ulnar-bone —
  The gift of his enemy Boh Da Thone.

  (Now a slug that is hammered from telegraph-wire
  Is a thorn in the flesh and a rankling fire.)

       .    .    .    .    .

  The shot-wound festered — as shot-wounds may
  In a steaming barrack at Mandalay.

  The left arm throbbed, and the Captain swore,
  “I'd like to be after the Boh once more!”

  The fever held him — the Captain said,
  “I'd give a hundred to look at his head!”

  The Hospital punkahs creaked and whirred,
  But Babu Harendra (Gomashta) heard.

  He thought of the cane-brake, green and dank,
  That girdled his home by the Dacca tank.

  He thought of his wife and his High School son,
  He thought — but abandoned the thought — of a gun.

  His sleep was broken by visions dread
  Of a shining Boh with a silver head.

  He kept his counsel and went his way,
  And swindled the cartmen of half their pay.

       .    .    .    .    .

  And the months went on, as the worst must do,
  And the Boh returned to the raid anew.

  But the Captain had quitted the long-drawn strife,
  And in far Simoorie had taken a wife.

  And she was a damsel of delicate mould,
  With hair like the sunshine and heart of gold,

  And little she knew the arms that embraced
  Had cloven a man from the brow to the waist:

  And little she knew that the loving lips
  Had ordered a quivering life's eclipse,

  And the eye that lit at her lightest breath
  Had glared unawed in the Gates of Death.

  (For these be matters a man would hide,
  As a general rule, from an innocent Bride.)

  And little the Captain thought of the past,
  And, of all men, Babu Harendra last.

       .    .    .    .    .

  But slow, in the sludge of the Kathun road,
  The Government Bullock Train toted its load.

  Speckless and spotless and shining with ghee,
  In the rearmost cart sat the Babu-jee.

  And ever a phantom before him fled
  Of a scowling Boh with a silver head.

  Then the lead-cart stuck, though the coolies slaved,
  And the cartmen flogged and the escort raved;

  And out of the jungle, with yells and squeals,
  Pranced Boh Da Thone, and his gang at his heels!

  Then belching blunderbuss answered back
  The Snider's snarl and the carbine's crack,

  And the blithe revolver began to sing
  To the blade that twanged on the locking-ring,

  And the brown flesh blued where the bay'net kissed,
  As the steel shot back with a wrench and a twist,

  And the great white bullocks with onyx eyes
  Watched the souls of the dead arise,

  And over the smoke of the fusillade
  The Peacock Banner staggered and swayed.

  Oh, gayest of scrimmages man may see
  Is a well-worked rush on the G.B.T.!

  The Babu shook at the horrible sight,
  And girded his ponderous loins for flight,

  But Fate had ordained that the Boh should start
  On a lone-hand raid of the rearmost cart,

  And out of that cart, with a bellow of woe,
  The Babu fell — flat on the top of the Boh!

  For years had Harendra served the State,
  To the growth of his purse and the girth of his p]^et.

  There were twenty stone, as the tally-man knows,
  On the broad of the chest of this best of Bohs.

  And twenty stone from a height discharged
  Are bad for a Boh with a spleen enlarged.

  Oh, short was the struggle — severe was the shock —
  He dropped like a bullock — he lay like a block;

  And the Babu above him, convulsed with fear,
  Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear.

  And thus in a fashion undignified
  The princely pest of the Chindwin died.

       .    .    .    .    .

  Turn now to Simoorie where, lapped in his ease,
  The Captain is petting the Bride on his knees,

  Where the whit of the bullet, the wounded man's scream
  Are mixed as the mist of some devilish dream —

  Forgotten, forgotten the sweat of the shambles
  Where the hill-daisy blooms and the gray monkey gambols,

  From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel,
  The Peace of the Lord is with Captain O'Neil.

       .    .    .    .    .

  Up the hill to Simoorie — most patient of drudges —
  The bags on his shoulder, the mail-runner trudges.

  “For Captain O'Neil, Sahib.  One hundred and ten
  Rupees to collect on delivery.”

  (Their breakfast was stopped while the screw-jack and hammer
  Tore waxcloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer;)

  Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow,
  With a crash and a thud, rolled — the Head of the Boh!

  And gummed to the scalp was a letter which ran: —
                 “IN FIELDING FORCE SERVICE.
                                10th Jan.

  “Dear Sir, — I have honour to send, as you said,
  For final approval (see under) Boh's Head;

  “Was took by myself in most bloody affair.
  By High Education brought pressure to bear.

  “Now violate Liberty, time being bad,
  To mail V.P.P. (rupees hundred)  Please add

  “Whatever Your Honour can pass.  Price of Blood
  Much cheap at one hundred, and children want food;

  “So trusting Your Honour will somewhat retain
  True love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train,

  “And show awful kindness to satisfy me,
          I am,
              Graceful Master,
                              H. MUKERJI.”

       .    .    .    .    .

  As the rabbit is drawn to the rattlesnake's power,
  As the smoker's eye fills at the opium hour,

  As a horse reaches up to the manger above,
  As the waiting ear yearns for the whisper of love,

  From the arms of the Bride, iron-visaged and slow,
  The Captain bent down to the Head of the Boh.

  And e'en as he looked on the Thing where It lay
  'Twixt the winking new spoons and the napkins' array,

  The freed mind fled back to the long-ago days —
  The hand-to-hand scuffle — the smoke and the blaze —

  The forced march at night and the quick rush at dawn —
  The banjo at twilight, the burial ere morn —

  The stench of the marshes — the raw, piercing smell
  When the overhand stabbing-cut silenced the yell —

  The oaths of his Irish that surged when they stood
  Where the black crosses hung o'er the Kuttamow flood.

  As a derelict ship drifts away with the tide
  The Captain went out on the Past from his Bride,

  Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year,
  When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer.

  As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water,
  In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter,

  And men who had fought with O'Neil for the life
  Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife.

  For she who had held him so long could not hold him —
  Though a four-month Eternity should have controlled him —

  But watched the twin Terror — the head turned to head —
  The scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red —

  The spirit that changed from her knowing and flew to
  Some grim hidden Past she had never a clue to.

  But It knew as It grinned, for he touched it unfearing,
  And muttered aloud, “So you kept that jade earring!”

  Then nodded, and kindly, as friend nods to friend,
  “Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end.”

       .    .    .    .    .

  The visions departed, and Shame followed Passion: —
  “He took what I said in this horrible fashion,

  “I'll write to Harendra!”  With language unsainted
  The Captain came back to the Bride. . .who had fainted.

       .    .    .    .    .

  And this is a fiction?  No.  Go to Simoorie
  And look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri,

  A pert little, Irish-eyed Kathleen Mavournin —
  She's always about on the Mall of a mornin' —

  And you'll see, if her right shoulder-strap is displaced,
  This:  Gules upon argent, a Boh's Head, erased!


  O woe is me for the merry life
   I led beyond the Bar,
  And a treble woe for my winsome wife
   That weeps at Shalimar.

  They have taken away my long jezail,
   My shield and sabre fine,
  And heaved me into the Central jail
   For lifting of the kine.

  The steer may low within the byre,
   The Jat may tend his grain,
  But there'll be neither loot nor fire
   Till I come back again.

  And God have mercy on the Jat
   When once my fetters fall,
  And Heaven defend the farmer's hut
   When I am loosed from thrall.

  It's woe to bend the stubborn back
   Above the grinching quern,
  It's woe to hear the leg-bar clack
   And jingle when I turn!

  But for the sorrow and the shame,
   The brand on me and mine,
  I'll pay you back in leaping flame
   And loss of the butchered kine.

  For every cow I spared before
   In charity set free,
  If I may reach my hold once more
   I'll reive an honest three.

  For every time I raised the low
   That scared the dusty plain,
  By sword and cord, by torch and tow
   I'll light the land with twain!

  Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai,
   Young Sahib with the yellow hair —
  Lie close, lie close as khuttucks lie,
   Fat herds below Bonair!

  The one I'll shoot at twilight-tide,
   At dawn I'll drive the other;
  The black shall mourn for hoof and hide,
   The white man for his brother.

  'Tis war, red war, I'll give you then,
   War till my sinews fail;
  For the wrong you have done to a chief of men,
   And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl.

  And if I fall to your hand afresh
   I give you leave for the sin,
  That you cram my throat with the foul pig's flesh,
   And swing me in the skin!


       This ballad appears to refer to one of the exploits of the notorious
       Paul Jones, the American pirate.  It is founded on fact.
     . . . At the close of a winter day,
  Their anchors down, by London town, the Three Great Captains lay;
  And one was Admiral of the North from Solway Firth to Skye,
  And one was Lord of the Wessex coast and all the lands thereby,
  And one was Master of the Thames from Limehouse to Blackwall,
  And he was Captain of the Fleet — the bravest of them all.
  Their good guns guarded their great gray sides
    that were thirty foot in the sheer,
  When there came a certain trading-brig with news of a privateer.
  Her rigging was rough with the clotted drift that drives in a Northern breeze,
  Her sides were clogged with the lazy weed that spawns in the Eastern seas.
  Light she rode in the rude tide-rip, to left and right she rolled,
  And the skipper sat on the scuttle-butt and stared at an empty hold.
  “I ha' paid Port dues for your Law,” quoth he, “and where is the Law ye boast
  If I sail unscathed from a heathen port to be robbed on a Christian coast?
  Ye have smoked the hives of the Laccadives as we burn the lice in a bunk,
  We tack not now to a Gallang prow or a plunging Pei-ho junk;
  I had no fear but the seas were clear as far as a sail might fare
  Till I met with a lime-washed Yankee brig that rode off Finisterre.
  There were canvas blinds to his bow-gun ports to screen the weight he bore,
  And the signals ran for a merchantman from Sandy Hook to the Nore.
  He would not fly the Rovers' flag — the bloody or the black,
  But now he floated the Gridiron and now he flaunted the Jack.
  He spoke of the Law as he crimped my crew — he swore it was only a loan;
  But when I would ask for my own again, he swore it was none of my own.
  He has taken my little parrakeets that nest beneath the Line,
  He has stripped my rails of the shaddock-frails and the green unripened pine;
  He has taken my bale of dammer and spice I won beyond the seas,
  He has taken my grinning heathen gods — and what should he want o' these?
  My foremast would not mend his boom, my deckhouse patch his boats;
  He has whittled the two, this Yank Yahoo, to peddle for shoe-peg oats.
  I could not fight for the failing light and a rough beam-sea beside,
  But I hulled him once for a clumsy crimp and twice because he lied.
  Had I had guns (as I had goods) to work my Christian harm,
  I had run him up from his quarter-deck to trade with his own yard-arm;
  I had nailed his ears to my capstan-head, and ripped them off with a saw,
  And soused them in the bilgewater, and served them to him raw;
  I had flung him blind in a rudderless boat to rot in the rocking dark,
  I had towed him aft of his own craft, a bait for his brother shark;
  I had lapped him round with cocoa husk, and drenched him with the oil,
  And lashed him fast to his own mast to blaze above my spoil;
  I had stripped his hide for my hammock-side,
    and tasselled his beard i' the mesh,
  And spitted his crew on the live bamboo
    that grows through the gangrened flesh;
  I had hove him down by the mangroves brown,
    where the mud-reef sucks and draws,
  Moored by the heel to his own keel to wait for the land-crab's claws!
  He is lazar within and lime without, ye can nose him far enow,
  For he carries the taint of a musky ship — the reek of the slaver's dhow!”
   The skipper looked at the tiering guns and the bulwarks tall and cold,
  And the Captains Three full courteously peered down at the gutted hold,
  And the Captains Three called courteously from deck to scuttle-butt: —
  “Good Sir, we ha' dealt with that merchantman or ever your teeth were cut.
  Your words be words of a lawless race, and the Law it standeth thus:
  He comes of a race that have never a Law, and he never has boarded us.
  We ha' sold him canvas and rope and spar — we know that his price is fair,
  And we know that he weeps for the lack of a Law as he rides off Finisterre.
  And since he is damned for a gallows-thief by you and better than you,
  We hold it meet that the English fleet should know that we hold him true.”
   The skipper called to the tall taffrail: — “And what is that to me?
  Did ever you hear of a Yankee brig that rifled a Seventy-three?
  Do I loom so large from your quarter-deck that I lift like a ship o' the Line?
  He has learned to run from a shotted gun and harry such craft as mine.
  There is never a Law on the Cocos Keys to hold a white man in,
  But we do not steal the niggers' meal, for that is a nigger's sin.
  Must he have his Law as a quid to chaw, or laid in brass on his wheel?
  Does he steal with tears when he buccaneers?
    'Fore Gad, then, why does he steal?”
   The skipper bit on a deep-sea word, and the word it was not sweet,
  For he could see the Captains Three had signalled to the Fleet.
  But three and two, in white and blue, the whimpering flags began: —
  “We have heard a tale of a — foreign sail, but he is a merchantman.”
   The skipper peered beneath his palm and swore by the Great Horn Spoon: —
  “'Fore Gad, the Chaplain of the Fleet would bless my picaroon!”
   By two and three the flags blew free to lash the laughing air: —
  “We have sold our spars to the merchantman — we know that his price is fair.”
   The skipper winked his Western eye, and swore by a China storm: —
  “They ha' rigged him a Joseph's jury-coat to keep his honour warm.”
   The halliards twanged against the tops, the bunting bellied broad,
  The skipper spat in the empty hold and mourned for a wasted cord.
  Masthead — masthead, the signal sped by the line o' the British craft;
  The skipper called to his Lascar crew, and put her about and laughed: —
  “It's mainsail haul, my bully boys all — we'll out to the seas again —
  Ere they set us to paint their pirate saint, or scrub at his grapnel-chain.
  It's fore-sheet free, with her head to the sea,
    and the swing of the unbought brine —
  We'll make no sport in an English court till we come as a ship o' the Line:
  Till we come as a ship o' the Line, my lads, of thirty foot in the sheer,
  Lifting again from the outer main with news of a privateer;
  Flying his pluck at our mizzen-truck for weft of Admiralty,
  Heaving his head for our dipsey-lead in sign that we keep the sea.
  Then fore-sheet home as she lifts to the foam — we stand on the outward tack,
  We are paid in the coin of the white man's trade —
    the bezant is hard, ay, and black.
  The frigate-bird shall carry my word to the Kling and the Orang-Laut
  How a man may sail from a heathen coast to be robbed in a Christian port;
  How a man may be robbed in Christian port while Three Great Captains there
  Shall dip their flag to a slaver's rag — to show that his trade is fair!”


  It was our war-ship Clampherdown
   Would sweep the Channel clean,
  Wherefore she kept her hatches close
  When the merry Channel chops arose,
   To save the bleached marine.

  She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton,
   And a great stern-gun beside;
  They dipped their noses deep in the sea,
  They racked their stays and stanchions free
   In the wash of the wind-whipped tide.

  It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
   Fell in with a cruiser light
  That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun
  And a pair o' heels wherewith to run
   From the grip of a close-fought fight.

  She opened fire at seven miles —
   As ye shoot at a bobbing cork —
  And once she fired and twice she fired,
  Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired
   That lolls upon the stalk.

  “Captain, the bow-gun melts apace,
   The deck-beams break below,
  'Twere well to rest for an hour or twain,
  And botch the shattered plates again.”
    And he answered, “Make it so.”

  She opened fire within the mile —
   As ye shoot at the flying duck —
  And the great stern-gun shot fair and true,
  With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue,
   And the great stern-turret stuck.

  “Captain, the turret fills with steam,
   The feed-pipes burst below —
  You can hear the hiss of the helpless ram,
  You can hear the twisted runners jam.”
    And he answered, “Turn and go!”

  It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
   And grimly did she roll;
  Swung round to take the cruiser's fire
  As the White Whale faces the Thresher's ire
   When they war by the frozen Pole.

  “Captain, the shells are falling fast,
   And faster still fall we;
  And it is not meet for English stock
  To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock
   The death they cannot see.”

  “Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B.,
   We drift upon her beam;
  We dare not ram, for she can run;
  And dare ye fire another gun,
   And die in the peeling steam?”

  It was our war-ship Clampherdown
   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.

  “Captain, they hack us through and through;
   The chilled steel bolts are swift!
  We have emptied the bunkers in open sea,
  Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be.”
    And he answered, “Let her drift.”

  It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
   Swung round upon the tide,
  Her two dumb guns glared south and north,
  And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth,
   And she ground the cruiser's side.

  “Captain, they cry, the fight is done,
   They bid you send your sword.”
   And he answered, “Grapple her stern and bow.
  They have asked for the steel.  They shall have it now;
   Out cutlasses and board!”

  It was our war-ship Clampherdown
   Spewed up four hundred men;
  And the scalded stokers yelped delight,
  As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight
   Stamp o'er their steel-walled pen.

  They cleared the cruiser end to end,
   From conning-tower to hold.
  They fought as they fought in Nelson's fleet;
  They were stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet,
   As it was in the days of old.

  It was the sinking Clampherdown
   Heaved up her battered side —
  And carried a million pounds in steel,
  To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel,
   And the scour of the Channel tide.

  It was the crew of the Clampherdown
   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.


       Seven men from all the world, back to Docks again,
       Rolling down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain:
       Give the girls another drink 'fore we sign away —
       We that took the Bolivar out across the Bay!

  We put out from Sunderland loaded down with rails;
   We put back to Sunderland 'cause our cargo shifted;
  We put out from Sunderland — met the winter gales —
   Seven days and seven nights to the Start we drifted.
      Racketing her rivets loose, smoke-stack white as snow,
      All the coals adrift adeck, half the rails below,
      Leaking like a lobster-pot, steering like a dray —
      Out we took the Bolivar, out across the Bay!

  One by one the Lights came up, winked and let us by;
   Mile by mile we waddled on, coal and fo'c'sle short;
  Met a blow that laid us down, heard a bulkhead fly;
   Left the Wolf behind us with a two-foot list to port.
      Trailing like a wounded duck, working out her soul;
      Clanging like a smithy-shop after every roll;
      Just a funnel and a mast lurching through the spray —
      So we threshed the Bolivar out across the Bay!

  'Felt her hog and felt her sag, betted when she'd break;
   Wondered every time she raced if she'd stand the shock;
  Heard the seas like drunken men pounding at her strake;
   Hoped the Lord 'ud keep his thumb on the plummer-block.
      Banged against the iron decks, bilges choked with coal;
      Flayed and frozen foot and hand, sick of heart and soul;
      Last we prayed she'd buck herself into judgment Day —
      Hi! we cursed the Bolivar knocking round the Bay!

  O her nose flung up to sky, groaning to be still —
   Up and down and back we went, never time for breath;
  Then the money paid at Lloyd's caught her by the heel,
   And the stars ran round and round dancin' at our death.
      Aching for an hour's sleep, dozing off between;
      'Heard the rotten rivets draw when she took it green;
      'Watched the compass chase its tail like a cat at play —
      That was on the Bolivar, south across the Bay.

  Once we saw between the squalls, lyin' head to swell —
   Mad with work and weariness, wishin' they was we —
  Some damned Liner's lights go by like a long hotel;
   Cheered her from the Bolivar swampin' in the sea.
      Then a grayback cleared us out, then the skipper laughed;
      “Boys, the wheel has gone to Hell — rig the winches aft!
      Yoke the kicking rudder-head — get her under way!”
       So we steered her, pulley-haul, out across the Bay!

  Just a pack o' rotten plates puttied up with tar,
  In we came, an' time enough, 'cross Bilbao Bar.
      Overloaded, undermanned, meant to founder, we
      Euchred God Almighty's storm, bluffed the Eternal Sea!

       Seven men from all the world, back to town again,
       Rollin' down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain:
       Seven men from out of Hell.  Ain't the owners gay,
       'Cause we took the “Bolivar” safe across the Bay?


       Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai
       Bears witness to the truth, and Ao-Safai
       Hath told the men of Gorukh.  Thence the tale
       Comes westward o'er the peaks to India.

  The story of Bisesa, Armod's child, —
  A maiden plighted to the Chief in War,
  The Man of Sixty Spears, who held the Pass
  That leads to Thibet, but to-day is gone
  To seek his comfort of the God called Budh
  The Silent — showing how the Sickness ceased
  Because of her who died to save the tribe.

  Taman is One and greater than us all,
  Taman is One and greater than all Gods:
  Taman is Two in One and rides the sky,
  Curved like a stallion's croup, from dusk to dawn,
  And drums upon it with his heels, whereby
  Is bred the neighing thunder in the hills.

  This is Taman, the God of all Er-Heb,
  Who was before all Gods, and made all Gods,
  And presently will break the Gods he made,
  And step upon the Earth to govern men
  Who give him milk-dry ewes and cheat his Priests,
  Or leave his shrine unlighted — as Er-Heb
  Left it unlighted and forgot Taman,
  When all the Valley followed after Kysh
  And Yabosh, little Gods but very wise,
  And from the sky Taman beheld their sin.

  He sent the Sickness out upon the hills,
  The Red Horse Sickness with the iron hooves,
  To turn the Valley to Taman again.

  And the Red Horse snuffed thrice into the wind,
  The naked wind that had no fear of him;
  And the Red Horse stamped thrice upon the snow,
  The naked snow that had no fear of him;
  And the Red Horse went out across the rocks,
  The ringing rocks that had no fear of him;
  And downward, where the lean birch meets the snow,
  And downward, where the gray pine meets the birch,
  And downward, where the dwarf oak meets the pine,
  Till at his feet our cup-like pastures lay.

  That night, the slow mists of the evening dropped,
  Dropped as a cloth upon a dead man's face,
  And weltered in the Valley, bluish-white
  Like water very silent — spread abroad,
  Like water very silent, from the Shrine
  Unlighted of Taman to where the stream
  Is dammed to fill our cattle-troughs — sent up
  White waves that rocked and heaved and then were still,
  Till all the Valley glittered like a marsh,
  Beneath the moonlight, filled with sluggish mist
  Knee-deep, so that men waded as they walked.

  That night, the Red Horse grazed above the Dam,
  Beyond the cattle-troughs.  Men heard him feed,
  And those that heard him sickened where they lay.

  Thus came the Sickness to Er-Heb, and slew
  Ten men, strong men, and of the women four;
  And the Red Horse went hillward with the dawn,
  But near the cattle-troughs his hoof-prints lay.

  That night, the slow mists of the evening dropped,
  Dropped as a cloth upon the dead, but rose
  A little higher, to a young girl's height;
  Till all the Valley glittered like a lake,
  Beneath the moonlight, filled with sluggish mist.

  That night, the Red Horse grazed beyond the Dam,
  A stone's-throw from the troughs.  Men heard him feed,
  And those that heard him sickened where they lay.
  Thus came the Sickness to Er-Heb, and slew
  Of men a score, and of the women eight,
  And of the children two.

                            Because the road
  To Gorukh was a road of enemies,
  And Ao-Safai was blocked with early snow,
  We could not flee from out the Valley.  Death
  Smote at us in a slaughter-pen, and Kysh
  Was mute as Yabosh, though the goats were slain;
  And the Red Horse grazed nightly by the stream,
  And later, outward, towards the Unlighted Shrine,
  And those that heard him sickened where they lay.

  Then said Bisesa to the Priests at dusk,
  When the white mist rose up breast-high, and choked
  The voices in the houses of the dead: —
  “Yabosh and Kysh avail not.  If the Horse
  Reach the Unlighted Shrine we surely die.
  Ye have forgotten of all Gods the Chief,
  Taman!”  Here rolled the thunder through the Hills
  And Yabosh shook upon his pedestal.
  “Ye have forgotten of all Gods the Chief
  Too long.”  And all were dumb save one, who cried
  On Yabosh with the Sapphire 'twixt His knees,
  But found no answer in the smoky roof,
  And, being smitten of the Sickness, died
  Before the altar of the Sapphire Shrine.

  Then said Bisesa: — “I am near to Death,
  And have the Wisdom of the Grave for gift
  To bear me on the path my feet must tread.
  If there be wealth on earth, then I am rich,
  For Armod is the first of all Er-Heb;
  If there be beauty on the earth,” — her eyes
  Dropped for a moment to the temple floor, —
  “Ye know that I am fair.  If there be love,
  Ye know that love is mine.”  The Chief in War,
  The Man of Sixty Spears, broke from the press,
  And would have clasped her, but the Priests withstood,
  Saying: — “She has a message from Taman.”
   Then said Bisesa: — “By my wealth and love
  And beauty, I am chosen of the God
  Taman.”  Here rolled the thunder through the Hills
  And Kysh fell forward on the Mound of Skulls.

  In darkness, and before our Priests, the maid
  Between the altars cast her bracelets down,
  Therewith the heavy earrings Armod made,
  When he was young, out of the water-gold
  Of Gorukh — threw the breast-plate thick with jade
  Upon the turquoise anklets — put aside
  The bands of silver on her brow and neck;
  And as the trinkets tinkled on the stones,
  The thunder of Taman lowed like a bull.

  Then said Bisesa, stretching out her hands,
  As one in darkness fearing Devils: — “Help!
  O Priests, I am a woman very weak,
  And who am I to know the will of Gods?
  Taman hath called me — whither shall I go?”
   The Chief in War, the Man of Sixty Spears,
  Howled in his torment, fettered by the Priests,
  But dared not come to her to drag her forth,
  And dared not lift his spear against the Priests.
  Then all men wept.

                      There was a Priest of Kysh
  Bent with a hundred winters, hairless, blind,
  And taloned as the great Snow-Eagle is.
  His seat was nearest to the altar-fires,
  And he was counted dumb among the Priests.
  But, whether Kysh decreed, or from Taman
  The impotent tongue found utterance we know
  As little as the bats beneath the eaves.
  He cried so that they heard who stood without: —
  “To the Unlighted Shrine!” and crept aside
  Into the shadow of his fallen God
  And whimpered, and Bisesa went her way.

  That night, the slow mists of the evening dropped,
  Dropped as a cloth upon the dead, and rose
  Above the roofs, and by the Unlighted Shrine
  Lay as the slimy water of the troughs
  When murrain thins the cattle of Er-Heb:
  And through the mist men heard the Red Horse feed.

  In Armod's house they burned Bisesa's dower,
  And killed her black bull Tor, and broke her wheel,
  And loosed her hair, as for the marriage-feast,
  With cries more loud than mourning for the dead.

  Across the fields, from Armod's dwelling-place,
  We heard Bisesa weeping where she passed
  To seek the Unlighted Shrine; the Red Horse neighed
  And followed her, and on the river-mint
  His hooves struck dead and heavy in our ears.

  Out of the mists of evening, as the star
  Of Ao-Safai climbs through the black snow-blur
  To show the Pass is clear, Bisesa stepped
  Upon the great gray slope of mortised stone,
  The Causeway of Taman.  The Red Horse neighed
  Behind her to the Unlighted Shrine — then fled
  North to the Mountain where his stable lies.

  They know who dared the anger of Taman,
  And watched that night above the clinging mists,
  Far up the hill, Bisesa's passing in.

  She set her hand upon the carven door,
  Fouled by a myriad bats, and black with time,
  Whereon is graved the Glory of Taman
  In letters older than the Ao-Safai;
  And twice she turned aside and twice she wept,
  Cast down upon the threshold, clamouring
  For him she loved — the Man of Sixty Spears,
  And for her father, — and the black bull Tor,
  Hers and her pride.  Yea, twice she turned away
  Before the awful darkness of the door,
  And the great horror of the Wall of Man
  Where Man is made the plaything of Taman,
  An Eyeless Face that waits above and laughs.

  But the third time she cried and put her palms
  Against the hewn stone leaves, and prayed Taman
  To spare Er-Heb and take her life for price.

  They know who watched, the doors were rent apart
  And closed upon Bisesa, and the rain
  Broke like a flood across the Valley, washed
  The mist away; but louder than the rain
  The thunder of Taman filled men with fear.

  Some say that from the Unlighted Shrine she cried
  For succour, very pitifully, thrice,
  And others that she sang and had no fear.
  And some that there was neither song nor cry,
  But only thunder and the lashing rain.

  Howbeit, in the morning men rose up,
  Perplexed with horror, crowding to the Shrine.
  And when Er-Heb was gathered at the doors
  The Priests made lamentation and passed in
  To a strange Temple and a God they feared
  But knew not.

                 From the crevices the grass
  Had thrust the altar-slabs apart, the walls
  Were gray with stains unclean, the roof-beams swelled
  With many-coloured growth of rottenness,
  And lichen veiled the Image of Taman
  In leprosy.  The Basin of the Blood
  Above the altar held the morning sun:
  A winking ruby on its heart:  below,
  Face hid in hands, the maid Bisesa lay.

       Er-Heb beyond the Hills of Ao-Safai
       Bears witness to the truth, and Ao-Safai
       Hath told the men of Gorukh.  Thence the tale
       Comes westward o'er the peaks to India.


  Love and Death once ceased their strife
  At the Tavern of Man's Life.
  Called for wine, and threw — alas! —
  Each his quiver on the grass.
  When the bout was o'er they found
  Mingled arrows strewed the ground.
  Hastily they gathered then
  Each the loves and lives of men.
  Ah, the fateful dawn deceived!
  Mingled arrows each one sheaved;
  Death's dread armoury was stored
  With the shafts he most abhorred;
  Love's light quiver groaned beneath
  Venom-headed darts of Death.

  Thus it was they wrought our woe
  At the Tavern long ago.
  Tell me, do our masters know,
  Loosing blindly as they fly,
  Old men love while young men die?


  The dead child lay in the shroud,
   And the widow watched beside;
  And her mother slept, and the Channel swept
   The gale in the teeth of the tide.

  But the mother laughed at all.
   “I have lost my man in the sea,
  And the child is dead.  Be still,” she said,
   “What more can ye do to me?”

  The widow watched the dead,
   And the candle guttered low,
  And she tried to sing the Passing Song
   That bids the poor soul go.

  And “Mary take you now,” she sang,
   “That lay against my heart.”
   And “Mary smooth your crib to-night,”
    But she could not say “Depart.”

  Then came a cry from the sea,
   But the sea-rime blinded the glass,
  And “Heard ye nothing, mother?” she said,
   “'Tis the child that waits to pass.”

  And the nodding mother sighed.
   “'Tis a lambing ewe in the whin,
  For why should the christened soul cry out
   That never knew of sin?”

  “O feet I have held in my hand,
   O hands at my heart to catch,
  How should they know the road to go,
   And how should they lift the latch?”

  They laid a sheet to the door,
   With the little quilt atop,
  That it might not hurt from the cold or the dirt,
   But the crying would not stop.

  The widow lifted the latch
   And strained her eyes to see,
  And opened the door on the bitter shore
   To let the soul go free.

  There was neither glimmer nor ghost,
   There was neither spirit nor spark,
  And “Heard ye nothing, mother?” she said,
   “'Tis crying for me in the dark.”

  And the nodding mother sighed:
   “'Tis sorrow makes ye dull;
  Have ye yet to learn the cry of the tern,
   Or the wail of the wind-blown gull?”

  “The terns are blown inland,
   The gray gull follows the plough.
  'Twas never a bird, the voice I heard,
   O mother, I hear it now!”

  “Lie still, dear lamb, lie still;
   The child is passed from harm,
  'Tis the ache in your breast that broke your rest,
   And the feel of an empty arm.”

  She put her mother aside,
   “In Mary's name let be!
  For the peace of my soul I must go,” she said,
   And she went to the calling sea.

  In the heel of the wind-bit pier,
   Where the twisted weed was piled,
  She came to the life she had missed by an hour,
   For she came to a little child.

  She laid it into her breast,
   And back to her mother she came,
  But it would not feed and it would not heed,
   Though she gave it her own child's name.

  And the dead child dripped on her breast,
   And her own in the shroud lay stark;
  And “God forgive us, mother,” she said,
   “We let it die in the dark!”


  Read here:
  This is the story of Evarra — man —
  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.

  Read here the story of Evarra — man —
  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.

  Read here the story of Evarra — man —
  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 brows for eyes, and gave it hair
   Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown.
   And all the village praised him for this craft,
   And brought him butter, honey, milk, and curds.
   Wherefore, because the shoutings drove him mad,
   He scratched upon that log:  “Thus Gods are made,
   And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”
    And all the people praised him. . . .  Then he died.

  Read here the story of Evarra — man —
  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,
   Abhorrent, shapeless, crowned with plantain tufts,
   And when the cattle lowed at twilight-time,
   He dreamed it was the clamour of lost crowds,
   And howled among the beasts:  “Thus Gods are made,
   And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”
    Thereat the cattle bellowed. . . .  Then he died.

  Yet at the last he came to Paradise,
  And found his own four Gods, and that he wrote;
  And marvelled, being very near to God,
  What oaf on earth had made his toil God's law,
  Till God said mocking:  “Mock not.  These be thine.”
   Then cried Evarra:  “I have sinned!” — “Not so.
  If thou hadst written otherwise, thy Gods
  Had rested in the mountain and the mine,
  And I were poorer by four wondrous Gods,
  And thy more wondrous law, Evarra.  Thine,
  Servant of shouting crowds and lowing kine.”
   Thereat, with laughing mouth, but tear-wet eyes,
  Evarra cast his Gods from Paradise.

  This is the story of Evarra — man —
  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.


  When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
  Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
  And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
  Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, “It's pretty, but is it Art?”

  Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew —
  The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
  And he left his lore to the use of his sons — and that was a glorious gain
  When the Devil chuckled “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.

  They fought and they talked in the North and the South,
    they talked and they fought in the West,
  Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest —
  Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
  And the Devil bubbled below the keel:  “It's human, but is it Art?”

  They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
  Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks:  “It's striking, but is it Art?”
   The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
  While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

  The tale is as old as the Eden Tree — and new as the new-cut tooth —
  For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
  And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
  The Devil drum on the darkened pane:  “You did it, but was it Art?”

  We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,
  We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,
  We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;
  But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old:  “It's clever, but is it Art?”

  When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,
  The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould —
  They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves,
    and the ink and the anguish start,
  For the Devil mutters behind the leaves:  “It's pretty, but is it Art?”

  Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,
  And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,
  And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,
  By the favour of God we might know as much — as our father Adam knew!



  This is the sorrowful story
   Told when the twilight fails
  And the monkeys walk together
   Holding their neighbours' tails: —

  “Our fathers lived in the forest,
   Foolish people were they,
  They went down to the cornland
   To teach the farmers to play.

  “Our fathers frisked in the millet,
   Our fathers skipped in the wheat,
  Our fathers hung from the branches,
   Our fathers danced in the street.

  “Then came the terrible farmers,
   Nothing of play they knew,
  Only. . .they caught our fathers
   And set them to labour too!

  “Set them to work in the cornland
   With ploughs and sickles and flails,
  Put them in mud-walled prisons
   And — cut off their beautiful tails!

  “Now, we can watch our fathers,
   Sullen and bowed and old,
  Stooping over the millet,
   Sharing the silly mould,

  “Driving a foolish furrow,
   Mending a muddy yoke,
  Sleeping in mud-walled prisons,
   Steeping their food in smoke.

  “We may not speak to our fathers,
   For if the farmers knew
  They would come up to the forest
   And set us to labour too.”

  This is the horrible story
   Told as the twilight fails
  And the monkeys walk together
   Holding their kinsmen's tails.

  'Twas when the rain fell steady an' the Ark was pitched an' ready,
   That Noah got his orders for to take the bastes below;
  He dragged them all together by the horn an' hide an' feather,
   An' all excipt the Donkey was agreeable to go.

  Thin Noah spoke him fairly, thin talked to him sevarely,
   An' thin he cursed him squarely to the glory av the Lord: —
  “Divil take the ass that bred you, and the greater ass that fed you —
   Divil go wid you, ye spalpeen!” an' the Donkey went aboard.

  But the wind was always failin', an' 'twas most onaisy sailin',
   An' the ladies in the cabin couldn't stand the stable air;
  An' the bastes betwuxt the hatches, they tuk an' died in batches,
   Till Noah said: — “There's wan av us that hasn't paid his fare!”

  For he heard a flusteration 'mid the bastes av all creation —
   The trumpetin' av elephints an' bellowin' av whales;
  An' he saw forninst the windy whin he wint to stop the shindy
   The Divil wid a stable-fork bedivillin' their tails.

  The Divil cursed outrageous, but Noah said umbrageous: —
   “To what am I indebted for this tenant-right invasion?”
   An' the Divil gave for answer: — “Evict me if you can, sir,
   For I came in wid the Donkey — on Your Honour's invitation.”


       Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing the Union Jack,
       remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but ultimately
       when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts,
       and seemed to see significance in the incident. — DAILY PAPERS.
  Winds of the World, give answer!  They are whimpering to and fro —
  And what should they know of England who only England know? —
  The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag,
  They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag!

  Must we borrow a clout from the Boer — to plaster anew with dirt?
  An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt?
  We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell or share.
  What is the Flag of England?  Winds of the World, declare!

  The North Wind blew: — “From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go;
  I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe;
  By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God,
  And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.

  “I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame,
  Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came;
  I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast,
  And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed.

  “The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night,
  The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light:
  What is the Flag of England?  Ye have but my bergs to dare,
  Ye have but my drifts to conquer.  Go forth, for it is there!”

  The South Wind sighed: — “From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta'en
  Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main,
  Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon
  Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.

  “Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys,
  I waked the palms to laughter — I tossed the scud in the breeze —
  Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone,
  But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown.

  “I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn;
  I have chased it north to the Lizard — ribboned and rolled and torn;
  I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea;
  I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free.

  “My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross,
  Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross.
  What is the Flag of England?  Ye have but my reefs to dare,
  Ye have but my seas to furrow.  Go forth, for it is there!”

  The East Wind roared: — “From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come,
  And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home.
  Look — look well to your shipping!  By the breath of my mad typhoon
  I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon!

  “The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before,
  I raped your richest roadstead — I plundered Singapore!
  I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose,
  And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows.

  “Never the lotus closes, never the wild-fowl wake,
  But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England's sake —
  Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid —
  Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed.

  “The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows,
  The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows.
  What is the Flag of England?  Ye have but my sun to dare,
  Ye have but my sands to travel.  Go forth, for it is there!”

  The West Wind called: — “In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly
  That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die.
  They make my might their porter, they make my house their path,
  Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath.

  “I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole,
  They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll,
  For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath,
  And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death.

  “But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day,
  I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away,
  First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky,
  Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.

  “The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it — the frozen dews have kissed —
  The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist.
  What is the Flag of England?  Ye have but my breath to dare,
  Ye have but my waves to conquer.  Go forth, for it is there!”


  (In Memory of a Commission)
  Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,
  Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt!
  From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song,
  The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong.

  Their noble names were mentioned — O the burning black disgrace! —
  By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case;
  They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it,
  And “coruscating innocence” the learned Judges gave it.

  Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon's knife,
  The honourable gentlemen deplored the loss of life!
  Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burk and shirk and snigger,
  No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger!

  Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies,
  Like ph]oenixes from Ph]oenix Park (and what lay there) they rise!
  Go shout it to the emerald seas — give word to Erin now,
  Her honourable gentlemen are cleared — and this is how: —

  They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price,
  They only helped the murderer with counsel's best advice,
  But — sure it keeps their honour white — the learned Court believes
  They never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves.

  They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman's hide,
  They never marked a man for death — what fault of theirs he died? —
  They only said “intimidate”, and talked and went away —
  By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they!

  Their sin it was that fed the fire — small blame to them that heard —
  The “bhoys” get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word —
  They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too,
  The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew.

  They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail,
  They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clanna-Gael.
  If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down,
  They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.

  “Cleared”, honourable gentlemen!  Be thankful it's no more: —
  The widow's curse is on your house, the dead are at your door.
  On you the shame of open shame, on you from North to South
  The hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth.

  “Less black than we were painted”? — Faith, no word of black was said;
  The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red.
  It's sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff,
  And by the Judge's well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off.

  Hold up those hands of innocence — go, scare your sheep together,
  The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether;
  And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen,
  Tell them it's tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again!

  “The charge is old”? — As old as Cain — as fresh as yesterday;
  Old as the Ten Commandments — have ye talked those laws away?
  If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball,
  You spoke the words that sped the shot — the curse be on you all.

  “Our friends believe”? — Of course they do — as sheltered women may;
  But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay?
  They! — If their own front door is shut,
    they'll swear the whole world's warm;
  What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm?

  The secret half a county keeps, the whisper in the lane,
  The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane,
  The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees,
  And shows the “bhoys” have heard your talk — what do they know of these?

  But you — you know — ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead,
  Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred,
  The mangled stallion's scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer's low.
  Who set the whisper going first?  You know, and well you know!

  My soul!  I'd sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight,
  Pure crime I'd done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate,
  Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered,
  While one of those “not provens” proved me cleared as you are cleared.

  Cleared — you that “lost” the League accounts — go, guard our honour still,
  Go, help to make our country's laws that broke God's law at will —
  One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal “strike again”;
  The other on your dress-shirt-front to show your heart is clane.

  If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down,
  You're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.
  If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: —
  We are not ruled by murderers, but only — by their friends.


  Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed,
  To ease the strong of their burden, to help the weak in their need,
  He sent a word to the peoples, who struggle, and pant, and sweat,
  That the straw might be counted fairly and the tally of bricks be set.

  The Lords of Their Hands assembled; from the East and the West they drew —
  Baltimore, Lille, and Essen, Brummagem, Clyde, and Crewe.
  And some were black from the furnace, and some were brown from the soil,
  And some were blue from the dye-vat; but all were wearied of toil.

  And the young King said: — “I have found it, the road to the rest ye seek:
  The strong shall wait for the weary, the hale shall halt for the weak;
  With the even tramp of an army where no man breaks from the line,
  Ye shall march to peace and plenty in the bond of brotherhood — sign!”

  The paper lay on the table, the strong heads bowed thereby,
  And a wail went up from the peoples: — “Ay, sign — give rest, for we die!”
   A hand was stretched to the goose-quill, a fist was cramped to scrawl,
  When — the laugh of a blue-eyed maiden ran clear through the council-hall.

  And each one heard Her laughing as each one saw Her plain —
  Saidie, Mimi, or Olga, Gretchen, or Mary Jane.
  And the Spirit of Man that is in Him to the light of the vision woke;
  And the men drew back from the paper, as a Yankee delegate spoke: —

  “There's a girl in Jersey City who works on the telephone;
  We're going to hitch our horses and dig for a house of our own,
  With gas and water connections, and steam-heat through to the top;
  And, W. Hohenzollern, I guess I shall work till I drop.”

  And an English delegate thundered: — “The weak an' the lame be blowed!
  I've a berth in the Sou'-West workshops, a home in the Wandsworth Road;
  And till the 'sociation has footed my buryin' bill,
  I work for the kids an' the missus.  Pull up?  I be damned if I will!”

  And over the German benches the bearded whisper ran: —
  “Lager, der girls und der dollars, dey makes or dey breaks a man.
  If Schmitt haf collared der dollars, he collars der girl deremit;
  But if Schmitt bust in der pizness, we collars der girl from Schmitt.”

  They passed one resolution: — “Your sub-committee believe
  You can lighten the curse of Adam when you've lightened the curse of Eve.
  But till we are built like angels, with hammer and chisel and pen,
  We will work for ourself and a woman, for ever and ever, amen.”

  Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser held —
  The day that they razored the Grindstone, the day that the Cat was belled,
  The day of the Figs from Thistles, the day of the Twisted Sands,
  The day that the laugh of a maiden made light of the Lords of Their Hands.


  Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square,
  And a Spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair —
  A Spirit gripped him by the hair and carried him far away,
  Till he heard as the roar of a rain-fed ford the roar of the Milky Way:
  Till he heard the roar of the Milky Way die down and drone and cease,
  And they came to the Gate within the Wall where Peter holds the keys.
  “Stand up, stand up now, Tomlinson, and answer loud and high
  The good that ye did for the sake of men or ever ye came to die —
  The good that ye did for the sake of men in little earth so lone!”
   And the naked soul of Tomlinson grew white as a rain-washed bone.
  “O I have a friend on earth,” he said, “that was my priest and guide,
  And well would he answer all for me if he were by my side.”
   — “For that ye strove in neighbour-love it shall be written fair,
  But now ye wait at Heaven's Gate and not in Berkeley Square:
  Though we called your friend from his bed this night,
    he could not speak for you,
  For the race is run by one and one and never by two and two.”
   Then Tomlinson looked up and down, and little gain was there,
  For the naked stars grinned overhead, and he saw that his soul was bare:
  The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife,
  And Tomlinson took up his tale and spoke of his good in life.
  “This I have read in a book,” he said, “and that was told to me,
  And this I have thought that another man thought of a Prince in Muscovy.”
   The good souls flocked like homing doves and bade him clear the path,
  And Peter twirled the jangling keys in weariness and wrath.
  “Ye have read, ye have heard, ye have thought,” he said,
    “and the tale is yet to run:
  By the worth of the body that once ye had, give answer — what ha' ye done?”
   Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and little good it bore,
  For the Darkness stayed at his shoulder-blade and Heaven's Gate before: —
  “O this I have felt, and this I have guessed, and this I have heard men say,
  And this they wrote that another man wrote of a carl in Norroway.”
   — “Ye have read, ye have felt, ye have guessed, good lack!
    Ye have hampered Heaven's Gate;
  There's little room between the stars in idleness to prate!
  O none may reach by hired speech of neighbour, priest, and kin
  Through borrowed deed to God's good meed that lies so fair within;
  Get hence, get hence to the Lord of Wrong, for doom has yet to run,
  And. . .the faith that ye share with Berkeley Square uphold you, Tomlinson!”

       .    .    .    .    .

  The Spirit gripped him by the hair, and sun by sun they fell
  Till they came to the belt of Naughty Stars that rim the mouth of Hell:
  The first are red with pride and wrath, the next are white with pain,
  But the third are black with clinkered sin that cannot burn again:
  They may hold their path, they may leave their path,
    with never a soul to mark,
  They may burn or freeze, but they must not cease
    in the Scorn of the Outer Dark.
  The Wind that blows between the worlds, it nipped him to the bone,
  And he yearned to the flare of Hell-Gate
    there as the light of his own hearth-stone.
  The Devil he sat behind the bars, where the desperate legions drew,
  But he caught the hasting Tomlinson and would not let him through.
  “Wot ye the price of good pit-coal that I must pay?” said he,
  “That ye rank yoursel' so fit for Hell and ask no leave of me?
  I am all o'er-sib to Adam's breed that ye should give me scorn,
  For I strove with God for your First Father the day that he was born.
  Sit down, sit down upon the slag, and answer loud and high
  The harm that ye did to the Sons of Men or ever you came to die.”
   And Tomlinson looked up and up, and saw against the night
  The belly of a tortured star blood-red in Hell-Mouth light;
  And Tomlinson looked down and down, and saw beneath his feet
  The frontlet of a tortured star milk-white in Hell-Mouth heat.
  “O I had a love on earth,” said he, “that kissed me to my fall,
  And if ye would call my love to me I know she would answer all.”
   — “All that ye did in love forbid it shall be written fair,
  But now ye wait at Hell-Mouth Gate and not in Berkeley Square:
  Though we whistled your love from her bed to-night, I trow she would not run,
  For the sin ye do by two and two ye must pay for one by one!”
   The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife,
  And Tomlinson took up the tale and spoke of his sin in life: —
  “Once I ha' laughed at the power of Love and twice at the grip of the Grave,
  And thrice I ha' patted my God on the head that men might call me brave.”
   The Devil he blew on a brandered soul and set it aside to cool: —
  “Do ye think I would waste my good pit-coal on the hide of a brain-sick fool?
  I see no worth in the hobnailed mirth or the jolthead jest ye did
  That I should waken my gentlemen that are sleeping three on a grid.”
   Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and there was little grace,
  For Hell-Gate filled the houseless Soul with the Fear of Naked Space.
  “Nay, this I ha' heard,” quo'  Tomlinson, “and this was noised abroad,
  And this I ha' got from a Belgian book on the word of a dead French lord.”
   — “Ye ha' heard, ye ha' read, ye ha' got, good lack!
    and the tale begins afresh —
  Have ye sinned one sin for the pride o' the eye
    or the sinful lust of the flesh?”
   Then Tomlinson he gripped the bars and yammered, “Let me in —
  For I mind that I borrowed my neighbour's wife to sin the deadly sin.”
   The Devil he grinned behind the bars, and banked the fires high:
  “Did ye read of that sin in a book?” said he; and Tomlinson said, “Ay!”
   The Devil he blew upon his nails, and the little devils ran,
  And he said:  “Go husk this whimpering thief that comes in the guise of a man:
  Winnow him out 'twixt star and star, and sieve his proper worth:
  There's sore decline in Adam's line if this be spawn of earth.”
   Empusa's crew, so naked-new they may not face the fire,
  But weep that they bin too small to sin to the height of their desire,
  Over the coal they chased the Soul, and racked it all abroad,
  As children rifle a caddis-case or the raven's foolish hoard.
  And back they came with the tattered Thing, as children after play,
  And they said:  “The soul that he got from God he has bartered clean away.
  We have threshed a stook of print and book, and winnowed a chattering wind
  And many a soul wherefrom he stole, but his we cannot find:
  We have handled him, we have dandled him, we have seared him to the bone,
  And sure if tooth and nail show truth he has no soul of his own.”
   The Devil he bowed his head on his breast and rumbled deep and low: —
  “I'm all o'er-sib to Adam's breed that I should bid him go.
  Yet close we lie, and deep we lie, and if I gave him place,
  My gentlemen that are so proud would flout me to my face;
  They'd call my house a common stews and me a careless host,
  And — I would not anger my gentlemen for the sake of a shiftless ghost.”
   The Devil he looked at the mangled Soul that prayed to feel the flame,
  And he thought of Holy Charity, but he thought of his own good name: —
  “Now ye could haste my coal to waste, and sit ye down to fry:
  Did ye think of that theft for yourself?” said he; and Tomlinson said, “Ay!”
   The Devil he blew an outward breath, for his heart was free from care: —
  “Ye have scarce the soul of a louse,” he said,
    “but the roots of sin are there,
  And for that sin should ye come in were I the lord alone.
  But sinful pride has rule inside — and mightier than my own.
  Honour and Wit, fore-damned they sit, to each his priest and whore:
  Nay, scarce I dare myself go there, and you they'd torture sore.
  Ye are neither spirit nor spirk,” he said; “ye are neither book nor brute —
  Go, get ye back to the flesh again for the sake of Man's repute.
  I'm all o'er-sib to Adam's breed that I should mock your pain,
  But look that ye win to worthier sin ere ye come back again.
  Get hence, the hearse is at your door — the grim black stallions wait —
  They bear your clay to place to-day.  Speed, lest ye come too late!
  Go back to Earth with a lip unsealed — go back with an open eye,
  And carry my word to the Sons of Men or ever ye come to die:
  That the sin they do by two and two they must pay for one by one —
  And. . .the God that you took from a printed book be with you, Tomlinson!”


  My new-cut ashlar takes the light
   Where crimson-blank the windows flare;
  By my own work, before the night,
   Great Overseer I make my prayer.

  If there be good in that I wrought,
   Thy hand compelled it, Master, Thine;
  Where I have failed to meet Thy thought
   I know, through Thee, the blame is mine.

  One instant's toil to Thee denied
   Stands all Eternity's offence,
  Of that I did with Thee to guide
   To Thee, through Thee, be excellence.

  Who, lest all thought of Eden fade,
   Bring'st Eden to the craftsman's brain,
  Godlike to muse o'er his own trade
   And Manlike stand with God again.

  The depth and dream of my desire,
   The bitter paths wherein I stray,
  Thou knowest Who hast made the Fire,
   Thou knowest Who hast made the Clay!

  One stone the more swings to her place
   In that dread Temple of Thy Worth —
  It is enough that through Thy grace
   I saw naught common on Thy earth.

  Take not that vision from my ken;
   Oh whatsoe'er may spoil or speed,
  Help me to need no aid from men
   That I may help such men as need!


  There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
   And the ricks stand gray to the sun,
  Singing: — “Over then, come over, for the bee has quit the clover,
   And your English summer's done.”
       You have heard the beat of the off-shore wind,
      And the thresh of the deep-sea rain;
      You have heard the song — how long! how long?
      Pull out on the trail again!

     Ha' done with the Tents of Shem, dear lass,
     We've seen the seasons through,
     And it's time to turn on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
     Pull out, pull out, on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

  It's North you may run to the rime-ringed sun,
   Or South to the blind Horn's hate;
  Or East all the way into Mississippi Bay,
   Or West to the Golden Gate;
      Where the blindest bluffs hold good, dear lass,
      And the wildest tales are true,
      And the men bulk big on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
      And life runs large on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

  The days are sick and cold, and the skies are gray and old,
   And the twice-breathed airs blow damp;
  And I'd sell my tired soul for the bucking beam-sea roll
   Of a black Bilbao tramp;
      With her load-line over her hatch, dear lass,
      And a drunken Dago crew,
      And her nose held down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail
      From Cadiz Bar on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

  There be triple ways to take, of the eagle or the snake,
   Or the way of a man with a maid;
  But the fairest way to me is a ship's upon the sea
   In the heel of the North-East Trade.
      Can you hear the crash on her bows, dear lass,
      And the drum of the racing screw,
      As she ships it green on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
      As she lifts and 'scends on the Long Trail —
        the trail that is always new?

  See the shaking funnels roar, with the Peter at the fore,
   And the fenders grind and heave,
  And the derricks clack and grate, as the tackle hooks the crate,
   And the fall-rope whines through the sheave;
      It's “Gang-plank up and in,” dear lass,
      It's “Hawsers warp her through!”
       And it's “All clear aft” on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
      We're backing down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

  O the mutter overside, when the port-fog holds us tied,
   And the sirens hoot their dread!
  When foot by foot we creep o'er the hueless viewless deep
   To the sob of the questing lead!
      It's down by the Lower Hope, dear lass,
      With the Gunfleet Sands in view,
      Till the Mouse swings green on the old trail,
        our own trail, the out trail,
      And the Gull Light lifts on the Long Trail —
        the trail that is always new.

  O the blazing tropic night, when the wake's a welt of light
   That holds the hot sky tame,
  And the steady fore-foot snores through the planet-powdered floors
   Where the scared whale flukes in flame!
      Her plates are scarred by the sun, dear lass,
      And her ropes are taut with the dew,
      For we're booming down on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
      We're sagging south on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.

  Then home, get her home, where the drunken rollers comb,
   And the shouting seas drive by,
  And the engines stamp and ring, and the wet bows reel and swing,
   And the Southern Cross rides high!
      Yes, the old lost stars wheel back, dear lass,
      That blaze in the velvet blue.
      They're all old friends on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
      They're God's own guides on the Long Trail —
        the trail that is always new.

  Fly forward, O my heart, from the Foreland to the Start —
   We're steaming all-too slow,
  And it's twenty thousand mile to our little lazy isle
   Where the trumpet-orchids blow!
      You have heard the call of the off-shore wind,
      And the voice of the deep-sea rain;
      You have heard the song — how long! how long?
      Pull out on the trail again!

     The Lord knows what we may find, dear lass,
     And The Deuce knows what we may do —
     But we're back once more on the old trail, our own trail, the out trail,
     We're down, hull down on the Long Trail — the trail that is always new.




To the City of Bombay

       The Cities are full of pride,
        Challenging each to each —
       This from her mountain-side,
        That from her burthened beach.

       They count their ships full tale —
        Their corn and oil and wine,
       Derrick and loom and bale,
        And rampart's gun-flecked line;
       City by City they hail:
        “Hast aught to match with mine?”

       And the men that breed from them
        They traffic up and down,
       But cling to their cities' hem
        As a child to their mother's gown.

       When they talk with the stranger bands,
        Dazed and newly alone;
       When they walk in the stranger lands,
        By roaring streets unknown;
       Blessing her where she stands
        For strength above their own.

       (On high to hold her fame
        That stands all fame beyond,
       By oath to back the same,
        Most faithful-foolish-fond;
       Making her mere-breathed name
        Their bond upon their bond.)

       So thank I God my birth
        Fell not in isles aside —
       Waste headlands of the earth,
        Or warring tribes untried —
       But that she lent me worth
        And gave me right to pride.

       Surely in toil or fray
        Under an alien sky,
       Comfort it is to say:
        “Of no mean city am I!”

       (Neither by service nor fee
        Come I to mine estate —
       Mother of Cities to me,
        For I was born in her gate,
       Between the palms and the sea,
        Where the world-end steamers wait.)

       Now for this debt I owe,
        And for her far-borne cheer
       Must I make haste and go
        With tribute to her pier.

       And she shall touch and remit
        After the use of kings
       (Orderly, ancient, fit)
        My deep-sea plunderings,
       And purchase in all lands.
        And this we do for a sign
       Her power is over mine,
        And mine I hold at her hands!



       Fair is our lot — O goodly is our heritage!
       (Humble ye, my people, and be fearful in your mirth!)
        For the Lord our God Most High
        He hath made the deep as dry,
       He hath smote for us a pathway to the ends of all the Earth!

       Yea, though we sinned — and our rulers went from righteousness —
       Deep in all dishonour though we stained our garments' hem.
        Oh be ye not dismayed,
        Though we stumbled and we strayed,
       We were led by evil counsellors — the Lord shall deal with them!

       Hold ye the Faith — the Faith our Fathers seal]\ed us;
       Whoring not with visions — overwise and overstale.
        Except ye pay the Lord
        Single heart and single sword,
       Of your children in their bondage shall He ask them treble-tale!

       Keep ye the Law — be swift in all obedience —
       Clear the land of evil, drive the road and bridge the ford.
        Make ye sure to each his own
        That he reap where he hath sown;
       By the peace among Our peoples let men know we serve the Lord!

            .    .    .    .    .

       Hear now a song — a song of broken interludes —
       A song of little cunning; of a singer nothing worth.
        Through the naked words and mean
        May ye see the truth between
       As the singer knew and touched it in the ends of all the Earth!

The Coastwise Lights

  Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees;
  Our loins are battered 'neath us by the swinging, smoking seas.
  From reef and rock and skerry — over headland, ness, and voe —
  The Coastwise Lights of England watch the ships of England go!

  Through the endless summer evenings, on the lineless, level floors;
  Through the yelling Channel tempest when the siren hoots and roars —
  By day the dipping house-flag and by night the rocket's trail —
  As the sheep that graze behind us so we know them where they hail.

  We bridge across the dark and bid the helmsman have a care,
  The flash that wheeling inland wakes his sleeping wife to prayer;
  From our vexed eyries, head to gale, we bind in burning chains
  The lover from the sea-rim drawn — his love in English lanes.

  We greet the clippers wing-and-wing that race the Southern wool;
  We warn the crawling cargo-tanks of Bremen, Leith, and Hull;
  To each and all our equal lamp at peril of the sea —
  The white wall-sided war-ships or the whalers of Dundee!

  Come up, come in from Eastward, from the guardports of the Morn!
  Beat up, beat in from Southerly, O gipsies of the Horn!
  Swift shuttles of an Empire's loom that weave us, main to main,
  The Coastwise Lights of England give you welcome back again!

  Go, get you gone up-Channel with the sea-crust on your plates;
  Go, get you into London with the burden of your freights!
  Haste, for they talk of Empire there, and say, if any seek,
  The Lights of England sent you and by silence shall ye speak!

The Song of the Dead

       Hear now the Song of the Dead — in the North by the torn berg-edges —
       They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
       Song of the Dead in the South — in the sun by their skeleton horses,
       Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust
         of the sear river-courses.

       Song of the Dead in the East — in the heat-rotted jungle hollows,
       Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof —
         in the brake of the buffalo-wallows.
       Song of the Dead in the West —
         in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them,
       Where the wolverene tumbles their packs
         from the camp and the grave-mound they made them;
                   Hear now the Song of the Dead!

  We were dreamers, dreaming greatly, in the man-stifled town;
  We yearned beyond the sky-line where the strange roads go down.
  Came the Whisper, came the Vision, came the Power with the Need,
  Till the Soul that is not man's soul was lent us to lead.
  As the deer breaks — as the steer breaks — from the herd where they graze,
  In the faith of little children we went on our ways.
  Then the wood failed — then the food failed — then the last water dried —
  In the faith of little children we lay down and died.
  On the sand-drift — on the veldt-side — in the fern-scrub we lay,
  That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way.
  Follow after — follow after!  We have watered the root,
  And the bud has come to blossom that ripens for fruit!
  Follow after — we are waiting, by the trails that we lost,
  For the sounds of many footsteps, for the tread of a host.
  Follow after — follow after — for the harvest is sown:
  By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own!

       When Drake went down to the Horn
        And England was crowned thereby,
       'Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed
        Our Lodge — our Lodge was born
        (And England was crowned thereby!)

       Which never shall close again
        By day nor yet by night,
       While man shall take his life to stake
        At risk of shoal or main
        (By day nor yet by night).

       But standeth even so
        As now we witness here,
       While men depart, of joyful heart,
        Adventure for to know
        (As now bear witness here!)

  We have fed our sea for a thousand years
   And she calls us, still unfed,
  Though there's never a wave of all her waves
   But marks our English dead:
  We have strawed our best to the weed's unrest,
   To the shark and the sheering gull.
  If blood be the price of admiralty,
   Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

  There's never a flood goes shoreward now
   But lifts a keel we manned;
  There's never an ebb goes seaward now
   But drops our dead on the sand —
  But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,
   From the Ducies to the Swin.
  If blood be the price of admiralty,
  If blood be the price of admiralty,
   Lord God, we ha' paid it in!

  We must feed our sea for a thousand years,
   For that is our doom and pride,
  As it was when they sailed with the 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

  The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar —
  Down to the dark, to the utter dark, where the blind white sea-snakes are.
  There is no sound, no echo of sound, in the deserts of the deep,
  Or the great gray level plains of ooze where the shell-burred cables creep.

  Here in the womb of the world — here on the tie-ribs of earth
   Words, and the words of men, flicker and flutter and beat —
  Warning, sorrow and gain, salutation and mirth —
   For a Power troubles the Still that has neither voice nor feet.

  They have wakened the timeless Things; they have killed their father Time;
   Joining hands in the gloom, a league from the last of the sun.
  Hush!  Men talk to-day o'er the waste of the ultimate slime,
   And a new Word runs between:  whispering, “Let us be one!”

The Song of the Sons

  One from the ends of the earth — gifts at an open door —
  Treason has much, but we, Mother, thy sons have more!
  From the whine of a dying man, from the snarl of a wolf-pack freed,
  Turn, and the world is thine.  Mother, be proud of thy seed!
  Count, are we feeble or few?  Hear, is our speech so rude?
  Look, are we poor in the land?  Judge, are we men of The Blood?

  Those that have stayed at thy knees, Mother, go call them in —
  We that were bred overseas wait and would speak with our kin.
  Not in the dark do we fight — haggle and flout and gibe;
  Selling our love for a price, loaning our hearts for a bribe.
  Gifts have we only to-day — Love without promise or fee —
  Hear, for thy children speak, from the uttermost parts of the sea!

The Song of the Cities


  Royal and Dower-royal, I the Queen
   Fronting thy richest sea with richer hands —
  A thousand mills roar through me where I glean
   All races from all lands.

  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!

  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.

  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.

  Hail, Mother!  East and West must seek my aid
   Ere the spent gear may dare the ports afar.
  The second doorway of the wide world's trade
   Is mine to loose or bar.

  Hail, Mother!  Hold me fast; my Praya sleeps
    Under innumerable keels to-day.
  Yet guard (and landward), or to-morrow sweeps
    Thy war-ships down the bay!

  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!

  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!

  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!

  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!

  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!

  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!

  The northern stirp beneath the southern skies —
   I build a Nation for an Empire's need,
  Suffer a little, and my land shall rise,
   Queen over lands indeed!

  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.

  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 gray mother that bore you on her knees! —
  That ye may talk together, brother to brother's face —
  Thus for the good of your peoples — thus for the Pride of the Race.
  Also, we will make promise.  So long as The Blood endures,
  I shall know that your good is mine:  ye shall feel that my strength is yours:
  In the day of Armageddon, at the last great fight of all,
  That Our House stand together and the pillars do not fall.
  Draw now the threefold knot firm on the ninefold bands,
  And the Law that ye make shall be law after the rule of your lands.
  This for the waxen Heath, and that for the Wattle-bloom,
  This for the Maple-leaf, and that for the southern Broom.
  The Law that ye make shall be law and I do not press my will,
  Because ye are Sons of The Blood and call me Mother still.
  Now must ye speak to your kinsmen and they must speak to you,
  After the use of the English, in straight-flung words and few.
  Go to your work and be strong, halting not in your ways,
  Balking the end half-won for an instant dole of praise.
  Stand to your work and be wise — certain of sword and pen,
  Who are neither children nor Gods, but men in a world of men!


  Mine was the woman to me, darkling I found her;
  Haling her dumb from the camp, took her and bound her.
  Hot rose her tribe on our track ere I had proved her;
  Hearing her laugh in the gloom, greatly I loved her.

  Swift through the forest we ran; none stood to guard us,
  Few were my people and far; then the flood barred us —
  Him we call Son of the Sea, sullen and swollen.
  Panting we waited the death, stealer and stolen.

  Yet ere they came to my lance laid for the slaughter,
  Lightly she leaped to a log lapped in the water;
  Holding on high and apart skins that arrayed her,
  Called she the God of the Wind that He should aid her.

  Life had the tree at that word (Praise we the Giver!)
  Otter-like left he the bank for the full river.
  Far fell their axes behind, flashing and ringing,
  Wonder was on me and fear — yet she was singing!

  Low lay the land we had left.  Now the blue bound us,
  Even the Floor of the Gods level around us.
  Whisper there was not, nor word, shadow nor showing,
  Till the light stirred on the deep, glowing and growing.

  Then did He leap to His place flaring from under,
  He the Compeller, the Sun, bared to our wonder.
  Nay, not a league from our eyes blinded with gazing,
  Cleared He the gate of the world, huge and amazing!

  This we beheld (and we live) — the Pit of the Burning!
  Then the God spoke to the tree for our returning;
  Back to the beach of our flight, fearless and slowly,
  Back to our slayers went he:  but we were holy.

  Men that were hot in that hunt, women that followed,
  Babes that were promised our bones, trembled and wallowed:
  Over the necks of the Tribe crouching and fawning —
  Prophet and priestess we came back from the dawning!


And there was no more sea.
  Thus said The Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim
   Calling to the Angels and the Souls in their degree:
    “Lo!  Earth has passed away
    On the smoke of Judgment Day.
   That Our word may be established shall We gather up the sea?”

  Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:
   “Plague upon the hurricane that made us furl and flee!
    But the war is done between us,
    In the deep the Lord hath seen us —
   Our bones we'll leave the barracout', and God may sink the sea!”

  Then said the soul of Judas that betray]\ed Him:
   “Lord, hast Thou forgotten Thy covenant with me?
    How once a year I go
    To cool me on the floe?
   And Ye take my day of mercy if Ye take away the sea!”

  Then said the soul of the Angel of the Off-shore Wind:
   (He that bits the thunder when the bull-mouthed breakers flee):
    “I have watch and ward to keep
    O'er Thy wonders on the deep,
   And Ye take mine honour from me if Ye take away the sea!”

  Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:
   “Nay, but we were angry, and a hasty folk are we!
    If we worked the ship together
    Till she foundered in foul weather,
   Are we babes that we should clamour for a vengeance on the sea?”

  Then said the souls of the slaves that men threw overboard:
   “Kennelled in the picaroon a weary band were we;
    But Thy arm was strong to save,
    And it touched us on the wave,
   And we drowsed the long tides idle till Thy Trumpets tore the sea.”

  Then cried the soul of the stout Apostle Paul to God:
   “Once we frapped a ship, and she laboured woundily.
    There were fourteen score of these,
    And they blessed Thee on their knees,
   When they learned Thy Grace and Glory under Malta by the sea!”

  Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,
   Plucking at their harps, and they plucked unhandily:
    “Our thumbs are rough and tarred,
    And the tune is something hard —
   May we lift a Deep-sea Chantey such as seamen use at sea?”

  Then said the souls of the gentlemen-adventurers —
   Fettered wrist to bar all for red iniquity:
    “Ho, we revel in our chains
    O'er the sorrow that was Spain's;
   Heave or sink it, leave or drink it, we were masters of the sea!”

  Up spake the soul of a gray Gothavn 'speckshioner —
   (He that led the flinching in the fleets of fair Dundee):
    “Oh, the ice-blink white and near,
    And the bowhead breaching clear!
   Will Ye whelm them all for wantonness that wallow in the sea?”

  Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,
   Crying:  “Under Heaven, here is neither lead nor lee!
    Must we sing for evermore
    On the windless, glassy floor?
   Take back your golden fiddles and we'll beat to open sea!”

  Then stooped the Lord, and He called the good sea up to Him,
   And 'stablished his borders unto all eternity,
    That such as have no pleasure
    For to praise the Lord by measure,
   They may enter into galleons and serve Him on the sea.

       Sun, wind, and cloud shall fail not from the face of it,
        Stinging, ringing spindrift, nor the fulmar flying free;
         And the ships shall go abroad
         To the Glory of the Lord
        Who heard the silly sailor-folk and gave them back their sea!


  King Solomon drew merchantmen,
   Because of his desire
  For peacocks, apes, and ivory,
   From Tarshish unto Tyre:
  With cedars out of Lebanon
   Which Hiram rafted down,
  But we be only sailormen
   That use in London Town.

       Coastwise — cross-seas — round the world and back again —
        Where the flaw shall head us or the full Trade suits —
       Plain-sail — storm-sail — lay your board and tack again —
        And that's the way we'll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!

  We bring no store of ingots,
   Of spice or precious stones,
  But that we have we gathered
   With sweat and aching bones:
  In flame beneath the tropics,
   In frost upon the floe,
  And jeopardy of every wind
   That does between them go.

  And some we got by purchase,
   And some we had by trade,
  And some we found by courtesy
   Of pike and carronade —
  At midnight, 'mid-sea meetings,
   For charity to keep,
  And light the rolling homeward-bound
   That rode a foot too deep.

  By sport of bitter weather
   We're walty, strained, and scarred
  From the kentledge on the kelson
   To the slings upon the yard.
  Six oceans had their will of us
   To carry all away —
  Our galley's in the Baltic,
   And our boom's in Mossel Bay!

  We've floundered off the Texel,
   Awash with sodden deals,
  We've slipped from Valparaiso
   With the Norther at our heels:
  We've ratched beyond the Crossets
   That tusk the Southern Pole,
  And dipped our gunnels under
   To the dread Agulhas roll.

  Beyond all outer charting
   We sailed where none have sailed,
  And saw the land-lights burning
   On islands none have hailed;
  Our hair stood up for wonder,
   But, when the night was done,
  There danced the deep to windward
   Blue-empty 'neath the sun!

  Strange consorts rode beside us
   And brought us evil luck;
  The witch-fire climbed our channels,
   And flared on vane and truck:
  Till, through the red tornado,
   That lashed us nigh to blind,
  We saw The Dutchman plunging,
   Full canvas, head to wind!

  We've heard the Midnight Leadsman
   That calls the black deep down —
  Ay, thrice we've heard The Swimmer,
   The Thing that may not drown.
  On frozen bunt and gasket
   The sleet-cloud drave her hosts,
  When, manned by more than signed with us,
   We passed the Isle o' Ghosts!

  And north, amid the hummocks,
   A biscuit-toss below,
  We met the silent shallop
   That frighted whalers know;
  For, down a cruel ice-lane,
   That opened as he sped,
  We saw dead Henry Hudson
   Steer, North by West, his dead.

  So dealt God's waters with us
   Beneath the roaring skies,
  So walked His signs and marvels
   All naked to our eyes:
  But we were heading homeward
   With trade to lose or make —
  Good Lord, they slipped behind us
   In the tailing of our wake!

  Let go, let go the anchors;
   Now shamed at heart are we
  To bring so poor a cargo home
   That had for gift the sea!
  Let go the great bow-anchors —
   Ah, fools were we and blind —
  The worst we stored with utter toil,
   The best we left behind!

       Coastwise — cross-seas — round the world and back again,
        Whither flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down:
       Plain-sail — storm-sail — lay your board and tack again —
        And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!


  Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,
  An', taught by time, I tak' it so — exceptin' always Steam.
  From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God —
  Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod.
  John Calvin might ha' forged the same — enorrmous, certain, slow —
  Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame — my “Institutio”.
  I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please;
  I'll stand the middle watch up here — alone wi' God an' these
  My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an' strain
  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, M'Andrew!  Back again?  An' how's your bilge to-day?”
   Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my chair
  To drink Madeira wi' three Earls — the auld Fleet Engineer,
  That started as a boiler-whelp — when steam and he were low.
  I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi' tow.
  Ten pound was all the pressure then — Eh!  Eh! — a man wad drive;
  An' here, our workin' gauges give one hunder fifty-five!
  We're creepin' on wi' each new rig — less weight an' larger power:
  There'll be the loco-boiler next an' thirty knots an hour!
  Thirty an' more.  What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began
  Leaves me no doot for the machine:  but what about the man?
  The man that counts, wi' all his runs, one million mile o' sea:
  Four time the span from earth to moon. . . .  How far, O Lord, from Thee?
  That wast beside him night an' day.  Ye mind my first typhoon?
  It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi' the saloon.
  Three feet were on the stokehold-floor — just slappin' to an' fro —
  An' cast me on a furnace-door.  I have the marks to show.
  Marks!  I ha' marks o' more than burns — deep in my soul an' black,
  An' times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back.
  The sins o' four and forty years, all up an' down the seas,
  Clack an' repeat like valves half-fed. . . .  Forgie's our trespasses.
  Nights when I'd come on deck to mark, wi' envy in my gaze,
  The couples kittlin' in the dark between the funnel stays;
  Years when I raked the ports wi' pride to fill my cup o' wrong —
  Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong!
  Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode —
  Jane Harrigan's an' Number Nine, The Reddick an' Grant Road!
  An' waur than all — my crownin' sin — rank blasphemy an' wild.
  I was not four and twenty then — Ye wadna judge a child?
  I'd seen the Tropics first that run — new fruit, new smells, new air —
  How could I tell — blind-fou wi' sun — the Deil was lurkin' there?
  By day like playhouse-scenes the shore slid past our sleepy eyes;
  By night those soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies,
  In port (we used no cargo-steam) I'd daunder down the streets —
  An ijjit grinnin' in a dream — for shells an' parrakeets,
  An' walkin'-sticks o' carved bamboo an' blowfish stuffed an' dried —
  Fillin' my bunk wi' rubbishry the Chief put overside.
  Till, off Sambawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a land-breeze ca',
  Milk-warm wi' breath o' spice an' bloom:  “M'Andrew, come awa'!”
   Firm, clear an' low — no haste, no hate — the ghostly whisper went,
  Just statin' eevidential facts beyon' all argument:
  “Your mither's God's a graspin' deil, the shadow o' yoursel',
  Got out o' books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an' Hell.
  They mak' Him in the Broomielaw, o' Glasgie cold an' dirt,
  A jealous, pridefu' fetich, lad, that's only strong to hurt,
  Ye'll not go back to Him again an' kiss His red-hot rod,
  But come wi' Us” (Now, who were 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.
  That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin' swell,
  Thou knowest all my heart an' mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell.
  Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell!
  Yet was Thy hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy care —
  Fra' Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o' despair,
  But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer!
  We dared not run that sea by night but lay an' held our fire,
  An' I was drowsin' on the hatch — sick — sick wi' doubt an' tire:
  “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.
  Light on the engine-room — no more — bright as our carbons burn.
  I've lost it since a thousand times, but never past return.

       .    .    .    .    .

  Obsairve.  Per annum we'll have here two thousand souls aboard —
  Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord,
  But — average fifteen hunder souls safe-borne fra' port to port —
  I 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 any road ye steer —
  Fra' Cape Town east to Wellington — ye need an engineer.
  Fail there — ye've time to weld your shaft — ay, eat it, ere ye're spoke;
  Or make Kerguelen under sail — three jiggers burned wi' smoke!
  An' home again, the Rio run:  it's no child's play to go
  Steamin' to bell for fourteen days o' snow an' floe an' blow —
  The bergs like kelpies overside that girn an' turn an' shift
  Whaur, grindin' like the Mills o' God, goes by the big South drift.
  (Hail, snow an' ice that praise the Lord:  I've met them at their work,
  An' wished we had anither route or they anither kirk.)
  Yon's strain, hard strain, o' head an' hand, for though Thy Power brings
  All skill to naught, Ye'll understand a man must think o' things.
  Then, at the last, we'll get to port an' hoist their baggage clear —
  The passengers, wi' gloves an' canes — an' this is what I'll hear:
  “Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage.  The tender's comin' now.”
   While I go testin' follower-bolts an' watch the skipper bow.
  They've words for every one but me — shake hands wi' half the crew,
  Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew.
  An' yet I like the wark for all we've dam' few pickin's here —
  No pension, an' the most we earn's four hunder pound a year.
  Better myself abroad?  Maybe.  I'd sooner starve than sail
  Wi' such as call a snifter-rod ross. . .French for nightingale.
  Commeesion on my stores?  Some do; but I can not afford
  To lie like stewards wi' patty-pans —.  I'm older than the Board.
  A bonus on the coal I save?  Ou ay, the Scots are close,
  But when I grudge the strength Ye gave I'll grudge their food to 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 head 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 cap 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.
  I showed him round last week, o'er all — an' at the last says he:
  “Mister M'Andrew, don't you think steam spoils romance at sea?”
   Damned ijjit!  I'd been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws,
  Manholin', on my back — the cranks three inches off my nose.
  Romance!  Those first-class passengers they like it very well,
  Printed an' bound in little books; but why don't poets tell?
  I'm sick of all their quirks an' turns — the loves an' doves they dream —
  Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o' Steam!
  To match wi' Scotia's noblest speech yon orchestra sublime
  Whaurto — uplifted like the Just — the tail-rods mark the time.
  The crank-throws give the double-bass, the feed-pump sobs an' heaves,
  An' now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves:
  Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides,
  Till — hear that note? — the rod's return
    whings glimmerin' through the guides.
  They're all awa'!  True beat, full power, the clangin' chorus goes
  Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin' dynamos.
  Interdependence absolute, foreseen, ordained, decreed,
  To work, Ye'll note, at any tilt an' every rate o' speed.
  Fra' skylight-lift to furnace-bars, backed, bolted, braced an' stayed,
  An' singin' like the Mornin' Stars for joy that they are made;
  While, out o' touch o' vanity, the sweatin' thrust-block says:
  “Not unto us the praise, or man — not unto us the praise!”
   Now, a' together, hear them lift their lesson — theirs an' mine:
  “Law, Orrder, Duty an' Restraint, Obedience, Discipline!”
   Mill, forge an' try-pit taught them that when roarin' they arose,
  An' whiles I wonder if a soul was gied them wi' the blows.
  Oh for a man to weld it then, in one trip-hammer strain,
  Till even first-class passengers could tell the meanin' plain!
  But no one cares except mysel' that serve an' understand
  My seven thousand horse-power here.
    Eh, Lord!  They're grand — they're grand!
  Uplift am I?  When first in store the new-made beasties stood,
  Were Ye cast down that breathed the Word declarin' all things good?
  Not so!  O' that warld-liftin' joy no after-fall could vex,
  Ye've left a glimmer still to cheer the Man — the Arrtifex!
  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. . . .
              Losh!  Yon's the “Stand by” bell.
  Pilot so soon?  His flare it is.  The mornin'-watch is set.
  Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin', I'm no Pelagian yet.
  Now I'll tak' on. . . .
      'Morrn, Ferguson.  Man, have ye ever thought
  What your good leddy costs in coal? . . .  I'll burn 'em down to port.


  I sent a message to my dear —
   A thousand leagues and more to Her —
  The dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear,
   And Lost Atlantis bore to Her.

  Behind my message hard I came,
   And nigh had found a grave for me;
  But that I launched of steel and flame
   Did war against the wave for me.

  Uprose the deep, by gale on gale,
   To bid me change my mind again —
  He broke his teeth along my rail,
   And, roaring, swung behind again.

  I stayed the sun at noon to tell
   My way across the waste of it;
  I read the storm before it fell
   And made the better haste of it.

  Afar, I hailed the land at night —
   The towers I built had heard of me —
  And, ere my rocket reached its height,
   Had flashed my Love the word of me.

  Earth sold her chosen men of strength
   (They lived and strove and died for me)
  To drive my road a nation's length,
   And toss the miles aside for me.

  I snatched their toil to serve my needs —
   Too slow their fleetest flew for me —
  I tired twenty smoking steeds,
   And bade them bait a new for me.

  I sent the lightnings forth to see
   Where hour by hour She waited me.
  Among ten million one was She,
   And surely all men hated me!

  Dawn ran to meet me at my goal —
   Ah, day no tongue shall tell again!
  And little folk of little soul
   Rose up to buy and sell again!


       We've drunk to the Queen — God bless her! —
        We've drunk to our mothers' land;
       We've drunk to our English brother
        (But he does not understand);
       We've drunk to the wide creation,
        And the Cross swings low for the morn;
       Last toast, and of obligation,
        A health to the Native-born!

       They change their skies above them,
        But not their hearts that roam!
       We learned from our wistful mothers
        To call old England “home”;
       We read of the English skylark,
        Of the spring in the English lanes,
       But we screamed with the painted lories
        As we rode on the dusty plains!

       They passed with their old-world legends —
        Their tales of wrong and dearth —
       Our fathers held by purchase,
        But we by the right of birth;
       Our heart's where they rocked our cradle,
        Our love where we spent our toil,
       And our faith and our hope and our honour
        We pledge to our native soil!

       I charge you charge your glasses —
        I charge you drink with me
       To the men of the Four New Nations,
        And the Islands of the Sea —
       To the last least lump of coral
        That none may stand outside,
       And our own good pride shall teach us
        To praise our comrade's pride!

  To the hush of the breathless morning
   On the thin, tin, crackling roofs,
  To the haze of the burned back-ranges
   And the dust of the shoeless hoofs —
  To the risk of a death by drowning,
   To the risk of a death by drouth —
  To the men of a million acres,
   To the Sons of the Golden South!

       To the Sons of the Golden South (Stand up!),
        And the life we live and know,
       Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about,
       If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about
        With the weight of a single blow!

  To the smoke of a hundred coasters,
   To the sheep on a thousand hills,
  To the sun that never blisters,
   To the rain that never chills —
  To the land of the waiting spring-time,
   To our five-meal, meat-fed men,
  To the tall, deep-bosomed women,
   And the children nine and ten!

       And the children nine and ten (Stand up!),
        And the life we live and know,
       Let a fellow sing o' the little things he cares about,
       If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about
        With the weight of a two-fold blow!

  To the far-flung fenceless prairie
   Where the quick cloud-shadows trail,
  To our neighbour's barn in the offing
   And the line of the new-cut rail;
  To the plough in her league-long furrow
   With the gray Lake gulls behind —
  To the weight of a half-year's winter
   And the warm wet western wind!

  To the home of the floods and thunder,
   To her pale dry healing blue —
  To the lift of the great Cape combers,
   And the smell of the baked Karroo.
  To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head —
   To the reef and the water-gold,
  To the last and the largest Empire,
   To the map that is half unrolled!

  To our dear dark foster-mothers,
   To the heathen songs they sung —
  To the heathen speech we babbled
   Ere we came to the white man's tongue.
  To the cool of our deep verandas —
   To the blaze of our jewelled main,
  To the night, to the palms in the moonlight,
   And the fire-fly in the cane!

  To the hearth of our people's people —
   To her well-ploughed windy sea,
  To the hush of our dread high-altar
   Where The Abbey makes us We;
  To the grist of the slow-ground ages,
   To the gain that is yours and mine —
  To the Bank of the Open Credit,
   To the Power-house of the Line!

  We've drunk to the Queen — God bless her! —
   We've drunk to our mothers' land;
  We've drunk to our English brother
   (And we hope he'll understand).
  We've drunk as much as we're able,
   And the Cross swings low for the morn;
  Last toast — and your foot on the table! —
   A health to the Native-born!

       A health to the Native-born (Stand up!),
        We're six white men arow,
       All bound to sing o' the little things we care about,
       All bound to fight for the little things we care about
        With the weight of a six-fold blow!
       By the might of our cable-tow (Take hands!),
        From the Orkneys to the Horn,
       All round the world (and a little loop to pull it by),
       All round the world (and a little strap to buckle it),
        A health to the Native-born!


  “Farewell, Romance!” the Cave-men said;
   “With bone well carved he went away,
  Flint arms the ignoble arrowhead,
   And jasper tips the spear to-day.
  Changed are the Gods of Hunt and Dance,
  And he with these.  Farewell, Romance!”

  “Farewell, Romance!” the Lake-folk sighed;
   “We lift the weight of flatling years;
  The caverns of the mountain-side
   Hold him who scorns our hutted piers.
  Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell,
  Guard ye his rest.  Romance, farewell!”

  “Farewell, Romance!” the Soldier spoke;
   “By sleight of sword we may not win,
  But scuffle 'mid uncleanly smoke
   Of arquebus and culverin.
  Honour is lost, and none may tell
  Who paid good blows.  Romance, farewell!”

  “Farewell, Romance!” the Traders cried;
   Our keels ha' lain with every sea;
  The dull-returning wind and tide
   Heave up the wharf where we would be;
  The known and noted breezes swell
  Our trudging sail.  Romance, farewell!”

  “Good-bye, Romance!” the Skipper said;
   “He vanished with the coal we burn;
  Our dial marks full steam ahead,
   Our speed is timed to half a turn.
  Sure as the ferried barge we ply
  'Twixt port and port.  Romance, good-bye!”

  “Romance!” the season-tickets mourn,
   “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 hand was on the lever laid,
   His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks,
  His whistle waked the snowbound grade,
   His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks;
  By dock and deep and mine and mill
  The Boy-god reckless laboured still!

  Robed, crowned and throned, he wove his spell,
   Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke curled,
  With unconsidered miracle,
   Hedged in a backward-gazing world;
  Then taught his chosen bard to say:
  “Our King was with us — yesterday!”


       Away by the lands of the Japanee
        Where the paper lanterns glow
       And the crews of all the shipping drink
        In the house of Blood Street Joe,
       At twilight, when the landward breeze
        Brings up the harbour noise,
       And ebb of Yokohama Bay
        Swigs chattering through the buoys,
       In Cisco's Dewdrop Dining-Rooms
        They tell the tale anew
       Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight,
       When the Baltic ran from the Northern Light
        And the Stralsund fought the two.

  Now this is the Law of the Muscovite, that he proves with shot and steel,
  When ye come by his isles in the Smoky Sea ye must not take the seal,
  Where the gray sea goes nakedly between the weed-hung shelves,
  And the little blue fox he is bred for his skin
    and the seal they breed for themselves;
  For when the matkas seek the shore to drop their pups aland,
  The great man-seal haul out of the sea, a-roaring, band by band;
  And when the first September gales have slaked their rutting-wrath,
  The great man-seal haul back to the sea and no man knows their path.
  Then dark they lie and stark they lie — rookery, dune, and floe,
  And the Northern Lights come down o' nights to dance with the houseless snow;
  And God Who clears the grounding berg and steers the grinding floe,
  He hears the cry of the little kit-fox and the wind along the snow.
  But since our women must walk gay and money buys their gear,
  The sealing-boats they filch that way at hazard year by year.
  English they be and Japanee that hang on the Brown Bear's flank,
  And some be Scot, but the worst of the lot, and the boldest thieves, be Yank!

  It was the sealer Northern Light, to the Smoky Seas she bore,
  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 Vladivostock slip.)
  She turned and dived in the sea-smother as a rabbit dives in the whins,
  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.

  There was no time to man the brakes, they knocked the shackle free,
  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!
  Ring and blow for the Baltic now, and head her back to the bay,
  And we'll come into the game again — with a double deck to play!”

  They rang and blew the sealers' call — the poaching cry of the sea —
  And they raised the 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?”

  A dog-toothed laugh laughed Reuben Paine, and bared his flenching-knife.
  “Yea, skin for skin, and all that he hath a man will give for his life;
  But I've six thousand skins below, and Yeddo Port to see,
  And there's never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-Three:
  So go in peace to the naked seas with empty holds to fill,
  And I'll be good to your seal this catch, as many as I shall kill!”

  Answered the snap of a closing lock and the jar of a gun-butt slid,
  But the tender fog shut fold on fold to hide the wrong they did.
  The weeping fog rolled fold on fold the wrath of man to cloak,
  And the flame-spurts pale ran down the rail as the sealing-rifles spoke.
  The bullets bit on bend and butt, the splinter slivered free
  (Little they trust to sparrow-dust that stop the seal in his sea!),
  The thick smoke hung and would not shift, leaden it lay and blue,
  But three were down on the Baltic's deck and two of the Stralsund's crew.
  An arm's-length out and overside the banked fog held them bound,
  But, as they heard or groan or word, they fired at the sound.
  For one cried out on the Name of God, and one to have him cease,
  And the questing volley found them both and bade them hold their peace;
  And one called out on a heathen joss and one on the Virgin's Name,
  And the schooling bullet leaped across and showed them whence they came.
  And in the waiting silences the rudder whined beneath,
  And each man drew his watchful breath slow taken 'tween the teeth —
  Trigger and ear and eye acock, knit brow and hard-drawn lips —
  Bracing his feet by chock and cleat for the rolling of the ships.
  Till they heard the cough of a wounded man that fought in the fog for breath,
  Till they heard the torment of Reuben Paine that wailed upon his death:

  “The tides they'll go through Fundy Race but I'll go nevermore
  And see the hogs from ebb-tide mark turn scampering back to shore.
  No more I'll see the trawlers drift below the Bass Rock ground,
  Or watch the tall Fall steamer lights tear blazing up the Sound.
  Sorrow is me, in a lonely sea and a sinful fight I fall,
  But if there's law o' God or man you'll swing for it yet, Tom Hall!”
   Tom Hall stood up by the quarter-rail.  “Your words in your teeth,” said he.
  “There's never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-Three.
  So go in grace with Him to face, and an ill-spent life behind,
  And I'll be good to your widows, Rube, as many as I shall find.”

  A Stralsund man shot blind and large, and a war-lock Finn was he,
  And he hit Tom Hall with a bursting ball a hand's-breadth over the knee.
  Tom Hall caught hold by the topping-lift, and sat him down with an oath,
  “You'll wait a little, Rube,” he said, “the Devil has called for both.
  The Devil is driving both this tide, and the killing-grounds are close,
  And we'll go up to the Wrath of God as the holluschickie goes.
  O men, put back your guns again and lay your rifles by,
  We've fought our fight, and the best are down.  Let up and let us die!
  Quit firing, by the bow there — quit!  Call off the Baltic's crew!
  You're sure of Hell as me or Rube — but wait till we get through.”
   There went no word between the ships, but thick and quick and loud
  The life-blood drummed on the dripping decks,
    with the fog-dew from the shroud,
  The sea-pull drew them side by side, gunnel to gunnel laid,
  And they felt the sheerstrakes pound and clear, but never a word was said.

  Then Reuben Paine cried out again before his spirit passed:
  “Have I followed the sea for thirty years to die in the dark at last?
  Curse on her work that has nipped me here with a shifty trick unkind —
  I have gotten my death where I got my bread, but I dare not face it blind.
  Curse on the fog!  Is there never a wind of all the winds I knew
  To clear the smother from off my chest, and let me look at the blue?”
   The good fog heard — like a splitten sail, to left and right she tore,
  And they saw the sun-dogs in the haze and the seal upon the shore.
  Silver and gray ran spit and bay to meet the steel-backed tide,
  And pinched and white in the clearing light the crews stared overside.
  O rainbow-gay the red pools lay that swilled and spilled and spread,
  And gold, raw gold, the spent shell rolled between the careless dead —
  The dead that rocked so drunkenwise to weather and to lee,
  And they saw the work their hands had done as God had bade them see.

  And a little breeze blew over the rail that made the headsails lift,
  But no man stood by wheel or sheet, and they let the schooners drift.
  And the rattle rose in Reuben's throat and he cast his soul with a cry,
  And “Gone already?” Tom Hall he said.  “Then it's time for me to die.”
   His eyes were heavy with great sleep and yearning for the land,
  And he spoke as a man that talks in dreams, his wound beneath his hand.
  “Oh, there comes no good o' the westering wind that backs against the sun;
  Wash down the decks — they're all too red — and share the skins and run,
  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.
  And you'll not weight him by the heels and dump him overside,
  But carry him up to the sand-hollows to die as Bering died,
  And make a place for Reuben Paine that knows the fight was fair,
  And leave the two that did the wrong to talk it over there!”

       Half-steam ahead by guess and lead, for the sun is mostly veiled —
       Through fog to fog, by luck and log, sail ye as Bering sailed;
       And if the light shall lift aright to give your landfall plain,
       North and by west, from Zapne Crest, ye raise the Crosses Twain.
       Fair marks are they to the inner bay, the reckless poacher knows
       What time the scarred see-catchie lead their sleek seraglios.
       Ever they hear the floe-pack clear, and the blast of the old bull-whale,
       And the deep seal-roar that beats off-shore above the loudest gale.
       Ever they wait the winter's hate as the thundering 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.


  And reports the derelict Mary Pollock still at sea.
                                     SHIPPING NEWS.
          I was the staunchest of our fleet
          Till the sea rose beneath our feet
       Unheralded, in hatred past all measure.
          Into his pits he stamped my crew,
          Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw,
       Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure.

     Man made me, and my will
     Is to my maker still,
  Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer —
     Lifting forlorn to spy
     Trailed smoke along the sky,
  Falling afraid lest any keel come near!

     Wrenched as the lips of thirst,
     Wried, dried, and split and burst,
  Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining;
     And jarred at every roll
     The gear that was my soul
  Answers the anguish of my beams' complaining.

     For life that crammed me full,
     Gangs of the prying gull
  That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches!
     For roar that dumbed the gale,
     My hawse-pipes guttering wail,
  Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches!

     Blind in the hot blue ring
     Through all my points I swing —
  Swing and return to shift the sun anew.
     Blind in my well-known sky
     I hear the stars go by,
  Mocking the prow that cannot hold one true!

     White on my wasted path
     Wave after wave in wrath
  Frets 'gainst his fellow, warring where to send me.
     Flung forward, heaved aside,
     Witless and dazed I bide
  The mercy of the comber that shall end me.

     North where the bergs careen,
     The spray of seas unseen
  Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling;
     South where the corals breed,
     The footless, floating weed
  Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling.

     I that was clean to run
     My race against the sun —
  Strength on the deep, am bawd to all disaster —
     Whipped forth by night to meet
     My sister's careless feet,
  And with a kiss betray her to my master!

     Man made me, and my will
     Is to my maker still —
  To him and his, our peoples at their pier:
     Lifting in hope to spy
     Trailed smoke along the sky,
  Falling afraid lest any keel come near!


  A Rose, in tatters on the garden path,
  Cried out to God and murmured 'gainst His Wrath,
  Because a sudden wind at twilight's hush
  Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.
  And God, Who hears both sun-dried dust and sun,
  Had pity, whispering to that luckless one,
  “Sister, in that thou sayest We did not well —
  What voices heardst thou when thy petals fell?”
   And the Rose answered, “In that evil hour
  A voice said, `Father, wherefore falls the flower?
  For lo, the very gossamers are still.'
  And a voice answered, `Son, by Allah's will!'”

  Then softly as a rain-mist on the sward,
  Came to the Rose the Answer of the Lord:
  “Sister, before We smote the dark in twain,
  Ere yet the stars saw one another plain,
  Time, Tide, and Space, We bound unto the task
  That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask.”
   Whereat the withered flower, all content,
  Died as they die whose days are innocent;
  While he who questioned why the flower fell
  Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell.


  You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile —
   You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp —
  You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile,
   And play it in an Equatorial swamp.
  I 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 rear-guard to a walk!
      With my “Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!”
        [Oh, it's any tune that comes into my head!]
      So I keep 'em moving forward till they drop;
       So I play 'em up to water and to bed.

  In the silence of the camp before the fight,
   When it's good to make your will and say your prayer,
  You can hear my 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.
      With my “Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump!”
        In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled
      There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus,
       I — the war-drum of the White Man round the world!

  By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,
   Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own, —
  'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,
   In the silence of the herder's hut alone —
  In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,
   Hear me babble what the weakest won't confess —
  I am Memory and Torment — I am Town!
   I am all that ever went with evening dress!
      With my “Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!”
        [So the lights — the London Lights — grow near and plain!]
      So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh,
       Till I bring my broken rankers home again.

  In desire of many marvels over sea,
   Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,
  I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay
   Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.
  He is blooded to the open and the sky,
   He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,
  He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,
   Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.
      With my “Hya!  Heeya!  Heeya!  Hullah!  Haul!”
        [O the green that thunders aft along the deck!]
      Are you sick o' towns and men?  You must sign and sail again,
       For it's “Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!”

  Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear —
   Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel —
  Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer —
   Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:
  Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,
   Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,
  So I lead my reckless children from below
   Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine.
      With my “Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!”
        [And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]
      So we ride the iron stallions down to drink,
       Through the canyons to the waters of the West!

  And the tunes that mean so much to you alone —
   Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose,
  Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan —
   I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;
  With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun —
   And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,
  And the merry play that drops you, when you're done,
   To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.
      With my “Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!”
        Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past,
      Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin
       And the heavier repentance at the last!

  Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof —
   I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!
  Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof —
   I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!
  My bray ye may not alter nor mistake
   When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,
  But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,
   Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?
      With my “Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!”
        [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?]
      But the word — the word is mine, when the order moves the line
       And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die.

  Of the driven dust of speech I make a flame
   And a scourge of broken withes that men let fall:
  For the words that had no honour till I came —
   Lo! I raise them into honour over all!
  By the wisdom of the centuries I speak —
   To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth —
  I, the joy of life unquestioned — I, the Greek —
   I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth!
      With my “Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!”
        [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 Liner she's a lady, an' she never looks nor 'eeds —
  The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e gives 'er all she needs;
  But, oh, the little cargo-boats, that sail the wet seas roun',
  They're just the same as you an' me a-plyin' up an' down!

       Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard,
       All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard;
       Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old —
       Plyin' up an' down, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!

  The Liner she's a lady by the paint upon 'er face,
  An' if she meets an accident they count it sore disgrace:
  The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e's always 'andy by,
  But, oh, the little cargo-boats! they've got to load or die.

  The Liner she's a lady, and 'er route is cut an' dried;
  The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, an' 'e always keeps beside;
  But, oh, the little cargo-boats that 'aven't any man,
  They've got to do their business first, and make the most they can!

  The Liner she's a lady, and if a war should come,
  The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, and 'e'd bid 'er stay at home;
  But, oh, the little cargo-boats that fill with every tide!
  'E'd 'ave to up an' fight for them, for they are England's pride.

  The Liner she's a lady, but if she wasn't made,
  There still would be the cargo-boats for 'ome an' foreign trade.
  The Man-o'-War's 'er 'usband, but if we wasn't 'ere,
  'E wouldn't have to fight at all for 'ome an' friends so dear.

       'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, 'angin' round the Yard,
       All the way by Fratton tram down to Portsmouth 'Ard;
       Anythin' for business, an' we're growin' old —
       'Ome an' friends so dear, Jenny, waitin' in the cold!


  The fear was on the cattle, for the gale was on the sea,
  An' the pens broke up on the lower deck an' let the creatures free —
  An' the lights went out on the lower deck, an' no one near but me.

  I had been singin' to them to keep 'em quiet there,
  For the lower deck is the dangerousest, requirin' constant care,
  An' give to me as the strongest man, though used to drink and swear.

  I see my chance was certain of bein' horned or trod,
  For the lower deck was packed with steers thicker'n peas in a pod,
  An' more pens broke at every roll — so I made a Contract with God.

  An' by the terms of the Contract, as I have read the same,
  If He got me to port alive I would exalt His Name,
  An' praise His Holy Majesty till further orders came.

  He saved me from the cattle an' He saved me from the sea,
  For they found me 'tween two drownded ones where the roll had landed me —
  An' a four-inch crack on top of my head, as crazy as could be.

  But that were done by a stanchion, an' not by a bullock at all,
  An' I lay still for seven weeks convalessing of the fall,
  An' readin' the shiny Scripture texts in the Seaman's Hospital.

  An' I spoke to God of our Contract, an' He says to my prayer:
  “I never puts on My ministers no more than they can bear.
  So back you go to the cattle-boats an' preach My Gospel there.

  “For human life is chancy at any kind of trade,
  But most of all, as well you know, when the steers are mad-afraid;
  So you go back to the cattle-boats an' preach 'em as I've said.

  “They must quit drinkin' an' swearin', they mustn't knife on a blow,
  They must quit gamblin' their wages, and you must preach it so;
  For now those boats are more like Hell than anything else I know.”

  I didn't want to do it, for I knew what I should get,
  An' I wanted to preach Religion, handsome an' out of the wet,
  But the Word of the Lord were lain on me, an' I done what I was set.

  I have been smit an' bruis]\ed, as warned would be the case,
  An' turned my cheek to the smiter exactly as Scripture says;
  But following that, I knocked him down an' led him up to Grace.

  An' we have preaching on Sundays whenever the sea is calm,
  An' I use no knife or pistol an' I never take no harm,
  For the Lord abideth back of me to guide my fighting arm.

  An' I sign for four-pound-ten a month and save the money clear,
  An' I am in charge of the lower deck, an' I never lose a steer;
  An' I believe in Almighty God an' preach His Gospel here.

  The skippers say I'm crazy, but I can prove 'em wrong,
  For I am in charge of the lower deck with all that doth belong —
  Which they would not give to a lunatic, and the competition so strong!


  Heh!  Walk her round.  Heave, ah heave her short again!
   Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
  Loose all sail, and brace your yards back and full —
   Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
    Well, ah fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love —
     Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
           For the wind has come to say:
           “You must take me while you may,
        If you'd go to Mother Carey
        (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
     Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!”

  Heh!  Walk her round.  Break, ah break it out o' that!
   Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear.
  Port — port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot,
   And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year!
    Well, ah fare you well, for we've got to take her out again —
     Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.
        And it's time to clear and quit
        When the hawser grips the bitt,
     So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!

  Heh!  Tally on.  Aft and walk away with her!
   Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!
  Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.
   Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!
    Well, ah fare you well, for the Channel wind's took hold of us,
     Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.
        And it's blowing up for night,
        And she's dropping Light on Light,
     And she's snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea,

  Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone to-night.
   Sick she is and harbour-sick — O sick to clear the land!
  Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us —
   Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll stand!
    Well, ah fare you well, and it's Ushant slams the door on us,
     Whirling like a windmill through the dirty scud to lee:
           Till the last, last flicker goes
           From the tumbling water-rows,
        And we're off to Mother Carey
        (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
     Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!


  There's a Legion that never was 'listed,
   That carries no colours or crest,
  But, split in a thousand detachments,
   Is breaking the road for the rest.
  Our fathers they left us their blessing —
   They taught us, and groomed us, and crammed;
  But we've shaken the Clubs and the Messes
   To go and find out and be damned
                      (Dear boys!),
   To go and get shot and be damned.

  So some of us chivy the slaver,
   And some of us cherish the black,
  And some of us hunt on the Oil Coast,
   And some on — the Wallaby track:
  And some of us drift to Sarawak,
   And some of us drift up The Fly,
  And some share our tucker with tigers,
   And some with the gentle Masai
                      (Dear boys!),
   Take tea with the giddy Masai.

  We've painted The Islands vermilion,
   We've pearled on half-shares in the Bay,
  We've shouted on seven-ounce nuggets,
   We've starved on a Seedeeboy's pay;
  We've laughed at the world as we found it —
   Its women and cities and men —
  From Sayyid Burgash in a tantrum
   To the smoke-reddened eyes of Loben
                      (Dear boys!),
   We've a little account with Loben.

  The ends o' the Earth were our portion,
   The ocean at large was our share.
  There was never a skirmish to windward
   But the Leaderless Legion was there:
  Yes, somehow and somewhere and always
   We were first when the trouble began,
  From a lottery-row in Manila,
   To an I.D.B. race on the Pan
                      (Dear boys!),
   With the Mounted Police on the Pan.

  We preach in advance of the Army,
   We skirmish ahead of the Church,
  With never a gunboat to help us
   When we're scuppered and left in the lurch.
  But we know as the cartridges finish,
   And we're filed on our last little shelves,
  That the Legion that never was 'listed
   Will send us as good as ourselves
                      (Good men!),
   Five hundred as good as ourselves.

  Then a health (we must drink it in whispers)
   To our wholly unauthorised horde —
  To the line of our dusty foreloopers,
   The Gentlemen Rovers abroad —
  Yes, a health to ourselves ere we scatter,
   For the steamer won't wait for the train,
  And the Legion that never was 'listed
   Goes back into quarters again!
   Goes back under canvas again.
   The swag and the billy again.
                      Here's how!
   The trail and the packhorse again.
   The trek and the laager again.


  There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,
   And a wealthy wife is she;
  She breeds a breed o' rovin' men
   And casts them over sea.

  And some are drowned in deep water,
   And some in sight o' shore,
  And word goes back to the weary wife
   And ever she sends more.

  For since that wife had gate or gear,
   Or hearth or garth or bield,
  She willed her sons to the white harvest,
   And that is a bitter yield.

  She wills her sons to the wet ploughing,
   To ride the horse of tree,
  And syne her sons come back again
   Far-spent from out the sea.

  The good wife's sons come home again
   With little into their hands,
  But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men
   In the new and naked lands;

  But the faith of men that ha' brothered men
   By more than easy breath,
  And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men
   In the open books of death.

  Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,
   But poor in the goods o' men;
  So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teeth
   They sell for their teeth again.

  For whether they lose to the naked life
   Or win to their hearts' desire,
  They tell it all to the weary wife
   That nods beside the fire.

  Her hearth is wide to every wind
   That makes the white ash spin;
  And tide and tide and 'tween the tides
   Her sons go out and in;

  (Out with great mirth that do desire
   Hazard of trackless ways,
  In with content to wait their watch
   And warm before the blaze);

  And some return by failing light,
   And some in waking dream,
  For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts
   That ride the rough roof-beam.

  Home, they come home from all the ports,
   The living and the dead;
  The good wife's sons come home again
   For her blessing on their head!


  The earth is full of anger,
   The seas are dark with wrath,
  The Nations in their harness
   Go up against our path:
  Ere yet we loose the legions —
   Ere yet we draw the blade,
  Jehovah of the Thunders,
   Lord God of Battles, aid!

  High lust and froward bearing,
   Proud heart, rebellious brow —
  Deaf ear and soul uncaring,
   We seek Thy mercy now!
  The sinner that forswore Thee,
   The fool that passed Thee by,
  Our times are known before Thee —
   Lord, grant us strength to die!

  For those who kneel beside us
   At altars not Thine own,
  Who lack the lights that guide us,
   Lord, let their faith atone.
  If wrong we did to call them,
   By honour bound they came;
  Let not Thy Wrath befall them,
   But deal to us the blame.

  From panic, pride, and terror,
   Revenge that knows no rein,
  Light haste and lawless error,
   Protect us yet again.
  Cloak Thou our undeserving,
   Make firm the shuddering breath,
  In silence and unswerving
   To taste Thy lesser death!

  Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,
   Remember, reach and save
  The soul that comes to-morrow
   Before the God that gave!
  Since each was born of woman,
   For each at utter need —
  True comrade and true foeman —
   Madonna, intercede!

  E'en now their vanguard gathers,
   E'en now we face the fray —
  As Thou didst help our fathers,
   Help Thou our host to-day!
  Fulfilled of signs and wonders,
   In life, in death made clear —
  Jehovah of the Thunders,
   Lord God of Battles, hear!


       Thy face is far from this our war,
        Our call and counter-cry,
       I shall not find Thee quick and kind,
        Nor know Thee till I die,
       Enough for me in dreams to see
        And touch Thy garments' hem:
       Thy feet have trod so near to God
        I may not follow them.

  Through wantonness if men profess
   They weary of Thy parts,
  E'en let them die at blasphemy
   And perish with their arts;
  But we that love, but we that prove
   Thine excellence august,
  While we adore discover more
   Thee perfect, wise, and just.

  Since spoken word Man's Spirit stirred
   Beyond his belly-need,
  What is is Thine of fair design
   In thought and craft and deed;
  Each stroke aright of toil and fight,
   That was and that shall be,
  And hope too high, wherefore we die,
   Has birth and worth in Thee.

  Who holds by Thee hath Heaven in fee
   To gild his dross thereby,
  And knowledge sure that he endure
   A child until he die —
  For to make plain that man's disdain
   Is but new Beauty's birth —
  For to possess in loneliness
   The joy of all the earth.

  As Thou didst teach all lovers speech
   And Life all mystery,
  So shalt Thou rule by every school
   Till love and longing die,
  Who wast or yet the Lights were set,
   A whisper in the Void,
  Who shalt be sung through planets young
   When this is clean destroyed.

  Beyond the bounds our staring rounds,
   Across the pressing dark,
  The children wise of outer skies
   Look hitherward and mark
  A light that shifts, a glare that drifts,
   Rekindling thus and thus,
  Not all forlorn, for Thou hast borne
   Strange tales to them of us.

  Time hath no tide but must abide
   The servant of Thy will;
  Tide hath no time, for to Thy rhyme
   The ranging stars stand still —
  Regent of spheres that lock our fears,
   Our hopes invisible,
  Oh 'twas certes at Thy decrees
   We fashioned Heaven and Hell!

  Pure Wisdom hath no certain path
   That lacks thy morning-eyne,
  And captains bold by Thee controlled
   Most like to Gods design;
  Thou art the Voice to kingly boys
   To lift them through the fight,
  And Comfortress of Unsuccess,
   To give the dead good-night —

  A veil to draw 'twixt God His Law
   And Man's infirmity,
  A shadow kind to dumb and blind
   The shambles where we die;
  A rule to trick th' arithmetic
   Too base of leaguing odds —
  The spur of trust, the curb of lust,
   Thou handmaid of the Gods!

  O Charity, all patiently
   Abiding wrack and scaith!
  O Faith, that meets ten thousand cheats
   Yet drops no jot of faith!
  Devil and brute Thou dost transmute
   To higher, lordlier show,
  Who art in sooth that lovely Truth
   The careless angels know!

       Thy face is far from this our war,
        Our call and counter-cry,
       I may not find Thee quick and kind,
        Nor know Thee till I die.

       Yet may I look with heart unshook
        On blow brought home or missed —
       Yet may I hear with equal ear
        The clarions down the List;
       Yet set my lance above mischance
        And ride the barriere —
       Oh, hit or miss, how little 'tis,
        My Lady is not there!


       To our private taste, there is always something a little exotic,
       almost artificial, in songs which, under an English aspect and dress,
       are yet so manifestly the product of other skies.  They affect us
       like translations; the very fauna and flora are alien, remote;
       the dog's-tooth violet is but an ill substitute for the rathe primrose,
       nor can we ever believe that the wood-robin sings as sweetly in April
       as the English thrush. — THE ATHENAEUM.
            Buy my English posies!
             Kent and Surrey may —
            Violets of the Undercliff
             Wet with Channel spray;
            Cowslips from a Devon combe —
             Midland furze afire —
            Buy my English posies
             And I'll sell your heart's desire!

      Buy my English posies!
       You that scorn the May,
      Won't you greet a friend from home
       Half the world away?
      Green against the draggled drift,
       Faint and frail and first —
      Buy my Northern blood-root
       And I'll know where you were nursed:
  Robin down the logging-road whistles, “Come to me!”
   Spring has found the maple-grove, the sap is running free;
  All the winds of Canada call the ploughing-rain.
  Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

      Buy my English posies!
       Here's to match your need —
      Buy a tuft of royal heath,
       Buy a bunch of weed
      White as sand of Muysenberg
       Spun before the gale —
      Buy my heath and lilies
       And I'll tell you whence you hail!
  Under hot Constantia broad the vineyards lie —
  Throned and thorned the aching berg props the speckless sky —
  Slow below the Wynberg firs trails the tilted wain —
  Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

      Buy my English posies!
       You that will not turn —
      Buy my hot-wood clematis,
       Buy a frond o' fern
      Gathered where the Erskine leaps
       Down the road to Lorne —
      Buy my Christmas creeper
       And I'll say where you were born!
  West away from Melbourne dust holidays begin —
  They that mock at Paradise woo at Cora Lynn —
  Through the great South Otway gums sings the great South Main —
  Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

      Buy my English posies!
       Here's your choice unsold!
      Buy a blood-red myrtle-bloom,
       Buy the kowhai's gold
      Flung for gift on Taupo's face,
       Sign that spring is come —
      Buy my clinging myrtle
       And I'll give you back your home!
  Broom behind the windy town; pollen o' the pine —
  Bell-bird in the leafy deep where the ratas twine —
  Fern above the saddle-bow, flax upon the plain —
  Take the flower and turn the hour, and kiss your love again!

      Buy my English posies!
       Ye that have your own
      Buy them for a brother's sake
       Overseas, alone.
      Weed ye trample underfoot
       Floods his heart abrim —
      Bird ye never heeded,
       Oh, she calls his dead to him!
  Far and far our homes are set round the Seven Seas;
  Woe for us if we forget, we that hold by these!
  Unto each his mother-beach, bloom and bird and land —
  Masters of the Seven Seas, oh, love and understand.


  The King has called for priest and cup,
   The King has taken spur and blade
  To dub True Thomas a belted knight,
   And all for the sake o' the songs he made.

  They have sought him high, they have sought him low,
   They have sought him over down and lea;
  They have found him by the milk-white thorn
   That guards the gates o' Faerie.

       'Twas bent beneath and blue above,
        Their eyes were held that they might not see
       The kine that grazed beneath the knowes,
        Oh, they were the Queens o' Faerie!

  “Now cease your song,” the King he said,
   “Oh, cease your song and get you dight
  To vow your vow and watch your arms,
   For I will dub you a belted knight.

  “For I will give you a horse o' pride,
   Wi' blazon and spur and page and squire;
  Wi' keep and tail and seizin and law,
   And land to hold at your desire.”

  True Thomas smiled above his harp,
   And turned his face to the naked sky,
  Where, blown before the wastrel wind,
   The thistle-down she floated by.

  “I ha' vowed my vow in another place,
   And bitter oath it was on me,
  I ha' watched my arms the lee-long night,
   Where five-score fighting men would flee.

  “My lance is tipped o' the hammered flame,
   My shield is beat o' the moonlight cold;
  And I won my spurs in the Middle World,
   A thousand fathom beneath the mould.

  “And what should I make wi' a horse o' pride,
   And what should I make wi' a sword so brown,
  But spill the rings o' the Gentle Folk
   And flyte my kin in the Fairy Town?

  “And what should I make wi' blazon and belt,
   Wi' keep and tail and seizin and fee,
  And what should I do wi' page and squire
   That am a king in my own countrie?

  “For I send east and I send west,
   And I send far as my will may flee,
  By dawn and dusk and the drinking rain,
   And syne my Sendings return to me.

  “They come wi' news of the groanin' earth,
   They come wi' news o' the roarin' sea,
  Wi' word of Spirit and Ghost and Flesh,
   And man, that's mazed among the three.”

  The King he bit his nether lip,
   And smote his hand upon his knee:
  “By the faith o' my soul, True Thomas,” he said,
   “Ye waste no wit in courtesie!

  “As I desire, unto my pride,
   Can I make Earls by three and three,
  To run before and ride behind
   And serve the sons o' my body.”

  “And what care I for your row-foot earls,
   Or all the sons o' your body?
  Before they win to the Pride o' Name,
   I trow they all ask leave o' me.

  “For I make Honour wi' muckle mouth,
   As I make Shame wi' mincin' feet,
  To sing wi' the priests at the market-cross,
   Or run wi' the dogs in the naked street.

  “And some they give me the good red gold,
   And some they give me the white money,
  And some they give me a clout o' meal,
   For they be people o' low degree.

  “And the song I sing for the counted gold
   The same I sing for the white money,
  But best I sing for the clout o' meal
   That simple people given me.”

  The King cast down a silver groat,
   A silver groat o' Scots money,
  “If I come wi' a poor man's dole,” he said,
   “True Thomas, will ye harp to me?”

  “Whenas I harp to the children small,
   They press me close on either hand.
  And who are you,” True Thomas said,
   “That you should ride while they must stand?

  “Light down, light down from your horse o' pride,
   I trow ye talk too loud and hie,
  And I will make you a triple word,
   And syne, if ye dare, ye shall 'noble me.”

  He has lighted down from his horse o' pride,
   And set his back against the stone.
  “Now guard you well,” True Thomas said,
   “Ere I rax your heart from your breast-bone!”

  True Thomas played upon his harp,
   The fairy harp that couldna lee,
  And the first least word the proud King heard,
   It harpit the salt tear out o' his ee.

  “Oh, I see the love that I lost long syne,
   I touch the hope that I may not see,
  And all that I did o' hidden shame,
   Like little snakes they hiss at me.

  “The sun is lost at noon — at noon!
   The dread o' doom has grippit me.
  True Thomas, hide me under your cloak,
   God wot, I'm little fit to dee!”

       'Twas bent beneath and blue above —
        'Twas open field and running flood —
       Where, hot on heath and dike and wall,
        The high sun warmed the adder's brood.

  “Lie down, lie down,” True Thomas said.
   “The God shall judge when all is done.
  But I will bring you a better word
   And lift the cloud that I laid on.”

  True Thomas played upon his harp,
   That birled and brattled to his hand,
  And the next least word True Thomas made,
   It garred the King take horse and brand.

  “Oh, I hear the tread o' the fighting men,
   I see the sun on splent and spear.
  I mark the arrow outen the fern
   That flies so low and sings so clear!

  “Advance my standards to that war,
   And bid my good knights prick and ride;
  The gled shall watch as fierce a fight
   As e'er was fought on the Border side!”

       'Twas bent beneath and blue above,
        'Twas nodding grass and naked sky,
       Where, ringing up the wastrel wind,
        The eyas stooped upon the pie.

  True Thomas sighed above his harp,
   And turned the song on the midmost string;
  And the last least word True Thomas made,
   He harpit his dead youth back to the King.

  “Now I am prince, and I do well
   To love my love withouten fear;
  To walk wi' man in fellowship,
   And breathe my horse behind the deer.

  “My hounds they bay unto the death,
   The buck has couched beyond the burn,
  My love she waits at her window
   To wash my hands when I return.

  “For that I live am I content
   (Oh! I have seen my true love's eyes)
  To stand wi' Adam in Eden-glade,
   And run in the woods o' Paradise!”

       'Twas naked sky and nodding grass,
        'Twas running flood and wastrel wind,
       Where, checked against the open pass,
        The red deer belled to call the hind.

  True Thomas laid his harp away,
   And louted low at the saddle-side;
  He has taken stirrup and hauden rein,
   And set the King on his horse o' pride.

  “Sleep ye or wake,” True Thomas said,
   “That sit so still, that muse so long;
  Sleep ye or wake? — till the latter sleep
   I trow ye'll not forget my song.

  “I ha' harpit a shadow out o' the sun
   To stand before your face and cry;
  I ha' armed the earth beneath your heel,
   And over your head I ha' dusked the sky.

  “I ha' harpit ye up to the throne o' God,
   I ha' harpit your midmost soul in three;
  I ha' harpit ye down to the Hinges o' Hell,
   And — ye — would — make — a Knight o' me!”


  In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage
   For food and fame and woolly horses' pelt;
  I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man,
   And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt.

  Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring
   Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove;
  And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg
   Were about me and beneath me and above.

  But a rival, of Solutr]/e, told the tribe my style was outr]/e —
   'Neath a tomahawk of diorite he fell.
  And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart
   Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.

  Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting dogs fed full,
   And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;
  And I wiped my mouth and said, “It is well that they are dead,
   For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong.”

  But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole shrine he came,
   And he told me in a vision of the night: —
  “There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
   And every single one of them is right!”

       .    .    .    .    .

  Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me
   Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail;
  And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer
   [And a minor poet certified by Tr—ll].

  Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow,
   When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn;
  When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses,
   And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne.

  Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage,
   Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk;
  Still we let our business slide — as we dropped the half-dressed hide —
   To show a fellow-savage how to work.

  Still the world is wondrous large, — seven seas from marge to marge, —
   And it holds a vast of various kinds of man;
  And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu,
   And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.

  Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose
   And the reindeer roared where Paris roars to-night: —
  There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
   And — every — single — one — of — them — is — right!


  Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,
  Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow.
  Fashioned the form of a tribesman — gaily he whistled and sung,
  Working the snow with his fingers.  Read ye the Story of Ung!

  Pleased was his tribe with that image — came in their hundreds to scan —
  Handled it, smelt it, and grunted:  “Verily, this is a man!
  Thus do we carry our lances — thus is a war-belt slung.
  Lo! it is even as we are.  Glory and honour to Ung!”

  Later he pictured an aurochs — later he pictured a bear —
  Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair —
  Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone —
  Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone.

  Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still —
  Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill —
  Hunters and fishers and trappers, presently whispering low:
  “Yea, they are like — and it may be —  But how does the Picture-man know?”

  “Ung — hath he slept with the Aurochs — watched where the Mastodon roam?
  Spoke on the ice with the Bow-head — followed the Sabre-tooth home?
  Nay!  These are toys of his fancy!  If he have cheated us so,
  How is there truth in his image — the man that he fashioned of snow?”

  Wroth was that maker of pictures — hotly he answered the call:
  “Hunters and fishers and trappers, children and fools are ye all!
  Look at the beasts when ye hunt them!”  Swift from the tumult he broke,
  Ran to the cave of his father and told him the shame that they spoke.

  And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft,
  Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed:
  “If they could see as thou seest they would do what thou hast done,
  And each man would make him a picture, and — what would become of my son?

  “There would be no pelts of the reindeer, flung down at thy cave for a gift,
  Nor dole of the oily timber that comes on the Baltic drift;
  No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale;
  No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale.

  “Thou hast not toiled at the fishing when the sodden trammels freeze,
  Nor worked the war-boats outward through the rush of the rock-staked seas,
  Yet they bring thee fish and plunder — full meal and an easy bed —
  And all for the sake of thy pictures.”  And Ung held down his head.

  “Thou hast not stood to the Aurochs when the red snow reeks of the fight;
  Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright.
  And the heart of the hairy Mammoth, thou sayest, they do not see,
  Yet they save it whole from the beaches and broil the best for thee.

  “And now do they press to thy pictures, with opened mouth and eye,
  And a little gift in the doorway, and the praise no gift can buy:
  But — sure they have doubted thy pictures, and that is a grievous stain —
  Son that can see so clearly, return them their gifts again!”

  And Ung looked down at his deerskins — their broad shell-tasselled bands —
  And Ung drew downward his mitten and looked at his naked hands;
  And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard his father, behind:
  “Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe is blind!”

  Straight on the glittering ice-field, by the caves of the lost Dordogne,
  Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on bone
  Even to mammoth editions.  Gaily he whistled and sung,
  Blessing his tribe for their blindness.  Heed ye the Story of Ung!


The three-volume novel is extinct.
  Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail.
  It cost a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail;
  But, spite all modern notions, I found her first and best —
  The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest.

  Fair held the breeze behind us — 'twas warm with lovers' prayers.
  We'd stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs.
  They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked Nurse confessed,
  And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest.

  By ways no gaze could follow, a course unspoiled of Cook,
  Per Fancy, fleetest in man, our titled berths we took
  With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessed,
  And a Church of England parson for the Islands of the Blest.

  We asked no social questions — we pumped no hidden shame —
  We never talked obstetrics when the Little Stranger came:
  We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in Hell.
  We weren't exactly Yussufs, but — Zuleika didn't tell.

  No moral doubt assailed us, so when the port we neared,
  The villain had his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered.
  'Twas fiddle in the forc's'le — 'twas garlands on the mast,
  For every one got married, and I went ashore at last.

  I left 'em all in couples a-kissing on the decks.
  I left the lovers loving and the parents signing cheques.
  In endless English comfort by county-folk caressed,
  I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the Blest!

  That route is barred to steamers:  you'll never lift again
  Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain.
  They're just beyond your skyline, howe'er so far you cruise
  In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws.

  Swing round your aching search-light — 'twill show no haven's peace.
  Ay, blow your shrieking sirens to the deaf, gray-bearded seas!
  Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep's unrest —
  And you aren't one knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest!

  But when you're threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail,
  At a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale,
  Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taffrail dressed,
  You'll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest.

  You'll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread;
  You'll hear the long-drawn thunder 'neath her leaping figure-head;
  While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine
  Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine!

  Hull down — hull down and under — she dwindles to a speck,
  With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck.
  All's well — all's well aboard her — she's left you far behind,
  With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind.

  Her crew are babes or madmen?  Her port is all to make?
  You're manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming's sake?
  Well, tinker up your engines — you know your business best —
  She's taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!


  The American Spirit speaks:
  “If the Led Striker call it a strike,
   Or the papers call it a war,
  They know not much what I am like,
   Nor what he is, my Avatar.”

  Through many roads, by me possessed,
   He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
  He is the Jester and the Jest,
   And he the Text himself applies.

  The Celt is in his heart and hand,
   The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
  Where, cosmopolitanly planned,
   He guards the Redskin's dry reserve.

  His easy unswept hearth he lends
   From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
  Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,
   He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.

  Calm-eyed he scoffs at sword and crown,
   Or panic-blinded stabs and slays:
  Blatant he bids the world bow down,
   Or cringing begs a crust of praise;

  Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,
   He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.
  His hands are black with blood — his heart
   Leaps, as a babe's, at little things.

  But, through the shift of mood and mood,
   Mine ancient humour saves him whole —
  The cynic devil in his blood
   That bids him mock his hurrying soul;

  That bids him flout the Law he makes,
   That bids him make the Law he flouts,
  Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes
   The drumming guns that — have no doubts;

  That checks him foolish — hot and fond,
   That chuckles through his deepest ire,
  That gilds the slough of his despond
   But dims the goal of his desire;

  Inopportune, shrill-accented,
   The acrid Asiatic mirth
  That leaves him, careless 'mid his dead,
   The scandal of the elder earth.

  How shall he clear himself, how reach
   Your bar or weighed defence prefer?
  A brother hedged with alien speech
   And lacking all interpreter.

  Which knowledge vexes him a space;
   But while Reproof around him rings,
  He turns a keen untroubled face
   Home, to the instant need of things.

  Enslaved, illogical, elate,
   He greets th' embarrassed Gods, nor fears
  To shake the iron hand of Fate
   Or match with Destiny for beers.

  Lo, imperturbable he rules,
   Unkempt, disreputable, vast —
  And, in the teeth of all the schools,
   I — I shall save him at the last!


  I've paid for your sickest fancies; I've humoured your crackedest whim —
  Dick, it's your daddy, dying; you've got to listen to him!
  Good for a fortnight, am I?  The doctor told you?  He lied.
  I shall go under by morning, and —  Put that nurse outside.
  'Never seen death yet, Dickie?  Well, now is your time to learn,
  And you'll wish you held my record before it comes to your turn.
  Not counting the Line and the Foundry, the yards and the village, too,
  I've made myself and a million; but I'm damned if I made you.
  Master at two-and-twenty, and married at twenty-three —
  Ten thousand men on the pay-roll, and forty freighters at sea!
  Fifty years between 'em, and every year of it fight,
  And now I'm Sir Anthony Gloster, dying, a baronite:
  For I lunched with his Royal 'Ighness — what was it the papers a-had?
  “Not least of our merchant-princes.”  Dickie, that's me, your dad!
  I didn't begin with askings.  I took my job and I stuck;
  And I took the chances they wouldn't, an' now they're calling it luck.
  Lord, what boats I've handled — rotten and leaky and old!
  Ran 'em, or — opened the bilge-cock, precisely as I was told.
  Grub that 'ud bind you crazy, and crews that 'ud turn you grey,
  And a big fat lump of insurance to cover the risk on the way.
  The others they dursn't do it; they said they valued their life
  (They've served me since as skippers).  I 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!
  So I went on a spree round Java and well-nigh ran her ashore,
  But your mother came and warned me and I wouldn't liquor no more:
  Strict I stuck to my business, afraid to stop or I'd think,
  Saving the money (she warned me), and letting the other men drink.
  And I met M'Cullough in London (I'd turned five 'undred then),
  And 'tween us we started the Foundry — three forges and twenty men:
  Cheap repairs for the cheap 'uns.  It paid, and the business grew,
  For I bought me a steam-lathe patent, and that was a gold mine too.
  “Cheaper to build 'em than buy 'em,” I 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.
  Then came the armour-contracts, but that was M'Cullough's side;
  He was always best in the Foundry, but better, perhaps, he died.
  I went through his private papers; the notes was plainer than print;
  And I'm no fool to finish if a man'll give me a hint.
  (I remember his widow was angry.)  So I saw what the drawings meant,
  And I started the six-inch rollers, and it paid me sixty per cent —
  Sixty per cent 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.
  Weak, a liar, and idle, and mean as a collier's whelp
  Nosing for scraps in the galley.  No help — my son was no help!
  So he gets three 'undred thousand, in trust and the interest paid.
  I wouldn't give it you, Dickie — you see, I made it in trade.
  You're saved from soiling your fingers, and if you have no child,
  It all comes back to the business.  Gad, won't your wife be wild!
  'Calls and calls in her carriage, her 'andkerchief up to 'er eye:
  “Daddy! dear daddy's dyin'!” and doing her best to cry.
  Grateful?  Oh, yes, I'm grateful, but keep her away from here.
  Your mother 'ud never ha' stood 'er, and, anyhow, women are queer. . . .
  There's women will say I've married a second time.
  Not quite!  But give pore Aggie a hundred, and tell her your lawyers'll fight.
  She was the best o' the boiling — you'll meet her before it ends;
  I'm in for a row with the mother — I'll leave you settle my friends:
  For a man he must go with a woman, which women don't understand —
  Or the sort that say they can see it they aren't the marrying brand.
  But I wanted to speak o' your mother that's Lady Gloster still —
  I'm going to up and see her, without it's hurting the will.
  Here!  Take your hand off the bell-pull.  Five thousand's waiting for you,
  If you'll only listen a minute, and do as I bid you do.
  They'll try to prove me crazy, and, if you bungle, they can;
  And I've only you to trust to!  (O God, why ain't he a man?)
  There's some waste money on marbles, the same as M'Cullough tried —
  Marbles and mausoleums — but I call that sinful pride.
  There's some ship bodies for burial — we've carried 'em, soldered and packed;
  Down in their wills they wrote it, and nobody called them cracked.
  But me — I've too much money, and people might. . . .  All my fault:
  It come o' hoping for grandsons and buying that Wokin' vault.
  I'm sick o' the 'ole dam' business; I'm going back where I came.
  Dick, you're the son o' my body, and you'll take charge o' the same!
  I want to lie by your mother, ten thousand mile away,
  And they'll want to send me to Woking; and that's where you'll earn your pay.
  I've thought it out on the quiet, the same as it ought to be done —
  Quiet, and decent, and proper — an' here's your orders, my son.
  You know the Line?  You don't, though.  You write to the Board, and tell
  Your father's death has upset you an' you're goin' to cruise for a spell,
  An' you'd like the 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 put her aside
  (Thank God, I can pay for my fancies!) — the boat where your mother died,
  By the Little Paternosters, as you come to the Union Bank,
  We dropped her — I think I told you — and I pricked it off where she sank —
  ['Tiny she looked on the grating — that oily, treacly sea —]
  'Hundred and eighteen East, remember, and South just three.
  Easy bearings to carry — three South — three to the dot;
  But I gave M'Andrew a copy in case of dying — or not.
  And so you'll write to M'Andrew, he's Chief of the Maori Line;
  They'll give him leave, if you ask 'em and say it's business o' mine.
  I built three boats for the Maoris, an' very well pleased they were,
  An' I've known Mac since the Fifties, and Mac knew me — and her.
  After the first stroke warned me I sent him the money to keep
  Against the time you'd claim it, committin' your dad to the deep;
  For you are the son o' my body, and Mac was my oldest friend,
  I've never asked 'im to dinner, but he'll see it out to the end.
  Stiff-necked Glasgow beggar, I've heard he's prayed for my soul,
  But he couldn't lie if you paid him, and he'd starve before he stole!
  He'll take the 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.
  There isn't even a grandchild, and the Gloster family's done —
  The only one you left me, O mother, the only one!
  Harrer and Trinity College — me slavin' early an' late —
  An' he thinks I'm dying crazy, and you're in Macassar Strait!
  Flesh o' my flesh, my dearie, for ever an' ever amen,
  That first stroke come for a warning; I ought to ha' gone to you then,
  But — cheap repairs for a cheap 'un — the doctors said I'd do:
  Mary, why didn't 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!


  Speakin' in general, I 'ave tried 'em all,
  The 'appy roads that take you o'er the world.
  Speakin' in general, I 'ave found them good
  For such as cannot use one bed too long,
  But must get 'ence, the same as I 'ave done,
  An' go observin' matters till they die.

  What do it matter where or 'ow we die,
  So long as we've our 'ealth to watch it all —
  The different ways that different things are done,
  An' men an' women lovin' in this world —
  Takin' our chances as they come along,
  An' when they ain't, pretendin' they are good?

  In cash or credit — no, it aren't no good;
  You 'ave to 'ave the 'abit or you'd die,
  Unless you lived your life but one day long,
  Nor didn't prophesy nor fret at all,
  But drew your tucker some'ow from the world,
  An' never bothered what you might ha' done.

  But, Gawd, what things are they I 'aven't done?
  I've turned my 'and to most, an' turned it good,
  In various situations round the world —
  For 'im that doth not work must surely die;
  But that's no reason man should labour all
  'Is life on one same shift; life's none so long.

  Therefore, from job to job I've moved along.
  Pay couldn't 'old me when my time was done,
  For something in my 'ead upset me all,
  Till I 'ad dropped whatever 'twas for good,
  An', out at sea, be'eld the dock-lights die,
  An' met my mate — the wind that tramps the world!

  It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world,
  Which you can read and care for just so long,
  But presently you feel that you will die
  Unless you get the page you're readin' done,
  An' turn another — likely not so good;
  But what you're after is to turn 'em all.

  Gawd bless this world!  Whatever she 'ath done —
  Excep' when awful long — I've found it good.
  So write, before I die, “'E liked it all!”


       When 'Omer smote 'is bloomin' lyre,
        He'd 'eard men sing by land an' sea;
       An' what he thought 'e might require,
        'E went an' took — the same as me!

       The market-girls an' fishermen,
        The shepherds an' the sailors, too,
       They 'eard old songs turn up again,
         But kep' it quiet — same as you!

       They knew 'e stole; 'e knew they knowed.
        They didn't tell, nor make a fuss,
       But winked at 'Omer down the road,
        An' 'e winked back — the same as us!


  I'm 'ere in a ticky ulster an' a broken billycock 'at,
  A-layin' on to the sergeant I don't know a gun from a bat;
  My shirt's doin' duty for jacket, my sock's stickin' out o' my boots,
  An' I'm learnin' the damned old goose-step along o' the new recruits!

     Back to the Army again, sergeant,
      Back to the Army again.
     Don't look so 'ard, for I 'aven't no card,
      I'm back to the Army again!

  I done my six years' service.  'Er Majesty sez:  “Good-day —
  You'll please to come when you're rung for, an' 'ere's your 'ole back-pay;
  An' fourpence a day for baccy — an' bloomin' gen'rous, too;
  An' now you can make your fortune — the same as your orf'cers do.”

     Back to the Army again, sergeant,
      Back to the Army again;
     'Ow did I learn to do right-about turn?
      I'm back to the Army again!

  A man o' four-an'-twenty that 'asn't learned of a trade —
  Beside “Reserve” agin' him — 'e'd better be never made.
  I tried my luck for a quarter, an' that was enough for me,
  An' I thought of 'Er Majesty's barricks, an' I thought I'd go an' see.

     Back to the Army again, sergeant,
      Back to the Army again;
     'Tisn't my fault if I dress when I 'alt —
      I'm back to the Army again!

  The sergeant arst no questions, but 'e winked the other eye,
  'E sez to me, “'Shun!” an' I shunted, the same as in days gone by;
  For 'e saw the set o' my shoulders, an' I couldn't 'elp 'oldin' straight
  When me an' the other rookies come under the barrick-gate.

     Back to the Army again, sergeant,
      Back to the Army again;
     'Oo would ha' thought I could carry an' port?
      I'm back to the Army again!

  I took my bath, an' I wallered — for, Gawd, I needed it so!
  I smelt the smell o' the barricks, I 'eard the bugles go.
  I 'eard the feet on the gravel — the feet o' the men what drill —
  An' I sez to my flutterin' 'eart-strings, I sez to 'em, “Peace, be still!”

     Back to the Army again, sergeant,
      Back to the Army again;
     'Oo said I knew when the Jumner was due?
      I'm back to the Army again!

  I carried my slops to the tailor; I sez to 'im, “None o' your lip!
  You tight 'em over the shoulders, an' loose 'em over the 'ip,
  For the set o' the tunic's 'orrid.”  An' 'e sez to me, “Strike me dead,
  But I thought you was used to the business!” an' so 'e done what I said.

     Back to the Army again, sergeant,
      Back to the Army again.
     Rather too free with my fancies?  Wot — me?
      I'm back to the Army again!

  Next week I'll 'ave 'em fitted; I'll buy me a swagger-cane;
  They'll let me free o' the barricks to walk on the Hoe again
  In the name o' William Parsons, that used to be Edward Clay,
  An' — any pore beggar that wants it can draw my fourpence a day!

     Back to the Army again, sergeant,
      Back to the Army again:
     Out o' the cold an' the rain, sergeant,
      Out o' the cold an' the rain.

                      'Oo's there?
  A man that's too good to be lost you,
   A man that is 'andled an' made —
  A man that will pay what 'e cost you
   In learnin' the others their trade — parade!
  You're droppin' the pick o' the Army
   Because you don't 'elp 'em remain,
  But drives 'em to cheat to get out o' the street
   An' back to the Army again!


  March!  The mud is cakin' good about our trousies.
   Front! — eyes front, an' watch the Colour-casin's drip.
  Front!  The faces of the women in the 'ouses
   Ain't the kind o' things to take aboard the ship.

       Cheer!  An' we'll never march to victory.
       Cheer!  An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar!
           The Large Birds o' Prey
           They will carry us away,
       An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!

  Wheel!  Oh, keep your touch; we're goin' round a corner.
   Time! — mark time, an' let the men be'ind us close.
  Lord! the transport's full, an' 'alf our lot not on 'er —
   Cheer, O cheer!  We're going off where no one knows.

  March!  The Devil's none so black as 'e is painted!
   Cheer!  We'll 'ave some fun before we're put away.
  'Alt, an' 'and 'er out — a woman's gone and fainted!
   Cheer!  Get on — Gawd 'elp the married men to-day!

  Hoi!  Come up, you 'ungry beggars, to yer sorrow.
   ('Ear them say they want their tea, an' want it quick!)
  You won't have no mind for slingers, not to-morrow —
   No; you'll put the 'tween-decks stove out, bein' sick!

  'Alt!  The married kit 'as all to go before us!
   'Course it's blocked the bloomin' gangway up again!
  Cheer, O cheer the 'Orse Guards watchin' tender o'er us,
   Keepin' us since eight this mornin' in the rain!

  Stuck in 'eavy marchin'-order, sopped and wringin' —
   Sick, before our time to watch 'er 'eave an' fall,
  'Ere's your 'appy 'ome at last, an' stop your singin'.
   'Alt!  Fall in along the troop-deck!  Silence all!

       Cheer!  For we'll never live to see no bloomin' victory!
       Cheer!  An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar!  (One cheer more!)
           The jackal an' the kite
           'Ave an 'ealthy appetite,
       An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!  ('Ip!  Urroar!)
           The eagle an' the crow
           They are waitin' ever so,
       An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!  ('Ip!  Urroar!)
           Yes, the Large Birds o' Prey
           They will carry us away,
       An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!


  As I was spittin' into the Ditch aboard o' the Crocodile,
  I seed a man on a man-o'-war got up in the Reg'lars' style.
  'E was scrapin' the paint from off of 'er plates,
    an' I sez to 'im, “'Oo are you?”
   Sez 'e, “I'm a Jolly — 'Er Majesty's Jolly — soldier an' sailor too!”
   Now 'is work begins by Gawd knows when, and 'is work is never through;
  'E isn't one o' the reg'lar Line, nor 'e isn't one of the crew.
  'E's a kind of a giddy harumfrodite — soldier an' sailor too!

  An' after I met 'im all over the world, a-doin' all kinds of things,
  Like landin' 'isself with a Gatlin' gun to talk to them 'eathen kings;
  'E sleeps in an 'ammick instead of a cot,
    an' 'e drills with the deck on a slew,
  An' 'e sweats like a Jolly — 'Er Majesty's Jolly — soldier an' sailor too!
  For there isn't a job on the top o' the earth the beggar don't know, nor do —
  You can leave 'im at night on a bald man's 'ead, to paddle 'is own canoe —
  'E's a sort of a bloomin' cosmopolouse — soldier an' sailor too.

  We've fought 'em in trooper, we've fought 'em in dock,
    and drunk with 'em in betweens,
  When they called us the seasick scull'ry-maids,
    an' we called 'em the Ass Marines;
  But, when we was down for a double fatigue, from Woolwich to Bernardmyo,
  We sent for the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies — soldier an' sailor too!
  They think for 'emselves, an' they steal for 'emselves,
    and they never ask what's to do,
  But they're camped an' fed an' they're up an' fed before our bugle's blew.
  Ho! they ain't no limpin' procrastitutes — soldier an' sailor too.

  You may say we are fond of an 'arness-cut, or 'ootin' in barrick-yards,
  Or startin' a Board School mutiny along o' the Onion Guards;
  But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view,
  The same as the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies — soldier an' sailor too!
  They come of our lot, they was brothers to us;
    they was beggars we'd met an' knew;
  Yes, barrin' an inch in the chest an' the arm, they was doubles o' me an' you;
  For they weren't no special chrysanthemums — soldier an' sailor too!

  To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about,
  Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout;
  But to stand an' be still to the Birken'ead drill
    is a damn tough bullet to chew,
  An' they done it, the Jollies — 'Er Majesty's Jollies —
    soldier an' sailor too!
  Their work was done when it 'adn't begun; they was younger nor me an' you;
  Their choice it was plain between drownin' in 'eaps
    an' bein' mopped by the screw,
  So they stood an' was still to the Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too!

  We're most of us liars, we're 'arf of us thieves,
    an' the rest are as rank as can be,
  But once in a while we can finish in style
    (which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me).
  But it makes you think better o' you an' your friends,
    an' the work you may 'ave to do,
  When you think o' the sinkin' 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!


  When the Waters were dried an' the Earth did appear,
   (“It's all one,” says the Sapper),
  The Lord He created the Engineer,
   Her Majesty's Royal Engineer,
   With the rank and pay of a Sapper!

  When the Flood come along for an extra monsoon,
  'Twas Noah constructed the first pontoon
   To the plans of Her Majesty's, etc.

  But after fatigue in the wet an' the sun,
  Old Noah got drunk, which he wouldn't ha' done
   If he'd trained with, etc.

  When the Tower o' Babel had mixed up men's bat,
  Some clever civilian was managing that,
   An' none of, etc.

  When the Jews had a fight at the foot of a hill,
  Young Joshua ordered the sun to stand still,
   For he was a Captain of Engineers, etc.

  When the Children of Israel made bricks without straw,
  They were learnin' the regular work of our Corps,
   The work of, etc.

  For ever since then, if a war they would wage,
  Behold us a-shinin' on history's page —
   First page for, etc.

  We lay down their sidings an' help 'em entrain,
  An' we sweep up their mess through the bloomin' campaign,
   In the style of, etc.

  They send us in front with a fuse an' a mine
  To blow up the gates that are rushed by the Line,
   But bent by, etc.

  They send us behind with a pick an' a spade,
  To dig for the guns of a bullock-brigade
   Which has asked for, etc.

  We work under escort in trousers and shirt,
  An' the heathen they plug us tail-up in the dirt,
   Annoying, etc.

  We blast out the rock an' we shovel the mud,
  We make 'em good roads an' — they roll down the khud,
   Reporting, etc.

  We make 'em their bridges, their wells, an' their huts,
  An' the telegraph-wire the enemy cuts,
   An' it's blamed on, etc.

  An' when we return, an' from war we would cease,
  They grudge us adornin' the billets of peace,
   Which are kept for, etc.

  We build 'em nice barracks — they swear they are bad,
  That our Colonels are Methodist, married or mad,
   Insultin', etc.

  They haven't no manners nor gratitude too,
  For the more that we help 'em, the less will they do,
   But mock at, etc.

  Now the Line's but a man with a gun in his hand,
  An' Cavalry's only what horses can stand,
   When helped by, etc.

  Artillery moves by the leave o' the ground,
  But we are the men that do something all round,
   For we are, etc.

  I have stated it plain, an' my argument's thus
   (“It's all one,” says the Sapper),
  There's only one Corps which is perfect — that's us;
   An' they call us Her Majesty's Engineers,
   Her Majesty's Royal Engineers,
   With the rank and pay of a Sapper!


  It got beyond all orders an' it got beyond all 'ope;
   It got to shammin' wounded an' retirin' from the 'alt.
  'Ole companies was lookin' for the nearest road to slope;
   It were just a bloomin' knock-out — an' our fault!

       Now there ain't no chorus 'ere to give,
        Nor there ain't no band to play;
       An' I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did,
        Or seen what I seed that day!

  We was sick o' bein' punished, an' we let 'em know it, too;
   An' a company-commander up an' 'it us with a sword,
  An' some one shouted “'Ook it!” an' it come to sove-ki-poo,
   An' we chucked our rifles from us — O my Gawd!

  There was thirty dead an' wounded on the ground we wouldn't keep —
   No, there wasn't more than twenty when the front begun to go;
  But, Christ! along the line o' flight they cut us up like sheep,
   An' that was all we gained by doin' so.

  I 'eard the knives be'ind me, but I dursn't face my man,
   Nor I don't know where I went to, 'cause I didn't 'alt to see,
  Till I 'eard a beggar squealin' out for quarter as 'e ran,
   An' I thought I knew the voice an' — it was me!

  We was 'idin' under bedsteads more than 'arf a march away;
   We was lyin' up like rabbits all about the countryside;
  An' the major cursed 'is Maker 'cause 'e lived to see that day,
   An' the colonel broke 'is sword acrost, an' cried.

  We was rotten 'fore we started — we was never disciplined;
   We made it out a favour if an order was obeyed;
  Yes, every little drummer 'ad 'is rights an' wrongs to mind,
   So we had to pay for teachin' — an' we paid!

  The papers 'id it 'andsome, but you know the Army knows;
   We was put to groomin' camels till the regiments withdrew,
  An' they gave us each a medal for subduin' England's foes,
   An' I 'ope you like my song — because it's true!

       An' there ain't no chorus 'ere to give,
        Nor there ain't no band to play;
       But I wish I was dead 'fore I done what I did,
        Or seen what I seed that day!


  A Song of Instruction
  The men that fought at Minden, they was rookies in their time —
   So was them that fought at Waterloo!
  All the 'ole command, yuss, from Minden to Maiwand,
   They was once dam' sweeps like you!

       Then do not be discouraged, 'Eaven is your 'elper,
        We'll learn you not to forget;
       An' you mustn't swear an' curse, or you'll only catch it worse,
        For we'll make you soldiers yet!

  The men that fought at Minden, they 'ad stocks beneath their chins,
   Six inch 'igh an' more;
  But fatigue it was their pride, and they would not be denied
   To clean the cook-'ouse floor.

  The men that fought at Minden, they had anarchistic bombs
   Served to 'em by name of 'and-grenades;
  But they got it in the eye (same as you will by-an'-by)
   When they clubbed their field-parades.

  The men that fought at Minden, they 'ad buttons up an' down,
   Two-an'-twenty dozen of 'em told;
  But they didn't grouse an' shirk at an hour's extry work,
   They kept 'em bright as gold.

  The men that fought at Minden, they was armed with musketoons,
   Also, they was drilled by 'alberdiers;
  I don't know what they were, but the sergeants took good care
   They washed be'ind their ears.

  The men that fought at Minden, they 'ad ever cash in 'and
   Which they did not bank nor save,
  But spent it gay an' free on their betters — such as me —
   For the good advice I gave.

  The men that fought at Minden, they was civil — yuss, they was —
   Never didn't talk o' rights an' wrongs,
  But they got it with the toe (same as you will get it — so!) —
   For interrupting songs.

  The men that fought at Minden, they was several other things
   Which I don't remember clear;
  But that's the reason why, now the six-year men are dry,
   The rooks will stand the beer!

       Then do not be discouraged, 'Eaven is your 'elper,
        We'll learn you not to forget;
       An' you mustn't swear an' curse, or you'll only catch it worse,
        For we'll make you soldiers yet!

       Soldiers yet, if you've got it in you —
        All for the sake of the Core;
       Soldiers yet, if we 'ave to skin you —
        Run an' get the beer, Johnny Raw — Johnny Raw!
        Ho! run an' get the beer, Johnny Raw!


  We've got the cholerer in camp — it's worse than forty fights;
   We're dyin' in the wilderness the same as Isrulites;
  It's before us, an' be'ind us, an' we cannot get away,
   An' the doctor's just reported we've ten more to-day!

       Oh, strike your camp an' go, the Bugle's callin',
          The Rains are fallin' —
       The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below;
       The Band's a-doin' all she knows to cheer us;
       The Chaplain's gone and prayed to Gawd to 'ear us —
          To 'ear us —
       O Lord, for it's a-killin' of us so!

  Since August, when it started, it's been stickin' to our tail,
  Though they've 'ad us out by marches an' they've 'ad us back by rail;
  But it runs as fast as troop-trains, and we cannot get away;
  An' the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more to-day.

  There ain't no fun in women nor there ain't no bite to drink;
  It's much too wet for shootin', we can only march and think;
  An' at evenin', down the nullahs, we can 'ear the jackals say,
  “Get up, you rotten beggars, you've ten more to-day!”

  'Twould make a monkey cough to see our way o' doin' things —
  Lieutenants takin' companies an' captains takin' wings,
  An' Lances actin' Sergeants — eight file to obey —
  For we've lots o' quick promotion on ten deaths a day!

  Our Colonel's white an' twitterly — 'e gets no sleep nor food,
  But mucks about in 'orspital where nothing does no good.
  'E sends us 'eaps o' comforts, all bought from 'is pay —
  But there aren't much comfort 'andy on ten deaths a day.

  Our Chaplain's got a banjo, an' a skinny mule 'e rides,
  An' the stuff 'e says an' sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides!
  With 'is black coat-tails a-bobbin' to Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-ay!
  'E's the proper kind o' padre for ten deaths a day.

  An' Father Victor 'elps 'im with our Roman Catholicks —
  He knows an 'eap of Irish songs an' rummy conjurin' tricks;
  An' the two they works together when it comes to play or pray;
  So we keep the ball a-rollin' on ten deaths a day.

  We've got the cholerer in camp — we've got it 'ot an' sweet;
  It ain't no Christmas dinner, but it's 'elped an' we must eat.
  We've gone beyond the funkin', 'cause we've found it doesn't pay,
  An' we're rockin' round the Districk on ten deaths a day!

       Then strike your camp an' go, the Rains are fallin',
          The Bugle's callin'!
       The dead are bushed an' stoned to keep 'em safe below!
       An' them that do not like it they can lump it,
       An' them that cannot stand it they can jump it;
       We've got to die somewhere — some way — some'ow —
       We might as well begin to do it now!
       Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole slow,
       Knock out the pegs an' 'old the corners — so!
       Fold in the flies, furl up the ropes, an' stow!
       Oh, strike — oh, strike your camp an' go!
          (Gawd 'elp us!)


  I've taken my fun where I've found it;
   I've rogued an' I've ranged in my time;
  I've 'ad my pickin' o' sweet'earts,
   An' four o' the lot was prime.
  One was an 'arf-caste widow,
   One was a woman at Prome,
  One was the wife of a jemadar-sais,                         [Head-groom.]
   An' one is a girl at 'ome.

       Now I aren't no 'and with the ladies,
        For, takin' 'em all along,
       You never can say till you've tried 'em,
        An' then you are like to be wrong.
       There's times when you'll think that you mightn't,
        There's times when you'll know that you might;
       But the things you will learn from the Yellow an' Brown,
        They'll 'elp you a lot with the White!

  I was a young un at 'Oogli,
   Shy as a girl to begin;
  Aggie de Castrer she made me,
   An' Aggie was clever as sin;
  Older than me, but my first un —
   More like a mother she were —
  Showed me the way to promotion an' pay,
   An' I learned about women from 'er!

  Then I was ordered to Burma,
   Actin' in charge o' Bazar,
  An' I got me a tiddy live 'eathen
   Through buyin' supplies off 'er pa.
  Funny an' yellow an' faithful —
   Doll in a teacup she were,
  But we lived on the square, like a true-married pair,
   An' I learned about women from 'er!

  Then we was shifted to Neemuch
   (Or I might ha' been keepin' 'er now),
  An' I took with a shiny she-devil,
   The wife of a nigger at Mhow;
  'Taught me the gipsy-folks' bolee;                               [Slang.]
   Kind o' volcano she were,
  For she knifed me one night 'cause I wished she was white,
   And I learned about women from 'er!

  Then I come 'ome in the trooper,
   'Long of a kid o' sixteen —
  Girl from a convent at Meerut,
   The straightest I ever 'ave seen.
  Love at first sight was 'er trouble,
   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!

  I've taken my fun where I've found it,
   An' now I must pay for my fun,
  For the more you 'ave known o' the others
   The less will you settle to one;
  An' the end of it's sittin' and thinkin',
   An' dreamin' Hell-fires to see;
  So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not),
   An' learn about women from me!

       What did the Colonel's Lady think?
        Nobody never knew.
       Somebody asked the Sergeant's wife,
        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!


   “'As anybody seen Bill 'Awkins?”
       “Now 'ow in the devil would I know?”
   “'E's taken my girl out walkin',
      An' I've got to tell 'im so —
         Gawd — bless — 'im!
      I've got to tell 'im so.”

   “D'yer know what 'e's like, Bill 'Awkins?”
       “Now what in the devil would I care?”
   “'E's the livin', breathin' image of an organ-grinder's monkey,
      With a pound of grease in 'is 'air —
         Gawd — bless — 'im!
      An' a pound o' grease in 'is 'air.”

   “An' s'pose you met Bill 'Awkins,
      Now what in the devil 'ud ye do?”
   “I'd open 'is cheek to 'is chin-strap buckle,
      An' bung up 'is both eyes, too —
         Gawd — bless — 'im!
      An' bung up 'is both eyes, too!”

   “Look 'ere, where 'e comes, Bill 'Awkins!
      Now what in the devil will you say?”
   “It isn't fit an' proper to be fightin' on a Sunday,
      So I'll pass 'im the time o' day —
         Gawd — bless — 'im!
      I'll pass 'im the time o' day!”


  There was Rundle, Station Master,
   An' Beazeley of the Rail,
  An' 'Ackman, Commissariat,
   An' Donkin' o' the Jail;
  An' Blake, Conductor-Sargent,
   Our Master twice was 'e,
  With 'im that kept the Europe-shop,
   Old Framjee Eduljee.

       Outside — “Sergeant!  Sir!  Salute!  Salaam!”
        Inside — “Brother”, an' it doesn't do no 'arm.
       We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square,
       An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!

  We'd Bola Nath, Accountant,
   An' Saul the Aden Jew,
  An' Din Mohammed, draughtsman
   Of the Survey Office too;
  There was Babu Chuckerbutty,
   An' Amir Singh the Sikh,
  An' Castro from the fittin'-sheds,
   The Roman Catholick!

  We 'adn't good regalia,
   An' our Lodge was old an' bare,
  But we knew the Ancient Landmarks,
   An' we kep' 'em to a hair;
  An' lookin' on it backwards
   It often strikes me thus,
  There ain't such things as infidels,
   Excep', per'aps, it's us.

  For monthly, after Labour,
   We'd all sit down and smoke
  (We dursn't give no banquits,
   Lest a Brother's caste were broke),
  An' man on man got talkin'
   Religion an' the rest,
  An' every man comparin'
   Of the God 'e knew the best.

  So man on man got talkin',
   An' not a Brother stirred
  Till mornin' waked the parrots
   An' that dam' brain-fever-bird;
  We'd say 'twas 'ighly curious,
   An' we'd all ride 'ome to bed,
  With Mo'ammed, God, an' Shiva
   Changin' pickets in our 'ead.

  Full oft on Guv'ment service
   This rovin' foot 'ath pressed,
  An' bore fraternal greetin's
   To the Lodges east an' west,
  Accordin' as commanded
   From Kohat to Singapore,
  But I wish that I might see them
   In my Mother-Lodge once more!

  I wish that I might see them,
   My Brethren black an' brown,
  With the trichies smellin' pleasant
   An' the hog-darn passin' down;                          [Cigar-lighter.]
  An' the old khansamah snorin'                                     [Butler.]
   On the bottle-khana floor,                                       [Pantry.]
  Like a Master in good standing
   With my Mother-Lodge once more!

       Outside — “Sergeant!  Sir!  Salute!  Salaam!”
        Inside — “Brother”, an' it doesn't do no 'arm.
       We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square,
       An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!


     There was no one like 'im, 'Orse or Foot,
      Nor any o' the Guns I knew;
  An' because it was so, why, o' course 'e went an' died,
      Which is just what the best men do.

       So it's knock out your pipes an' follow me!
       An' it's finish up your swipes an' follow me!
        Oh, 'ark to the big drum callin',
         Follow me — follow me 'ome!

     'Is mare she neighs the 'ole day long,
      She paws the 'ole night through,
  An' she won't take 'er feed 'cause o' waitin' for 'is step,
      Which is just what a beast would do.

     'Is girl she goes with a bombardier
      Before 'er month is through;
  An' the banns are up in church, for she's got the beggar hooked,
      Which is just what a girl would do.

     We fought 'bout a dog — last week it were —
      No more than a round or two;
  But I strook 'im cruel 'ard, an' I wish I 'adn't now,
      Which is just what a man can't do.

     'E was all that I 'ad in the way of a friend,
      An' I've 'ad to find one new;
  But I'd give my pay an' stripe for to get the beggar back,
      Which it's just too late to do.

       So it's knock out your pipes an' follow me!
       An' it's finish off your swipes an' follow me!
        Oh, 'ark to the fifes a-crawlin'!
         Follow me — follow me 'ome!

            Take 'im away!  'E's gone where the best men go.
            Take 'im away!  An' the gun-wheels turnin' slow.
            Take 'im away!  There's more from the place 'e come.
            Take 'im away, with the limber an' the drum.

       For it's “Three rounds blank” an' follow me,
       An' it's “Thirteen rank” an' follow me;
        Oh, passin' the love o' women,
         Follow me — follow me 'ome!


  'E was warned agin' 'er —
   That's what made 'im look;
  She was warned agin' 'im —
   That is why she took.
  'Wouldn't 'ear no reason,
   'Went an' done it blind;
  We know all about 'em,
   They've got all to find!

       Cheer for the Sergeant's weddin' —
       Give 'em one cheer more!
       Grey gun-'orses in the lando,
       An' a rogue is married to, etc.

  What's the use o' tellin'
   'Arf the lot she's been?
  'E's a bloomin' robber,
   An'' 'e keeps canteen.
  'Ow did 'e get 'is buggy?
   Gawd, you needn't ask!
  'Made 'is forty gallon
   Out of every cask!

  Watch 'im, with 'is 'air cut,
   Count us filin' by —
  Won't the Colonel praise 'is
   Pop — u — lar — i — ty!
  We 'ave scores to settle —
   Scores for more than beer;
  She's the girl to pay 'em —
   That is why we're 'ere!

  See the chaplain thinkin'?
   See the women smile?
  Twig the married winkin'
   As they take the aisle?
  Keep your side-arms quiet,
   Dressin' by the Band.
  Ho!  You 'oly beggars,
   Cough be'ind your 'and!

  Now it's done an' over,
   'Ear the organ squeak,
  “'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!

  Escort to the kerridge,
   Wish 'im luck, the brute!
  Chuck the slippers after —
   [Pity 'tain't a boot!]
  Bowin' like a lady,
   Blushin' like a lad —
  'Oo would say to see 'em
   Both is rotten bad?

       Cheer for the Sergeant's weddin' —
        Give 'em one cheer more!
       Grey gun-'orses in the lando,
        An' a rogue is married to, etc.


  Through the Plagues of Egyp' we was chasin' Arabi,
   Gettin' down an' shovin' in the sun;
  An' you might 'ave called us dirty, an' you might ha' called us dry,
   An' you might 'ave 'eard us talkin' at the gun.
  But the Captain 'ad 'is jacket, an' the jacket it was new —
   ('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
  An' the wettin' of the jacket is the proper thing to do,
   Nor we didn't keep 'im waitin' very long.

  One day they gave us orders for to shell a sand redoubt,
   Loadin' down the axle-arms with case;
  But the Captain knew 'is dooty, an' he took the crackers out
   An' he put some proper liquor in its place.
  An' the Captain saw the shrapnel, which is six-an'-thirty clear.
   ('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
  “Will you draw the weight,” sez 'e, “or will you draw the beer?”
    An' we didn't keep 'im waitin' very long.
    For the Captain, etc.

  Then we trotted gentle, not to break the bloomin' glass,
   Though the Arabites 'ad all their ranges marked;
  But we dursn't 'ardly gallop, for the most was bottled Bass,
   An' we'd dreamed of it since we was disembarked:
  So we fired economic with the shells we 'ad in 'and,
   ('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
  But the beggars under cover 'ad the impidence to stand,
   An' we couldn't keep 'em waitin' very long.
    And the Captain, etc.

  So we finished 'arf the liquor (an' the Captain took champagne),
   An' the Arabites was shootin' all the while;
  An' we left our wounded 'appy with the empties on the plain,
   An' we used the bloomin' guns for pro-jec-tile!
  We limbered up an' galloped — there were nothin' else to do —
   ('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
  An' the Battery came a-boundin' like a boundin' kangaroo,
   But they didn't watch us comin' very long.
    As the Captain, etc.

  We was goin' most extended — we was drivin' very fine,
   An' the Arabites were loosin' 'igh an' wide,
  Till the Captain took the glassy with a rattlin' right incline,
   An' we dropped upon their 'eads the other side.
  Then we give 'em quarter — such as 'adn't up and cut,
   ('Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
  An' the Captain stood a limberful of fizzy — somethin' Brutt,
   But we didn't leave it fizzing very long.
    For the Captain, etc.

  We might ha' been court-martialled, but it all come out all right
   When they signalled us to join the main command.
  There was every round expended, there was every gunner tight,
   An' the Captain waved a corkscrew in 'is 'and.
    But the Captain 'ad 'is jacket, etc.


  The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone;
  'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own;
  'E keeps 'is side-arms awful:  'e leaves 'em all about,
  An' then comes up the regiment an' pokes the 'eathen out.

       All along o' dirtiness, all along o' mess,
       All along o' doin' things rather-more-or-less,
       All along of abby-nay, kul, an' hazar-ho, *
       Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so!

     * abby-nay:  Not now.  kul:  To-morrow.  hazar-ho:
     Wait a bit.

  The young recruit is 'aughty — 'e draf's from Gawd knows where;
  They bid 'im show 'is stockin's an' lay 'is mattress square;
  'E calls it bloomin' nonsense — 'e doesn't know no more —
  An' then up comes 'is Company an' kicks 'im round the floor!

  The young recruit is 'ammered — 'e takes it very 'ard;
  'E 'angs 'is 'ead an' mutters — 'e sulks about the yard;
  'E talks o' “cruel tyrants” 'e'll swing for by-an'-by,
  An' the others 'ears an' mocks 'im, an' the boy goes orf to cry.

  The young recruit is silly — 'e thinks o' suicide;
  'E's lost 'is gutter-devil; 'e 'asn't got 'is pride;
  But day by day they kicks 'im, which 'elps 'im on a bit,
  Till 'e finds 'isself one mornin' with a full an' proper kit.

       Gettin' clear o' dirtiness, gettin' done with mess,
       Gettin' shut o' doin' things rather-more-or-less;
       Not so fond of abby-nay, kul, nor hazar-ho,
       Learns to keep 'is rifle an' 'isself jus' so!

  The young recruit is 'appy — 'e throws a chest to suit;
  You see 'im grow mustaches; you 'ear 'im slap 'is boot;
  'E learns to drop the “bloodies” from every word 'e slings,
  An' 'e shows an 'ealthy brisket when 'e strips for bars an' rings.

  The cruel-tyrant-sergeants they watch 'im 'arf a year;
  They watch 'im with 'is comrades, they watch 'im with 'is beer;
  They watch 'im with the women at the regimental dance,
  And the cruel-tyrant-sergeants send 'is name along for “Lance”.

  An' now 'e's 'arf o' nothin', an' all a private yet,
  'Is room they up an' rags 'im to see what they will get;
  They rags 'im low an' cunnin', each dirty trick they can,
  But 'e learns to sweat 'is temper an' 'e learns to sweat 'is man.

  An', last, a Colour-Sergeant, as such to be obeyed,
  'E schools 'is men at cricket, 'e tells 'em on parade;
  They sees 'em quick an' 'andy, uncommon set an' smart,
  An' so 'e talks to orficers which 'ave the Core at 'eart.

  'E learns to do 'is watchin' without it showin' plain;
  'E learns to save a dummy, an' shove 'im straight again;
  'E learns to check a ranker that's buyin' leave to shirk;
  An' 'e learns to make men like 'im so they'll learn to like their work.

  An' when it comes to marchin' he'll see their socks are right,
  An' when it comes to action 'e shows 'em 'ow to sight;
  'E knows their ways of thinkin' and just what's in their mind;
  'E knows when they are takin' on an' when they've fell be'ind.

  'E knows each talkin' corpril that leads a squad astray;
  'E feels 'is innards 'eavin', 'is bowels givin' way;
  'E sees the blue-white faces all tryin' 'ard to grin,
  An' 'e stands an' waits an' suffers till it's time to cap 'em in.

  An' now the hugly bullets come peckin' through the dust,
  An' no one wants to face 'em, but every beggar must;
  So, like a man in irons which isn't glad to go,
  They moves 'em off by companies uncommon stiff an' slow.

  Of all 'is five years' schoolin' they don't remember much
  Excep' the not retreatin', the step an' keepin' touch.
  It looks like teachin' wasted when they duck an' spread an' 'op,
  But if 'e 'adn't learned 'em they'd be all about the shop!

  An' now it's “'Oo goes backward?” an' now it's “'Oo comes on?”
   And now it's “Get the doolies,” an' now the captain's gone;
  An' now it's bloody murder, but all the while they 'ear
  'Is voice, the same as barrick drill, a-shepherdin' the rear.

  'E's just as sick as they are, 'is 'eart is like to split,
  But 'e works 'em, works 'em, works 'em till he feels 'em take the bit;
  The rest is 'oldin' steady till the watchful bugles play,
  An' 'e lifts 'em, lifts 'em, lifts 'em through the charge that wins the day!

       The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone;
       'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own;
       The 'eathen in 'is blindness must end where 'e began,
       But the backbone of the Army is the non-commissioned man!

       Keep away from dirtiness — keep away from mess.
       Don't get into doin' things rather-more-or-less!
       Let's ha' done with abby-nay, kul, an' hazar-ho;
       Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so!


  Sez the Junior Orderly Sergeant
   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.”

       So it was “Rounds!  What Rounds?” at two of a frosty night,
        'E's 'oldin' on by the sergeant's sash, but, sentry, shut your eye.
       An' it was “Pass!  All's well!”  Oh, ain't 'e drippin' tight!
        'E'll need an affidavit pretty badly by-an'-by.

  The moon was white on the barricks,
   The road was white an' wide,
  An' the Orderly Orf'cer took it all,
   An' the ten-foot ditch beside.
  An' the corporal pulled an' the sergeant pushed,
   An' the three they danced along,
  But I'd shut my eyes in the sentry-box,
   So I didn't see nothin' wrong.

       Though it was “Rounds!  What Rounds?”  O corporal, 'old 'im up!
        'E's usin' 'is cap as it shouldn't be used, but, sentry, shut your eye.
       An' it was “Pass!  All's well!”  Ho, shun the foamin' cup!
        'E'll need, etc.

  'Twas after four in the mornin';
   We 'ad to stop the fun,
  An' we sent 'im 'ome on a bullock-cart,
   With 'is belt an' stock undone;
  But we sluiced 'im down an' we washed 'im out,
   An' a first-class job we made,
  When we saved 'im, smart as a bombardier,
   For six-o'clock parade.

       It 'ad been “Rounds!  What Rounds?”  Oh, shove 'im straight again!
        'E's usin' 'is sword for a bicycle, but, sentry, shut your eye.
       An' it was “Pass!  All's well!”  'E's called me “Darlin' Jane”!
        'E'll need, etc.

  The drill was long an' 'eavy,
   The sky was 'ot an' blue,
  An' 'is eye was wild an' 'is 'air was wet,
   But 'is sergeant pulled 'im through.
  Our men was good old trusties —
   They'd done it on their 'ead;
  But you ought to 'ave 'eard 'em markin' time
   To 'ide the things 'e said!

       For it was “Right flank — wheel!” for “'Alt, an' stand at ease!”
         An' “Left extend!” for “Centre close!”  O marker, shut your eye!
       An' it was, “'Ere, sir, 'ere! before the Colonel sees!”
         So he needed affidavits pretty badly by-an'-by.

  There was two-an'-thirty sergeants,
   There was corp'rals forty-one,
  There was just nine 'undred rank an' file
   To swear to a touch o' sun.
  There was me 'e'd kissed in the sentry-box,
   As I 'ave not told in my song,
  But I took my oath, which were Bible truth,
   I 'adn't seen nothin' wrong.

  There's them that's 'ot an' 'aughty,
   There's them that's cold an' 'ard,
  But there comes a night when the best gets tight,
   And then turns out the Guard.
  I've seen them 'ide their liquor
   In every kind o' way,
  But most depends on makin' friends
   With Privit Thomas A.!

       When it is “Rounds!  What Rounds?”  'E's breathin' through 'is nose.
        'E's reelin', rollin', roarin' tight, but, sentry, shut your eye.
       An' it is “Pass!  All's well!”  An' that's the way it goes:
        We'll 'elp 'im for 'is mother, an' 'e'll 'elp us by-an'-by!


  You call yourself a man,
   For all you used to swear,
  An' leave me, as you can,
   My certain shame to bear?
   I 'ear!  You do not care —
  You done the worst you know.
   I 'ate you, grinnin' there. . . .
  Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

       Nice while it lasted, an' now it is over —
       Tear out your 'eart an' good-bye to your lover!
       What's the use o' grievin', when the mother that bore you
       (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?

  It aren't no false alarm,
   The finish to your fun;
  You — you 'ave brung the 'arm,
   An' I'm the ruined one;
   An' now you'll off an' run
  With some new fool in tow.
   Your 'eart?  You 'aven't none. . . .
  Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

       When a man is tired there is naught will bind 'im;
       All 'e solemn promised 'e will shove be'ind 'im.
       What's the good o' prayin' for The Wrath to strike 'im
       (Mary, pity women!), when the rest are like 'im?

  What 'ope for me or — it?
   What's left for us to do?
  I've walked with men a bit,
   But this — but this is you.
  So 'elp me Christ, it's true!
   Where can I 'ide or go?
  You coward through and through! . . .
   Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

       All the more you give 'em the less are they for givin' —
       Love lies dead, an' you cannot kiss 'im livin'.
       Down the road 'e led you there is no returnin'
       (Mary, pity women!), but you're late in learnin'!

  You'd like to treat me fair?
   You can't, because we're pore?
  We'd starve?  What do I care!
   We might, but 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!

       What's the good o' pleadin', when the mother that bore you
       (Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?
       Sleep on 'is promises an' wake to your sorrow
       (Mary, pity women!), for we sail to-morrow!


  The Injian Ocean sets an' smiles
   So sof', so bright, so bloomin' blue;
  There aren't a wave for miles an' miles
   Excep' the jiggle from the screw.
  The ship is swep', the day is done,
   The bugle's gone for smoke and play;
  An' black agin' the settin' sun
   The Lascar sings, “Hum deckty hai!”                 [“I'm looking out.”]

       For to admire an' for to see,
        For to be'old this world so wide —
       It never done no good to me,
        But I can't drop it if I tried!

  I see the sergeants pitchin' quoits,
   I 'ear the women laugh an' talk,
  I spy upon the quarter-deck
   The orficers an' lydies walk.
  I thinks about the things that was,
   An' leans an' looks acrost the sea,
  Till spite of all the crowded ship
   There's no one lef' alive but me.

  The things that was which I 'ave seen,
   In barrick, camp, an' action too,
  I tells them over by myself,
   An' sometimes wonders if they're true;
  For they was odd — most awful odd —
   But all the same now they are o'er,
  There must be 'eaps o' plenty such,
   An' if I wait I'll see some more.

  Oh, I 'ave come upon the books,
   An' frequent broke a barrick rule,
  An' stood beside an' watched myself
   Be'avin' like a bloomin' fool.
  I paid my price for findin' out,
   Nor never grutched the price I paid,
  But sat in Clink without my boots,
   Admirin' 'ow the world was made.

  Be'old a crowd upon the beam,
   An' 'umped above the sea appears
  Old Aden, like a barrick-stove
   That no one's lit for years an' years!
  I passed by that when I began,
   An' I go 'ome the road I came,
  A time-expired soldier-man
   With six years' service to 'is name.

  My girl she said, “Oh, stay with me!”
    My mother 'eld me to 'er breast.
  They've never written none, an' so
   They must 'ave gone with all the rest —
  With all the rest which I 'ave seen
   An' found an' known an' met along.
  I cannot say the things I feel,
   And so I sing my evenin' song:

       For to admire an' for to see,
        For to be'old this world so wide —
       It never done no good to me,
        But I can't drop it if I tried!


  When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
  When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
  We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it — lie down for an ]aeon or two,
  Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew!

  And those that were good shall be happy:  they shall sit in a golden chair;
  They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair;
  They shall find real saints to draw from — Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
  They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

  And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
  And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,
  But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
  Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They Are!

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