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diff --git a/7846-h/7846-h.htm b/7846-h/7846-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2716ba9 --- /dev/null +++ b/7846-h/7846-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5532 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Departmental Ditties, by Rudyard Kipling + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room +Ballads, by Rudyard Kipling + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room Ballads + +Author: Rudyard Kipling + +Release Date: July 31, 2009 [EBook #7846] +Last Updated: March 9, 2018 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DITTIES AND BALLADS *** + + + + +Produced by Ted Garvin, and David Widger + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES + </h1> + <h3> + and + </h3> + <h1> + BALLADS AND BARRACK ROOM BALLADS + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Rudyard Kipling + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <big><b>DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> GENERAL SUMMARY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> ARMY HEADQUARTERS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> STUDY OF AN ELEVATION, IN INDIAN INK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> THE STORY OF URIAH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> THE POST THAT FITTED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> PUBLIC WASTE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> DELILAH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> WHAT HAPPENED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> PINK DOMINOES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> THE MAN WHO COULD WRITE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> MUNICIPAL </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> A CODE OF MORALS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> THE LAST DEPARTMENT </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> <big><b>BALLADS AND BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS</b></big> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> <big><b>BALLADS</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> THE BALLAD OF FISHER'S BOARDING-HOUSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> AS THE BELL CLINKS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> AN OLD SONG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> CERTAIN MAXIMS OF HAFIZ </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE GRAVE OF THE HUNDRED HEAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THE UNDERTAKER'S HORSE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> THE BETROTHED </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> A TALE OF TWO CITIES </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> <big><b>VOLUME II BALLADS AND BARRACK-ROOM + BALLADS</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> <big><b>BALLADS</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> THE LAST SUTTEE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE THIEF </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> THE BALLAD OF THE CLAMPHERDOWN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> THE BALLAD OF THE “BOLIVAR” </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> THE ENGLISH FLAG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> TOMLINSON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> DANNY DEEVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> TOMMY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> SOLDIER, SOLDIER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> SCREW-GUNS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> GUNGA DIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> OONTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> LOOT </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> 'SNARLEYOW' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> BELTS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> MANDALAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> TROOPIN' </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> FORD O' KABUL RIVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> ROUTE MARCHIN' </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have eaten your bread and salt, + I have drunk your water and wine, + The deaths ye died I have watched beside, + And the lives that ye led were mine. + + Was there aught that I did not share + In vigil or toil or ease, + One joy or woe that I did not know, + Dear hearts across the seas? + + I have written the tale of our life + For a sheltered people's mirth, + In jesting guise—but ye are wise, + And ye know what the jest is worth. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GENERAL SUMMARY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We are very slightly changed + From the semi-apes who ranged + India's prehistoric clay; + Whoso drew the longest bow, + Ran his brother down, you know, + As we run men down today. + + “Dowb,” the first of all his race, + Met the Mammoth face to face + On the lake or in the cave, + Stole the steadiest canoe, + Ate the quarry others slew, + Died—and took the finest grave. + + When they scratched the reindeer-bone + Someone made the sketch his own, + Filched it from the artist—then, + Even in those early days, + Won a simple Viceroy's praise + Through the toil of other men. + + Ere they hewed the Sphinx's visage + Favoritism governed kissage, + Even as it does in this age. + + Who shall doubt the secret hid + Under Cheops' pyramid + Was that the contractor did + Cheops out of several millions? + Or that Joseph's sudden rise + To Comptroller of Supplies + Was a fraud of monstrous size + On King Pharoah's swart Civilians? + + Thus, the artless songs I sing + Do not deal with anything + New or never said before. + + As it was in the beginning, + Is today official sinning, + And shall be forevermore. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ARMY HEADQUARTERS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Old is the song that I sing— + Old as my unpaid bills— + Old as the chicken that kitmutgars bring + Men at dak-bungalows—old as the Hills. + + Ahasuerus Jenkins of the “Operatic Own” + Was dowered with a tenor voice of super-Santley tone. + + His views on equitation were, perhaps, a trifle queer; + He had no seat worth mentioning, but oh! he had an ear. + + He clubbed his wretched company a dozen times a day, + He used to quit his charger in a parabolic way, + His method of saluting was the joy of all beholders, + But Ahasuerus Jenkins had a head upon his shoulders. + + He took two months to Simla when the year was at the spring, + And underneath the deodars eternally did sing. + + He warbled like a bulbul, but particularly at + Cornelia Agrippina who was musical and fat. + + She controlled a humble husband, who, in turn, controlled a Dept., + Where Cornelia Agrippina's human singing-birds were kept + From April to October on a plump retaining fee, + Supplied, of course, per mensem, by the Indian Treasury. + + Cornelia used to sing with him, and Jenkins used to play; + He praised unblushingly her notes, for he was false as they: + So when the winds of April turned the budding roses brown, + Cornelia told her husband: “Tom, you mustn't send him down.” + + They haled him from his regiment which didn't much regret him; + They found for him an office-stool, and on that stool they set him, + To play with maps and catalogues three idle hours a day, + And draw his plump retaining fee—which means his double pay. + + Now, ever after dinner, when the coffeecups are brought, + Ahasuerus waileth o'er the grand pianoforte; + And, thanks to fair Cornelia, his fame hath waxen great, + And Ahasuerus Jenkins is a power in the State. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STUDY OF AN ELEVATION, IN INDIAN INK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This ditty is a string of lies. + But—how the deuce did Gubbins rise? + + POTIPHAR GUBBINS, C. E., + Stands at the top of the tree; + And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led + To the hoisting of Potiphar G. + + Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., + Is seven years junior to Me; + Each bridge that he makes he either buckles or breaks, + And his work is as rough as he. + + Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., + Is coarse as a chimpanzee; + And I can't understand why you gave him your hand, + Lovely Mehitabel Lee. + + Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., + Is dear to the Powers that Be; + For They bow and They smile in an affable style + Which is seldom accorded to Me. + + Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., + Is certain as certain can be + Of a highly-paid post which is claimed by a host + Of seniors—including Me. + + Careless and lazy is he, + Greatly inferior to Me. + + What is the spell that you manage so well, + Commonplace Potiphar G.? + + Lovely Mehitabel Lee, + Let me inquire of thee, + Should I have riz to what Potiphar is, + Hadst thou been mated to me? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A LEGEND + + This is the reason why Rustum Beg, + Rajah of Kolazai, + Drinketh the “simpkin” and brandy peg, + Maketh the money to fly, + Vexeth a Government, tender and kind, + Also—but this is a detail—blind. + + RUSTUM BEG of Kolazai—slightly backward native state + Lusted for a C. S. I.,—so began to sanitate. + Built a Jail and Hospital—nearly built a City drain— + Till his faithful subjects all thought their Ruler was insane. + + Strange departures made he then—yea, Departments stranger still, + Half a dozen Englishmen helped the Rajah with a will, + Talked of noble aims and high, hinted of a future fine + For the state of Kolazai, on a strictly Western line. + + Rajah Rustum held his peace; lowered octroi dues a half; + Organized a State Police; purified the Civil Staff; + Settled cess and tax afresh in a very liberal way; + Cut temptations of the flesh—also cut the Bukhshi's pay; + + Roused his Secretariat to a fine Mahratta fury, + By a Hookum hinting at supervision of dasturi; + Turned the State of Kolazai very nearly upside-down; + When the end of May was nigh, waited his achievement crown. + + When the Birthday Honors came, + Sad to state and sad to see, + Stood against the Rajah's name nothing more than C. I. E.! +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Things were lively for a week in the State of Kolazai. + Even now the people speak of that time regretfully. + + How he disendowed the Jail—stopped at once the City drain; + Turned to beauty fair and frail—got his senses back again; + Doubled taxes, cesses, all; cleared away each new-built thana; + Turned the two-lakh Hospital into a superb Zenana; + + Heaped upon the Bukhshi Sahib wealth and honors manifold; + Clad himself in Eastern garb—squeezed his people as of old. + + Happy, happy Kolazai! Never more will Rustum Beg + Play to catch the Viceroy's eye. He prefers the “simpkin” peg. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORY OF URIAH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Now there were two men in one city; + the one rich and the other poor.” + + Jack Barrett went to Quetta + Because they told him to. + He left his wife at Simla + On three-fourths his monthly screw: + Jack Barrett died at Quetta + Ere the next month's pay he drew. + + Jack Barrett went to Quetta. + He didn't understand + The reason of his transfer + From the pleasant mountain-land: + The season was September, + And it killed him out of hand. + + Jack Barrett went to Quetta, + And there gave up the ghost, + Attempting two men's duty + In that very healthy post; + And Mrs. Barrett mourned for him + Five lively months at most. + + Jack Barrett's bones at Quetta + Enjoy profound repose; + But I shouldn't be astonished + If now his spirit knows + The reason of his transfer + From the Himalayan snows. + + And, when the Last Great Bugle Call + Adown the Hurnal throbs, + When the last grim joke is entered + In the big black Book of Jobs, + And Quetta graveyards give again + Their victims to the air, + I shouldn't like to be the man + Who sent Jack Barrett there. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POST THAT FITTED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Though tangled and twisted the course of true love + This ditty explains, + No tangle's so tangled it cannot improve + If the Lover has brains. + + Ere the steamer bore him Eastward, Sleary was engaged to marry + An attractive girl at Tunbridge, whom he called “my little Carrie.” + + Sleary's pay was very modest; Sleary was the other way. + Who can cook a two-plate dinner on eight poor rupees a day? + + Long he pondered o'er the question in his scantly furnished quarters— + Then proposed to Minnie Boffkin, eldest of Judge Boffkin's daughters. + + Certainly an impecunious Subaltern was not a catch, + But the Boffkins knew that Minnie mightn't make another match. + + So they recognised the business and, to feed and clothe the bride, + Got him made a Something Something somewhere on the Bombay side. + + Anyhow, the billet carried pay enough for him to marry— + As the artless Sleary put it:—“Just the thing for me and Carrie.” + + Did he, therefore, jilt Miss Boffkin—impulse of a baser mind? + No! He started epileptic fits of an appalling kind. + + [Of his modus operandi only this much I could gather:— + “Pears's shaving sticks will give you little taste and lots of lather.”] + + Frequently in public places his affliction used to smite + Sleary with distressing vigour—always in the Boffkins' sight. + + Ere a week was over Minnie weepingly returned his ring, + Told him his “unhappy weakness” stopped all thought of marrying. + + Sleary bore the information with a chastened holy joy,— + Epileptic fits don't matter in Political employ,— + Wired three short words to Carrie—took his ticket, packed his kit— + Bade farewell to Minnie Boffkin in one last, long, lingering fit. + + Four weeks later, Carrie Sleary read—and laughed until she wept— + Mrs. Boffkin's warning letter on the “wretched epilept.”... + + Year by year, in pious patience, vengeful Mrs. Boffkin sits + Waiting for the Sleary babies to develop Sleary's fits. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PUBLIC WASTE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Walpole talks of “a man and his price.” + List to a ditty queer— + The sale of a Deputy-Acting-Vice- + Resident-Engineer, + Bought like a bullock, hoof and hide, + By the Little Tin Gods on the Mountain Side. + + By the Laws of the Family Circle 'tis written in letters of brass + That only a Colonel from Chatham can manage the Railways of State, + Because of the gold on his breeks, and the subjects wherein he must pass; + Because in all matters that deal not with Railways his knowledge is great. + + Now Exeter Battleby Tring had laboured from boyhood to eld + On the Lines of the East and the West, and eke of the North and South; + Many Lines had he built and surveyed—important the posts which he held; + And the Lords of the Iron Horse were dumb when he opened his mouth. + + Black as the raven his garb, and his heresies jettier still— + Hinting that Railways required lifetimes of study and knowledge— + Never clanked sword by his side—Vauban he knew not nor drill— + Nor was his name on the list of the men who had passed through the “College.” + + Wherefore the Little Tin Gods harried their little tin souls, + Seeing he came not from Chatham, jingled no spurs at his heels, + Knowing that, nevertheless, was he first on the Government rolls + For the billet of “Railway Instructor to Little Tin Gods on Wheels.” + + Letters not seldom they wrote him, “having the honour to state,” + It would be better for all men if he were laid on the shelf. + Much would accrue to his bank-book, an he consented to wait + Until the Little Tin Gods built him a berth for himself, + + “Special, well paid, and exempt from the Law of the Fifty and Five, + Even to Ninety and Nine”—these were the terms of the pact: + Thus did the Little Tin Gods (long may Their Highnesses thrive!) + Silence his mouth with rupees, keeping their Circle intact; + + Appointing a Colonel from Chatham who managed the Bhamo State Line + (The which was one mile and one furlong—a guaranteed twenty-inch gauge), + So Exeter Battleby Tring consented his claims to resign, + And died, on four thousand a month, in the ninetieth year of his age! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DELILAH + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We have another viceroy now,—those days are dead and done + Of Delilah Aberyswith and depraved Ulysses Gunne. + + Delilah Aberyswith was a lady—not too young— + With a perfect taste in dresses and a badly-bitted tongue, + With a thirst for information, and a greater thirst for praise, + And a little house in Simla in the Prehistoric Days. + + By reason of her marriage to a gentleman in power, + Delilah was acquainted with the gossip of the hour; + And many little secrets, of the half-official kind, + Were whispered to Delilah, and she bore them all in mind. + + She patronized extensively a man, Ulysses Gunne, + Whose mode of earning money was a low and shameful one. + He wrote for certain papers, which, as everybody knows, + Is worse than serving in a shop or scaring off the crows. + + He praised her “queenly beauty” first; and, later on, he hinted + At the “vastness of her intellect” with compliment unstinted. + He went with her a-riding, and his love for her was such + That he lent her all his horses and—she galled them very much. + + One day, THEY brewed a secret of a fine financial sort; + It related to Appointments, to a Man and a Report. + 'Twas almost worth the keeping,—only seven people knew it— + And Gunne rose up to seek the truth and patiently pursue it. + + It was a Viceroy's Secret, but—perhaps the wine was red— + Perhaps an Aged Councillor had lost his aged head— + Perhaps Delilah's eyes were bright—Delilah's whispers sweet— + The Aged Member told her what 'twere treason to repeat. + + Ulysses went a-riding, and they talked of love and flowers; + Ulysses went a-calling, and he called for several hours; + Ulysses went a-waltzing, and Delilah helped him dance— + Ulysses let the waltzes go, and waited for his chance. + + The summer sun was setting, and the summer air was still, + The couple went a-walking in the shade of Summer Hill. + The wasteful sunset faded out in Turkish-green and gold, + Ulysses pleaded softly, and— that bad Delilah told! + + Next morn, a startled Empire learnt the all-important news; + Next week, the Aged Councillor was shaking in his shoes. + Next month, I met Delilah and she did not show the least + Hesitation in affirming that Ulysses was a “beast.” + </pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We have another Viceroy now, those days are dead and done— + Of Delilah Aberyswith and most mean Ulysses Gunne! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHAT HAPPENED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hurree Chunder Mookerjee, pride of Bow Bazaar, + Owner of a native press, “Barrishter-at-Lar,” + Waited on the Government with a claim to wear + Sabres by the bucketful, rifles by the pair. + + Then the Indian Government winked a wicked wink, + Said to Chunder Mookerjee: “Stick to pen and ink. + They are safer implements, but, if you insist, + We will let you carry arms wheresoe'er you list.” + + Hurree Chunder Mookerjee sought the gunsmith and + Bought the tubes of Lancaster, Ballard, Dean, and Bland, + Bought a shiny bowie-knife, bought a town-made sword, + Jingled like a carriage-horse when he went abroad. + + But the Indian Government, always keen to please, + Also gave permission to horrid men like these— + Yar Mahommed Yusufzai, down to kill or steal, + Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer, Tantia the Bhil; + + Killar Khan the Marri chief, Jowar Singh the Sikh, + Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat, Abdul Huq Rafiq— + He was a Wahabi; last, little Boh Hla-oo + Took advantage of the Act—took a Snider too. + + They were unenlightened men, Ballard knew them not. + They procured their swords and guns chiefly on the spot; + And the lore of centuries, plus a hundred fights, + Made them slow to disregard one another's rights. + + With a unanimity dear to patriot hearts + All those hairy gentlemen out of foreign parts + Said: “The good old days are back—let us go to war!” + Swaggered down the Grand Trunk Road into Bow Bazaar, + + Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat found a hide-bound flail; + Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer oiled his Tonk jezail; + Yar Mahommed Yusufzai spat and grinned with glee + As he ground the butcher-knife of the Khyberee. + + Jowar Singh the Sikh procured sabre, quoit, and mace, + Abdul Huq, Wahabi, jerked his dagger from its place, + While amid the jungle-grass danced and grinned and jabbered + Little Boh Hla-oo and cleared his dah-blade from the scabbard. + + What became of Mookerjee? Soothly, who can say? + Yar Mahommed only grins in a nasty way, + Jowar Singh is reticent, Chimbu Singh is mute. + But the belts of all of them simply bulge with loot. + + What became of Ballard's guns? Afghans black and grubby + Sell them for their silver weight to the men of Pubbi; + And the shiny bowie-knife and the town-made sword are + Hanging in a Marri camp just across the Border. + + What became of Mookerjee? Ask Mahommed Yar + Prodding Siva's sacred bull down the Bow Bazaar. + Speak to placid Nubbee Baksh—question land and sea— + Ask the Indian Congressmen—only don't ask me! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PINK DOMINOES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “They are fools who kiss and tell”— + Wisely has the poet sung. + Man may hold all sorts of posts + If he'll only hold his tongue. + + Jenny and Me were engaged, you see, + On the eve of the Fancy Ball; + So a kiss or two was nothing to you + Or any one else at all. + + Jenny would go in a domino— + Pretty and pink but warm; + While I attended, clad in a splendid + Austrian uniform. + + Now we had arranged, through notes exchanged + Early that afternoon, + At Number Four to waltz no more, + But to sit in the dusk and spoon. + + I wish you to see that Jenny and Me + Had barely exchanged our troth; + So a kiss or two was strictly due + By, from, and between us both. + + When Three was over, an eager lover, + I fled to the gloom outside; + And a Domino came out also + Whom I took for my future bride. + + That is to say, in a casual way, + I slipped my arm around her; + With a kiss or two (which is nothing to you), + And ready to kiss I found her. + + She turned her head and the name she said + Was certainly not my own; + But ere I could speak, with a smothered shriek + She fled and left me alone. + + Then Jenny came, and I saw with shame + She'd doffed her domino; + And I had embraced an alien waist— + But I did not tell her so. + + Next morn I knew that there were two + Dominoes pink, and one + Had cloaked the spouse of Sir Julian House, + Our big Political gun. + + Sir J. was old, and her hair was gold, + And her eye was a blue cerulean; + And the name she said when she turned her head + Was not in the least like “Julian.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MAN WHO COULD WRITE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Shun—shun the Bowl! That fatal, facile drink + Has ruined many geese who dipped their quills in 't; + Bribe, murder, marry, but steer clear of Ink + Save when you write receipts for paid-up bills in 't. + + There may be silver in the “blue-black”—all + I know of is the iron and the gall. + + Boanerges Blitzen, servant of the Queen, + Is a dismal failure—is a Might-have-been. + In a luckless moment he discovered men + Rise to high position through a ready pen. + Boanerges Blitzen argued therefore—“I, + With the selfsame weapon, can attain as high.” + Only he did not possess when he made the trial, + Wicked wit of C-lv-n, irony of L—l. + + [Men who spar with Government need, to back their blows, + Something more than ordinary journalistic prose.] + + Never young Civilian's prospects were so bright, + Till an Indian paper found that he could write: + Never young Civilian's prospects were so dark, + When the wretched Blitzen wrote to make his mark. + Certainly he scored it, bold, and black, and firm, + In that Indian paper—made his seniors squirm, + Quoted office scandals, wrote the tactless truth— + Was there ever known a more misguided youth? + When the Rag he wrote for praised his plucky game, + Boanerges Blitzen felt that this was Fame; + When the men he wrote of shook their heads and swore, + Boanerges Blitzen only wrote the more: + + Posed as Young Ithuriel, resolute and grim, + Till he found promotion didn't come to him; + Till he found that reprimands weekly were his lot, + And his many Districts curiously hot. + + Till he found his furlough strangely hard to win, + Boanerges Blitzen didn't care to pin: + Then it seemed to dawn on him something wasn't right— + Boanerges Blitzen put it down to “spite”; + + Languished in a District desolate and dry; + Watched the Local Government yearly pass him by; + Wondered where the hitch was; called it most unfair. + * * * * * * * * * + + That was seven years ago—and he still is there! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MUNICIPAL + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Why is my District death-rate low?” + Said Binks of Hezabad. + “Well, drains, and sewage-outfalls are + “My own peculiar fad. + + “I learnt a lesson once, It ran + “Thus,” quoth that most veracious man:— + + It was an August evening and, in snowy garments clad, + I paid a round of visits in the lines of Hezabad; + When, presently, my Waler saw, and did not like at all, + A Commissariat elephant careering down the Mall. + + I couldn't see the driver, and across my mind it rushed + That that Commissariat elephant had suddenly gone musth. + + I didn't care to meet him, and I couldn't well get down, + So I let the Waler have it, and we headed for the town. + + The buggy was a new one and, praise Dykes, it stood the strain, + Till the Waler jumped a bullock just above the City Drain; + And the next that I remember was a hurricane of squeals, + And the creature making toothpicks of my five-foot patent wheels. + + He seemed to want the owner, so I fled, distraught with fear, + To the Main Drain sewage-outfall while he snorted in my ear— + Reached the four-foot drain-head safely and, in darkness and despair, + Felt the brute's proboscis fingering my terror-stiffened hair. + + Heard it trumpet on my shoulder—tried to crawl a little higher— + Found the Main Drain sewage outfall blocked, some eight feet up, with mire; + And, for twenty reeking minutes, Sir, my very marrow froze, + While the trunk was feeling blindly for a purchase on my toes! + + It missed me by a fraction, but my hair was turning grey + Before they called the drivers up and dragged the brute away. + + Then I sought the City Elders, and my words were very plain. + They flushed that four-foot drain-head and—it never choked again! + + You may hold with surface-drainage, and the sun-for-garbage cure, + Till you've been a periwinkle shrinking coyly up a sewer. + + I believe in well-flushed culverts.... + + This is why the death-rate's small; + And, if you don't believe me, get shikarred yourself. That's all. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CODE OF MORALS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lest you should think this story true + I merely mention I + Evolved it lately. 'Tis a most + Unmitigated misstatement. + + Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order, + And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border, + To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught + His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught. + + And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair; + So Cupid and Apollo linked, per heliograph, the pair. + At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise— + At e'en, the dying sunset bore her husband's homilies. + + He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold, + As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old; + But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs) + That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs. + + 'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way, + When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play. + They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt— + So stopped to take the message down—and this is what they learnt— + + “Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot” twice. The General swore. + + “Was ever General Officer addressed as 'dear' before? + “'My Love,' i' faith! 'My Duck,' Gadzooks! 'My darling popsy-wop!' + “Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?” + + The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still, + As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill; + For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran:— + “Don't dance or ride with General Bangs—a most immoral man.” + + [At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise— + But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.] + With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife + Some interesting details of the General's private life. + + The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still, + And red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill. + + And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not):— + “I think we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!” + + All honour unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones thereafter know + By word or act official who read off that helio. + + But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan + They know the worthy General as “that most immoral man.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAST DEPARTMENT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Twelve hundred million men are spread + About this Earth, and I and You + Wonder, when You and I are dead, + “What will those luckless millions do?” + + None whole or clean,” we cry, “or free from stain + Of favour.” Wait awhile, till we attain + The Last Department where nor fraud nor fools, + Nor grade nor greed, shall trouble us again. + + Fear, Favour, or Affection—what are these + To the grim Head who claims our services? + I never knew a wife or interest yet + Delay that pukka step, miscalled “decease”; + + When leave, long overdue, none can deny; + When idleness of all Eternity + Becomes our furlough, and the marigold + Our thriftless, bullion-minting Treasury + + Transferred to the Eternal Settlement, + Each in his strait, wood-scantled office pent, + No longer Brown reverses Smith's appeals, + Or Jones records his Minute of Dissent. + + And One, long since a pillar of the Court, + As mud between the beams thereof is wrought; + And One who wrote on phosphates for the crops + Is subject-matter of his own Report. + + These be the glorious ends whereto we pass— + Let Him who Is, go call on Him who Was; + And He shall see the mallie steals the slab + For currie-grinder, and for goats the grass. + + A breath of wind, a Border bullet's flight, + A draught of water, or a horse's fright— + The droning of the fat Sheristadar + Ceases, the punkah stops, and falls the night + + For you or Me. Do those who live decline + The step that offers, or their work resign? + Trust me, Today's Most Indispensables, + Five hundred men can take your place or mine. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BALLADS AND BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BALLADS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF FISHER'S BOARDING-HOUSE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + That night, when through the mooring-chains + The wide-eyed corpse rolled free, + To blunder down by Garden Reach + And rot at Kedgeree, + The tale the Hughli told the shoal + The lean shoal told to me. + + 'T was Fultah Fisher's boarding-house, + Where sailor-men reside, + And there were men of all the ports + From Mississip to Clyde, + And regally they spat and smoked, + And fearsomely they lied. + + They lied about the purple Sea + That gave them scanty bread, + They lied about the Earth beneath, + The Heavens overhead, + For they had looked too often on + Black rum when that was red. + + They told their tales of wreck and wrong, + Of shame and lust and fraud, + They backed their toughest statements with + The Brimstone of the Lord, + And crackling oaths went to and fro + Across the fist-banged board. + + And there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane, + Bull-throated, bare of arm, + Who carried on his hairy chest + The maid Ultruda's charm— + The little silver crucifix + That keeps a man from harm. + + And there was Jake Without-the-Ears, + And Pamba the Malay, + And Carboy Gin the Guinea cook, + And Luz from Vigo Bay, + And Honest Jack who sold them slops + And harvested their pay. + + And there was Salem Hardieker, + A lean Bostonian he— + Russ, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn, + Yank, Dane, and Portuguee, + At Fultah Fisher's boarding-house + They rested from the sea. + + Now Anne of Austria shared their drinks, + Collinga knew her fame, + From Tarnau in Galicia + To Juan Bazaar she came, + To eat the bread of infamy + And take the wage of shame. + + She held a dozen men to heel— + Rich spoil of war was hers, + In hose and gown and ring and chain, + From twenty mariners, + And, by Port Law, that week, men called + her Salem Hardieker's. + + But seamen learnt—what landsmen know— + That neither gifts nor gain + Can hold a winking Light o' Love + Or Fancy's flight restrain, + When Anne of Austria rolled her eyes + On Hans the blue-eyed Dane. + + Since Life is strife, and strife means knife, + From Howrah to the Bay, + And he may die before the dawn + Who liquored out the day, + In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house + We woo while yet we may. + + But cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane, + Bull-throated, bare of arm, + And laughter shook the chest beneath + The maid Ultruda's charm— + The little silver crucifix + That keeps a man from harm. + + “You speak to Salem Hardieker; + “You was his girl, I know. + + “I ship mineselfs tomorrow, see, + “Und round the Skaw we go, + “South, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm, + “To Besser in Saro.” + + When love rejected turns to hate, + All ill betide the man. + + “You speak to Salem Hardieker”— + She spoke as woman can. + A scream—a sob—“He called me—names!” + And then the fray began. + + An oath from Salem Hardieker, + A shriek upon the stairs, + A dance of shadows on the wall, + A knife-thrust unawares— + And Hans came down, as cattle drop, + Across the broken chairs. + * * * * * * + + In Anne of Austria's trembling hands + The weary head fell low:— + “I ship mineselfs tomorrow, straight + “For Besser in Saro; + “Und there Ultruda comes to me + “At Easter, und I go— + + “South, down the Cattegat—What's here? + “There—are—no—lights—to guide!” + The mutter ceased, the spirit passed, + And Anne of Austria cried + In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house + When Hans the mighty died. + + Thus slew they Hans the blue-eyed Dane, + Bull-throated, bare of arm, + But Anne of Austria looted first + The maid Ultruda's charm— + The little silver crucifix + That keeps a man from harm. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AS THE BELL CLINKS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I left the Halls at Lumley, rose the vision of a comely + Maid last season worshipped dumbly, watched with fervor from afar; + And I wondered idly, blindly, if the maid would greet me kindly. + + That was all—the rest was settled by the clinking tonga-bar. + Yea, my life and hers were coupled by the tonga coupling-bar. + + For my misty meditation, at the second changin'-station, + Suffered sudden dislocation, fled before the tuneless jar + Of a Wagner obbligato, scherzo, doublehand staccato, + Played on either pony's saddle by the clacking tonga-bar— + + Played with human speech, I fancied, by the jigging, jolting bar. + + “She was sweet,” thought I, “last season, but 'twere surely wild unreason + Such tiny hope to freeze on as was offered by my Star, + When she whispered, something sadly: 'I—we feel your going badly!'” + “And you let the chance escape you?” rapped the rattling tonga-bar. + + “What a chance and what an idiot!” clicked the vicious tonga-bar. + + Heart of man—oh, heart of putty! Had I gone by Kakahutti, + On the old Hill-road and rutty, I had 'scaped that fatal car. + But his fortune each must bide by, so I watched the milestones slide by, + To “You call on Her tomorrow!”—fugue with cymbals by the bar— + + “You must call on Her tomorrow!”—post-horn gallop by the bar. + + Yet a further stage my goal on—we were whirling down to Solon, + With a double lurch and roll on, best foot foremost, ganz und gar— + “She was very sweet,” I hinted. “If a kiss had been imprinted?”— + “'Would ha' saved a world of trouble!” clashed the busy tonga-bar. + + “'Been accepted or rejected!” banged and clanged the tonga-bar. + + Then a notion wild and daring, 'spite the income tax's paring, + And a hasty thought of sharing—less than many incomes are, + Made me put a question private, you can guess what I would drive at. + “You must work the sum to prove it,” clanked the careless tonga-bar. + + “Simple Rule of Two will prove it,” lilted back the tonga-bar. + + It was under Khyraghaut I mused. “Suppose the maid be haughty— + (There are lovers rich—and rotty)—wait some wealthy Avatar? + Answer monitor untiring, 'twixt the ponies twain perspiring!” + “Faint heart never won fair lady,” creaked the straining tonga-bar. + + “Can I tell you ere you ask Her?” pounded slow the tonga-bar. + + Last, the Tara Devi turning showed the lights of Simla burning, + Lit my little lazy yearning to a fiercer flame by far. + + As below the Mall we jingled, through my very heart it tingled— + Did the iterated order of the threshing tonga-bar— + + “Try your luck—you can't do better!” twanged the loosened tonga-bar. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN OLD SONG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So long as 'neath the Kalka hills + The tonga-horn shall ring, + So long as down the Solon dip + The hard-held ponies swing, + So long as Tara Devi sees + The lights of Simla town, + So long as Pleasure calls us up, + Or Duty drives us down, + If you love me as I love you + What pair so happy as we two? + + So long as Aces take the King, + Or backers take the bet, + So long as debt leads men to wed, + Or marriage leads to debt, + So long as little luncheons, Love, + And scandal hold their vogue, + While there is sport at Annandale + Or whisky at Jutogh, + If you love me as I love you + What knife can cut our love in two? + + So long as down the rocking floor + The raving polka spins, + So long as Kitchen Lancers spur + The maddened violins, + So long as through the whirling smoke + We hear the oft-told tale— + “Twelve hundred in the Lotteries,” + And Whatshername for sale? + If you love me as I love you + We'll play the game and win it too. + + So long as Lust or Lucre tempt + Straight riders from the course, + So long as with each drink we pour + Black brewage of Remorse, + So long as those unloaded guns + We keep beside the bed, + Blow off, by obvious accident, + The lucky owner's head, + If you love me as I love you + What can Life kill or Death undo? + + So long as Death 'twixt dance and dance + Chills best and bravest blood, + And drops the reckless rider down + The rotten, rain-soaked khud, + So long as rumours from the North + Make loving wives afraid, + So long as Burma takes the boy + Or typhoid kills the maid, + If you love me as I love you + What knife can cut our love in two? + + By all that lights our daily life + Or works our lifelong woe, + From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs + And those grim glades below, + Where, heedless of the flying hoof + And clamour overhead, + Sleep, with the grey langur for guard + Our very scornful Dead, + If you love me as I love you + All Earth is servant to us two! + + By Docket, Billetdoux, and File, + By Mountain, Cliff, and Fir, + By Fan and Sword and Office-box, + By Corset, Plume, and Spur + By Riot, Revel, Waltz, and War, + By Women, Work, and Bills, + By all the life that fizzes in + The everlasting Hills, + If you love me as I love you + What pair so happy as we two? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CERTAIN MAXIMS OF HAFIZ + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. + If It be pleasant to look on, stalled in the packed serai, + Does not the Young Man try Its temper and pace ere he buy? + If She be pleasant to look on, what does the Young Man say? + “Lo! She is pleasant to look on, give Her to me today!” + + II. + Yea, though a Kafir die, to him is remitted Jehannum + If he borrowed in life from a native at sixty per cent. per annum. + + III. + Blister we not for bursati? So when the heart is vexed, + The pain of one maiden's refusal is drowned in the pain of the next. + + IV. + The temper of chums, the love of your wife, and a new piano's tune— + Which of the three will you trust at the end of an Indian June? + + V. + Who are the rulers of Ind—to whom shall we bow the knee? + Make your peace with the women, and men will make you L. G. + + VI. + Does the woodpecker flit round the young ferash? + Does grass clothe a new-built wall? + Is she under thirty, the woman who holds a boy in her thrall? + + VII. + If She grow suddenly gracious—reflect. Is it all for thee? + The black-buck is stalked through the bullock, and Man through jealousy. + + VIII. + Seek not for favor of women. So shall you find it indeed. + Does not the boar break cover just when you're lighting a weed? + + IX. + If He play, being young and unskilful, for shekels of silver and gold, + Take his money, my son, praising Allah. The kid was ordained to be sold. + + X. + With a “weed” among men or horses verily this is the best, + That you work him in office or dog-cart lightly—but give him no rest. + + XI. + Pleasant the snaffle of Courtship, improving the manners and carriage; + But the colt who is wise will abstain from the terrible thorn-bit of Marriage. + + XII. + As the thriftless gold of the babul, so is the gold that we spend + On a derby Sweep, or our neighbor's wife, or the horse that we buy from a + friend. + + XIII. + The ways of man with a maid be strange, yet simple and tame + To the ways of a man with a horse, when selling or racing that same. + + XIV. + In public Her face turneth to thee, and pleasant Her smile when ye meet. + It is ill. The cold rocks of El-Gidar smile thus on the waves at their feet. + + In public Her face is averted, with anger. She nameth thy name. + It is well. Was there ever a loser content with the loss of the game? + + XV. + If She have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed, + And the Brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed. + + If She have written a letter, delay not an instant, but burn it. + Tear it to pieces, O Fool, and the wind to her mate shall return it! + + If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear, + Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear. + + XVI. + My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give o'er, + Yet lip meets with lip at the last word—get out! + She has been there before. + They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose who are lacking in lore. + + XVII. + If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred on the + course. + Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth forever Remorse. + + XVIII. + “By all I am misunderstood!” if the Matron shall say, or the Maid: + “Alas! I do not understand,” my son, be thou nowise afraid. + + In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed. + + XIX. + My son, if I, Hafiz, the father, take hold of thy knees in my pain, + Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour—refrain. + + Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest another man's chain? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GRAVE OF THE HUNDRED HEAD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's a widow in sleepy Chester + Who weeps for her only son; + There's a grave on the Pabeng River, + A grave that the Burmans shun, + And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri + Who tells how the work was done. + + A Snider squibbed in the jungle, + Somebody laughed and fled, + And the men of the First Shikaris + Picked up their Subaltern dead, + With a big blue mark in his forehead + And the back blown out of his head. + + Subadar Prag Tewarri, + Jemadar Hira Lal, + Took command of the party, + Twenty rifles in all, + Marched them down to the river + As the day was beginning to fall. + + They buried the boy by the river, + A blanket over his face— + They wept for their dead Lieutenant, + The men of an alien race— + They made a samadh in his honor, + A mark for his resting-place. + + For they swore by the Holy Water, + They swore by the salt they ate, + That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib + Should go to his God in state; + With fifty file of Burman + To open him Heaven's gate. + + The men of the First Shikaris + Marched till the break of day, + Till they came to the rebel village, + The village of Pabengmay— + A jingal covered the clearing, + Calthrops hampered the way. + + Subadar Prag Tewarri, + Bidding them load with ball, + Halted a dozen rifles + Under the village wall; + Sent out a flanking-party + With Jemadar Hira Lal. + + The men of the First Shikaris + Shouted and smote and slew, + Turning the grinning jingal + On to the howling crew. + The Jemadar's flanking-party + Butchered the folk who flew. + + Long was the morn of slaughter, + Long was the list of slain, + Five score heads were taken, + Five score heads and twain; + And the men of the First Shikaris + Went back to their grave again, + + Each man bearing a basket + Red as his palms that day, + Red as the blazing village— + The village of Pabengmay, + And the “drip-drip-drip” from the baskets + Reddened the grass by the way. + + They made a pile of their trophies + High as a tall man's chin, + Head upon head distorted, + Set in a sightless grin, + Anger and pain and terror + Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin. + + Subadar Prag Tewarri + Put the head of the Boh + On the top of the mound of triumph, + The head of his son below, + With the sword and the peacock-banner + That the world might behold and know. + + Thus the samadh was perfect, + Thus was the lesson plain + Of the wrath of the First Shikaris— + The price of a white man slain; + And the men of the First Shikaris + Went back into camp again. + + Then a silence came to the river, + A hush fell over the shore, + And Bohs that were brave departed, + And Sniders squibbed no more; + For the Burmans said + That a kullah's head + Must be paid for with heads five score. + + There's a widow in sleepy Chester + Who weeps for her only son; + There's a grave on the Pabeng River, + A grave that the Burmans shun, + And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri + Who tells how the work was done. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath the deep veranda's shade, + When bats begin to fly, + I sit me down and watch—alas!— + Another evening die. + + Blood-red behind the sere ferash + She rises through the haze. + Sainted Diana! can that be + The Moon of Other Days? + + Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith, + Sweet Saint of Kensington! + Say, was it ever thus at Home + The Moon of August shone, + When arm in arm we wandered long + Through Putney's evening haze, + And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath + The Moon of Other Days? + + But Wandle's stream is Sutlej now, + And Putney's evening haze + The dust that half a hundred kine + Before my window raise. + Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist + The seething city looms, + In place of Putney's golden gorse + The sickly babul blooms. + + Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust, + And bid the pie-dog yell, + Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ, + From each bazaar its smell; + Yea, suck the fever from the tank + And sap my strength therewith: + Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face + To little Kitty Smith! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +THE OVERLAND MAIL + (Foot-Service to the Hills) + + In the name of the Empress of India, make way, + O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam. + The woods are astir at the close of the day— + We exiles are waiting for letters from Home. + Let the robber retreat—let the tiger turn tail— + In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail! + + With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in, + He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill— + The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin, + And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill: + “Despatched on this date, as received by the rail, + Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail.” + + Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim. + Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff. + Does the tempest cry “Halt”? What are tempests to him? + The Service admits not a “but” or and “if.” + While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail, + In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail. + + From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir, + From level to upland, from upland to crest, + From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur, + Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest. + From rail to ravine—to the peak from the vale— + Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail. + + There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road— + A jingle of bells on the foot-path below— + There's a scuffle above in the monkey's abode— + The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow. + + For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail: + “In the name of the Empress the Overland Mail!” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID + June 21st, 1887 + + By the well, where the bullocks go + Silent and blind and slow— + By the field where the young corn dies + In the face of the sultry skies, + They have heard, as the dull Earth hears + The voice of the wind of an hour, + The sound of the Great Queen's voice: + “My God hath given me years, + Hath granted dominion and power: + And I bid you, O Land, rejoice.” + + And the ploughman settles the share + More deep in the grudging clod; + For he saith: “The wheat is my care, + And the rest is the will of God. + + “He sent the Mahratta spear + As He sendeth the rain, + And the Mlech, in the fated year, + Broke the spear in twain. + + “And was broken in turn. Who knows + How our Lords make strife? + It is good that the young wheat grows, + For the bread is Life.” + + Then, far and near, as the twilight drew, + Hissed up to the scornful dark + Great serpents, blazing, of red and blue, + That rose and faded, and rose anew. + + That the Land might wonder and mark + “Today is a day of days,” they said, + “Make merry, O People, all!” + And the Ploughman listened and bowed his head: + “Today and tomorrow God's will,” he said, + As he trimmed the lamps on the wall. + + “He sendeth us years that are good, + As He sendeth the dearth, + He giveth to each man his food, + Or Her food to the Earth. + + “Our Kings and our Queens are afar— + On their peoples be peace— + God bringeth the rain to the Bar, + That our cattle increase.” + + And the Ploughman settled the share + More deep in the sun-dried clod: + “Mogul Mahratta, and Mlech from the North, + And White Queen over the Seas— + God raiseth them up and driveth them forth + As the dust of the ploughshare flies in the breeze; + But the wheat and the cattle are all my care, + And the rest is the will of God.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE UNDERTAKER'S HORSE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “To-tschin-shu is condemned to death. + How can he drink tea with the Executioner?” + Japanese Proverb. + + The eldest son bestrides him, + And the pretty daughter rides him, + And I meet him oft o' mornings on the Course; + And there kindles in my bosom + An emotion chill and gruesome + As I canter past the Undertaker's Horse. + + Neither shies he nor is restive, + But a hideously suggestive + Trot, professional and placid, he affects; + And the cadence of his hoof-beats + To my mind this grim reproof beats:— + “Mend your pace, my friend, I'm coming. Who's the next?” + + Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen, + I have watched the strongest go—men + Of pith and might and muscle—at your heels, + Down the plantain-bordered highway, + (Heaven send it ne'er be my way!) + In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels. + + Answer, sombre beast and dreary, + Where is Brown, the young, the cheery, + Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force? + You were at that last dread dak + We must cover at a walk, + Bring them back to me, O Undertaker's Horse! + + With your mane unhogged and flowing, + And your curious way of going, + And that businesslike black crimping of your tail, + E'en with Beauty on your back, Sir, + Pacing as a lady's hack, Sir, + What wonder when I meet you I turn pale? + + It may be you wait your time, Beast, + Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast— + Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the glass— + Follow after with the others, + Where some dusky heathen smothers + Us with marigolds in lieu of English grass. + + Or, perchance, in years to follow, + I shall watch your plump sides hollow, + See Carnifex (gone lame) become a corse— + See old age at last o'erpower you, + And the Station Pack devour you, + I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker's Horse! + + But to insult, jibe, and quest, I've + Still the hideously suggestive + Trot that hammers out the unrelenting text, + And I hear it hard behind me + In what place soe'er I find me:— + “'Sure to catch you sooner or later. Who's the next?” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This fell when dinner-time was done— + 'Twixt the first an' the second rub— + That oor mon Jock cam' hame again + To his rooms ahist the Club. + + An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang, + An' syne we thocht him fou, + An' syne he trumped his partner's trick, + An' garred his partner rue. + + Then up and spake an elder mon, + That held the Spade its Ace— + “God save the lad! Whence comes the licht + “That wimples on his face?” + + An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled, + An' ower the card-brim wunk:— + “I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg, + “May be that I am drunk.” + + “There's whusky brewed in Galashils + “An' L. L. L. forbye; + “But never liquor lit the lowe + “That keeks fra' oot your eye. + + “There's a third o' hair on your dress-coat breast, + “Aboon the heart a wee?” + “Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye + “That slobbers ower me.” + + “Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts, + “An' terrier dogs are fair, + “But never yet was terrier born, + “Wi' ell-lang gowden hair! + + “There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast, + “Below the left lappel?” + “Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar, + “Whenas the stump-end fell.” + + “Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse, + “For ye are short o' cash, + “An' best Havanas couldna leave + “Sae white an' pure an ash. + + “This nicht ye stopped a story braid, + “An' stopped it wi' a curse. + “Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel'— + “An' capped it wi' a worse! + + “Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou! + “But plainly we can ken + “Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band + “O' cantie single men!” + + An' it fell when sirris-shaws were sere, + An' the nichts were lang and mirk, + In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring, + Oor Jock gaed to the Kirk! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A great and glorious thing it is + To learn, for seven years or so, + The Lord knows what of that and this, + Ere reckoned fit to face the foe— + The flying bullet down the Pass, + That whistles clear: “All flesh is grass.” + + Three hundred pounds per annum spent + On making brain and body meeter + For all the murderous intent + Comprised in “villainous saltpetre!” + And after—ask the Yusufzaies + What comes of all our 'ologies. + + A scrimmage in a Border Station— + A canter down some dark defile— + Two thousand pounds of education + Drops to a ten-rupee jezail— + The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride, + Shot like a rabbit in a ride! + + No proposition Euclid wrote, + No formulae the text-books know, + Will turn the bullet from your coat, + Or ward the tulwar's downward blow + Strike hard who cares—shoot straight who can— + The odds are on the cheaper man. + + One sword-knot stolen from the camp + Will pay for all the school expenses + Of any Kurrum Valley scamp + Who knows no word of moods and tenses, + But, being blessed with perfect sight, + Picks off our messmates left and right. + + With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem, + The troop-ships bring us one by one, + At vast expense of time and steam, + To slay Afridis where they run. + + The “captives of our bow and spear” + Are cheap—alas! as we are dear. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BETROTHED + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “You must choose between me and your cigar.” + —BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885. + + Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, + For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. + + We quarrelled about Havanas—we fought o'er a good cheroot, + And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. + + Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a space; + In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face. + + Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie's a loving lass, + But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass. + + There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay; + But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away— + + Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown— + But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town! + + Maggie, my wife at fifty—grey and dour and old— + With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold! + + And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, + And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar— + + The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket— + With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket! + + Open the old cigar-box—let me consider a while. + Here is a mild Manila—there is a wifely smile. + + Which is the better portion—bondage bought with a ring, + Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string? + + Counsellors cunning and silent—comforters true and tried, + And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride? + + Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, + Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close, + + This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, + With only a Suttee's passion—to do their duty and burn. + + This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, + Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. + + The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, + When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again. + + I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, + So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. + + I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, + And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides. + + For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between + The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen. + + And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, + But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year; + + And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light + Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight. + + And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, + But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love. + + Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire? + Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? + + Open the old cigar-box—let me consider anew— + Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you? + + A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; + And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke. + + Light me another Cuba—I hold to my first-sworn vows. + If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A TALE OF TWO CITIES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Where the sober-colored cultivator smiles + On his byles; + Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crow + Come and go; + Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea, + Hides and ghi; + Where the Babu drops inflammatory hints + In his prints; + Stands a City—Charnock chose it—packed away + Near a Bay— + By the Sewage rendered fetid, by the sewer + Made impure, + By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swamp + Moist and damp; + And the City and the Viceroy, as we see, + Don't agree. + + Once, two hundred years ago, the trader came + Meek and tame. + + Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed, + Till mere trade + Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth + South and North + Till the country from Peshawur to Ceylon + Was his own. + + Thus the midday halt of Charnock—more's the pity! + Grew a City. + + As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed, + So it spread— + Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built + On the silt— + Palace, byre, hovel—poverty and pride— + Side by side; + And, above the packed and pestilential town, + Death looked down. + + But the Rulers in that City by the Sea + Turned to flee— + Fled, with each returning spring-tide from its ills + To the Hills. + + From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blaze + Of old days, + From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat, + Beat retreat; + For the country from Peshawur to Ceylon + Was their own. + + But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain + For his gain. + + Now the resting-place of Charnock, 'neath the palms, + Asks an alms, + And the burden of its lamentation is, + Briefly, this: + “Because for certain months, we boil and stew, + So should you. + + “Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire + In our fire!” + And for answer to the argument, in vain + We explain + That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot fry: + “All must fry!” + That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain + For gain. + + Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in, + From its kitchen. + + Let the Babu drop inflammatory hints + In his prints; + And mature—consistent soul—his plan for stealing + To Darjeeling: + Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile, + England's isle; + Let the City Charnock pitched on—evil day! + Go Her way. + + Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors + Heap their stores, + Though Her enterprise and energy secure + Income sure, + Though “out-station orders punctually obeyed” + Swell Her trade— + Still, for rule, administration, and the rest, + Simla's best. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The End +</pre> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VOLUME II BALLADS AND BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BALLADS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall + meet, + Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment + Seat; + But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, + When two strong men stand face to face, + tho' they come from the ends of the earth! + + Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side, + And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride: + He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, + And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. + + Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides: + “Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?” + Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar: + “If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. + + “At dusk he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair, + But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, + So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, + By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai. + + “But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, + For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men. + There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, + And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.” + + The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, + With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of the + gallows-tree. + + The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat— + Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. + + He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, + Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, + Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back, + And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. + + He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. + “Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “Show now if ye can ride.” + + It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go, + The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. + + The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, + But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. + + There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, + And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. + + They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, + The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. + + The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woful heap fell he, + And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. + + He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive, + “'Twas only by favour of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive: + There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, + But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. + + “If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, + The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row: + If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, + The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.” + Lightly answered the Colonel's son: “Do good to bird and beast, + But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. + + “If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, + Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. + + “They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered + grain, + The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are + slain. + “But if thou thinkest the price be fair,—thy brethren wait to sup, + The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,—howl, dog, and call them up! + And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, + Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!” + + Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. + “No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet. + + “May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; + What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?” + Lightly answered the Colonel's son: “I hold by the blood of my clan: + Take up the mare for my father's gift—by God, she has carried a man!” + The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast; + “We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger best. + + “So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein, + My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.” + The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, + “Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he; + “will ye take the mate from a friend?” + “A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb. + + “Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!” + With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest— + He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. + + “Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides, + And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. + Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, + Thy life is his—thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. + + “So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, + And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line, + And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power— + Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.” + + They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, + They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: + They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, + On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God. + + The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun, + And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. + + And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear— + There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. + + “Ha' done! ha' done!” said the Colonel's son. + “Put up the steel at your sides! + Last night ye had struck at a Border thief— + tonight 'tis a man of the Guides!” + + Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, + Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; + But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, + When two strong men stand face to face, + tho' they come from the ends of the earth! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAST SUTTEE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not many years ago a King died in one of the Rajpoot States. His wives, + disregarding the orders of the English against Suttee, would have broken + out of the palace had not the gates been barred. + + But one of them, disguised as the King's favourite dancing-girl, passed + through the line of guards and reached the pyre. There, her courage + failing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court, to kill her. This + he did, not knowing who she was. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Udai Chand lay sick to death + In his hold by Gungra hill. + All night we heard the death-gongs ring + For the soul of the dying Rajpoot King, + All night beat up from the women's wing + A cry that we could not still. + + All night the barons came and went, + The lords of the outer guard: + All night the cressets glimmered pale + On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail, + Mewar headstall and Marwar mail, + That clinked in the palace yard. + + In the Golden room on the palace roof + All night he fought for air: + And there was sobbing behind the screen, + Rustle and whisper of women unseen, + And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen + On the death she might not share. + + He passed at dawn—the death-fire leaped + From ridge to river-head, + From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars: + And wail upon wail went up to the stars + Behind the grim zenana-bars, + When they knew that the King was dead. + + The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth + And robe him for the pyre. + The Boondi Queen beneath us cried: + “See, now, that we die as our mothers died + In the bridal-bed by our master's side! + Out, women!—to the fire!” + + We drove the great gates home apace: + White hands were on the sill: + But ere the rush of the unseen feet + Had reached the turn to the open street, + The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat— + We held the dovecot still. + + A face looked down in the gathering day, + And laughing spoke from the wall: + “Ohe', 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,— + Tonight the Queens rule me! + Guard them safely, but let me go, + Or ever they pay the debt they owe + In scourge and torture!” She leaped below, + And the grim guard watched her flee. + + They knew that the King had spent his soul + On a North-bred dancing-girl: + That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god, + And kissed the ground where her feet had trod, + And doomed to death at her drunken nod, + And swore by her lightest curl. + + We bore the King to his fathers' place, + Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand: + Where the gray apes swing, and the peacocks preen + On fretted pillar and jewelled screen, + And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen + On the drift of the desert sand. + + The herald read his titles forth, + We set the logs aglow: + “Friend of the English, free from fear, + Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer, + Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer, + King of the Jungle,—go!” + + All night the red flame stabbed the sky + With wavering wind-tossed spears: + And out of a shattered temple crept + A woman who veiled her head and wept, + And called on the King—but the great King slept, + And turned not for her tears. + + Small thought had he to mark the strife— + Cold fear with hot desire— + When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame, + And thrice she beat her breast for shame, + And thrice like a wounded dove she came + And moaned about the fire. + + One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze, + The silent streets between, + Who had stood by the King in sport and fray, + To blade in ambush or boar at bay, + And he was a baron old and gray, + And kin to the Boondi Queen. + + He said: “O shameless, put aside + The veil upon thy brow! + Who held the King and all his land + To the wanton will of a harlot's hand! + Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand? + Stoop down, and call him now!” + + Then she: “By the faith of my tarnished soul, + All things I did not well, + I had hoped to clear ere the fire died, + And lay me down by my master's side + To rule in Heaven his only bride, + While the others howl in Hell. + + “But I have felt the fire's breath, + And hard it is to die! + Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord + To sully the steel of a Thakur's sword + With base-born blood of a trade abhorred,”— + And the Thakur answered, “Ay.” + + He drew and struck: the straight blade drank + The life beneath the breast. + + “I had looked for the Queen to face the flame, + But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame— + Sister of mine, pass, free from shame, + Pass with thy King to rest!” + + The black log crashed above the white: + The little flames and lean, + Red as slaughter and blue as steel, + That whistled and fluttered from head to heel, + Leaped up anew, for they found their meal + On the heart of—the Boondi Queen! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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—tonight 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. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One watched beside the dreary mound that veiled the battered + thing, + And him the King with laughter called the Herald of the King. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When spring-time flushes the desert grass, + Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass. + + Lean are the camels but fat the frails, + Light are the purses but heavy the bales, + As the snowbound trade of the North comes down + To the market-square of Peshawur town. + + In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill, + A kafila camped at the foot of the hill. + + Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose, + And tent-peg answered to hammer-nose; + And the picketed ponies, shag and wild, + Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled; + And the bubbling camels beside the load + Sprawled for a furlong adown the road; + And the Persian pussy-cats, brought for sale, + Spat at the dogs from the camel-bale; + And the tribesmen bellowed to hasten the food; + And the camp-fires twinkled by Fort Jumrood; + And there fled on the wings of the gathering dusk + A savour of camels and carpets and musk, + A murmur of voices, a reek of smoke, + To tell us the trade of the Khyber woke. + + The lid of the flesh-pot chattered high, + The knives were whetted and—then came I + To Mahbub Ali the muleteer, + Patching his bridles and counting his gear, + Crammed with the gossip of half a year. + + But Mahbub Ali the kindly said, + “Better is speech when the belly is fed.” + So we plunged the hand to the mid-wrist deep + In a cinnamon stew of the fat-tailed sheep, + And he who never hath tasted the food, + By Allah! he knoweth not bad from good. + + We cleansed our beards of the mutton-grease, + We lay on the mats and were filled with peace, + And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south, + With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth. + + Four things greater than all things are,— + Women and Horses and Power and War. + + We spake of them all, but the last the most, + For I sought a word of a Russian post, + Of a shifty promise, an unsheathed sword + And a gray-coat guard on the Helmund ford. + + Then Mahbub Ali lowered his eyes + In the fashion of one who is weaving lies. + + Quoth he: “Of the Russians who can say? + When the night is gathering all is gray. + But we look that the gloom of the night shall die + In the morning flush of a blood-red sky. + + “Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise + To warn a King of his enemies? + We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, + But no man knoweth the mind of the King. + + “That unsought counsel is cursed of God + Attesteth the story of Wali Dad. + + “His sire was leaky of tongue and pen, + His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen; + And the colt bred close to the vice of each, + For he carried the curse of an unstanched speech. + + “Therewith madness—so that he sought + The favour of kings at the Kabul court; + And travelled, in hope of honour, far + To the line where the gray-coat squadrons are. + + “There have I journeyed too—but I + Saw naught, said naught, and—did not die! + He harked to rumour, and snatched at a breath + Of 'this one knoweth' and 'that one saith',— + Legends that ran from mouth to mouth + Of a gray-coat coming, and sack of the South. + + “These have I also heard—they pass + With each new spring and the winter grass. + + “Hot-foot southward, forgotten of God, + Back to the city ran Wali Dad, + Even to Kabul—in full durbar + The King held talk with his Chief in War. + + “Into the press of the crowd he broke, + And what he had heard of the coming spoke. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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. + + “To things greater than all things are, + The first is Love, and the second War. + + “And since we know not how War may prove, + Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + + 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.) +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 <i>pet</i>. + + There were twenty stone, as the tally-man knows, + On the broad of the chest of this best of Bohs. + And twenty stone from a height discharged + Are bad for a Boh with a spleen enlarged. + + Oh, short was the struggle—severe was the shock— + He dropped like a bullock—he lay like a block; + And the Babu above him, convulsed with fear, + Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear. + + And thus in a fashion undignified + The princely pest of the Chindwin died. +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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.” + Then + + (Their breakfast was stopped while the screw-jack and hammer + Tore waxcloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer;) + + Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow, + With a crash and a thud, rolled—the Head of the Boh! + + And gummed to the scalp was a letter which ran:— + “IN FIELDING FORCE SERVICE. + + “Encampment, + “—th 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, + Your + H. MUKERJI.” + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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.” + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE THIEF + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O woe is me for the merry life + I led beyond the Bar, + And a treble woe for my winsome wife + That weeps at Shalimar. + + They have taken away my long jezail, + My shield and sabre fine, + And heaved me into the Central jail + For lifting of the kine. + + The steer may low within the byre, + The Jat may tend his grain, + But there'll be neither loot nor fire + Till I come back again. + + And God have mercy on the Jat + When once my fetters fall, + And Heaven defend the farmer's hut + When I am loosed from thrall. + + It's woe to bend the stubborn back + Above the grinching quern, + It's woe to hear the leg-bar clack + And jingle when I turn! + + But for the sorrow and the shame, + The brand on me and mine, + I'll pay you back in leaping flame + And loss of the butchered kine. + + For every cow I spared before + In charity set free, + If I may reach my hold once more + I'll reive an honest three. + + For every time I raised the low + That scared the dusty plain, + By sword and cord, by torch and tow + I'll light the land with twain! + + Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai, + Young 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This ballad appears to refer to one of the exploits of the notorious Paul + Jones, the American pirate. It is founded on fact. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ... At the close of a winter day, + Their anchors down, by London town, the Three Great Captains lay; + And one was Admiral of the North from Solway Firth to Skye, + And one was Lord of the Wessex coast and all the lands thereby, + And one was Master of the Thames from Limehouse to Blackwall, + And he was Captain of the Fleet—the bravest of them all. + + Their good guns guarded their great gray sides that were thirty foot in the + sheer, + When there came a certain trading-brig with news of a privateer. + + Her rigging was rough with the clotted drift that drives in a Northern breeze, + Her sides were clogged with the lazy weed that spawns in the Eastern seas. + + Light she rode in the rude tide-rip, to left and right she rolled, + And the skipper sat on the scuttle-butt and stared at an empty hold. + + “I ha' paid Port dues for your Law,” quoth he, “and where is the Law ye boast + If I sail unscathed from a heathen port to be robbed on a Christian coast? + Ye have smoked the hives of the Laccadives as we burn the lice in a bunk, + We tack not now to a Gallang prow or a plunging Pei-ho junk; + I had no fear but the seas were clear as far as a sail might fare + Till I met with a lime-washed Yankee brig that rode off Finisterre. + + “There were canvas blinds to his bow-gun ports to screen the weight he bore, + And the signals ran for a merchantman from Sandy Hook to the Nore. + + “He would not fly the Rovers' flag—the bloody or the black, + But now he floated the Gridiron and now he flaunted the Jack. + He spoke of the Law as he crimped my crew—he swore it was only a loan; + But when I would ask for my own again, he swore it was none of my own. + + “He has taken my little parrakeets that nest beneath the Line, + He has stripped my rails of the shaddock-frails and the green unripened pine; + He has taken my bale of dammer and spice I won beyond the seas, + He has taken my grinning heathen gods—and what should he want o' these? + My foremast would not mend his boom, my deckhouse patch his boats; + He has whittled the two, this Yank Yahoo, to peddle for shoe-peg oats. + + “I could not fight for the failing light and a rough beam-sea beside, + But I hulled him once for a clumsy crimp and twice because he lied. + + “Had I had guns (as I had goods) to work my Christian harm, + I had run him up from his quarter-deck to trade with his own yard-arm; + I had nailed his ears to my capstan-head, and ripped them off with a saw, + And soused them in the bilgewater, and served them to him raw; + I had flung him blind in a rudderless boat to rot in the rocking dark, + I had towed him aft of his own craft, a bait for his brother shark; + I had lapped him round with cocoa husk, and drenched him with the oil, + And lashed him fast to his own mast to blaze above my spoil; + I had stripped his hide for my hammock-side, and tasselled his beard i' the + mesh, + And spitted his crew on the live bamboo that grows through the gangrened + flesh; + I had hove him down by the mangroves brown, where the mud-reef sucks and + draws, + Moored by the heel to his own keel to wait for the land-crab's claws! + He is lazar within and lime without, ye can nose him far enow, + For he carries the taint of a musky ship—the reek of the slaver's dhow!” + The skipper looked at the tiering guns and the bulwarks tall and cold, + And the Captains Three full courteously peered down at the gutted hold, + And the Captains Three called courteously from deck to scuttle-butt:— + “Good Sir, we ha' dealt with that merchantman or ever your teeth were cut. + + “Your words be words of a lawless race, and the Law it standeth thus: + He comes of a race that have never a Law, and he never has boarded us. + + “We ha' sold him canvas and rope and spar—we know that his price is fair, + And we know that he weeps for the lack of a Law as he rides off Finisterre. + + “And since he is damned for a gallows-thief by you and better than you, + We hold it meet that the English fleet should know that we hold him true.” + The skipper called to the tall taffrail:—“And what is that to me? + Did ever you hear of a Yankee brig that rifled a Seventy-three? + Do I loom so large from your quarter-deck that I lift like a ship o' + the Line? + He has learned to run from a shotted gun and harry such craft as mine. + + “There is never a Law on the Cocos Keys to hold a white man in, + But we do not steal the niggers' meal, for that is a nigger's sin. + + “Must he have his Law as a quid to chaw, or laid in brass on his wheel? + Does he steal with tears when he buccaneers? 'Fore Gad, then, why does he + steal?” + The skipper bit on a deep-sea word, and the word it was not sweet, + For he could see the Captains Three had signalled to the Fleet. + + But three and two, in white and blue, the whimpering flags began:— + “We have heard a tale of a—foreign sail, but he is a merchantman.” + The skipper peered beneath his palm and swore by the Great Horn Spoon:— + “'Fore Gad, the Chaplain of the Fleet would bless my picaroon!” + By two and three the flags blew free to lash the laughing air:— + “We have sold our spars to the merchantman—we know that his price is fair.” + The skipper winked his Western eye, and swore by a China storm:— + “They ha' rigged him a Joseph's jury-coat to keep his honour warm.” + The halliards twanged against the tops, the bunting bellied broad, + The skipper spat in the empty hold and mourned for a wasted cord. + + Masthead—masthead, the signal sped by the line o' the British craft; + The skipper called to his Lascar crew, and put her about and laughed:— + “It's mainsail haul, my bully boys all—we'll out to the seas again— + Ere they set us to paint their pirate saint, or scrub at his grapnel-chain. + + “It's fore-sheet free, with her head to the sea, and the swing of the + unbought brine— + We'll make no sport in an English court till we come as a ship o' the Line: + Till we come as a ship o' the Line, my lads, of thirty foot in the sheer, + Lifting again from the outer main with news of a privateer; + Flying his pluck at our mizzen-truck for weft of Admiralty, + Heaving his head for our dipsey-lead in sign that we keep the sea. + + “Then fore-sheet home as she lifts to the foam—we stand on the outward + tack, + We are paid in the coin of the white man's trade—the bezant is hard, ay, + and black. + + “The frigate-bird shall carry my word to the Kling and the Orang-Laut + How a man may sail from a heathen coast to be robbed in a Christian port; + How a man may be robbed in Christian port while Three Great Captains there + Shall dip their flag to a slaver's rag—to show that his trade is fair!” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF THE CLAMPHERDOWN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It was our war-ship 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 patch 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BALLAD OF THE “BOLIVAR” + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Seven men from all the world, back to Docks again, + Rolling down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain: + Give the girls another drink 'fore we sign away— + We that took the 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. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ENGLISH FLAG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro— + And what should they know of England who only England know?— + The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, + They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag! + + Must we borrow a clout from the Boer—to plaster anew with dirt? + An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt? + + We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell or share. + What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare! + + The North Wind blew:—“From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go; + I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe; + By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God, + And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod. + + “I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame, + Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came; + I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast, + And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed. + + “The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night, + The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light: + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare, + Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!” + + The South Wind sighed:—“From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta'en + Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, + Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon + Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon. + + “Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, + I waked the palms to laughter—I tossed the scud in the breeze— + Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, + But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown. + + “I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn; + I have chased it north to the Lizard—ribboned and rolled and torn; + I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; + I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free. + + “My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, + Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross. + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare, + Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!” + + The East Wind roared:—“From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come, + And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home. + Look—look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon + I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon! + + “The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, + I raped your richest roadstead—I plundered Singapore! + I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, + And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows. + + “Never the lotus closes, never the wild-fowl wake, + But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England's sake— + Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid— + Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed. + + “The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows, + The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, + Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!” + + The West Wind called:—“In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly + That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. + They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, + Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath. + + “I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole, + They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll, + For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, + And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death. + + “But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day, + I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, + First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, + Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by. + + “The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it—the frozen dews have kissed— + The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist. + What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, + Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “CLEARED” + + (In Memory of a Commission) + + Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt, + Help for an honorable clan sore trampled in the dirt! + From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song, + The honorable 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 honorable 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 phoenixes from Phoenix Park (and what lay there) they rise! + Go shout it to the emerald seas-give word to Erin now, + Her honorable gentlemen are cleared—and this is how: + + They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price, + They only helped the murderer with council's best advice, + But—sure it keeps their honor white—the learned Court believes + They never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves. + + They ever 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 the 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 Clan-na-Gael. + If black is black or white is white, ill black and white it's down, + They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown. + + “Cleared,” honorable 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 band 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, ye know, runs red. + It's sticking to your fist today 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 country 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 honor still, + Go, help to make our country's laws that broke God's laws 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 @dane, + + If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down, + You're only traitors to the Queen and but rebels to the Crown + If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: + We are not ruled by murderers, only—by their friends. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed, + To ease the strong of their burden, to help the weak in their need, + He sent a word to the peoples, who struggle, and pant, and sweat, + That the straw might be counted fairly and the tally of bricks be set. + + The Lords of Their Hands assembled; from the East and the West they drew— + Baltimore, Lille, and Essen, Brummagem, Clyde, and Crewe. + And some were black from the furnace, and some were brown from the soil, + And some were blue from the dye-vat; but all were wearied of toil. + + And the young King said:—“I have found it, the road to the rest ye seek: + The strong shall wait for the weary, the hale shall halt for the weak; + With the even tramp of an army where no man breaks from the line, + Ye shall march to peace and plenty in the bond of brotherhood—sign!” + + The paper lay on the table, the strong heads bowed thereby, + And a wail went up from the peoples:—“Ay, sign—give rest, for we die!” + A hand was stretched to the goose-quill, a fist was cramped to scrawl, + When—the laugh of a blue-eyed maiden ran clear through the council-hall. + + And each one heard Her laughing as each one saw Her plain— + Saidie, Mimi, or Olga, Gretchen, or Mary Jane. + And the Spirit of Man that is in Him to the light of the vision woke; + And the men drew back from the paper, as a Yankee delegate spoke:— + + “There's a girl in Jersey City who works on the telephone; + We're going to hitch our horses and dig for a house of our own, + With gas and water connections, and steam-heat through to the top; + And, W. Hohenzollern, I guess I shall work till I drop.” + + And an English delegate thundered:—“The weak an' the lame be blowed! + I've a berth in the Sou'-West workshops, a home in the Wandsworth Road; + And till the 'sociation has footed my buryin' bill, + I work for the kids an' the missus. Pull up? I be damned if I will!” + + And over the German benches the bearded whisper ran:— + “Lager, der girls und der dollars, dey makes or dey breaks a man. + If Schmitt haf collared der dollars, he collars der girl deremit; + But if Schmitt bust in der pizness, we collars der girl from Schmitt.” + + They passed one resolution:—“Your sub-committee believe + You can lighten the curse of Adam when you've lightened the curse of Eve. + But till we are built like angels, with hammer and chisel and pen, + We will work for ourself and a woman, for ever and ever, amen.” + + Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser held— + The day that they razored the Grindstone, the day that the Cat was belled, + The day of the Figs from Thistles, the day of the Twisted Sands, + The day that the laugh of a maiden made light of the Lords of Their Hands. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TOMLINSON + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square, + And a Spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair— + A Spirit gripped him by the hair and carried him far away, + Till he heard as the roar of a rain-fed ford the roar of the Milky Way: + Till he heard the roar of the Milky Way die down and drone and cease, + And they came to the Gate within the Wall where Peter holds the keys. + + “Stand up, stand up now, Tomlinson, and answer loud and high + The good that ye did for the sake of men or ever ye came to die— + The good that ye did for the sake of men in little earth so lone!” + And the naked soul of Tomlinson grew white as a rain-washed bone. + + “O I have a friend on earth,” he said, “that was my priest and guide, + And well would he answer all for me if he were by my side.” + —“For that ye strove in neighbour-love it shall be written fair, + But now ye wait at Heaven's Gate and not in Berkeley Square: + Though we called your friend from his bed this night, he could not speak + for you, + For the race is run by one and one and never by two and two.” + Then Tomlinson looked up and down, and little gain was there, + For the naked stars grinned overhead, and he saw that his soul was bare: + The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife, + And Tomlinson took up his tale and spoke of his good in life. + + “This I have read in a book,” he said, “and that was told to me, + And this I have thought that another man thought of a Prince in Muscovy.” + The good souls flocked like homing doves and bade him clear the path, + And Peter twirled the jangling keys in weariness and wrath. + + “Ye have read, ye have heard, ye have thought,” he said, “and the tale is + yet to run: + By the worth of the body that once ye had, give answer—what ha'ye done?” + Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and little good it bore, + For the Darkness stayed at his shoulder-blade and Heaven's Gate before:— + “O this I have felt, and this I have guessed, and this I have heard men say, + And this they wrote that another man wrote of a carl in Norroway.” + —“Ye have read, ye have felt, ye have guessed, good lack! Ye have hampered + Heaven's Gate; + There's little room between the stars in idleness to prate! + O none may reach by hired speech of neighbour, priest, and kin + Through borrowed deed to God's good meed that lies so fair within; + Get hence, get hence to the Lord of Wrong, for doom has yet to run, + And...the faith that ye share with Berkeley Square uphold you, Tomlinson!” + +</pre> + <hr /> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 tonight, 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 today. Speed, lest ye come too late! + Go back to Earth with a lip unsealed—go back with an open eye, + And carry my word to the Sons of Men or ever ye come to die: + That the sin they do by two and two they must pay for one by one— + And...the God that you took from a printed book be with you, Tomlinson!” + + * * * * * * * +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dedication + + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DANNY DEEVER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “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 today; + 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 tonight”, 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 today, + After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TOMMY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, + The publican 'e up an' sez, “We serve no red-coats here.” + The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, + I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: + O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' “Tommy, go away”; + But it's “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play, + The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, + O it's “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play. + + I went into a theatre as sober as could be, + They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; + They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, + But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! + For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' “Tommy, wait outside”; + But it's “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper's on the tide, + The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, + O it's “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper's on the tide. + + Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep + Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; + An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit + Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. + + Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' “Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?” + But it's “Thin red line of 'eroes” when the drums begin to roll, + The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, + O it's “Thin red line of 'eroes” when the drums begin to roll. + + We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, + But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; + An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, + Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; + While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, + an' “Tommy, fall be'ind”, + But it's “Please to walk in front, sir”, + when there's trouble in the wind, + There's trouble in the wind, my boys, + there's trouble in the wind, + O it's “Please to walk in front, sir”, + when there's trouble in the wind. + + You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: + We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. + Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face + The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. + + For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' “Chuck him out, the brute!” + But it's “Saviour of 'is country” when the guns begin to shoot; + An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; + An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool—you bet that Tommy sees! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +FUZZY-WUZZY + (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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SOLDIER, SOLDIER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, + Why don't you march with my true love?” + “We're fresh from off the ship an' 'e's maybe give the slip, + An' you'd best go look for a new love.” + New love! True love! + Best go look for a new love, + The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, + An' you'd best go look for a new love. + + “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, + What did you see o' my true love?” + “I seed 'im serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle-green, + An' you'd best go look for a new love.” + + “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, + Did ye see no more o' my true love?” + “I seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun to fly— + But you'd best go look for a new love.” + + “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, + Did aught take 'arm to my true love?” + “I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white— + An' you'd best go look for a new love.” + + “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, + I'll up an' tend to my true love!” + “'E's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead, + An' you'd best go look for a new love.” + + “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, + I'll down an' die with my true love!” + “The pit we dug'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men beside 'im— + An' you'd best go look for a new love.” + + “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, + Do you bring no sign from my true love?” + “I bring a lock of 'air that 'e allus used to wear, + An' you'd best go look for a new love.” + + “Soldier, soldier come from the wars, + O then I know it's true I've lost my true love!” + “An' I tell you truth again—when you've lost the feel o' pain + You'd best take me for your true love.” + True love! New love! + Best take 'im for a new love, + The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, + An' you'd best take 'im for your true love. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SCREW-GUNS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, + sniffin' the mornin' cool, + I walks in my old brown gaiters + along o' my old brown mule, + With seventy gunners be'ind me, + an' never a beggar forgets + It's only the pick of the Army + that handles the dear little pets—'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns—the screw-guns they all love you! + So when we call round with a few guns, + o' course you will know what to do—hoo! hoo! + Jest send in your Chief an' surrender— + it's worse if you fights or you runs: + You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees, + but you don't get away from the guns! + + They sends us along where the roads are, + but mostly we goes where they ain't: + We'd climb up the side of a sign-board + an' trust to the stick o' the paint: + We've chivied the Naga an' Looshai, + we've give the Afreedeeman fits, + For we fancies ourselves at two thousand, + we guns that are built in two bits—'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns... + + If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'im + an' teaches 'im 'ow to behave; + If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'im + an' rattles 'im into 'is grave. + You've got to stand up to our business + an' spring without snatchin' or fuss. + D'you say that you sweat with the field-guns? + By God, you must lather with us—'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns... + + The eagles is screamin' around us, + the river's a-moanin' below, + We're clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub, + we're out on the rocks an' the snow, + An' the wind is as thin as a whip-lash + what carries away to the plains + The rattle an' stamp o' the lead-mules— + the jinglety-jink o' the chains—'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns... + + There's a wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin', + an' a wheel on the edge o' the Pit, + An' a drop into nothin' beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit: + With the sweat runnin' out o' your shirt-sleeves, + an' the sun off the snow in your face, + An' 'arf o' the men on the drag-ropes + to hold the old gun in 'er place—'Tss! 'Tss! + For you all love the screw-guns... + + Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, + sniffin' the mornin' cool, + I climbs in my old brown gaiters + along o' my old brown mule. + The monkey can say what our road was— + the wild-goat 'e knows where we passed. + + Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin's! + Out drag-ropes! With shrapnel! Hold fast—'Tss! 'Tss! + + For you all love the screw-guns—the screw-guns they all love + you! + So when we take tea with a few guns, + o' course you will know what to do—hoo! hoo! + Jest send in your Chief an' surrender— + it's worse if you fights or you runs: + You may hide in the caves, they'll be only your graves, + but you can't get away from the guns! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GUNGA DIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You may talk o' gin and beer + When you're quartered safe out 'ere, + An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; + But when it comes to slaughter + You will do your work on water, + An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. + + Now in Injia's sunny clime, + Where I used to spend my time + A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, + Of all them blackfaced crew + The finest man I knew + Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. + + He was “Din! Din! Din! + You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! + Hi! slippy hitherao! + Water, get it! Panee lao!1 + 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!” 2 + 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 3 in it + Or I'll marrow 4 you this minute + 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 5 on 'is back, + 'E would skip with our attack, + An' watch us till the bugles made “Retire”, + An' for all 'is dirty 'ide + 'E was white, clear white, inside + When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! + It was “Din! Din! Din!” + With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. + + When the cartridges ran out, + You could hear the front-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! + + 1 Bring water swiftly. + 2 Mr Atkins' equivalent for “O Brother.” + 3 Hit you. + 4 Be quick. + 5 Water skin. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OONTS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (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, 1 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. + + 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. + + 1Camel—oo is pronounced like u in “bull,” but by Mr. Atkins to + rhyme with “front.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LOOT + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back, + If you've ever snigged the washin' from the line, + If you've ever crammed a gander in your bloomin' 'aversack, + You will understand this little song o' mine. + + But the service rules are 'ard, an' from such we are debarred, + For the same with English morals does not suit. + + (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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + 'SNARLEYOW' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps + Which is first among the women an' amazin' first in war; + An' what the bloomin' battle was I don't remember now, + But Two's off-lead 'e answered to the name o' 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor + With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead? + She 'as ships on the foam—she 'as millions at 'ome, + An' she pays us poor beggars in red. + (Ow, poor beggars in red!) + + There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses, + There's 'er mark on the medical stores— + An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind + That takes us to various wars. + (Poor beggars!—barbarious wars!) + Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor, + An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns, + The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces + O' Missis Victorier's sons. + (Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!) + + Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor, + For 'alf o' Creation she owns: + We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame, + An' we've salted it down with our bones. + (Poor beggars!—it's blue with our bones!) + Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow, + Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop, + For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown + When the Widow at Windsor says “Stop”! + (Poor beggars!—we're sent to say “Stop”!) + Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow, + From the Pole to the Tropics it runs— + To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file, + An' open in form with the guns. + (Poor beggars!—it's always they guns!) + + We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor, + It's safest to let 'er alone: + For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land + Wherever the bugles are blown. + (Poor beggars!—an' don't we get blown!) + Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin', + An' flop round the earth till you're dead; + But you won't get away from the tune that they play + To the bloomin' old rag over'ead. + (Poor beggars!—it's 'ot over'ead!) + Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow, + Wherever, 'owever they roam. + 'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require + A speedy return to their 'ome. + (Poor beggars!—they'll never see 'ome!) +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BELTS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay, + Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree; + It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark: + The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park. + + For it was:—“Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!” + An' it was “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!” + O buckle an' tongue + Was the song that we sung + From Harrison's down to the Park! + + There was a row in Silver Street—the regiments was out, + They called us “Delhi Rebels”, an' we answered “Threes about!” + That drew them like a hornet's nest—we met them good an' large, + The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge. + + Then it was:—“Belts...” + + There was a row in Silver Street—an' I was in it too; + We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru! + I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm + A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform. + + O it was:—“Belts...” + </pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There was a row in Silver Street—they sent the Polis there, + The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care; + But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose, + Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es. + + For it was:—“Belts...” + + There was a row in Silver Street—it might ha' raged till now, + But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how; + 'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run: + An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun. + + While it was:—“Belts...” + + There was a row in Silver Street—but that put down the shine, + Wid each man whisperin' to his next: “'Twas never work o' mine!” + We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him, + The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him. + + When it was:—“Belts...” + + There was a row in Silver Street—it isn't over yet, + For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get; + 'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie: + There was a row in Silver Street—begod, I wonder why! + + But it was:—“Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!” + An' it was “Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!” + O buckle an' tongue + Was the song that we sung + From Harrison's down to the Park! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East + 'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast, + An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased + Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier. + + Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, + Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, + Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, + So-oldier of the Queen! + + Now all you recruities what's drafted today, + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MANDALAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TROOPIN' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (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 today. + + 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 today. + + 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 today! + + 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 today. + + 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 today. + + We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome, + Our ship is at the shore, + An' you must pack your 'aversack, + For we won't come back no more. + + Ho, don't you grieve for me, + My lovely Mary-Ann, + For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit + As a time-expired man. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FORD O' KABUL RIVER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Kabul town's by Kabul river— + Blow the bugle, draw the sword— + There I lef' my mate for ever, + Wet an' drippin' by the ford. + Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, + Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! + There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin' + 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. + + Kabul town's a blasted place— + Blow the bugle, draw the sword— + 'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is face + Wet an' drippin' by the ford! + Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, + Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! + Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you + 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. + + Kabul town is sun and dust— + Blow the bugle, draw the sword— + I'd ha' sooner drownded fust + 'Stead of 'im beside the ford. + Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, + Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! + You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin', + 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. + + Kabul town was ours to take— + Blow the bugle, draw the sword— + I'd ha' left it for 'is sake— + 'Im that left me by the ford. + Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, + Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! + It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there, + 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark? + + Kabul town'll go to hell— + Blow the bugle, draw the sword— + 'Fore I see him 'live an' well— + 'Im the best beside the ford. + Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, + Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! + Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under, + By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. + + Turn your 'orse from Kabul town— + Blow the bugle, draw the sword— + 'Im an' 'arf my troop is down, + Down an' drownded by the ford. + Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, + Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! + There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin' + 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROUTE MARCHIN' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains, + A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains; + Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed, + There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road; + With its best foot first + And the road a-sliding past, + An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last; + While the Big Drum says, + With 'is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!”— + “Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?” 2 + + 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.1 + + An' it's best foot first,... + + 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?"2 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 1 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. + + 2 Why don't you get on +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room +Ballads, by Rudyard Kipling + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DITTIES AND BALLADS *** + +***** This file should be named 7846-h.htm or 7846-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/8/4/7846/ + +Produced by Ted Garvin, and David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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