Writ in Barracks
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BRITANNIA TO HER FIRST-BORN
I am no maiden, highly strung,To faint, when bloody death is nigh.I have not lived, by might of tongueNor by vain boastings, wind-wide flung!But on fame's endless ladder, IHave fought my way, from rung to rung!I am no fretful, whimp'ring miss;I am a woman, learned of years.And once I felt your baby kiss:Your bliss for me had greater bliss!Your youthful sorrows had my tears.O son o' mine, remember this!Your foes were mine, in those dear days:Your friends were kind, and kin to me.We parted – so, we will not raiseThe long dead years. We went our ways,I, brooding by the cold grey sea;You, pride-flushed, with your new-won bays!The years have passed; it does but seemAs yester-eve you left my side.I journeyed with you, dream on dream —I heard your great war eagle's scream!And on sweet Progress, your fair bride,I saw the sun of Fortune's beam!I mourned your follies, word and deed;I watched your rising, when you rose,By sober prayer, by Cross and Bead;Until you found that greater Creed,That in the broader channel flows,The lowly truths, that higher lead!You are my son, and born of me.My laws of Right are Laws to youWhose hands were stained in blood, to beThe hands that set the slave-man free!And now, again, you dare and do —For Justice, and Humanity!The days to be are big with Fate!Go fight your battle, Son o' mine:And State to Shire, and Shire to State,Its better self shall dedicate!So, let the wily foe combine,Whilst, hand-locked, heart-locked, we can wait!TOMMY TO HIS LAUREATE
(CAPETOWN, January 25, 1898.)O good-mornin', Mister Kiplin'! You are welcome to our shores:To the land of millionaires and potted meat:To the country of the 'fonteins' (we 'ave got no 'bads' or 'pores'),To the place where di'monds lay about the streetAt your feet;To the 'unting-ground of raiders indiscreet.I suppose you know this station, for you sort of keep in touchWith Tommy wheresoever 'e may go;An' you know our 'bat's' a shandy, made of 'Ottentot an' Dutch,It's a language which is 'ideous an' low,Don't you knowThat it's 'Wacht-een-beitje' 'stead of ''Arf a mo'?'We should like to come an' meet you, but we can't without a pass;Even then we'd 'ardly like to make a fuss;For out 'ere, they've got a notion that a Tommy isn't class;'E's a sort of brainless animal, or wuss!Vicious cuss!No, they don't expect intelligence from us.You 'ave met us in the tropics, you 'ave met us in the snows;But mostly in the Punjab an' the 'Ills.You 'ave seen us in Mauritius, where the naughty cyclone blows.You 'ave met us underneath a sun that kills,An' we grills!An' I ask you, do we fill the bloomin' bills?Since the time when Tommy's uniform was musketoon an' wig,There 'as always been a bloke wot 'ad a wayOf writin' of the Glory an' forgettin' the fatig','Oo saw 'im in 'is tunic day by day,Smart an' gay,An' forgot about the smallness of his pay!But you're our partic'lar author, you're our patron an' our friend,You're the poet of the cuss-word an' the swear,You're the poet of the people, where the red-mapped lands extend,You're the poet of the jungle an' the lair,An' compare,To the ever-speaking voice of everywhere!There are poets wot can please you with their primrose-vi'let lays,There are poets wot can drive a man to drink;But it takes a 'pukka' poet, in a Patriotic Craze,To make a chortlin' nation squirm an' shrink,Gasp an' blink;An' 'eedless, thoughtless people stop an' think!Yes, the 'and wot banged the banjo an' made Tommy comic songs,'Oo wrote of Empires, 'Lion's 'Ead to Line,''Oo found an 'idden poem in M'Andrew's Injin gongs,Was the checkin' 'and wot gave the warnin' sign,In a line —That gave the people soda after wine.THE MISSION THAT FAILED
Our troop was encamped by the side of a streamAn' a very smart troop were we.We 'ad Cavalry orficers – straight from town,An' we escorted Mister Commissioner Brown,Commissioner Brown, C.B.An' we 'eard that the Governor put 'im down,For a spare K.C.M.G.!We wos camped near by to a border town,On the borders of Creegerland —A very despotic, republican state —An' there we 'ad got the order to wait,But why, we did not understand.So we bedded our 'orses, an' cussed at our fate(For you can't cuss the man in command).One mornin' sez Mister Commissioner Brown,Sez 'e to the 'ole parade,'I've bin inspired by a dream just now —I can't say why, an' I can't say 'ow —But a voice in my dream it said,"O in Joannistown there's a deuce of a rowAnd badly they want your aid!"'Now Joannistown is in Creegerland,Which same is a friendly state.An' it isn't no joke – which is puttin' it fine —To pass without notice the border-post sign;But we did it, as I will relate. —We really intended to drop 'em a line!But we 'adn't got time to wait.We 'ad ridden some miles into CreegerlandWhen Commissioner Brown, C.B.,'E called an 'alt, – which a troop requires,For a man, 'e tires, as 'is 'orse perspires, —An' 'e sez to the troop, sez 'e,'About ten miles from 'ere are some telegraph wires,An' a very good thought struck me.'For fear of my dream bein' misunderstoodAn' the evil constructions of liars! —For fear of alarmin' the dear farmers' wivesAn' disturbin' the quiet an' peace of their lives,I think we will sever them wires!An' I'll give somethin' 'andsome to 'im 'oo contrivesTo cut off the current – with pliers!'An' Michael M'Carty, Lance-Corp'ral was 'e,Right guide to a section of 'A,'Started orf on the job, an' we whispered a cheer,An' we each gave the beggar our flasks – full of beer —To 'elp for to lighten 'is way!We gave 'im cheap drinks – though it was very dearWhen it came round to settling day!M'Carty 'e rode, an' M'Carty 'e swilled,An' M'Carty got big in the 'ead,Till 'e couldn't tell telegraph poles from trees,An' 'e wandered around, sorter go-as-you-pleaseTill 'is wonderin' wanderin's ledTo the wires – of a fence! an' reclinin' at ease'E cut up these wasters instead!It's all over now: an' Brown 'e got jugged,And the Burghers of Creegerland knowed.They licked us to fits in a sweet little fight,An' the King of Jerusalem wired 'is delight!An' the Laureate wrote us an Ode!An' Europe got ready for action that night'Cos M'Carty got drunk on the road!M'Carty's a thief, M'Carty's a beast,An' M'Carty is likewise a liar!'E went an' got drunk, which 'e shouldn't 'ave done;'E went an' got drunk, an' 'e spoilt the 'ole fun:An' the moral to them wot conspireIs, Don't send a beer-swilling son of a gunWhen you're cuttin a telegraph wire!THE PRAYER
O God of Battles! Lord of Might!A sentry, in the silent night,I, 'oo 'ave never prayed,Kneel on the dew-damp sands, to say,O see me through the comin' day —But, please remember, though I pray,That I am not afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!'Ere in the dusky, starry light,My inner self I've weighed;An' I 'ave seen my guilt an' sin;I'm black as black can be, within,But though I would forgiveness win,It ain't 'cos I'm afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!Keep me, to-morrow, in Your sight! —Far 'ave I erred an' strayed.I've flaunted You, with gibe an' sneer,At 'ome, with chums to laugh and cheer,But now, I am alone – out 'ere!But still I ain't afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!The en'my's camp-fires twinkle bright.To-morrow, Lord, Your aid;The canteen was my Sunday-school:The drill-book was my Golden Rule;Wot are they now? O 'elpless fool!But still, I'm not afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!The price of every thoughtless slightTo-morrow will be paid!A voice is whisp'rin' to my 'eart —A voice that makes me sweat an' start! —'To-morrow, soul an' soldier part!'But I – I'm not afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!'Ere, in the silence of the night,My 'umble prayer is prayed!All life an' death are one to you!If I must die – O 'elp me to!In that last moment, see me through —My God! I am afraid!CEASE FIRE
The fight was done an hour ago:The whole brigade has fallen back,And I've been wand'rin' to and fro,A-askin' any – white or black,'Say – have you seen my brother, Jack?His troop was first in the attack!'I should have seen him here by now:An hour ago the 'cease fire' went.He isn't wounded any'ow,'Cos with the stretcher squads I went,An' all my other time I've spentA-hangin' round the doctor's tent.Among the huddled, fallen menI picked a way across the plain.I got a dozen yards, an' thenCame back for fear I'd turn my brain…The mangled horrors of the slain!O Christ! I can't go there again!Say, have you seen my brother Jack?Don't know! an' damn you, don't much care! —But 'scuse me, chum, a-talkin' back,I'm sorter flustered with the glare.These sands are hot, an' so's the air —Perhaps he's doin' guard somewhere!Old mother said before we went,'Be sure you keep him in your sight'(Not knowin' what a campaign meant).'Don't let him stay out late o' night!' —I wonder if he funked the fightAn' bolted. O pray God he might!They're layin' out our dead just now,He can't be – , no, that – that ain't sense,An' when he comes there'll be a row!A-keepin' me in this suspense!'Tis here our line of killed commence,I'll sorter look – for make-pretence!Pretendin' some one's here I know —I'm half inclined to turn aback —But one by one, along I go,And see the crimson clottin' black…His troop was first in the attack!What! Jack! Is this – this Thing our Jack?TOMMY'S AUTOGRAPH
I 'ad lorst my situation, an' the girl she got the 'ump,An' the naggin' of my muvver nearly drove me orf my chump.So I 'oofed it down to Woolwich, to the old recruitin' starf,An' they give to me a paper for to fix my autygrarf!Just to fix my autygrarf!Lor' you should a 'eard me larf!For the blessed Sergeant-Major wos a tryin' on 'is chaff.Didn't mind the Doctor's soundin's,Nor 'is soap an' water barf!But the fing as knocked me silly wos that bloomin' autygrarf!I wos took before the colonel, an' I took a Bible oafThat I'd serve my Queen an' country, an' be square unto them boaf.Then they got a printed paper, an' this Colonel on the starfSez, 'You'll kindly read this over, an' affix your autygrarf!'To affix my autygrarf!Larf! You orter 'eard me larf!Signin' fings like ''Enry Irvin,' Knight Commornder of the Barf!Made me want to do a swaggerLike a Piccadilly calf!On'y fancy! People wantin' Tommy Atkins' autygrarf!Then I signs my name an' birfplace, an' the county I wos from,An' I dots the 'i' in Atkins, an' I crorst the 't' in tom.A recruit is wurf a dollar, an' the sergeant gets an 'arf;Just for 'andin' me a paper for to put my autygrarf!Just to put my autygrarf!Larf? You should 'ave 'eard them larf!From the colonel wiv 'is spurs on, to the sergeant in 'is scarf.When I sez, 'Wot's this for, mister?'Sez the colonel, 'Go to Barf!''Don't you know the Queen is anxious for to get your autygrarf?'I 'ave autygrarfed for clobber, I 'ave autygrarfed for pay;I 'ave signed it wiv a flourish, I 'ave signed it wiv a 'j'On an Army Temperance pledge-book(O the straight an' narrer parf!) —To a 'drunk' fine in the pay list, I've affixed my autygrarf!Wot a name! An autygrarf!'Nuff to drive a feller darf;Callin' Christian name an 'auty' an' the uvver name a 'grarf,'Writin' in a pocket-ledger —'Stead of album bound in calf —'Doo to soldier: Nil' (that's Latin), an' your bloomin' autygrarf!AT THE BRINK!
'Tis now, as we tighten the girth,'Tis now, as we buckle the sword,When bitterness hardens our mirth,'Tis now that we seek you, O Lord!Give us hope now the future is black,From fatuous arrogance ward —The words that we cannot hold back!Give peace in our time, O Lord!You know of the hate – folly born;You know of the wrath – money bred;The impotent rage, and the scorn,The trust and the faith that are dead.Lest sorrow should spring from the land —The crop of the seed of the sword —O, stay the imperious hand;Give peace in our time, O Lord!'Tis good when the man loves the land,'Tis good when he falls for his creed,But woe to the hate that is fannedBy folly begotten of greed.When the weak become foolishly strong,When peoples, unwitting, applaud, —The folly wrought wrong – still is wrong!Give peace in our time, O Lord!When the voice in the senate is stilled;When the councillor speaks in a tent;When the lands are untended, untilled;What use if the stubborn relent?What gain will the simpleton's shame,The shrifts and lamentings, afford?To-day, on their conduct, the blame;Give peace in our time, O Lord!Give peace: that is rooted in Right.Give peace: that is strengthened by Grace.Give peace: that we stand in your sight,Thrice over a justified race.'Tis peace – and with honour – we need,And the child of our child shall awardThe praise for our failing, or deed.Give peace in our time, O Lord!THE KING OF OOJEE-MOOJEE
We 'ave stowed our ammunition, we 'ave taken in our store,An' our very last instructions we 'ave 'ad by semy-fore;The Flagship's made a signal, 'We wish you all success,'An' we're off to Oojee-Moojee on the armoured cruiser 'Bess.'For the King of Oojee-MoojeeIs a-comin of 'is tricks,'E's cheeked the English Consul,An 'e's chucked 'is wooden bricks.'E won't do kindergarden,An' 'e's done 'is lessons wrong;Altogether Oojee-MoojeeIs a-comin' of it strong!An' the Point is miles be'ind us, an' 'eadquarters furder still;We've exchanged a friendly greetin' wi' the bloke on Signal 'Ill;We are off to Oojee-Moojee, an' we cannot be detained,For relations dip-lo-matic 'ave become a trifle strained!Now the King of Oojee-Moojee is a little coloured kid;An' 'e rules some thousand niggers, an' 'e does as 'e is bid!For the Government of England, with 'is interests in view,'As civilised 'is country – an' collects 'is revenue!For the King wot reigned afore 'im was an 'eathen nigger thief,So we sent a missionary, for to teach 'im our belief.(To prevent misunderstandin's, an' avoid unpleasant scenes,We likewise sent an 'Otchkiss, an' a 'undred red marines.)'E wouldn't take our gospel, an' unpleasantness arose,Which cost six whites, and niggermen proportionate to those;An' we left the King a-swingin' from a 'Lyptus tree above,Just to show as there was iron underneath the velvet glove.Then our skipper very kindly did an 'andsome sort of thing,For 'e made a proclamation that the nevvy of the King —A funny little kiddy, with a sat-on sorter face —Should rule the Oojee-Moojee, an' should take 'is uncle's place.So we dressed 'im up in velvets, an' we fed 'im up on buns,An' we gave 'is bit of buntin' a salute of twenty guns,An' we gave to 'im a doctor for to cure 'is chills an' croups;With a tutor, an' a gen'ral for to organise 'is troops.So 'is tutor taught 'im manners, an' the way to part 'is 'air,An' the gen'ral, in 'is spare time, taught 'im proper ways to sware;The doctor, to complete 'im, was a-teaching him to mill —When 'is 'ighness put the veto on the Education Bill.Then 'e cheeked the British Consul!Then 'e cussed the doctor's wife!An' 'e chased 'is good, kind tutor, with a bloomin' carvin' knife;Tore 'is books an' burnt 'is grammar (said they wasn't good for 'ealf),Boned some whisky from the General, an' unchristianised 'isself!So, we're bound for Oojee-Moojee,An we mus'n't be detained;For relations dip-lo-matic'Ave become a trifle strained:'Situations complicated' —'Warship ordered to the scene!' —Just because a nigger kiddy'sPlayin' truant with the Queen!THE SONG OF THE TOWN
Sing hey! for the sand-freckled plain;Sing ho! for the flower-flushed valley;A song for the ship-sprinkled main,And the sports where the wanderers rally,A song for the lawn sloping down —The lawn with its terrace and fountain,But here's a song of the square white TownBy the mist-wrapped, cloud-capped mountain!The whitewashed, square-cut town,By the grey-green wind-swept sea;The moving throng,And the motor gong,These sing the song for me!Sing hey! for the Town and its folk,The comers, the goers, the stayers;The just arrived waster, dead-broke,The homeward-bound mummers and players;The white man suspiciously dark!The trooper-man, newly recruited;The hand-bagged and frock-coated clerk,The pioneer corded and booted!The motley-peopled town!Its raw and cultured folk,Live, work, and play'Twixt Mount and Bay,And bear one equal yoke.Sing hey! for the Town, and its dress,The garbs of the twenty-one nations:The Kafir in blanket – and less,The lady in Paris 'creations';The-man-about-town, rather loud,The nigger in checks somewhat rasher;Here, fez to the turban is bow'd,There, top-hat comes off to the 'smasher.'The particoloured town,Where plush and broadcloth meet:Where Islam's greenAnd Worth-wrought sheenRub textures in the street!Sing hey! for the Town, as a town,A song of its bricks and its plaster;The slum that is mouldering down —The mansion that's rising the faster.Sing hey! for its one-storied past,Be-flagged, and be-stoeped, and be-whitened;Its five-storied future more vast,Its breadth to be broadened and heightened.The grim old, prim old town,A brand-new vestment wears,And arc-lights purrWhere blue-gums were,And the blanket-Kafir stares!BY SIMON'S BAY
In the mountain foldBy the green-blue bay,Where the waves are fleckedBy the evening goldAt the close of day;And the berg is deckedWith a film of grey,And the mountain's frownOn the darkening town —My mem'ries stray.By the fringing beach,By the restless wave,Is the straggling town,And its limits reachFrom the highest placeBy the mountain's crownTo the mountain's base —Where the waters lave.Hopeful TownBy the Cape of Hope;By the sandy slopeWhere the Hills look down;By the wind-swept kloof —On the barrack, grim:On the whitened roof,On the garden trim:On the restless BayWhere the sea-fowl whirlsAnd the spume-dust swirlsTo the Zephyr's whim —At the close of day.Darkening Bay,Where ever layAlert to slipFrom leashes tautA blood-flecked houndIn the pale lean ship;And where the soundOf echoing boomFrom far awayIs a full-mouthed bay,As the quarry's found.Mournful bayIn green and grey,I've thought on youThis many a day.THE SQUIRE
Sir John of the Isles,'E stood on 'is lands,An' looked round 'is large estates:The lands of waste, an' the lands of corn;The rose-clad lands, an' the lands of thorn;An' 'is many gun guarded gates.Sir John of the Isles,'E sez to T.A.,'E sez to T.A., sez 'e,'Oh, you an' your chum, the sailor-man,Must scour the country as far as you canFor you are gamekeepers to me.'Sir John of the Isles,'E sez to the swells —The Downing Street frock-coated crew —'You are stewards of mine, on Colonial land,An' my tenants, with seventeen guns an' a band,Shall pay their respects unto you!'Sez John of the IslesTo one of the swells,'Near the lands where you're goin' to BeIs the dusty estate of a crotchety cuss,'Oo from time to time causes a great deal of fuss,For 'e thinks 'e's better nor me.'Sez John of the Isles,'The tenants 'e rulesAre a very peculiar lot.'Is bailifs are 'Ollanders, chock full of guile,An' they run the estate in a Guy-foxy style.Which is Dynamite, Treason and Plot!'Sez John of the Isles,'Don't mind 'is remarks,For the land which is 'is – it was mine;But 'e took it to Law in a court rather grim,An' a kopje-'id jury decided for 'im!An' awarded the land as a fine.'Sir John of the Isles,'E sez to the swell,'You're a gentleman, breedin' an birth,An' in case of a row, without losin' your 'ead,You may take my gamekeepers, an' mark 'is land red!On the survey-map of the Earth!'THE SEA-NATION
We rose, a people of the sea,Nursed by the wind, and rocked by wave.Our hard, rock-founded history,Was born from stories of our brave.And northern ice-blasts steeled our framesWhen war was but the best of games.We saw a Roman Empire fall,And fell; but falling, learned to rise.We heard the voice of Progress call,And in our folly we were wise:When Briton, Saxon, Norman, Dane,Bequeathed their progeny the main.And conquered joined with conqueror;And Norman fire, with Saxon zealCombined; we swept the world beforeThe twanging bow, and clanging steel.Tyrants unmurm'ring bore our yoke,And braggarts thought before they spoke.Then Iron Might took Right to wife;And lo! our liberty was born!We revelled in the newer lifeWhen King was mated by a pawn.Men lived between, of mighty worth;From Montfort's death to Cromwell's birth.We bore the arrogance of kings,But bravèd death in fear of God.We rose from great, to greater things.The weak grew potent at our nod.And nations watched the scales of Fate,To see where England threw her weight!We took our seed to other climes,And from it sprang by divers seas,An Oak – that grew among the Limes!An Oak – among the Blue-gum trees!The Cactus left the land becauseThe Acorn brought its ordered laws.And like a giant, bearing stingsOf gnats, who joy to see him wince,We stand – the envy of the kingsDespised by every petty prince!Who know, that while enduring yet,We bear – but we do not forget.We lived, and live! The world shall seeAn inextinguishable flame.The nations fade; but we shall be!When Gaul and Teuton are a name!For us the seven seas in one:For landlocked hordes – oblivion.NATURE FAILS
You can eas'ly understandThat the green of medder-landDoesn't strike the bloke that 'as to push the roller;An' Nature at the best,When you put 'er to the test,Undiluted, is a very poor consoler.An' the blue of summer skies'As no beauties for the eyesOf defaulters on parade in marchin' order;An' the rainiest of mornsBrings no feelin's – 'cept to corns,Of a feller pickin' oakum with a warder.Wot's the beauty of the spot,When you're bein' drilled with shot?Wot is Nature when you're checked for bein' dirty?An' eternity's a blankTo a feller on the crank,When ev'ry blessed minute seems like thirty!Bein' punished for your deeds,On fatig' a-pickin' weeds,Can a bloke admire the beauties of the clover?Does the sunset on the 'illsGive defaulters any thrillsExcept to know the day is nearly over.Bein' frog-marched to the clink,Does a feller stop to thinkOn the grass before 'is eyes so swif'ly runnin','Ow that ev'ry single bladeIs most wonderfully madeWiv a skill beyond all artificial cunnin'?An' you cannot pant for warsWhen you're scrubbin' barrack floors,Or get inspired on bully-beef an' biscuit:It requires a poet's soulWhen a feller's cartin' coalTo think 'isself in danger, an' to risk it.Does a feller care a D —For the friskin' of a lamb,When 'e 'as to watch the friskin' thro' a gratin'?Does the lowin' of the 'erds,Or the twitterin' of the birds,Soothe a feller when for punishment 'e's waitin'?L' ENVOIIn the deepest pits of 'Ell,Where the worst defaulters dwell(Charcoal devils used as fuel as you require 'em),There's some lovely coloured rays,Pyrotechnical displays:But you can't expect the burnin' to admire 'em!THE COLONEL'S GARDEN
There are gardins, an' there's gardins,Some are good, an' some are not.There are gardins in a glass 'ouseWhere the air is allus 'ot.But whether on a winder-ledge,Or in a flower-pot,I'll back our Colonel's gardinFor to lick the bilin' lot.There are gardners, an' there's gardners,Some are great, an' some are small.Some could change a bloomin' brickfieldTo a Covent Gard'n ball!There are some 'oo couldn't 'ardlyFix a creeper to a wall!But I'll back our Colonel's gardner,Jerry Jordan, 'gin 'em all!O the flowers they are lovely!An' the roses they are fair;An' the daisies they are winkin'Thro' a lash of maiden-'air!An' the lilies, tall an' naked —Tho' it's little that they care!An' the garden – under Jerry —Is a place beyond compare!There are flowers bloomin' early,There are flowers bloomin' late;There is 'oneysuckle climbin'On the porchway, by the gate.There's some cress an' mustard growin'On a commissairy plate!O the garden it is lovely —That's when Jerry's on the straight!* * * * *O the garden it's neglected.An' the pinks 'ave ceased to pink,An' the petals they are droppin',An' the blooms they bend and sink.O the flowers they are fadin'Now that Jerry's took to drink!O the flowers they're neglected —Jerry Jordan's in the clink!For the flowers will not blossom,An' they don't give out no smells,The convul'vus it is weepin'From its verigated bells.An' the lily's in hysterics,An' she faints away in spells:O there's weepin', an' there's wailin' —Jerry Jordan's doin' cells!* * * * *O the path is rolled an' gravelled,An' the gardin's fresh as rain,An' the weeds that strewed the bordersThey no longer there remain.An' the flowers they are smilin',For they're out of all their pain;An' the bees they 'um for gladness —Jerry Jordan's out again!THE PEOPLE TO CECIL JOHN RHODES,