Archives: Poems

(a)  

She wandered round the blessed world: 
She watched the sunset she:
O'er hills, incarnadine, impearled
Agate and lazuli:
Strange climes she saw and stranger folk
And fish of alien seas.
  
(b)  

I played with a lady at Euchre
And did all I knew for to roochre 
But spite of my play 
At the end of the day
She won and I promptly forsoochre.
  
(c)  

I know a young lady from Beaver
And not for the world would I grieve her 
But it runs in my head
That she scares herself dead
For no one's allowed to relieve her.

(d)  

There was a small boy who was proud
And smoked where he wasn't allowed
Till a java cigar
Lit the bestest so far
And he quit—in a Pillar of Cloud.
  
(e)  

What shall we do with a king who is dead
He governed us well while life was in him:
Lay him in state on his royal bed,
In the paper shrouds the poets spin him: 
Turn to the prince who is crowned today:
And shout for
  
(f)  

And will you give me love for love 
And troth for troth said he?
Ay, Love for love and troth for troth 
And heart for heart quoth she.

And will you give me life for life 
And soul for soul quoth he:
Ay, soul for soul, with seas between, 
Till end of love quoth she.
   

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('Their webs shall not become
 garments, neither shall they 
cover themselves with their works; 
their works are works of iniquity,
and the act of violence is in their 
hands.' —Isaiah 59,6.)

1 
The dark eleventh hour
Draws on and sees us sold
To every evil power
We fought against of old.
Rebellion, rapine, hate,
Oppression, wrong and greed
Are loosed to rule our fate,
By England’s act and deed.
2 
The Faith in which we stand,
The laws we made and guard,
Our honour, lives, and land
Are given for reward
To Murder done by night,
To Treason taught by day,
To folly, sloth, and spite,
And we are thrust away.
3 
The blood our fathers spilt,
Our love, our toils, our pains,
Are counted us for guilt,
And only bind our chains.
Before an Empire’s eyes
The traitor claims his price.
What need of further lies?
We are the sacrifice.
4 
We asked no more than leave
To reap where we had sown,
Through good and ill to cleave
To our own flag and throne.
Now England’s shot and steel
Beneath that flag must show
How loyal hearts should kneel
To England’s oldest foe.
5 
We know the war prepared
On every peaceful home,
We know the hells declared
For such as serve not Rome—
The terror, threats, and dread
In market, hearth, and field—
We know, when all is said.
We perish if we yield.
6 
Believe, we dare not boast,
Believe, we do not fear
We stand to pay the cost
In all that men hold dear.
What answer from the North?
One Law, one Land, one Throne
If England drive us forth
We shall not fall alone.

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1 
There is a word you often see, pronounce it as you may
“You bike,” “you bykwee,” “ubbikwe “—alludin’ to R.A.
It serves ’Orse, Field, an’ Garrison as motto for a crest,
An’ when you’ve found out all it means I’ll tell you ’alf the rest. 
2 
Ubique means the long-range Krupp be’ind the low-range ’ill—
Ubique means you’ll pick it up an’, while you do, stand still.
Ubique means you’ve caught the flash an’ timed it by the sound.
Ubique means five gunners’ ’ash before you’ve loosed a round. 
3 
Ubique means Blue Fuse an’ make the ’ole to sink the trail.
Ubique means stand up an’ take the Mauser’s ’alf-mile ’ail.
Ubique means the crazy team not God nor man can ’old.
Ubique means that ’orse’s scream which turns your innards cold! 
4 
Ubique means “Bank, ’Olborn, Bank—a penny all the way—
The soothin’, jingle-bump-an’-clank from day to peaceful day.
Ubique means “They’ve caught De Wet, an’ now we shan't be long.”
Ubique means “I much regret, the beggar’s goin’ strong!” 
5 
Ubique means the tearin’ drift where, breech-blocks jammed with mud,
The khaki muzzles duck an’ lift across the khaki flood.
Ubique means the dancing plain that changes rocks to Boers.
Ubique means the mirage again an’ shellin’ all outdoors. 
6 
Ubique means “Entrain at once for Grootdefeatfontein”!
Ubique means “Off-load your guns”—at midnight in the rain!
Ubique means “More mounted men. Return all guns to store.”
Ubique means the R. A. M. R. Infantillery Corps! 
7 
Ubique means that warnin’ grunt the perished linesman knows,
When o’er ’is strung an’ sufferin’ front the shrapnel sprays ’is foes;
An’ as their firin’ dies away the ’usky whisper runs
From lips that ’ave n’t drunk all day: “The Guns! Thank Gawd, the Guns!” 
8 
Extreme, depressed, point-blank or short, end-first or any’ow,
From Colesberg Kop to Quagga’s Poort—from Ninety-Nine till now—
By what I’ve ’eard the others tell an’ I in spots ’ave seen,
There’s nothin’ this side ’Eaven or ’Ell Ubique does n’t mean!

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I seek not what his soul desires.
  He dreads not what my spirit fears.
Our Heavens have shown us separate fires.
  Our dooms have dealt us differing years. 

Our daysprings and our timeless dead
  Ordained for us and still control
Lives sundered at the fountain-head,
  And distant, now, as Pole from Pole. 

Yet, dwelling thus, these worlds apart,
  When we encounter each is free
To bare that larger, liberal heart
  Our kin and neighbours seldom see. 

(Custom and code compared in jest—
  Weakness delivered without shame—
And certain common sins confessed
  Which all men know, and none dare blame.) 

E’en so it is, and well content
  It should be so a moment’s space,
Each finds the other excellent,
  And—runs to follow his own race!

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Two Players playing games against the Gods.
    A weary game, and full of strange mischance—
    Of barren shift, and bitter circumstance
Of growing helplessness and dire odds—
What two may hope to strive against the Gods?

Two Players, playing out a losing game—
   A heavy burden—come and see the end
   For they have neither strength, nor stay, nor friend,—
And they are dumb from weariness & shame— 
Smitten with sorrow by the wrathful Gods.

Two Players—and they cease not from their game, 
   Tho' both be old, and all sweet favour gone  
   That made their faces fair to look upon
And nothing but the dice remain the same—
How long shall these two strive against the Gods?

Two Players at the ending of their game—
   Brains weary with long scheming rest at last—
   Now all the struggle of the game is past—
And nothing but the dice remain the same—
The dice, and all the changeless, tireless Gods!

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         November 20th 1886

Our office crow, a most ill-mannered
but perspicacious fowl, has, after a
hearty meal on some back-numbers of
the Madras Mail, delivered himself of
the following. He calls it poetry:—

There was an old man in a doolie
    Who was pummeled by robbers unruly
    When he said:—'On my soul
'Tis the work of one C—e!'
    The P——r jumped on him duly.


           November 22nd 1886

That rude bird, the Office Crow, encouraged
by our acceptance of his little contribution
yesterday, continues to croak on matters
of ancient history.

There once was a man of Madras
    Who sold a 'Processional' ass.
    When they said:—'This is low!'
He replied (says the Crow)
    'These things are the rule in Madras!'

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1 
 Only two African kopjes,
    Only the cart-tracks that wind
Empty and open between ’em,
    Only the Transvaal behind;
Only an Aldershot column
    Marching to conquer the land . . . .
Only a sudden and solemn
    Visit, unarmed, to the Rand.
2 
    Then scorn not the African kopje,
        The kopje that smiles in the heat,
    The wholly unoccupied kopje,
        The home of Cornelius and Piet.
    You can never be sure of your kopje,
        But of this be you blooming well sure,
    A kopje is always a kopje,
        And a Boojer is always a Boer! 
3 
Only two African kopjes,
    Only the vultures above,
Only baboons—at the bottom (1) ,
    Only some buck on the move;
Only a Kensington draper
    Only pretending to scout . . . .
Only bad news for the paper,
    Only another knock-out.
4 
    Then mock not the African kopje,
        And rub not your flank on its side,
    The silent and simmering kopje,
        The kopje beloved by the guide.
    You can never be sure of your kopje,
        But of this be you blooming well sure,
    A kopje is always a kopje,
        And a Boojer is always a Boer! 
5 
Only two African kopjes,
    Only the dust of their wheels,
Only a bolted commando,
    Only our guns at their heels . . . .
Only a little barb-wire,
    Only a natural fort,
Only “by sections retire,”
    Only “regret to report!”
6 
    Then mock not the African kopje.
        Especially when it is twins,
    One sharp and one table-topped kopje
        For that’s where the trouble begins.
    You can never be sure of your kopje,
        But of this be you blooming well sure,
    A kopje is always a kopje,
        And a Boojer is always a Boer! 
7 
Only two African kopjes .
    Baited the same as before—
Only we’ve had it so often,
    Only we’re taking no more . . . .
Only a wave to our troopers,
    Only our flanks swinging past,
Only a dozen voorloopers (2) ,
    Only we’ve learned it at last!
8 
    Then mock not the African kopje,
        But take off your hat to the same,
    The patient, impartial old kopje,
        The kopje that taught us the game!
    For all that we knew in the Columns,
        And all they’ve forgot on the Staff,
    We learned at the Fight o’ Two Kopjes,
        Which lasted two years an’ a half, 
9 
O mock not the African kopje,
    Not even when peace has been signed—
The kopje that isn’t a kopje—
    The kopje that copies its kind.
You can never be sure of your kopje,
    But of this be you blooming well sure,
That a kopje is always a kopje,
    And a Boojer is always a Boer!

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Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea: 
'Ere's September come again — the six-year men are free. 
O leave the dead be'ind us, for they cannot come away 
To where the ship 's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome to-day. 

       We're goin' 'ome, we 're goin' 'ome, 
             Our ship is at the shore, 
       An' you must pack your 'aversack, 
             For we won't come back no more. 
       Ho, don't you grieve for me, 
             My lovely Mary-Ann, 
       For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit 
             As a time-expired man. 

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

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

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

Troopin', troopin', give another cheer — 
'Ere's to English women an' a quart of English beer. 
The Colonel an' the regiment an' all who've got to stay, 
Gawd's mercy strike 'em gentle — Whoop! we're goin' 'ome to-day. 

       We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome, 
              Our ship is at the shore, 
       An' you must pack your 'aversack, 
              For we won't come back no more. 
       Ho, don't you grieve for me, 
              My lovely Mary-Ann, 
       For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit 
              As a time-expired man.

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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!

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

                         .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    .    . 

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

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