Archives: Poems

Then  we  brought  the  lances  down—then  the  trumpets blew—
  When we went to Kandahar, ridin' two an' two.
   Ridin'—ridin—ridin'—two  an'  two!
        Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-a!
        All the way to Kandahar, 
   Ridin' two an' two.

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 Life's all getting and giving,
 I’ve only myself to give.
 What shall I do for a living?
    I’ve only one life to live.
 End it? I’ll not find another.
 Spend it? But how shall I best?
 Sure the wise plan is to live like a man
    And Luck may look after the rest!
 Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
 Give or hold at your will.
 If I’ve no care for Fortune
    Fortune must follow me still. 

 Bad Luck, she is never a lady
 But the commonest wench on the street,
 Shuffling, shabby and shady,
    Shameless to pass or meet.
 Walk with her once—it’s a weakness!
 Talk to her twice—it's a crime!
 Thrust her away when she gives you “good day”
    And the besom won’t board you next time.
 Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
 What is Your Ladyship’s mood?
 If I’ve no care for Fortune,
    My Fortune is bound to be good! 

 Good Luck she is never a lady
 But the cursedest quean alive!
 Tricksy, wincing and jady,
    Kittle to lead or drive.
 Greet her—she’s hailing a stranger!
 Meet her—she’s busking to leave.
 Let her alone for a shrew to the bone,
    And the hussy comes plucking your sleeve!
 Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
 I’ll neither follow nor flee.
 If I don’t run after Fortune
    Fortune must run after me!

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’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!)

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1 
Take up the White Man's burden— 
    Send forth the best ye breed— 
Go bind your sons to exile
  To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness
 On fluttered folk and wild—
Your new-caught sullen peoples,
  Half devil and half child. 
2 
Take up the White Man's burden— 
    In patience to abide
To veil the threat of terror
    And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
    An hundred times made plain,
To seek another's profit,
    And work another's gain. 
3
Take up the White Man's burden—
    The savage wars of peace—
Fill full the mouth of famine
    And bid the sickness cease; 
And when your goal is nearest
    The end for others sought,
Watch Sloth and heathen Folly
    Bring all your hopes to nought.
4
Take up the White Man's burden—
    No tawdry rule of kings, 
But toil of serf and sweeper— 
    The tale of common things. 
The ports ye shall not enter, 
    The roads ye shall not tread, 
Go make them with your living, 
    And mark them with your dead! 
5
Take up the White Man's burden—
    And reap his old reward, 
The blame of those ye better, 
    The hate of those ye guard— 
The cry of hosts ye humour 
    (Ah slowly!) toward the light— 
"Why brought ye us from bondage, 
    "Our loved Egyptian night?" 
6
Take up the White Man's burden—
    Ye dare not stoop to less— 
Nor call too loud on Freedom 
    To cloak your weariness; 
By all ye cry or whisper, 
    By all ye leave or do, 
The silent sullen peoples 
    Shall weigh your Gods and you. 
7
Take up the White Man's burden—
    Have done with childish days— 
The lightly proffered laurel, 
    The easy, ungrudged praise. 
Comes now, to search your manhood 
    Through all the thankless years, 
Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom, 
    The judgement of your peers. 

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When the waters' countenance
Blurs 'twixt glance and second glance;
When our tattered smokes forerun
Ashen 'neath a silvered sun;
When the curtain of the haze
Shuts upon our helpless ways-
  Hear the Channel Fleet at sea:
  Libera nos Domine!  

When the engines' bated pulse 
Scarcely thrills the nosing hulls;
When the wash along the side
Sounds, a-sudden, magnified;
When the intolerable blast
Marks each blindfold minute passed; 

When the fog-buoy's squattering flight
Guides us 'through the haggard night;
When the warning bugle blows;
When the lettered doorway's close;
When our brittle townships press,
Impotent, on emptiness; 

When the unseen leadsmen lean
Questioning a deep unseen;
When their lessened count they tell
To a bridge invisible;
When the hid and perilous
Cliffs return our cry to us; 

When the treble thickness spread 
Swallows up our next-ahead;
When her sirens frightened whine
Shows her sheering out of line;
When-her passage undiscerned- 
We must turn where she has turned,
  Hear the Channel Fleet at sea:
  Libera nos Domine!

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They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago. 
Weather and rain have undone it again, 
And now you would never know 
There was once a road through the woods 
Before they planted the trees. 
It is underneath the coppice and heath, 
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees 
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease, 
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods 
Of a summer evening late, 
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools 
Where the otter whistles his mate, 
(They fear not men in the woods, 
Because they see so few.) 
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet, 
And the swish of a skirt in the dew, 
Steadily cantering through 
The misty solitudes, 
As though they perfectly knew 
The old lost road through the woods...
But there is no road through the woods.

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          The Black Mountain Expedition is 
          apparently to be a teetotal affair—
          Vide Civil and Military, October 5th. 

          A charge of Ghazis was met by the Royal Irish 
          who accounted for the whole of them ... 
          The Royal Irish then carried the position
         —Pioneer, today.

1 
I met wid ould Mulvaney an' he tuk me by the hand,
Sez he:—'Fwhat kubber from the front, an' will the Paythans stand?'
'O Terence, dear, in all Clonmel such things were never seen,
They've sint a Rigimint to war widout a Fiel' Canteen!
2 
'Tis not a Highland Rigimint, for they wud niver care—
Their corp'rils carry hymn-books an' they opin fire wid prayer—
'Tis not an English Rigimint that burns a Blue Light flame—
'Tis the Eighteenth Royal Irish, man, as thirrsty as they're game!'
3 
An' Terence bit upon his poipe an' shpat behin' the door.
'Tis Bobbs', sez he, 'that knows the thrick av makin' bloody war.
Ye say they go widout their dhrink?' 'An' that's the trut' 'sez I.
Thin Hiven help the muddy Kheyl they call an Akazai!
4 
I lay wid thim in Dublin wanst, an' we was Oirish tu,
We passed the time av day an' thin the belts wint whirraru:
I misremember fwhat occurred but, followin' the shtorm,
A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
5 
They're rocks upon parade, but O in barricks they are hard—
They're ragin' tearin' devils whin there's ructions on the kyard;
An' onless they've changed their bullswools for baby's socks, I think
They'd rake all Hell for grandeur—an' I know they wud for dhrink!
6 
An' Bobbs has sint thim out to war widout a dhrop or dhrain—
'Tis he will put the jildy in this dissolute campaign:
They'd fight for frolic half the year, but now their liquor's cut
The wurrd'll go:— "Don't waste your time! The bay'nit an' the butt!"
7 
Six hundher' stiffin throats in front—tu hundher' lef' behind
To suck the pickins av the cask whiniver they've a mind!—
I wud not be the Paythan man forninst the sungar wall,
Whin those six hundher' gentlemin projuce the long bradawl!
8 
They'll all be dhry—tremenjus dhry—an' not a dhram to toss
Divils of Ballydavel, holy saints av Holy Cross;
An' holy cross they all will be from Carrick to Clogheen,
Thrapeesin' afther naygur–log' widout a Field Canteen.
9 
Will they be long among the hills? My troth they will not so—
They're crammin' down their fightin' now to have ut done an' go;
For Bobbs the Timp'rance Shtrategist has whipped thim on the nail'–
'Tis cruel on the Oirish but—ut's Murther on the Kheyl!'

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