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Archives: Poems

The New Knighthood

1 
Who gives him the Bath?
"I," said the wet,
Rank-Jungle-sweat,
"I'll give him the Bath!" 
2 
Who'll sing the psalms?
"We," said the Palms.
"Ere the hot wind becalms,
"We'll sing the psalms."
3 
Who lays on the sword?
"I," said the Sun,
Before he has done,
"I'll lay on the sword."
4 
"Who fastens his belt?
"I," said Short-Rations,
" I know all the fashions
"Of tightening a belt!"
5 
Who gives him his spur?
"I," said his Chief,
Exacting and brief,
"I'll give him the spur."
6 
Who'll shake his hand?
"I," said the Fever,
"And I'm no deceiver,
"I'll shake his hand."
7 
Who brings him the wine?
"I," said Quinine,
"It's a habit of mine.
"I'll come with his wine."
8 
Who'll put him to proof?
"I," said All Earth.
"Whatever he's worth,
"I'll put to the proof."
9 
Who'll choose him for Knight?
"I," said his Mother,
"Before any other,
"My very own Knight."

10
And after this fashion, adventure to seek,
Sir Galahad made–as it might be last week!

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The Necessitarian

1 
I know not in Whose hands are laid
   To empty upon earth
From unsuspected ambuscade
  The very Urns of Mirth;
2 
Who bids the Heavenly Lark arise
  And cheer our solemn round–
The Jest beheld with streaming eyes
  And grovellings on the ground;
3 
Who joins the flats of Time and Chance
  Behind the prey preferred,
And thrones on Shrieking Circumstance
  The Sacredly Absurd,
4 
Till Laughter, voiceless through excess,
   Waves mute appeal and sore,
Above the midriff's deep distress,
  For breath to laugh once more.
5 
No creed hath dared to hail Him Lord,
  No raptured choirs proclaim,
And Nature's strenuous Overword
    Hath nowhere breathed His Name.
6 
Yet, it must be, on wayside jape,
  The selfsame Power bestows
The selfsame power as went to shape
  His Planet or His Rose.

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The Native-Born

1 
We've drunk to the Queen—God bless her!—
         We’ve drunk to our mothers’ land;
      We’ve drunk to our English brother
         (But he does not understand);
      We’ve drunk to the wide creation,
          And the Cross swings low for the morn;
      Last toast, and of obligation,
         A health to the Native-born! 
2      
 They change their skies above them,
          But not their hearts that roam!
       We learned from our wistful mothers
         To call old England “home”;
      We read of the English skylark,
          Of the spring in the English lanes,
       But we screamed with the painted lories
         As we rode on the dusty plains! 
3       
They passed with their old-world legends—
         Their tales of wrong and dearth—
      Our fathers held by purchase,
          But we by the right of birth;
      Our heart’s where they rocked our cradle,
         Our love where we spent our toil,
      And our faith and our hope and our honour
         We pledge to our native soil! 
4       
I charge you charge your glasses—
         I charge you drink with me
      To the men of the Four New Nations,
         And the Islands of the Sea—
       To the last least lump of coral
         That none may stand outside,
      And our own good pride shall teach us
         To praise our comrade’s pride! 
5       
To the hush of the breathless morning
         On the thin, tin, crackling roofs,
       To the haze of the burned back-ranges
         And the dust of the shoeless hoofs—
      To the risk of a death by drowning,
         To the risk of a death by drouth—
      To the men of a million acres,
         To the Sons of the Golden South! 
6 
To the Sons of the Golden South (Stand up!),
  And the life we live and know,
 Let a fellow sing o’ the little things he cares about,
 If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about
  With the weight of a single blow!
7      
 To the smoke of a hundred coasters,
          To the sheep on a thousand hills,
      To the sun that never blisters,
         To the rain that never chills—
      To the land of the waiting spring-time,
         To our five-meal, meat-fed men,
      To the tall, deep-bosomed women,
         And the children nine and ten! 
8 
And the children nine and ten (Stand up!),
   And the life we live and know,
 Let a fellow sing o’ the little things he cares about,
 If a fellow fights for the little things he cares about
   With the weight of a two-fold blow!
9       
To the far-flung fenceless prairie
          Where the quick cloud-shadows trail,
      To our neighbour’s barn in the offing
         And the line of the new-cut rail;
      To the plough in her league-long furrow
         With the gray Lake gulls behind—
      To the weight of a half-year’s winter
         And the warm wet western wind! 
10      
 To the home of the floods and thunder,
         To her pale dry healing blue—
      To the lift of the great Cape combers,
         And the smell of the baked Karroo.
      To the growl of the sluicing stamp-head—
         To the reef and the water-gold,
      To the last and the largest Empire,
         To the map that is half unrolled! 
11       
To our dear dark foster-mothers,
         To the heathen songs they sung—
      To the heathen speech we babbled
         Ere we came to the white man’s tongue.
      To the cool of our deep verandas—
         To the blaze of our jewelled main,
      To the night, to the palms in the moonlight,
         And the fire-fly in the cane! 
12        
To the hearth of our people’s people—
         To her well-ploughed windy sea,
      To the hush of our dread high-altar
         Where The Abbey makes us We;
      To the grist of the slow-ground ages,
         To the gain that is yours and mine—
      To the Bank of the Open Credit,
         To the Power-house of the Line! 
13      
 We’ve drunk to the Queen—God bless her!—
         We’ve drunk to our mothers’ land;
      We’ve drunk to our English brother
          (And we hope he’ll understand).
      We’ve drunk as much as we’re able,
          And the Cross swings low for the morn;
      Last toast—and your foot on the table!—
         A health to the Native-born! 
14 
A health to the Native-born (Stand up!),
  We’re six white men arow,
 All bound to sing o’ the little things we care about,
 All bound to fight for the little things we care about
   With the weight of a six-fold blow!
 By the might of our cable-tow (Take hands!),
  From the Orkneys to the Horn,
 All round the world (and a little loop to pull it by),
 All round the world (and a little strap to buckle it),
  A health to the Native-born!

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The Mother’s Son

1 
I have a dream - a dreadful dream
A dream that is never done,
I watch a man go out of his mind,
And he is My Mother's Son. 
2
They pushed him into a Mental Home,
And that is like the grave:
For they do not let you sleep upstairs,
And you're not allowed to shave.
3
And it was not disease or crime 
Which got him landed there,
But because They laid on My Mother's Son 
More than a man could bear.
4
What with noise, and fear of death,
Waking, and wounds and cold,
They filled the Cup for My Mother's Son
Fuller than it could hold.
5
They broke his body and his mind 
And yet They made him live,
And They asked more of My Mother's Son 
Than any man could give.
6
For, just because he had not died,
Nor been discharged nor sick,
They dragged it out with my Mother's Son 
Longer than he could stick....
7
And no one knows when he'll get well 
So, there he'll have to be:
And, 'spite of the beard in the looking-glass,
I know that man is me!

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The Mother Lodge

1 
There was Rundle, Station Master,
An' Beazeley of the Rail,
An' 'Ackman, Commissariat,
An' Donkin' o' the Jail;
An' Blake, Conductor-Sergeant,
Our Master twice was 'e,
With im that kept the Europe-shop,
Old Framjee Eduljee.

Outside–" Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!
Inside–'Brother," an' it doesn't do no 'arm.
We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square,
An' I was junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!
2
We'd Bola Nath, Accountant,
An' Saul the Aden Jew,
An' Din Mohammed, draughtsman
Of the Survey Office too;
There was Babu Chuckerbutty,
An' Amir Singh the Sikh,
An' Castro from the fittin'-sheds,
The Roman Catholick!
3
We 'adn't good regalia,
An' our Lodge was old an' bare,
But we knew the Ancient Landmarks,
An' we kep' 'em to a hair;
An' lookin' on it backwards
It often strikes me thus,
There ain't such things as infidels,
Excep', per'aps, it's us.
4
For monthly, after Labour,
We'd all sit down and smoke
(We dursn't give no banquets,
Lest a Brother's caste were broke),
An' man on man got talkin'
Religion an' the rest,
An' every man comparin'
Of the God 'e knew the best.
5
So man on man got talkin',
An' not a Brother stirred
Till mornin' waked the parrots
An' that dam' brain-fever-bird.
We'd say 'twas 'ighly curious,
An' we'd all ride 'ome to bed,
With Mo'ammed, God, an' Shiva
Changin' pickets in our 'ead.
6
Full oft on Guv'ment service
This rovin' foot 'ath pressed,
An' bore fraternal greetin's
To the Lodges east an' west,
Accordin' as commanded.
From Kohat to Singapore,
But I wish that I might see them
In my Mother-Lodge once more!
7
I wish that I might see them,
My Brethren black an' brown,
With the trichies smellin' pleasant
An' the hog-darn passin' down;
An' the old khansamah snorin'
On the bottle-khana floor,
Like a Master in good standing
With my Mother-Lodge once more.

Outside–Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!'
Inside–Brother," an' it doesn't do no 'arm.
We met upon the Level an' we parted on the Square,
An' I was Junior Deacon in my Mother-Lodge out there!

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The Moral

You mustn’t groom an Arab with a file.
    You hadn’t ought to tension-spring a mule.
You couldn’t push a brumby fifty mile
    And drop him in a boiler-shed to cool.
I’ll sling you through six counties in a day.
     I’ll hike you up a grade of one in ten.
I am Duty, Law and Order under way,
    I’m the Mentor of banana-fingered men!
I will make you know your left hand from your right.
    I will teach you not to drink about your biz.
I’m the only temperance advocate in sight!
     I am all the Education Act there is!

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The Moon of Other Days

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 hundered 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-term,
   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!

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The Miracles

1
I sent a message to my dear—
  A thousand leagues and more to Her—
The dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear,
   And Lost Atlantis bore to Her.
2
Behind my message hard I came,
  And nigh had found a grave for me;
 But that I launched of steel and flame
   Did war against the wave for me. 
3
Uprose the deep, by gale on gale,
  To bid me change my mind again—
He broke his teeth along my rail,
   And, roaring, swung behind again. 
4
I stayed the sun at noon to tell
   My way across the waste of it;
 I read the storm before it fell
   And made the better haste of it. 
5
Afar, I hailed the land at night—
  The towers I built had heard of me—
And, ere my rocket reached its height,
  Had flashed my Love the word of me. 
6
Earth sold her chosen men of strength
   (They lived and strove and died for me)
 To drive my road a nation's length,
  And toss the miles aside for me. 
7
I snatched their toil to serve my needs—
  Too slow their fleetest flew for me—
I tired twenty smoking steeds,
  And bade them bait a new for me. 
8
I sent the lightnings forth to see
   Where hour by hour She waited me.
 Among ten million one was She,
  And surely all men hated me! 
9
Dawn ran to meet me at my goal—
  Ah, day no tongue shall tell again!
 And little folk of little soul
  Rose up to buy and sell again!

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The Merchantmen

1 
King Solomon drew merchantmen,
    Because of his desire
For peacocks, apes, and ivory,
    From Tarshish unto Tyre,
With cedars out of Lebanon
    Which Hiram rafted down;
But we be only sailormen
    That use in London town.

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

2 
We bring no store of ingots,
    Of spice or precious stones,
But what we have we gathered
    With sweat and aching bones:
In flame beneath the Tropics,
    In frost upon the floe,
And jeopardy of every wind
    That does between them go.
3 
And some we got by purchase,
    And some we had by trade,
And some we found by courtesy
    Of pike and carronade–
At midnight, 'mid-sea meetings,
    For charity to keep,
And light the rolling homeward-bound
    That rowed a foot too deep!
4 
By sport of bitter weather
    We're walty, strained, and scarred
From the kentledge on the kelson
    To the slings upon the yard.
Six oceans had their will of us
    To carry all away–
Our galley's in the Baltic,
    And our boom's in Mossel Bay.
5
We've floundered off the Texel,
    Awash with sodden deals,
We've shipped from Valparaiso
    With the Norther at our heels:
We're ratched beyond the Crossets
    That tusk the Southern Pole,
And dipped our gunnels under
    To the dread Agulhas roll.
6
Beyond all outer charting
    We sailed where none have sailed,
And saw the land-lights burning
    On islands none have hailed;
Our hair stood up for wonder,
    But, when the night was done,
There danced the deep to windward
    Blue-empty 'neath the sun!
7
Strange consorts rode beside us
    And brought us evil luck;
The witch-fire climbed our channels,
    And flared on vane and truck,
Till, through the red tornado,
    That lashed us nigh to blind,
We saw The Dutchman plunging,
    Full canvas, head to wind!
8
We've heard the Midnight Leadsman
    That calls the black deep down–
Ay, thrice we've heard The Swimmer,
    The Thing that may not drown.
On frozen bunt and gasket
    The sleet-cloud drave her hosts,
When, manned by more than signed with us
    We passed the Isle of Ghosts!
9
And north, amid the hummocks,
    A biscuit-toss below,
We met the silent shallop
    That frighted whalers know;
For, down a cruel ice-lane,
    That opened as he sped,
We saw dead Hendrick Hudson
    Steer, North by West, his dead.
10
So dealt God's waters with us
    Beneath the roaring skies,
So walked His signs and marvels
    All naked to our eyes:
But we were heading homeward
    With trade to lose or make–
Good Lord, they slipped behind us
    In the tailing of our wake!
11
Let go, let go the anchors;
    Now shamed at heart are we
To bring so poor a cargo home
    That had for gift the sea!
Let go the great bow-anchor–
    Ah, fools were we and blind–
The worst we stored with utter toil,
    The best we left behind!

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

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The Men that Fought at Minden

1 
The men that fought at Minden, they was rookies in their time –
 So was them that fought at Waterloo!
All the 'ole command, yuss, from Minden to Maiwand,
 They was once dam' sweeps like you! 
2 
Then do not be discouraged, 'Eaven is your 'elper,
 We'll learn you not to forget;
An' you mustn't swear an' curse, or you'll only catch it worse,
 For we'll make you soldiers yet! 
3 
The men that fought at Minden, they 'ad stocks beneath their chins,
 Six inch 'igh an' more;
But fatigue it was their pride, and they would not be denied
 To clean the cook-'ouse floor. 
4 
The men that fought at Minden, they had anarchistic bombs
 Served to 'em by name of 'and-grenades;
But they got it in the eye (same as you will by-an'-by)
 When they clubbed their field-parades. 
5 
The men that fought at Minden, they 'ad buttons up an' down,
 Two-an'-twenty dozen of 'em told;
But they didn't grouse an' shirk at an hour's extry work,
 They kept 'em bright as gold. 
6 
The men that fought at Minden, they was armed with musketoons,
 Also, they was drilled by 'alberdiers;
I don't know what they were, but the sergeants took good care
 They washed be'ind their ears. 
7 
The men that fought at Minden, they 'ad ever cash in 'and
 Which they did not bank nor save,
But spent it gay an' free on their betters – such as me –
 For the good advice I gave. 
8 
The men that fought at Minden, they was civil – yuss, they was –
 Never didn't talk o' rights an' wrongs,
But they got it with the toe (same as you will get it – so!) –
 For interrupting songs. 
9 
The men that fought at Minden, they was several other things
 Which I don't remember clear;
But that's the reason why, now the six-year men are dry,
 The rooks will stand the beer!
10 
Then do not be discouraged, 'Eaven is your 'elper,
 We'll learn you not to forget;
An' you mustn't swear an' curse, or you'll only catch it worse,
 For we'll make you soldiers yet! 
11 
Soldiers yet, if you've got it in you –
 All for the sake of the Core;
Soldiers yet, if we 'ave to skin you –
 Run an' get the beer, Johnny Raw – Johnny Raw!
 Ho! run an' get the beer, Johnny Raw!

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