Archives: Poems

1 
"Oh, where are you going to, all you Big Steamers, 
With England's own coal, up and down the salt seas?"
"We are going to fetch you your bread and your butter,
Your beef, pork, and mutton, eggs, apples, and cheese."
2
"And where will you fetch it from, all you Big Steamers,
And where shall I write you when you are away?"
"We fetch it from Melbourne, Quebec, and Vancouver.
Address us at Hobart, Hong Kong, and Bombay."
3
"But if anything happened to all you Big Steamers, 
And suppose you were wrecked up and down the salt sea?"
"Why, you'd have no coffee or bacon for breakfast,
And you'd have no muffins or toast for your tea."
4
"Then I'll pray for fine weather for all you Big Steamers, 
For little blue billows and breezes so soft." 
"Oh, billows and breezes don't bother Big Steamers: 
We're iron below and steel-rigging aloft."  
5
"Then I'll build a new lighthouse for all you Big Steamers,
With plenty wise pilots to pilot you through."
"Oh, the Channel's as bright as a ball-room already,
And pilots are thicker than pilchards at Looe." 
6
"Then what can I do for you, all you Big Steamers,
Oh, what can I do for your comfort and good?"
"Send out your big warships to watch your big waters,
That no one may stop us from bringing you food." 
7
For the bread that you eat and the biscuits you nibble, 
The sweets that you suck and the joints that you carve, 
They are brought to you daily by All Us Big Steamers 
And if any one hinders our coming you'll starve!"

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Between the gum pot and the shears 
  The weapons of my grimy trade, 
In divers moods and various years
  These forty foolish yarns were made.

And some were writ to fill a page
  And some—but these are not so many— 
To soothe a finely moral rage
  And all to turn an honest penny.

And some I gathered from my friends 
  And some I looted from my foes,
And some—All's fish that Heaven sends­
  Are histories of private woes.

And some are Truth, and some are Lie, 
  And some exactly half and half,
I've heard some made a woman cry—
  I know some made a woman laugh.

I do not view them with delight
  And, since I know that you may read 'em, 
I'd like to thoroughly rewrite,
  Remould, rebuild, retouch, reword 'em.

Would they were worthier. That's too late— 
  Cracked pictures stand no further stippling.
Forgive the faults.
                                March '88
 To Mrs Hill
                                From Rudyard Kipling.

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1 
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!
2 
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.
        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!
3 
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.
        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!
4 
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, 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!
5 
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.
        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!
6 
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.
        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!
7 
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!

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                               I  

Frost upon small rain—the ebony-lacquered avenue
    Reflecting lamps as a pool shows goldfish.
The sight suddenly emptied out of the young man’s eyes
    Entering upon it sideways. 
                                    
                             II 

In youth, by hazard, I killed an old man.
    In age I maimed a little child.
Dead leaves under foot reproach not:
But the lop-sided cherry-branch—whenever the sun rises, 
     How black a shadow!

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‘The Ootacamund paper states that during the stay of
the Commander-in-Chief and party at Arconum several of
them were seized with choleraic symptoms. They had
been advised to use bromide of soda for some day previous
to embarkation for England, to ward off sea-sickness.
The chief and and family commenced the three days’
course of the treatment at Arconum. The two Aides-de-Camp
did not take it, nor did the governess, and they were not ill.’

1 
The journalists of Southern Ind 
    Must be a most abandoned crew;
For (kindly look above) I find
    A tale which, even were it true, 
Should ne 'er have met the public eye; 
And is a breach of privacy.
2 
The Story of Sir Frederick R— 
    Is briefly this. The Bounding Sea
Has terrors for the Man of War
    (Exactly as it has for Me).
He ... suffers when he is afloat,
And wants some soothing antidote. 
3
Of thousands, He selected one,
    Bromide of Soda, for his need; 
And, long before His voyage begun,
    Was very, very, ill indeed.
(Bromide of Soda, draught or pill,
In overdoses makes you ill.)
4
Not He alone was smit with pain; 
    The C-in-Chief his family
Fell also. Of that noble train
    Escaped, in fact, a scanty three—
Two A.D.C.'s, one Governess— 
Declined, with thanks, that awful mess.
5
The papers talked of cholera;
    And afterwards of poison. Then
Debated whether Frederick R— 
    Imbibed the grim medicamen-
t on full or empty stomach. Hence
My strictures on impertinence.
6
Suffice it that a C-in-C
    Is, in his fleshly fashioning,
Remarkably like you and me.
    And sorrow, such as that I sing, 
Is not exactly fitting grist
For the Abandoned Journalist.
           
 P.S. 
They might have told him that elixir
Invariably makes one sick, Sir.

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