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Archives: Poems

A Logical Extension

1 
A horse? My charger's back is galled,
  His knees are chipped, his hocks askew,
I think he is the creature called
  By captious folk an 'utter screw', 
And, spite of his declining years,
He jibs and shies and kicks and rears.
2 
But if you helped him on behind,
  And propped him firmly underneath, 
And led him (for the beast is blind)
  And patched his hide and filed his teeth, 
I'm sure he'd be admired by all,
For purposes processional.
3 
A wife? My daughter's form is rude, 
  Her figure bad, her face the same,
Her chin retreats, her teeth protrude, 
  Her eyes are green, her hair is flame.
But for processions—on my life— 
You couldn't want a better wife.
4 
A house? A hat? A dog? A gun?
  I've got the very things. I'll sell 'em, 
They are all a trifle old, but none
  Would know it if you didn't tell 'em, 
There—you can take them as they stand, 
Processionally, off my hand.
5 
The house fell in? The dog went mad? 
  The rifle bust and you were blinded?
You seem to think your bargains bad, 
  How singularly narrow-minded!
I should have mentioned my possessions 
Are kept entirely for processions.
6 
Why this appearance of disgust?
  This blow before? That kick behind? 
I am a reprobate? I trust
  I am as godly as my kind.
Truth, Honour, Faith, I keep 'em all—
For purposes processional.

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A Locked Way

'Open the Gate!
  The dawn is very near at hand.
My eyes are heavy, I have wandered late,
  And trod the white road from a distant land 
That stretches 'neath the stars. Open the Gate!'

'What good is it?
  I set the heavy bars up long ago. 
The lock is rusted; I have lost the key.
  How should I open to my overthrow?
O Youth's love, what have I to do with thee?'

'Open the Gate!
  The night is passing–thou mayest see it pass. 
Behold, the upland hills are tipped with fire!
  The dawn-winds blow across the upland grass. 
The cocks crow. Open thou, my heart's desire!'

'That will not I.
  This is no true daybreak my sad eyes see.
How shall I open? Broadens not one whit
  The white light that so often mockèd me. 
How shall I open to a lying cry?
  What good is it?'

'Open the Gate!
  The night is truly ended, O my dear! 
My feet are bleeding! I am sick to death!
  Open the Gate! God's own red sun is here! 
The shadows flee, and the land quickeneth.
  O Love, for Pity, open thou the Gate!'

Nay then - for truth
  I open. I have little love for thee,
And I am sorely changèd since our youth, 
  And there is little beauty left in me ...
For Pity have I opened ... but, in truth,
  I ... had ... not ... thought ... with Pity ... Love might be!'

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A Levée in the Plains

1 
Come here, ye lasses av swate Parnassis!  
  Kape cool me hid while me pen recalls 
That night av tormint whan all Lahore wint 
  To honour the Quane an' our great Sorr Charles.
2 
There was music brayin' an' punkahs swayin', 
  An' men dishplayin' their uniform;
An' the native ginthry they thronged the inthry; 
  An' oh, by Jabers! 'twas powerful warm!
3 
There was Colonels more there than I could score there, 
  In white an' khaki an' knots an' bows;
An' the bowld Civilians they came in millions, 
  Meltin' away under toight dress-clo'es.
4 
There was gowld in plastrons on epigastrons, 
  An' stand-up collars that lay down flat;
An' the Doctors splindid, wid swords attinded, 
  An' hearse-plumes wavin' above their hat.
5 
The whole Punjab there, in sum'shus garb there, 
  Paraded grandly the Aujence Hall;
An' the Shubadars, wid their midals and shtars, 
  Stud up to attintion forninst the wall.
6 
Thin spurs were scratchin' an' sword-belts catchin' 
  As they let the batch in at ten-fiftane,
An' we stud perspirin' wid zeal ontirin'
  To the greater glory av England's Quane.
7 
But oh! the dignity, the moild benignity, 
  Whin the Chief Coort judges tuk the flure; 
A-standin' sinthry in the private inthry,
  An' watchin' the rest av us march before.
8 
So some bowed nately, an' some too stately, 
  An' some went noddin' aisy an' free;
An' some went trippin', an' some went skippin', 
  But all went dhrippin' through the big Levee.
9 
Thin down the stairway we ran for airway, 
  An' tuk refreshments whan all was done; 
Wid scabbards clinkin' an' men a-drinkin', 
  An' the shtars a-winkin' to watch the fun.

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A Legend of Truth

Once on a time, the ancient legends tell,
Truth, rising from the bottom of her well,
Looked on the world, but, hearing how it lied,
Returned to her seclusion horrified.
There she abode, so conscious of her worth,
Not even Pilate's Question called her forth,
Nor Galileo, kneeling to deny
The Laws that hold our Planet 'neath the sky.
Meantime, her kindlier sister, whom men call
Fiction, did all her work and more than all,
With so much zeal, devotion, tact, and care,
That no one noticed Truth was otherwhere.

Then came a War when, bombed and gassed and mined,
Truth rose once more, perforce, to meet mankind,
And through the dust and glare and wreck of things,
Beheld a phantom on unbalanced wings,
Reeling and groping, dazed, dishevelled, dumb,
But semaphoring direr deeds to come.

Truth hailed and bade her stand; the quavering shade
Clung to her knees and babbled, "Sister, aid!
I am–I was–thy Deputy, and men
Besought me for my useful tongue or pen
To gloss their gentle deeds, and I complied,
And they, and thy demands, were satisfied.
But this–" she pointed o'er the blistered plain,
Where men as Gods and devils wrought amain–
"This is beyond me! Take thy work again." 

Tablets and pen transferred, she fled afar,
And Truth assumed the record of the War...
She saw, she heard, she read, she tried to tell
Facts beyond precedent and parallel–
Unfit to hint or breathe, much less to write,
But happening every minute, day and night.
She called for proof. It came. The dossiers grew.
She marked them, first, "Return. This can't be true."
Then, underneath the cold official word:
"This is not really half of what occurred."

She faced herself at last, the story runs,
And telegraphed her sister: "Come at once.
Facts out of hand. Unable overtake
Without your aid. Come back for Truth's own sake!
Co-equal rank and powers if you agree.
They need us both, but you far more than me!"

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A Legend of the Foreign Office

This is the reason why Rustum Beg,
Rajah of Kolazai,
Drinketh the "simpkin" and brandy peg,
Maketh the money to fly,
Vexeth a Government, tender and kind,
Also - but this is a detail - blind.
1 
Rustum Beg of Kolazai–slightly backward Native State–
Lusted for a C.S.I.–so began to sanitate.
Built a Gaol and Hospital–nearly built a City drain–
Till his faithful subjects all thought their ruler was insane.
2 
Strange departures made he then–yea, Departments stranger still:
Half a dozen Englishmen helped the Rajah with a will,
Talked of noble aims and high, hinted of a future fine
For the State of Kolazai, on a strictly Western line.
3 
Rajah Rustum held his peace; lowered octroi dues a half;
Organised a State Police; purified the Civil Staff;
Settled cess and tax afresh in a very liberal way;
Cut temptations of the flesh–also cut the Bukhshi's pay;
4 
Roused his Secretariat to a fine Mahratta fury,
By an Order hinting at supervision of dasturi;
Turned the State of Kolazai very nearly upside-down;
When the end of May was nigh waited his achievement's crown.
5 
Then the Birthday Honours came. Sad to state and sad to see,
Stood against the Rajah's name nothing more than C.I.E.!. . .
Things were lively for a week in the State of Kolazai,
Even now the people speak of that time regretfully.
6 
How he disendowed the Gaol–stopped at once the City drain;
Turned to beauty fair and frail–got his senses back again;
Doubled taxes, cesses, all; cleared away each new-built thana;
Turned the two-lakh Hospital into a superb Zenana;
7 
Heaped upon the Bukshi Sahib wealth and honours manifold;
Glad himself in Eastern garb–squeezed his people as of old.
Happy, happy Kolazai! Never more will Rustum Beg
Play to catch his Viceroy's eye. He prefers the "simpkin" peg.

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simpkin – Champagne.
C.S.I. – The Order of the Star of India.
Bukhshi – The Commander-in-Chief.
dasturi – Bribes.
C.I.E. – A Companionship of the Order of the Indian Empire.
thana – Police station.

A Legend of Devonshire

1
There were three daughters long ago, 
  In a lonely house that faced the sea;
They sent their father forth to plough
  The narrow meadow that skirts the sea.
2
The autumn fogs are drifting by,
  The old man's wits are dull and numb;
He has opened the barn where the young colts lie 
  Safe from the biting frosts to come.
3 
He has taken the plough-gear and harnessed three 
  Hot young bloods that no lash will bear;
The rain is falling—he cannot see
  If young or old be harnessed there.
4 
He is ploughing the meadow that skirts the sea— 
  Old hands a-quivering with the cold;
The furrows are running crookedly,
  And the share is clogged with the clinging mould.
5 
The crow and daw fly fast to eat
  Their food, while afar the sea-gulls scream; 
The rain has changed to a stinging sleet;
  He is ploughing as one who ploughs in a dream.
6 
They have swerved from the field; the shingles grate 
  Beneath their hooves and the jangling plough;
The day is dying, the hour is late:
  But the salt sea-foam is light to plough.

                          *         *         * 
7 
[ The old man smiles, by the handles twain, 
  The colts are speeding, the share runs fast;
I plough as tho' 'twere my youth again—
  We'll finish the field and rest at last.
8 
One furrow more, and the thick whip cracks, 
  Hot is their blood as the sea is cold;
He has eased the gear from off their backs,
  And stoops to loosen their feet from mould .
9 
He is ploughing again, and the colts go slowly, 
  The furrows are filled by the rising sea;
The salt has encrusted the iron wholly,
  And the old man's beard is wet with the sea.
10 
The tide is rising, the shore-spume flees,
  The colts are stamping twixt sea and land,
The gulls are wailing o'er the seas,
  And the forewheel drags in the drifting sand.
11 
The tide is rising, the furrows fill,
  The handles are wet with the flying foam, 
The colts are plunging, and over the hill
  They are waiting to welcome the old man home. ]

 
(Note: the last five stanzas above are from the USCC 
version. They were omitted when the poem was collected.)

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A Job Lot

‘The present Commander-in-Chief in India is a fine soldier,
who has earned the national gratitude by his public services,
and endeared himself to the Army by his untiring devotion
to its interests. But among the penalties of Sir Frederick
Roberts’ exalted position is the control of a vast patronage,
and this it is impossible to deny is not always so disposed
as to disarm unfriendly criticism, and to secure for his bestowals
that unfailing respect which is so desirable.’—Vide Pioneer yesterday.

‘She was bland, passionate and deeply religious, painted
in water-colours, was first cousin to Lady Jones, and
of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.’

They really were most merciful
  They praised his winning ways,
His little feet that merrily
  Trip on from baize to bays.
They glorified the new canteen,
  They called him "Tommy's Pride",
But O they said his patronage
  Was sometimes misapplied...

They passaged all about the face
  Right shoulder out and in,
They did their very best to save
  Hós Exóllóy's skin.
They sandwiched smack and blandishment
  Like best Italian ice:
But still they drew attention to
  That too notorious vice.

They hemmed and hawed, they sidled off
  They sidled up again.
One hand upon the laurelled head,
  The other on the cane.
And while he heard with sweet content
  The praise that was his due,
On legs that never fled the fray
  Whish fell the big bamboo.

And through the sighing deodars
  A little whisper stole.
"Why, for the quadrilateral man
  Select the roundest hole;
And wherefore thrust the polygon
  Into the crescent's curve,
Since other folk have other eyes,
  And other eyes observe?

Perpend, retreat, refrain, reform
  O man of Kandahar,
For even pocket-Wellingtons
  May carry things too far.
We cannot judge the influence,
  The face alone we see.
And if the Pioneer is wrath,
  Oh Lord what must you be.

 (Chorus)
We've heard it before, but we'll drink once more,
  While the Army sniffs and sobs;
For Bobs its pride, who has lately died,
  And is now succeeded by Jobs.

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A General Summary

We are very slightly changed
From the semi-apes who ranged
  India's Prehistoric clay;
He that drew the longest bow
Ran his brother down, you know,
  As we run men down to-day. 

"Dowb," the first of all his race,
Met the Mammoth face to face
  On the lake or in the cave:
Stole the steadiest canoe,
Ate the quarry others slew,
  Died - and took the finest grave. 

When they scratched the reindeer-bone,
Some one made the sketch his own,
  Filched it from the artist - then,
Even in those early days,
Won a simple Viceroy's praise
  Through the toil of other men.
Ere they hewed the Sphinx's visage
Favouritism governed kissage,
  Even as it does in this age. 

Who shall doubt "the secret hid
Under Cheops' pyramid"
Was that the contractor did 
  Cheops out of several millions?
Or that Joseph's sudden rise
To Comptroller of Supplies
Was a fraud of monstrous size
  On King Pharaoh's swart Civilians? 

Thus, the artless songs I sing
Do not deal with anything
  New or never said before.
As it was in the beginning
Is to-day official sinning,
  And shall be for evermore!

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A Dominant Power

A strong man pacing over burning sands,
Having no armour, only hard, bare, hands
To hold with and to slay with—Woe betide 
If thou shalt meet him in the city! Woe!
If in the fields, or where the salt waves are. 
For there be none so strong to lay him low,
And he is swifter than all souls that hide 
From him in deserts barren and afar.— 
They find no respite—Coming softly shod,
He smites them down, and flees and leaves them there
Unpitied of the people, while with eyes
Hand shaded, turn they on the country bare,
Tracing with wonder and a sad surprise
The golden cloud that hides a fleeting god.

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A Departure

Since first the White Horse Banner blew free,
       By Hengist's horde unfurled,
Nothing has changed on land or sea
       Of the things that steer the world.
(As it was when the long-ships scudded through the gale
       So it is where the Liners go.)
Time and Tide, they are both in a tale— 
       "Woe to the weaker—woe!"

No charm can bridle the hard-mouthed wind
       Or smooth the fretting swell.
No gift can alter the grey Sea's mind,
       But she serves the strong man well.
(As it is when her uttermost deeps are stirred
       So it is where the quicksands show,)
All the waters have but one word—
       "Woe to the weaker—woe!"

The feast is ended, the tales are told,
       The dawn is overdue,
And we meet on the quay in the whistling cold
       Where the galley waits her crew.
Out with the torches, they have flared too long,
       And bid the harpers go.
Wind and warfare have but one song—
       "Woe to the weaker—woe!"

Hail to the great oars gathering way,
       As the beach begins to slide!
Hail to the war-shields' click and play
       As they lift along our side!
Hail to the first wave over the bow—
       Slow for the sea-stroke! Slow!—
All the benches are grunting now:—
       "Woe to the weaker—woe!"

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