My father's father saw it not,
And I, belike, shall never come
To look on that so-holy spot -
That very Rome -
Crowned by all Time, all Art, all Might,
The equal work of Gods and Man,
City beneath whose oldest height -
The Race began!
Soon to send forth again a brood,
Unshakable, we pray, that clings
To Rome's thrice-hammered hardihood -
In arduous things.
Strong heart with triple armour bound,
Beat strongly, for thy life-blood runs,
Age after Age, the Empire round -
In us thy Sons
Who, distant from the Seven Hills,
Loving and serving much, require
Thee - thee to guard 'gainst home-born ills
The Imperial Fire!
1
These are our regulations—
There’s just one law for the Scout,
And the first and the last,
And the present and the past,
And the future and the perfect is “Look out!”
I, thou and he, look out!
We, ye and they, look out!
Though you didn’t or you wouldn’t
Or you hadn’t or you couldn’t;
You jolly well must look out!
2
Look out, when you start for the day
That your kit is packed to your mind;
There is no use going away
With half of it left behind.
Look out that your laces are tight,
And your boots are easy and stout,
Or you’ll end with a blister at night.
(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
3
Look out for the birds of the air,
Look out for the beasts of the field—
They’ll tell you how and where
The other side’s concealed.
When the blackbird bolts from the copse,
Or the cattle are staring about,
The wise commander stops
And (Chorus) All Patrols look out!
4
Look out when your front is clear,
And you feel you are bound to win.
Look out for your flank and your rear—
That’s where surprises begin.
For the rustle that isn’t a rat,
For the splash that isn’t a trout,
For the boulder that may be a hat
(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
5
For the innocent knee-high grass,
For the ditch that never tells,
Look out! Look out ere you pass—
And look out for everything else!
A sign mis-read as you run
May turn retreat to a rout—
For all things under the sun
(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
6
Look out when your temper goes
At the end of a losing game;
When your boots are too tight for your toes;
And you answer and argue and blame.
It’s the hardest part of the Law,
But it has to be learnt by the Scout—
For whining and shirking and “jaw”
(Chorus) All Patrols look out!
The reader must understand that
the rifle range of the 1st Punjab
Volunteers is hard by the Lawrence
Hall Gardens, and that people,
walking or driving in the Gardens
or along the Mall, are likely to find
a bullet inside them at any moment.
[C. & M. Gazette, 28 January 1884.
Signed Blank Cartridge]
1
The Stranger and the Resident
Were strolling down the Mall;
The former jumped at times to see
The merry bullets fall,
'If this goes on for long,' he said,
'Expect a funeral.'
2
'If twenty men, with twenty guns,
Blaze at the Bull, his eye,
Do you suppose they hit it once?—
Do you suppose they try?'
'I doubt it,' said the Resident,
'They fire rather high.'
3
'Oh seek the culvert's shade, my friend,'
The Stranger then besought,
'For death may be the pleasant end
Of this peculiar sport'—
The Resident said nothing but
'They really didn't ought.'
4
'A coat of mail', the Stranger said,
'Is what we chiefly need,
A half inch steel revetment plate
Would be a boon indeed,
I trust I'm not obtrusive, but
My head begins to bleed.'
5
Then other bullets whistled up,
By ones and twos and threes
Came frisking through the aloe hedge,
Or hurried through the trees,
Which wasn't odd because, you know,
We know the P.R.V.s.
6
'Oh Stranger,' said the Resident,
'There goes the mid-day gun,
Shall we be trotting home again,
The squad have almost done?
You mustn't mind their play because'—
But answer came there none,
Which wasn't odd, considering
The risks that man had run.
Behold, O Fortune-favoured one
To whom this dainty book may fall,
Pachmarri, Muttra, Brindabun
Shall rise before you at your call—
Benares' ghat, the Agra hall,
And verdant slopes of Ranikhet,
Are yours to gaze upon in all
The pomp of full-plate cabinet.
Mussoorie woods and boulders dun,
Dead homes of Kings, and streams that crawl
League-broad beneath a burning sun,
And green, bamboo-embattled wall—
A silver tarn, a floating yawl,
Squat shrine and Muslim minaret,
Are yours, at price exceeding small
In pomp of full-plate cabinet.
And have you ne'er let Fancy run
Athwart the East we hold in thrall;
And have you ne'er with rod or gun
Left dusty Lines or dreary Mall?
Then turn the page where torrents brawl
And Nature's sumptuous throne is set
'Twixt giant rock and leafage tall
In pomp of full-plate cabinet.
L'ENVOI
Prince or Princess, now you have won
This book with gorgeous views beset,
Procure a camera and run
Yourself to full-plate cabinet.
One moment bid the horses wait,
Since tiffin is not laid till three,
Below the upward path and straight
You climbed a year ago with me.
Love came upon us suddenly
And loosed—an idle hour to kill—
A headless, armless armory
That smote us both on Jakko Hill.
Ah Heaven! we would wait and wait
Through Time and to Eternity!
Ah Heaven! we could conquer Fate
With more than Godlike constancy
I cut the date upon a tree—
Here stand the clumsy figures still:
“10-7-85, A.D.”
Damp with the mist of Jakko Hill.
What came of high resolve and great,
And until Death fidelity!
Whose horse is waiting at your gate?
Whose ’rickshaw-wheels ride over me?
No Saint’s, I swear; and—let me see
To-night what names your programme fill—
We drift asunder merrily,
As drifts the mist on Jakko Hill.
L’ENVOI.
Princess, behold our ancient state
Has clean departed; and we see
’Twas Idleness we took for Fate
That bound light bonds on you and me.
Amen! Here ends the comedy
Where it began in all good will;
Since Love and Leave together flee
As driven mist on Jakko Hill!
I wander East, I wander West
I wander where the ferries be—
I wander, like a man possest
From Zero to Infinity—
From Harlem to the moaning Sea
I tramp the city o'er and o'er—
In hopeless search of Indian tea,
Kulu, Assam, or Palampore.
Joy turns to sorrow in my breast,
I lunch at noon with Misery,
Because of woe, untold, unguessed,
That parts me from Humanity.
What share have I in revelry,
Who clamour at each grocer's door—
'For Pity's sake, some Indian tea
Kulu, Assam, or Palampore!'
They said that 'mild Oo Long was best
Or Congou grown in far Tamsui—
They tempted me with many a chest
Packed by the gentle Japanee.
Yet one (his name was Cassidy
His venerable head was hoar)
Cried:— 'Sir I've got some Indian tea,
Kulu, Assam, or Palampore!'
L'ENVOI
Princess, enjoy with girlhood's zest
When strikes the hour of half past three,
The fragrant cup that with your guest
You sip in Pennsylvaniee.
This day to other lands I flee,
Yet, ere the steamer takes me o'er
Remember, by that Indian tea,
Myself, as well as Palampore.
1
If down here I chance to die,
Solemnly I beg you take
All that is left of “I”
To the Hills for old sake’s sake,
Pack me very thoroughly
In the ice that used to slake
Pegs I drank when I was dry—
This observe for old sake’s sake.
2
To the railway station hie,
There a single ticket take
For Umballa—goods-train—I
Shall not mind delay or shake.
I shall rest contentedly
Spite of clamor coolies make;
Thus in state and dignity
Send me up for old sake’s sake.
3
Next the sleepy Babu wake,
Book a Kalka van “for four.”
Few, I think, will care to make
Journeys with me any more
As they used to do of yore.
I shall need a "special brake"—
Thing I never took before—
Get me one for old sake’s sake.
4
After that—arrangements make.
No hotel will take me in,
And a bullock’s back would break
’Neath the teak and leaden skin.
Tonga ropes are frail and thin,
Or, did I a back-seat take,
In a tonga I might spin,—
Do your best for old sake’s sake.
5
After that — your work is done.
Recollect a Padre must
Mourn the dear departed one—
Throw the ashes and the dust.
Don’t go down at once. I trust
You will find excuse to “snake
Three days’ casual on the bust,”—
Get your fun for old sake’s sake.
6
I could never stand the Plains.
Think of blazing June and May,
Think of those September rains
Yearly till the Judgment Day!
I should never rest in peace,
I should sweat and lie awake.
Rail me then, on my decease,
To the Hills for old sake’s sake!
A wanderer from East to West,
From Mandalay to Matheran,
By itch of loaferdom possest,
I scour the plains of Hindustan.
Dismissed the fragrant, gariwân, (1)
I clamour at each hostelry:
What, ho! within there, be imán! (2) Khodawund, siruf murghi hai! (3)
The days repeat the sorry jest -
The dusty drive, the dreary barn.
"All things await the Sahib's behest,
Borne through his slave Muhammed Jan".
And after? Hear the wild tufan, (4)
Among the cockerels as they fly!
What comes of that false feigned élan
Khodawund, siruf murghi hai!
Though in ten thousand fashions messed
They bear the Janwar ki nishan, (5)
The bold black legs, the bony crest,
The flesh more tough than sailors' yarn.
Oh, land of uttr and of pan,
For this poor corpse thy children cry,
Loud as the mullah shouts azán, (6) Khodawund, siruf murghi hai!
L'ENVOI
Prince! (Here the wearied bard will rest
From long "a" rhymes.) If Famine fan
The flames of Fury in your breast,
And grievously you smite your man,
For his one answer, this I can
Add to your comfort: An he die,
You shall be told by all his clan:
Khodawund, siruf murghia hai! (7)
(1) Driver
(2) Man without faith
(3) 'Heaven-born, there is only fowl.'
(4) Uproar
(5) Mark of the Beast
(6) The call to prayer
(7) 'Heaven-born, he is only dead.
1
How shall he sing of Christmas fun,
Or Christmas holiday,
A youth beneath an Eastern sun,
Six thousand miles away?
2
No holidays are his to take,
No theatres to see;
His Christmas songs the Presses make
That drive the C.M.G.
3
Beneath the palms, the dusty palms,
That shade his office roof,
He takes the telephone's alarms,
And wades through piles of 'proof'.
4
Along the course, the dusty course,
(Fresh from his morning tub)
He steers the 'bucking waler' horse
Or hunts the jackal cub.
5
From nine to five his scissors gleam
Mid fifty-seven papers—
He tries by 'piling on the steam'
To drive away the 'vapours'
6
Yet—spite of office din and noise
Intrusive thoughts will come
And life, perhaps, has higher joys
Than scissors, proofs or gum.
7
Unhitched from paper leading strings
A vagrant thought will rove,
To where the Brompton smoke fog clings
O'er 'Twenty-Five, The Grove'.
8
It spoils the taste of his cheroots,
With telegraphic quickness
As, through his weary head, there shoots
A pang of—well, homesickness!
9
He wonders if you'll understand
How much this child can miss you;
And what he'd give to take your hand,—
And what he'd give to kiss you.
10
He wonders if, in years to come,
He'll save enough to go,
And take a first class ticket home,
Aboard the P and O.
11
He dreams of half a hundred things
Above the table's baize;
Of redhot months, with leaden wings,
And fever stricken days.
12
Of weary nights when, half the year,
The punkah creaked and swung
And, shrilling in his sleepless ear,
The foul mosquito sung.
13
But now the year begins to die
And Christmas is at hand—
What gift to greet you worthily
Can reach you from his hand?
14
He has no Christmas card to send—
No scented billet doux,
And so he forwards, dearest friend,
His heart's best love to you.
15
And if, on old ball programmes writ,
The speech looks poor and mean,
Believe him—half the truth of it
Lies deeper than is seen
16
He asks—'In midst of Christmas fun
And all your new year joy
Think of him 'neath an Eastern sun
Your always loving
Boy.'
Rome never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall,
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on—that is all,
And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
With only our tongues for our swords.
We are the Little Folk—we!
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you’ll see
How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!
Mistletoe killing an oak—
Rats gnawing cables in two—
Moths making holes in a cloak—
How they must love what they do!
Yes—and we Little Folk too,
We are busy as they—
Working our works out of view—
Watch, and you’ll see it some day!
No indeed! We are not strong,
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we’ll guide them along,
To smash and destroy you in War!
We shall be slaves just the same?
Yes, we have always been slaves,
But you—you will die of the shame,
And then we shall dance on your graves!
We are the Little Folk—we!
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you’ll see
How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!
