Archives: Poems

1 
Get a nervous lady's pony—get the oldest you can find—
Strap an ulster on the pommel—tie a bedding-roll behind;
To a Hanoverian Pelham hitch a standing martingale—
Then hang upon his jaws, my son, and listen to my tale.
2 
Many ages since, my infant, we were green as Dehra grass,
Though we lacked the shining silver we were millionaires in brass;
And we gathered at Umballa when the 'seventies' were low,
And we rode like Helen Blazes in the days of long ago.
3 
Those were times when life went swiftly both for rider and for horse—
When we sampled with our clavicles the texture of the course;
For the Stewards built the fences up to five-foot six or so,
And we 'pecked' about those ramparts in the days of long ago.
4 
Answer, man of many fractures, William Beresford—Give ear.
'Bertie'; sweltering in Calcutta, Johnston, Humphreys, Percy Vere,
Did you fill these yawning ditches? Did you lay the railings low,
On the old Umballa race-course in the days of long ago?
5 
Yea the ditches filled aforetime; but they filled with wrathful men!
Yea the railings were demolished by a bolter now and then!
More than once the 'well-bushed fences' sloped before the staggering blow
Of a puller, gazing skyward, in the days of long ago.
6 
There was litter—lots of litter—spread about 'the landing side'
When a blown and basted leader checked his last half-hearted stride,
And the ruck came up behind him—and they made a holy show
On the old Umballa race-course in the days of long ago.
7 
Many ages since, my infant, we were green as Dehra grass;
We were guileless as the morning—but we knew what riding was.
But a newer generation seem to make the pace more slow
Than we made it at Umballa in the days of long ago.
8 
To an iron-bound ring-saddle nail a safety stirrup; then
Stitch a four-foot sofa-cushion just across your abdomen.
With a length of double stove-pipe guard your neck in case it breaks,
And—enter at Umballa, for the Military Stakes!

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1
There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
2
They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!
3
They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."
4
They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.
5
They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.
6
The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.
7
"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."
8
The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.
9
They sent a cheque to the felon that sprang from an Irish bog;
They healed the spavined cab-horse; they housed the homeless dog;
And they sent (you may call me a liar), when felon and beast were paid,
A cheque, for enough to live on, to the last of the Light Brigade.
10
O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made–"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!


(The penultimate verse, which we have italicised,
was included in the first publication in the St James' Gazette, 
but was omitted from the collected versions.)

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What is the moral? Who rides may read.
  When the night is thick and the tracks are blind,
A friend at a pinch is a friend indeed;
  But a fool to wait for the laggard behind
Down to Gehenna, or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest who travels alone.

White hands cling to the tightened rein,
  Slipping the spur from the booted heel,
Tenderest voices cry, "Turn again,"
  Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel,
High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone–
He travels the fastest who travels alone.

One may fall, but he falls by himself–
  Falls by himself, with himself to blame;
One may attain, and to him is the pelf–
  Loot of the city in Gold or Fame
Plunder of earth shall be all his own
Who travels the fastest, and travels alone.

Wherefore the more ye be holpen and stayed, 
  Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil,
Sing the heretical song I have made–
  His be the labour, and yours be the spoil.
Win by his aid, and the aid disown–
He travels the fastest who travels alone.

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Eyes of grey—a sodden quay,
Driving rain and falling tears,
As the steamer wears to sea
In a parting storm of cheers.
       Sing, for Faith and Hope are high—
       None so true as you and I—
       Sing the Lovers’ Litany:—
       “Love like ours can never die!”

Eyes of black—a throbbing keel,
Milky foam to left and right;
Whispered converse near the wheel
In the brilliant tropic night.
       Cross that rules the Southern Sky!
       Stars that sweep and wheel and fly,
       Hear the Lovers’ Litany:—
       “Love like ours can never die!”

Eyes of brown—a dusty plain
Split and parched with heat of June,
Flying hoof and tightened rein,
Hearts that beat the old, old tune.
       Side by side the horses fly,
       Frame we now the old reply
       Of the Lovers’ Litany:—
       “Love like ours can never die!”

Eyes of blue—the Simla Hills
Silvered with the moonlight hoar;
Pleading of the waltz that thrills,
Dies and echoes round Benmore.
       “Mabel,” “Officers,” “Good-bye,”
       Glamour, wine, and witchery—
       On my soul’s sincerity,
       “Love like ours can never die!”

Maidens of your charity,
Pity my most luckless state.
Four times Cupid’s debtor I—
Bankrupt in quadruplicate.
       Yet, despite this evil case,
       And a maiden showed me grace,
       Four-and-forty times would I
       Sing the Lovers’ Litany:—
       “Love like ours can never die!”

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Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,
An', taught by time, I tak' it so - exceptin' always Steam.
From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God -
Predestination in the stride o' yon connectin'-rod.
John Calvin might ha' forged the same - enorrmous, certain, slow -
Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame - my "Institutio."
I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please;
I'll stand the middle watch up here - alone wi' God an' these
My engines, after ninety days o' race an' rack an' strain
Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin' home again.
Slam-bang too much - they knock a wee - the crosshead-gibs are loose;
But thirty thousand mile o' sea has gied them fair excuse....
Fine, clear an' dark - a full-draught breeze, wi' Ushant out o' sight,
An' Ferguson relievin' Hay. Old girl, ye'll walk to-night!
His wife's at Plymouth.... Seventy-One-Two-Three since he began -
Three turns for Mistress Ferguson.... an' who's to blame the man?
There's none at any port for me, by drivin' fast or slow,
Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago.
(The year the 'Sarah Sands' was burned. Oh roads we used to tread,
Fra' Maryhill to Pollokshaws - fra' Govan to Parkhead!)
Not but they're ceevil on the Board. Ye'll hear Sir Kenneth say:
"Good morrn, McAndrew! Back again? An' how's your bilge to-day?"
Miscallin' technicalities but handin' me my chair
To drink Madeira wi' three Earls - the auld Fleet Engineer,
That started as a boiler-whelp - when steam and he were low.
I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi' tow.
Ten pound was all the pressure then - Eh! Eh! - a man wad drive;
An' here, our workin' gauges give one hunder' fifty-five!
We're creepin' on wi' each new rig - less weight an' larger power:
There'll be the loco-boiler next an' thirty mile an hour!
Thirty an' more. What I ha' seen since ocean-steam began
Leaves me no doot for the machine: but what about the man?
The man that counts, wi' all his runs, one million mile o' sea:
Four time the span from earth to moon.... How far, O Lord, from Thee?
That wast beside him night an' day. Ye mind my first typhoon?
It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi' the saloon.
Three feet were on the stokehold floor - just slappin' to an' fro -
An' cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show.
Marks! I ha' marks o' more than burns - deep in my soul an' black,
An' times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back.
The sins o' four and forty years, all up an' down the seas,
Clack an' repeat like valves half-fed.... Forgie's our trespasses.
Nights when I'd come on deck to mark, wi' envy in my gaze,
The couples kittlin' in the dark between the funnel stays;
Years when I raked the ports wi' pride to fill my cup o' wrong-
Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong!
Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode -
Jane Harrigan's an' Number Nine, The Reddick an' Grant Road!
An' waur than all - my crownin' sin - rank blasphemy an' wild.
I was not four and twenty then - Ye wadna judge a child?
I'd seen the Tropics first that run - new fruit, new smells, new air -
How could I tell-blind-fou wi' sun-the Deil was lurkin' there?
By day like playhouse-scenes the shore slid past our sleepy eyes;
By night those soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies,
In port (we used no cargo-steam) I'd daunder down the streets -
An ijjit grinnin' in a dream - for shells an' parrakeets,
An' walkin'-sticks o' carved Bamboo an' blowfish stuffed an' dried -
Fillin' my bunk wi' rubbishry the Chief put overside.
Till, off Sumbawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a landbreeze ca'
Milk-warm wi' breath o' spice an' bloom: "McAndrews, come awa'!"
Firm, clear an' low - no haste, no hate - the ghostly whisper went,
Just statin' eevidential facts beyon' all argument:
"Your mither's God's a graspin' deil, the shadow o' yoursel',
"Got out o' books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an' Hell.
"They mak' him in the Broomielaw, o' Glasgie cold an' dirt,
"A jealous, pridefu' fetich, lad, that's only strong to hurt,
"Ye'll not go back to Him again an' kiss His red-hot rod,
"But come wi' Us" (Now, who were 'They'?) "an' know the Leevin' God,
"That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest,
"But swells the ripenin' cocoanuts an' ripes the woman's breast."
An' there it stopped: cut off: no more; that quiet, certain voice -
For me, six months o' twenty-four, to leave or take at choice.
'Twas on me like a thunderclap - it racked me through an' through-
Temptation past the show o' speech, unnamable an' new -
The Sin against the Holy Ghost? . . . An - under all, our screw.

That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin' swell,
Thou knowest all my heart an' mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell -
Third on the 'Mary Gloster' then, and first that night in Hell!
Yet was Thy hand beneath my head: about my feet Thy care-
Fra' Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o' despair,
But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer...
We dared na run that sea by night but lay an' held our fire,
An' I was drowzin' on the hatch - sick-sick wi' doubt an' tire:
"Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin' o' desire!
Ye mind that word? Clear as our gongs-again, an' once again,
When rippin' down through coral-trash ran out our moorin' chain;
An' by Thy Grace I had the Light to see my duty plain.
Light on the engine-room - no more - bright as our carbons burn.
I've lost it since a thousand times, but never past return.

Obsairve! Per annum we'll have here two thousand souls aboard -
Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord,
But-average fifteen hunder' souls safe-borne fra port to port-
I am o' service to my kind. Ye wadna' blame the thought?
Maybe they steam from grace to wrath - to sin by folly led -
It isna mine to judge their path - their lives are on my head.
Mine at the last - when all is done it all comes back to me,
The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon the sea.
We'll tak' one stretch - three weeks an' odd by any road ye steer -
Fra' Cape Town east to Wellington - ye need an engineer.
Fail there - ye've time to weld your shaft - ay, eat it, ere ye're spoke,
Or make Kerguelen under sail - three jiggers burned wi' smoke!
An' home again, the Rio run: it's no child's play to go
Steamin' to bell for fourteen days o' snow an' floe an' blow -
The bergs like kelpies overside that girn an' turn an' shift
Whaur, grindin' like the Mills o' God, goes by the big South drift.
(Hail, snow an' ice that praise the Lord: I've met them at their work,
An' wished we had anither route or they anither kirk.)
Yon's strain, hard strain, o' head an' hand, for though Thy Power brings
All skill to naught, Ye'll understand a man must think o' things.
Then, at the last, we'll get to port an' hoist their baggage clear -
The passengers, wi' gloves an' canes - an' this is what I'll hear:
"Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage. The tender's comin' now."
While I go testin' follower-bolts an' watch the skipper bow.
They've words for everyone but me - shake hands wi' half the crew,
Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew.
An' yet I like the wark for all we've dam' few pickin's here -
No pension, an' the most we earn's four hunder' pound a year.
Better myself abroad? Maybe. I'd sooner starve than sail
Wi' such as call a snifter-rod ross .... French for nightingale.
Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I can not afford
To lie like stewards wi' patty-pans. I'm older than the Board.
A bonus on the coal I save? Ou ay, the Scots are close,
But when I grudge the strength Ye gave I'll grudge their food to those.
(There's bricks that I might recommend - an' clink the fire-bars cruel.
No! Welsh-Wangarti at the worst - an' damn all patent fuel!)
Inventions? Ye must stay in port to mak' a patent pay.
My Deeferential Valve-Gear taught me how that business lay,
I blame no chaps wi' clearer head for aught they make or sell.
I found that I could not invent an' look to these - as well.
So, wrestled wi' Apollyon - Nah! - fretted like a bairn -
But burned the workin'-plans last run wi' all I hoped to earn.
Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an' what that meant to me -
E'en tak' it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee....
Below there! Oiler! What's your wark? Ye find her runnin' hard?
Ye needn't swill the cap wi' oil - this isn't the Cunard.
Ye thought? Ye are not paid to think. Go, sweat that off again!
Tck! Tck! It's deeficult to sweer nor tak' The Name in vain!
Men, ay an' women, call me stern. Wi' these to oversee
Ye'll note I've little time to burn on social repartee.
The bairns see what their elders miss; they'll hunt me to an' fro,
Till for the sake of - well, a kiss - I tak' 'em down below.
That minds me of our Viscount loon - Sir Kenneth's kin - the chap
Wi' russia leather tennis-shoon an' spar-decked yachtin'-cap.
I showed him round last week, o'er all - an' at the last says he:
"Mister McAndrew, don't you think steam spoils romance at sea?"
Damned ijjit! I'd been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws,
Manholin', on my back - the cranks three inches off my nose.
Romance! Those first-class passengers they like it very well,
Printed an' bound in little books; but why don't poets tell?
I'm sick of all their quirks an' turns - the loves an' doves they dream -
Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o' Steam!
To match wi' Scotia's noblest speech yon orchestra sublime
Whaurto - uplifted like the Just - the tail-rods mark the time.
The Crank-throws give the double-bass; the feed-pump sobs an' heaves:
An' now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves.
Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides,
Till - hear that note? - the rod's return whings glimmerin' through the guides.
They're all awa! True beat, full power, the clangin' chorus goes
Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin' dynamoes.
Interdependence absolute, foreseen, ordained, decreed,
To work, Ye'll note, at any tilt an' every rate o' speed.
Fra skylight-lift to furnace-bars, backed, bolted, braced an' stayed,
An' singin' like the Mornin' Stars for joy that they are made;
While, out o' touch o' vanity, the sweatin' thrust-block says:
"Not unto us the praise, or man - not unto us the praise!"
Now, a' together, hear them lift their lesson - theirs an' mine:
"Law, Order, Duty an' Restraint, Obedience, Discipline!"
Mill, forge an' try-pit taught them that when roarin' they arose,
An' whiles I wonder if a soul was gied them wi' the blows.
Oh for a man to weld it then, in one trip-hammer strain,
Till even first-class passengers could tell the meanin' plain!
But no one cares except mysel' that serve an' understand
My seven thousand horse-power here. Eh, Lord! They're grand - they're grand!
Uplift am I? When first in store the new-made beasties stood,
Were Ye cast down that breathed the Word declarin' all things good?
Not so! O' that warld-liftin' joy no after-fall could vex,
Ye've left a glimmer still to cheer the Man - the Arrtifex!
That holds, in spite o' knock and scale, o' friction, waste an' slip,
An' by that light - now, mark my word - we'll build the Perfect Ship.
I'll never last to judge her lines or take her curve - not I.
But I ha' lived an' I ha' worked. All thanks to Thee, Most High!
An' I ha' done what I ha' done - judge Thou if ill or well -
Always Thy Grace preventin' me.... Losh! Yon's the "Stand by" bell.
Pilot so soon? His flare it is. The mornin'-watch is set.
Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin', I'm no Pelagian yet.
Now I'll tak' on.... 'Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought
What your good leddy costs in coal? ...I'll burn em down to port.

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                     part I

 1  
There runs a road by Merrow Down -
A grassy track today it is -
An hour out of Guildford Town,
Above the river Wey it is.
2  
Here, when they heard the horse-bells ring
The ancient Britons dressed and rode,
To watch the dark Phoenicians bring
Their goods along the Western Road.
3  
Yes, here, or hereabouts, they met
To hold their racial talks and such -
To barter beads for Whitby jet,
And tin for gay shell torques and such.
4  
But long and long before that time
(When bison used to roam on it)
Did Taffy and her Daddy climb
That Down, and had their home on it.
5  
Then beavers built in Broadstonebrook
And made a swamp where Bramley stands;
And bears from Shere would come and look
For Taffimai where Shamley stands.
6  
The Wey, that Taffy called Wagai,
Was more than six times bigger then;
And all the tribe of Tegumai
They cut a noble figure then!

                part II

1  
Of all the Tribe of Tegumai
Who cut that figure, none remain, -
On Merrow Down the cuckoos cry -
The silence and the sun remain.
2  
But as the faithful years return
And hearts unwounded sing again,
Comes Taffy dancing through the fern
To lead the Surrey spring again.
3  
Her brows are bound with bracken-fronds,
And golden elf-locks fly above;
Here eyes are bright as diamonds
And bluer than the sky above.
4  
In mocassins and deer-skin cloak,
Unfearing, free, and fair she flits,
And lights her little damp-wood smoke
To show her Daddy where she flits.
5  
For far - oh, very far behind,
So far she cannot call to him,
Comes Tegumai alone to find
The daughter that was all to him!

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Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire?
It isn't standin' up to charge nor lyin' down to fire;
But it's everlastin' waitin' on an everlastin' road
For the commissariat camel an' 'is commissariat load.
 O the oont*, O the oont, O the commissariat oont!
  With 'is silly neck a-bobbin' like a basket full o' snakes;
 We packs 'im like an idol, an' you ought to 'ear 'im grunt,
  An' when we gets 'im loaded up 'is blessed girth-rope breaks.

Wot makes the rear-guard swear so 'ard when night is drorin' in,
An' every native follower is shiverin' for 'is skin?
It ain't the chanst o' being rushed by Paythans from the 'ills,
It's the commissariat camel puttin' on 'is bloomin' frills!
 O the oont, O the oont, O the hairy scary oont!
  A-trippin' over tent-ropes when we've got the night alarm!
 We socks 'im with a stretcher-pole an' 'eads 'im off in front,
  An' when we've saved 'is bloomin' life 'e chaws our bloomin' arm.

The 'orse 'e knows above a bit, the bullock's but a fool,
The elephant's a gentleman, the battery-mule's a mule;
But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said an' done,
'E's a devil an' a ostrich an' a orphan-child in one.
 O the oont, O the oont, O the Gawd-forsaken oont!
  The lumpy-'umpy 'ummin'-bird a-singin' where 'e lies,
 'E's blocked the whole division from the rear-guard to the front,
  An' when we get him up again–the beggar goes an' dies!

'E'll gall an' chafe an' lame an' fight–'e smells most awful vile;
'E'll lose 'isself for ever if you let 'im stray a mile;
'E's game to graze the 'ole day long an' 'owl the 'ole night through,
An' when 'e comes to greasy ground 'e splits 'isself in two.
 O the oont, O the oont, O the floppin', droppin' oont!
  When 'is long legs give from under an' 'is meltin' eye is dim,
 The tribes is up be'ind us, and the tribes is out in front–
  It ain't no jam for Tommy, but it's kites an' crows for 'im.

So when the cruel march is done, an' when the roads is blind,
An' when we sees the camp in front an' 'ears the shots be'ind,
Ho! then we strips 'is saddle off, and all 'is woes is past:
'E thinks on us that used 'im so, and gets revenge at last.
 O the oont, O the oont, O the floatin', bloatin' oont!
  The late lamented camel in the water-cut 'e lies;
 We keeps a mile be'ind 'im an' we keeps a mile in front,
  But 'e gets into the drinkin'-casks, and then o' course we dies.

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1 
                   That's where he fell;
                   Mark the spot well.
See the smashed saddle and lower his blood.
                   Count then, my friends,
                   On your ten finger ends,
People you know who've gone 'over the Khud'.
2
                   Pretty Blue Eyes
                   Ask with surprise—
'How could he fall from a path broad as this?'
                   What would she do
                   If we said—'You
Dance all too near to the Khud as it is'?
3
                   Given a hack
                   Ready to back,
Crash through the railings and down with a thud;
                   You'll find it so easy
                   When roadways are greasy,
To slip from the level and 'over the Khud'.
4
                   Far, far below
                   Men we 'don't know',
Stare at us hopelessly out of the mud.
                   We're on the Mall,
                   Safe side the Wall;
They were the fools to go 'over the Khud'.
5
                   People look down,
                   'Cut' them or frown,
Lighthearted picnickers merrily stone 'em;
                   And strong in the sense,
                   Of propriety's fence,
Mount on the very same hack that has thrown 'em.
6
                   Horses are strong,
                   Apt to go wrong,
We are reluctant the curb to apply.
                   Only a stumble
                   And we too may tumble
Down, down the cliffs where those poor devils lie.
7
                   Look at the stones
                   White with their bones,
Look at the rocks that are dark with their blood.
                   Thank the Lord all
                   You're safe on the Mall
So far, and pity poor souls 'down the Khud'.

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