Back Aa

Five Nations Vol II

THE SERVICE EDITION OF THE WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING <h1 class="p8">THE FIVE NATIONS VOL. II </h1> <div id="tp" class="newpage p8 center"> <div class="bdrthin"><div class="bdrthick"><div class="bdrthin"> THE FIVE NATIONS BY RUDYARD KIPLING IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. II <div class="l2"> <div class="figcenter"> <ANTIMG src="images/i_000.jpg" width-obs="240" height-obs="326" alt="" /></div> </div> METHUEN AND CO., LTD. 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. </div> </div></div> </div> <div class="newpage p8"> <table summary="Publication history"> <tr> <td class="tdl">First Published</td> <td class="tdr">September 1903</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Second Edition</td> <td class="tdr">1903</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Third Edition</td> <td class="tdr">1907</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Fourth Edition</td> <td class="tdr">1908</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Fifth and Sixth Editions</td> <td class="tdr">1909</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Seventh Edition</td> <td class="tdr">1910</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Eighth Edition</td> <td class="tdr">1911</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Ninth Edition</td> <td class="tdr">1912</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Tenth, Eleventh, Twelfth, and Thirteenth Editions</td> <td class="tdr">1913</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Fourteenth Edition</td> <td class="tdr">1914</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Fifteenth Edition (2 vols.)</td> <td class="tdr">1914</td></tr> </table></div> <hr /> <h2 id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2></div> <table id="toc" summary="Contents"> <tr class="tbpad"> <td class="tdc" colspan="2">THE FIVE NATIONS</td></tr> <tr class="small"> <td> </td> <td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">BRIDGE-GUARD IN THE KARROO</td> <td class="tdr">8</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">DIRGE OF DEAD SISTERS</td> <td class="tdr">26</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">ISLANDERS, THE</td> <td class="tdr">31</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">LESSON, THE</td> <td class="tdr">13</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">OLD ISSUE, THE</td> <td class="tdr">1</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">PEACE OF DIVES, THE</td> <td class="tdr">40</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">REFORMERS, THE</td> <td class="tdr">23</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">SETTLER, THE</td> <td class="tdr">53</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">SOUTH AFRICA</td> <td class="tdr">49</td></tr> <tr class="tbpad"> <td class="tdc larger" colspan="2">SERVICE SONGS</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">BOOTS</td> <td class="tdr">88</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">CHANT-PAGAN</td> <td class="tdr">59</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">COLUMNS</td> <td class="tdr">72</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">FILES, THE</td> <td class="tdr">17</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">HALF-BALLAD OF WATERVAL</td> <td class="tdr">102</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">INSTRUCTOR, THE</td> <td class="tdr">86</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">LICHTENBERG</td> <td class="tdr">95viii</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">MARRIED MAN, THE</td> <td class="tdr">91</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">M. I.</td> <td class="tdr">64</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">PARTING OF THE COLUMNS, THE</td> <td class="tdr">77</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">PIET</td> <td class="tdr">104</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">RECESSIONAL</td> <td class="tdr">121</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">RETURN, THE</td> <td class="tdr">117</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">STELLENBOSH</td> <td class="tdr">98</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">TWO KOPJES</td> <td class="tdr">82</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">UBIQUE</td> <td class="tdr">113</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">‘WILFUL-MISSING’</td> <td class="tdr">110</td></tr> </table> <hr /> ix <h2 id="INDEX_TO_FIRST_LINES">INDEX TO FIRST LINES</h2></div> <table id="index" summary="Index to First Lines"> <tr class="small"> <td> </td> <td class="tdr">PAGE</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">At times when under cover I ’ave said,</td> <td class="tdr">86</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">Files,</td> <td class="tdr">17</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">God of our fathers, known of old,</td> <td class="tdr">121</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">‘Here is nothing new nor aught unproven’ say the Trumpets,</td> <td class="tdr">1</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Here, where my fresh-turned furrows run,</td> <td class="tdr">53</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">I do not love my Empire’s foes,</td> <td class="tdr">104</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">I wish my mother could see me now, with a fence-post under my arm,</td> <td class="tdr">64</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">Let us admit it fairly, as a business people should,</td> <td class="tdr">13</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Lived a woman wonderful,</td> <td class="tdr">49</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">Me that ’ave been what I’ve been,</td> <td class="tdr">59</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">No doubt but ye are the People—your throne is above the King’s,</td> <td class="tdr">31</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Not in the camp his victory lies,</td> <td class="tdr">23</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">Only two African kopjes,</td> <td class="tdr">82x</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Out o’ the wilderness, dusty an’ dry,</td> <td class="tdr">72</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">Peace is declared, an’ I return,</td> <td class="tdr">117</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">Smells are surer than sounds or sights,</td> <td class="tdr">95</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Sudden the desert changes,</td> <td class="tdr">8</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">The bachelor ’e fights for one,</td> <td class="tdr">91</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The General ’eard the firin’ on the flank,</td> <td class="tdr">98</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">There is a word you often see, pronounce it as you may,</td> <td class="tdr">113</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">There is a world outside the one you know,</td> <td class="tdr">110</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">The Word came down to Dives in Torment where he lay,</td> <td class="tdr">40</td></tr> <tr class="tpad"> <td class="tdl">We’re foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin’ over Africa!</td> <td class="tdr">88</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">We’ve rode and fought and ate and drunk as rations come to hand,</td> <td class="tdr">77</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">When by the labour of my ’ands,</td> <td class="tdr">102</td></tr> <tr> <td class="tdl">Who recalls the twilight and the ranged tents in order,</td> <td class="tdr">26</td></tr> </table> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_OLD_ISSUE">THE OLD ISSUE1</h2></div> OCTOBER 9, 1899 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap italic"> Here is nothing new nor aught unproven,’ say the Trumpets, ‘Many feet have worn it and the road is old indeed. ‘It is the King—the King we schooled aforetime!’ (Trumpets in the marshes—in the eyot at Runnymede!)</div> <div class="stanza italic"> ’Here is neither haste, nor hate, nor anger,’ peal the Trumpets, ‘Pardon for his penitence or pity for his fall. ‘It is the King!’—inexorable Trumpets— (Trumpets round the scaffold at the dawning by Whitehall!)</div> <div class="tb">* * * * *</div> <div class="stanza italic"> ’He hath veiled the crown and hid the sceptre,’ warn the Trumpets, ‘He hath changed the fashion of the lies that cloak his will. ‘Hard die the Kings—ah hard—dooms hard!’ declare the Trumpets, Trumpets at the gang-plank where the brawling troop-decks fill!</div> <div class="stanza italic"> Ancient and Unteachable, abide—abide the trumpets! Once again the Trumpets, for the shuddering ground-swell brings Clamour over ocean of the harsh pursuing Trumpets— Trumpets of the Vanguard that have sworn no truce with Kings!</div> <div class="stanza"> All we have of freedom, all we use or know— This our fathers bought for us long and long ago. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ancient Right unnoticed as the breath we draw— Leave to live by no man’s leave, underneath the Law. </div> <div class="stanza"> Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the King. </div> <div class="stanza"> Till our fathers ’stablished, after bloody years, How our King is one with us, first among his peers. </div> <div class="stanza"> So they bought us freedom—not at little cost— Wherefore must we watch the King, lest our gain be lost. </div> <div class="stanza"> Over all things certain, this is sure indeed, Suffer not the old King: for we know the breed. </div> <div class="stanza"> Give no ear to bondsmen bidding us endure, Whining ‘He is weak and far’; crying ‘Time shall cure.’ </div> <div class="stanza"> (Time himself is witness, till the battle joins, Deeper strikes the rottenness in the people’s loins.) </div> <div class="stanza"> Give no heed to bondsmen masking war with peace. Suffer not the old King here or overseas. </div> <div class="stanza"> They that beg us barter—wait his yielding mood— Pledge the years we hold in trust—pawn our brother’s blood— </div> <div class="stanza"> Howso’ great their clamour, whatso’er their claim, Suffer not the old King under any name! </div> <div class="stanza"> Here is naught unproven—here is naught to learn. It is written what shall fall if the King return. </div> <div class="stanza"> He shall mark our goings, question whence we came, Set his guards about us, as in Freedom’s name. </div> <div class="stanza"> He shall take a tribute, toll of all our ware; He shall change our gold for arms—arms we may not bear. </div> <div class="stanza"> He shall break his Judges if they cross his word; He shall rule above the Law calling on the Lord. </div> <div class="stanza"> He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring Watchers ’neath our window, lest we mock the King— </div> <div class="stanza"> Hate and all division; hosts of hurrying spies; Money poured in secret, carrion breeding flies. </div> <div class="stanza"> Strangers of his council, hirelings of his pay, These shall deal our Justice: sell—deny—delay. </div> <div class="stanza"> We shall drink dishonour, we shall eat abuse For the Land we look to—for the Tongue we use. </div> <div class="stanza"> We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet, While his hired captains jeer us in the street. </div> <div class="stanza"> Cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun, Far beyond his borders shall his teachings run. </div> <div class="stanza"> Sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled— Laying on a new land evil of the old; </div> <div class="stanza"> Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain— All our fathers died to loose he shall bind again. </div> <div class="stanza italic"> Here is naught at venture, random nor untrue— Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew.</div> <div class="stanza italic"> Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid: Step for step and word for word—so the old Kings did!</div> <div class="stanza italic"> Step by step and word by word: who is ruled may read. Suffer not the old Kings—for we know the breed—</div> <div class="stanza italic"> All the right they promise—all the wrong they bring. Stewards of the Judgment, suffer not this King!</div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="BRIDGE-GUARD_IN_THE_KARROO">BRIDGE-GUARD IN THE KARROO8</h2></div> ‘and will supply details to guard the Blood River Bridge.’ District Orders—Lines of Communication. <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> Sudden the desert changes, The raw glare softens and clings, Till the aching Oudtshoorn ranges Stand up like the thrones of kings— </div> <div class="stanza"> Ramparts of slaughter and peril— Blazing, amazing—aglow ’Twixt the sky-line’s belting beryl And the wine-dark flats below. </div> <div class="stanza"> Royal the pageant closes, Lit by the last of the sun— Opal and ash-of-roses, Cinnamon, umber, and dun. </div> <div class="stanza"> The twilight swallows the thicket, The starlight reveals the ridge; The whistle shrills to the picket— We are changing guard on the bridge. </div> <div class="stanza"> (Few, forgotten and lonely, Where the empty metals shine— No, not combatants—only Details guarding the line.) </div> <div class="stanza"> We slip through the broken panel Of fence by the ganger’s shed; We drop to the waterless channel And the lean track overhead; </div> <div class="stanza"> We stumble on refuse of rations, The beef and the biscuit-tins; We take our appointed stations, And the endless night begins. </div> <div class="stanza"> We hear the Hottentot herders As the sheep click past to the fold— And the click of the restless girders As the steel contracts in the cold— </div> <div class="stanza"> Voices of jackals calling And, loud in the hush between, A morsel of dry earth falling From the flanks of the scarred ravine. </div> <div class="stanza"> And the solemn firmament marches, And the hosts of heaven rise Framed through the iron arches— Banded and barred by the ties, </div> <div class="stanza"> Till we feel the far track humming, And we see her headlight plain, And we gather and wait her coming— The wonderful north-bound train. </div> <div class="stanza"> (Few, forgotten and lonely, Where the white car-windows shine— No, not combatants—only Details guarding the line.) </div> <div class="stanza"> Quick, ere the gift escape us! Out of the darkness we reach For a handful of week-old papers And a mouthful of human speech. </div> <div class="stanza"> And the monstrous heaven rejoices, And the earth allows again, Meetings, greetings, and voices Of women talking with men. </div> <div class="stanza"> So we return to our places, As out on the bridge she rolls; And the darkness covers our faces, And the darkness re-enters our souls. </div> <div class="stanza"> More than a little lonely Where the lessening tail-lights shine. No—not combatants—only Details guarding the line! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_LESSON">THE LESSON13</h2></div> (1899–1902) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap al italic"> Let us admit it fairly, as a business people should, We have had no end of a lesson: it will do us no end of good.</div> <div class="stanza"> Not on a single issue, or in one direction or twain, But conclusively, comprehensively, and several times and again, Were all our most holy illusions knocked higher than Gilderoy’s kite. We have had a jolly good lesson, and it serves us jolly well right! </div> <div class="stanza"> This was not bestowèd us under the trees, nor yet in the shade of a tent, But swingingly, over eleven degrees of a bare brown continent. From Lamberts to Delagoa Bay, and from Pietersburg to Sutherland, Fell the phenomenal lesson we learned—with a fulness accorded no other land. </div> <div class="stanza"> It was our fault, and our very great fault, and not the judgment of Heaven. We made an Army in our own image, on an island nine by seven, Which faithfully mirrored its makers’ ideals, equipment, and mental attitude— And so we got our lesson: and we ought to accept it with gratitude. </div> <div class="stanza"> We have spent two hundred million pounds to prove the fact once more, That horses are quicker than men afoot, since two and two make four: And horses have four legs, and men have two legs, and two into four goes twice, And nothing over except our lesson—and very cheap at the price. </div> <div class="stanza"> For remember (this our children shall know: we are too near for that knowledge) Not our mere astonied camps, but Council and Creed and College— All the obese, unchallenged old things that stifle and overlie us— Have felt the effects of the lesson we got—an advantage no money could buy us! </div> <div class="stanza"> Then let us develop this marvellous asset which we alone command, And which, it may subsequently transpire, will be worth as much as the Rand: Let us approach this pivotal fact in a humble yet hopeful mood— We have had no end of a lesson: it will do us no end of good! </div> <div class="stanza"> It was our fault, and our very great fault—and now we must turn it to use; We have forty million reasons for failure, but not a single excuse! So the more we work and the less we talk the better results we shall get— We have had an Imperial lesson; it may make us an Empire yet! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_FILES">THE FILES17</h2></div> (THE SUB-EDITOR SPEAKS) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> Files— The Files— Office Files! Oblige me by referring to the files. Every question man can raise, Every phrase of every phase Of that question is on record in the files— (Threshed out threadbare—fought and finished in the files). Ere the Universe at large Was our new-tipped arrows’ targe— Ere we rediscovered Mammon and his wiles— Faenza, gentle reader, spent her—five-and-twentieth leader (You will find him, and some others, in the files). Warn all future Robert Brownings and Carlyles, It will interest them to hunt among the files, Where unvisited, a-cold, Lie the crowded years of old In that Kensall-Green of greatness called the files— (In our newspaPère-la-Chaise the office files), Where the dead men lay them down Meekly sure of long renown, And above them, sere and swift, Packs the daily deepening drift Of the all-recording, all-effacing files— The obliterating, automatic files. Count the mighty men who slung Ink, Evangel, Sword, or Tongue When Reform and you were young— Made their boasts and spake according in the files— (Hear the ghosts that wake applauding in the files!) Trace each all-forgot career From long primer through brevier Unto Death, a para minion in the files (Para minion—solid—bottom of the files).... Some successful Kings and Queens adorn the files, They were great, their views were leaded, And their deaths were triple-headed, So they catch the eye in running through the files (Show as blazes in the mazes of the files); For their ‘paramours and priests,’ And their gross, jack-booted feasts, And their epoch-marking actions see the files. Was it Bomba fled the blue Sicilian isles? Was it Saffi, a professor Once of Oxford, brought redress or Garibaldi? Who remembers Forty-odd-year old Septembers?— Only sextons paid to dig among the files (Such as I am, born and bred among the files). You must hack through much deposit Ere you know for sure who was it Came to burial with such honour in the files (Only seven seasons back beneath the files). ‘Very great our loss and grievous— ‘So our best and brightest leave us, ‘And it ends the Age of Giants,’ say the files; All the ’60—’70—’80—’90 files (The open-minded, opportunist files— The easy ‘O King, live for ever’ files). It is good to read a little in the files; ’Tis a sure and sovereign balm Unto philosophic calm, Yea, and philosophic doubt when Life beguiles. When you know Success is Greatness, When you marvel at your lateness In apprehending facts so plain to Smiles (Self-helpful, wholly strenuous Samuel Smiles). When your Imp of Blind Desire Bids you set the Thames afire, You’ll remember men have done so—in the files. You’ll have seen those flames transpire—in the files (More than once that flood has run so—in the files). When the Conchimarian horns Of the reboantic Norns Usher gentlemen and ladies With new lights on Heaven and Hades, Guaranteeing to Eternity All yesterday’s modernity; When Brocken-spectres made by Some one’s breath on ink parade by, Very earnest and tremendous, Let not shows of shows offend us. When of everything we like we Shout ecstatic:—’Quod ubique, Quod ab omnibus means semper!’ Oh, my brother, keep your temper! Light your pipe and take a look along the files! You’ve a better chance to guess At the meaning of Success (Which is Greatness—vide press) When you’ve seen it in perspective in the files. </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_REFORMERS">THE REFORMERS23</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap italic"> Not in the camp his victory lies Or triumph in the market-place, Who is his Nation’s sacrifice To turn the judgment from his race.</div> <div class="stanza"> Happy is he who, bred and taught By sleek, sufficing Circumstance— Whose Gospel was the apparelled thought, Whose Gods were Luxury and Chance— </div> <div class="stanza"> Sees, on the threshold of his days, The old life shrivel like a scroll, And to unheralded dismays Submits his body and his soul; </div> <div class="stanza"> The fatted shows wherein he stood Foregoing, and the idiot pride, That he may prove with his own blood All that his easy sires denied— </div> <div class="stanza"> Ultimate issues, primal springs, Demands, abasements, penalties— The imperishable plinth of things Seen and unseen, that touch our peace. </div> <div class="stanza"> For, though ensnaring ritual dim His vision through the after-years, Yet virtue shall go out of him: Example profiting his peers. </div> <div class="stanza"> With great things charged he shall not hold Aloof till great occasion rise, But serve, full-harnessed, as of old, The days that are the destinies. </div> <div class="stanza"> He shall forswear and put away The idols of his sheltered house; And to Necessity shall pay Unflinching tribute of his vows. </div> <div class="stanza"> He shall not plead another’s act, Nor bind him in another’s oath To weigh the Word above the Fact, Or make or take excuse for sloth. </div> <div class="stanza"> The yoke he bore shall press him still, And long-ingrained effort goad To find, to fashion, and fulfil The cleaner life, the sterner code. </div> <div class="stanza italic"> Not in the camp his victory lies— The world (unheeding his return) Shall see it in his children’s eyes And from his grandson’s lips shall learn!</div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="DIRGE_OF_DEAD_SISTERS">DIRGE OF DEAD SISTERS26</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> Who recalls the twilight and the ranged tents in order (Violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air?) And the clink of iron teacups and the piteous, noble laughter, And the faces of the Sisters with the dust upon their hair? </div> <div class="stanza"> (Now and not hereafter, while the breath is in our nostrils, Now and not hereafter, ere the meaner years go by— Let us now remember many honourable women, Such as bade us turn again when we were like to die.) </div> <div class="stanza"> Who recalls the morning and the thunder through the foothills (Tufts of fleecy shrapnel strung along the empty plains?) And the sun-scarred Red-Cross coaches creeping guarded to the culvert, And the faces of the Sisters looking gravely from the trains? </div> <div class="stanza"> (When the days were torment and the nights were clouded terror, When the Powers of Darkness had dominion on our soul— When we fled consuming through the Seven Hells of fever, These put out their hands to us and healed and made us whole.) </div> <div class="stanza"> Who recalls the midnight by the bridge’s wrecked abutment (Autumn rain that rattled like a Maxim on the tin?) And the lightning-dazzled levels and the streaming, straining wagons, And the faces of the Sisters as they bore the wounded in? </div> <div class="stanza"> (Till the pain was merciful and stunned us into silence— When each nerve cried out on God that made the misused clay; When the Body triumphed and the last poor shame departed— These abode our agonies and wiped the sweat away.) </div> <div class="stanza"> Who recalls the noontide and the funerals through the market (Blanket-hidden bodies, flagless, followed by the flies?) And the footsore firing-party, and the dust and stench and staleness, And the faces of the Sisters and the glory in their eyes? </div> <div class="stanza"> (Bold behind the battle, in the open camp all-hallowed, Patient, wise, and mirthful in the ringed and reeking town, These endured unresting till they rested from their labours— Little wasted bodies, ah, so light to lower down!) </div> <div class="stanza"> Yet their graves are scattered and their names are clean forgotten, Earth shall not remember, but the Waiting Angel knows Them that died at Uitvlugt when the plague was on the city— Her that fell at Simon’s Town in service on our foes. </div> <div class="stanza italic"> Wherefore we they ransomed, while the breath is in our nostrils, Now and not hereafter, ere the meaner years go by, Praise with love and worship many honourable women, Those that gave their lives for us when we were like to die!</div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_ISLANDERS">THE ISLANDERS31</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap italic"> No doubt but ye are the People—your throne is above the King’s. Whoso speaks in your presence must say acceptable things: Bowing the head in worship, bending the knee in fear— Bringing the word well smoothen—such as a King should hear.</div> <div class="stanza"> Fenced by your careful fathers, ringed by your leaden seas, Long did ye wake in quiet and long lie down at ease; Till ye said of Strife, ‘What is it?’ of the Sword, ‘It is far from our ken’; Till ye made a sport of your shrunken hosts and a toy of your armed men. Ye stopped your ears to the warning—ye would neither look nor heed— Ye set your leisure before their toil and your lusts above their need. Because of your witless learning and your beasts of warren and chase, Ye grudged your sons to their service and your fields for their camping-place. Ye forced them glean in the highways the straw for the bricks they brought; Ye forced them follow in byways the craft that ye never taught. Ye hindered and hampered and crippled; ye thrust out of sight and away Those that would serve you for honour and those that served you for pay. Then were the judgments loosened; then was your shame revealed, At the hands of a little people, few but apt in the field. Yet ye were saved by a remnant (and your land’s long-suffering Star), When your strong men cheered in their millions while your striplings went to the war. Sons of the sheltered city—unmade, unhandled, unmeet— Ye pushed them raw to the battle as ye picked them raw from the street. And what did ye look they should compass? War-craft learned in a breath, Knowledge unto occasion at the first far view of Death? So! And ye train your horses and the dogs ye feed and prize? How are the beasts more worthy than the souls your sacrifice? But ye said, ‘Their valour shall show them’; but ye said, ‘The end is close.’ And ye sent them comfits and pictures to help them harry your foes, And ye vaunted your fathomless power, and ye flaunted your iron pride, Ere—ye fawned on the Younger Nations for the men who could shoot and ride! Then ye returned to your trinkets; then ye contented your souls With the flannelled fools at the wicket or the muddied oafs at the goals. Given to strong delusion, wholly believing a lie, Ye saw that the land lay fenceless, and ye let the months go by Waiting some easy wonder: hoping some saving sign— Idle—openly idle—in the lee of the forespent Line. Idle—except for your boasting—and what is your boasting worth If ye grudge a year of service to the lordliest life on earth? Ancient, effortless, ordered, cycle on cycle set, Life so long untroubled, that ye who inherit forget It was not made with the mountains, it is not one with the deep. Men, not gods, devised it. Men, not gods, must keep. Men, not children, servants, or kinsfolk called from afar, But each man born in the Island broke to the matter of war. Soberly and by custom taken and trained for the same; Each man born in the Island entered at youth to the game— As it were almost cricket, not to be mastered in haste, But after trial and labour, by temperance, living chaste. As it were almost cricket—as it were even your play, Weighed and pondered and worshipped, and practised day and day. So ye shall bide sure-guarded when the restless lightnings wake In the womb of the blotting war-cloud, and the pallid nations quake. So, at the haggard trumpets, instant your soul shall leap Forthright, accoutred, accepting—alert from the wells of sleep. So at the threat ye shall summon—so at the need ye shall send Men, not children or servants, tempered and taught to the end; Cleansed of servile panic, slow to dread or despise, Humble because of knowledge, mighty by sacrifice. But ye say, ‘It will mar our comfort.’ Ye say, ‘It will minish our trade.’ Do ye wait for the spattered shrapnel ere ye learn how a gun is laid? For the low, red glare to southward when the raided coast-towns burn? (Light ye shall have on that lesson, but little time to learn.) Will ye pitch some white pavilion, and lustily even the odds, With nets and hoops and mallets, with rackets and bats and rods? Will the rabbit war with your foemen—the red deer horn them for hire? Your kept cock-pheasant keep you?—he is master of many a shire. Arid, aloof, incurious, unthinking, unthanking, gelt, Will ye loose your schools to flout them till their brow-beat columns melt? Will ye pray them or preach them, or print them, or ballot them back from your shore? Will your workmen issue a mandate to bid them strike no more? Will ye rise and dethrone your rulers? (Because ye were idle both? Pride by insolence chastened? Indolence purged by sloth?) No doubt but ye are the People; who shall make you afraid? Also your gods are many; no doubt but your gods shall aid. Idols of greasy altars built for the body’s ease; Proud little brazen Baals and talking fetishes; Teraphs of sept and party and wise wood-pavement gods— These shall come down to the battle and snatch you from under the rods? From the gusty, flickering gun-roll with viewless salvoes rent, And the pitted hail of the bullets that tell not whence they were sent. When ye are ringed as with iron, when ye are scourged as with whips, When the meat is yet in your belly, and the boast is yet on your lips; When ye go forth at morning and the noon beholds you broke, Ere ye lie down at even, your remnant, under the yoke. </div> <div class="stanza italic"> No doubt but ye are the People—absolute, strong, and wise; Whatever your heart has desired ye have not withheld from your eyes. On your own heads, in your own hands, the sin and the saving lies!</div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_PEACE_OF_DIVES">THE PEACE OF DIVES40</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> The Word came down to Dives in Torment where he lay: ‘Our World is full of wickedness, My Children maim and slay, ‘And the Saint and Seer and Prophet ‘Can make no better of it ‘Than to sanctify and prophesy and pray. </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘Rise up, rise up, thou Dives, and take again thy gold, ‘And thy women and thy housen as they were to thee of old. ‘It may be grace hath found thee ‘In the furnace where We bound thee, ‘And that thou shalt bring the peace My Son foretold.’ </div> <div class="stanza"> Then merrily rose Dives and leaped from out his fire, And walked abroad with diligence to do the Lord’s desire; And anon the battles ceased, And the captives were released, And Earth had rest from Goshen to Gadire. </div> <div class="stanza"> The Word came down to Satan that raged and roared alone, ’Mid the shouting of the peoples by the cannon overthrown (But the Prophets, Saints, and Seers Set each other by the ears, For each would claim the marvel as his own): </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘Rise up, rise up, thou Satan, upon the Earth to go, ‘And prove the peace of Dives if it be good or no: ‘For all that he hath planned ‘We deliver to thy hand, ‘As thy skill shall serve to break it or bring low.’ </div> <div class="stanza"> Then mightily rose Satan, and about the Earth he hied, And breathed on Kings in idleness and Princes drunk with pride; But for all the wrong he breathed There was never sword unsheathed, And the fires he lighted flickered out and died. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then terribly rose Satan, and he darkened Earth afar, Till he came on cunning Dives where the money-changers are; And he saw men pledge their gear For the gold that buys the spear, And the helmet and the habergeon of war. </div> <div class="stanza"> Yea to Dives came the Persian and the Syrian and the Mede— And their hearts were nothing altered, nor their cunning nor their greed— And they pledged their flocks and farms For the king-compelling arms, And Dives lent according to their need. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then Satan said to Dives:—’Return again with me, ‘Who hast broken His Commandment in the day He set thee free, ‘Who grindest for thy greed, ‘Man’s belly-pinch and need; ‘And the blood of Man to filthy usury!’ </div> <div class="stanza"> Then softly answered Dives where the money-changers sit:— ‘My refuge is Our Master, O My Master in the Pit; ‘But behold all Earth is laid ‘In the peace which I have made, ‘And behold I wait on thee to trouble it!’ </div> <div class="stanza"> Then angrily turned Satan, and about the Seas he fled, To shake the new-sown peoples with insult, doubt, and dread; But for all the sleight he used There was never squadron loosed, And the brands he flung flew dying and fell dead. </div> <div class="stanza"> Yet to Dives came Atlantis and the Captains of the West— And their hates were nothing weakened nor their anger nor unrest— And they pawned their utmost trade For the dry, decreeing blade; And Dives lent and took of them their best. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then Satan said to Dives:—’Declare thou by The Name, ‘The secret of thy subtlety that turneth mine to shame. ‘It is known through all the Hells ‘How my peoples mocked my spells, ‘And my faithless Kings denied me ere I came.’ </div> <div class="stanza"> Then answered cunning Dives: ‘Do not gold and hate abide ‘At the heart of every Magic, yea, and senseless fear beside? ‘With gold and fear and hate ‘I have harnessed state to state, ‘And with hate and fear and gold their hates are tied. </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘For hate men seek a weapon, for fear they seek a shield— ‘Keener blades and broader targes than their frantic neighbours wield— ‘For gold I arm their hands, ‘And for gold I buy their lands, ‘And for gold I sell their enemies the yield. </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘Their nearest foes may purchase, or their furthest friends may lease, ‘One by one from Ancient Accad to the Islands of the Seas. ‘And their covenants they make ‘For the naked iron’s sake, ‘But I—I trap them armoured into peace. </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘The flocks that Egypt pledged me to Assyria I drave, ‘And Pharaoh hath the increase of the herds that Sargon gave. ‘Not for Ashdod overthrown ‘Will the Kings destroy their own, ‘Or their peoples wake the strife they feign to brave. </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘Is not Calno like Carchemish? For the steeds of their desire ‘They have sold me seven harvests that I sell to Crowning Tyre; ‘And the Tyrian sweeps the plains ‘With a thousand hired wains, ‘And the Cities keep the peace and—share the hire. </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘Hast thou seen the pride of Moab? For the swords about his path, ‘His bond is to Philistia, in half of all he hath. ‘And he dare not draw the sword ‘Till Gaza give the word, ‘And he show release from Askalon and Gath. </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘Wilt thou call again thy peoples, wilt thou craze anew thy Kings? ‘Lo! my lightnings pass before thee, and their whistling servant brings, ‘Ere the drowsy street hath stirred— ‘Every masked and midnight word, ‘And the nations break their fast upon these things. </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘So I make a jest of Wonder, and a mock of Time and Space, ‘The roofless Seas an hostel, and the Earth a market-place, ‘Where the anxious traders know ‘Each is surety for his foe, ‘And none may thrive without his fellows’ grace. </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘Now this is all my subtlety and this is all my wit, ‘God give thee good enlightenment, My Master in the Pit. ‘But behold all Earth is laid ‘In the peace which I have made, ‘And behold I wait on thee to trouble it!’ </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="SOUTH_AFRICA">SOUTH AFRICA49</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap al"> Lived a woman wonderful, (May the Lord amend her!) Neither simple, kind, nor true, But her Pagan beauty drew Christian gentlemen a few Hotly to attend her. </div> <div class="stanza italic"> Christian gentlemen a few From Berwick unto Dover; For she was South Africa, And she was South Africa, She was our South Africa, Africa all over!</div> <div class="stanza"> Half her land was dead with drouth, Half was red with battle; She was fenced with fire and sword, Plague on pestilence outpoured, Locusts on the greening sward And murrain on the cattle! </div> <div class="stanza italic"> True, ah true, and overtrue; That is why we love her! For she is South Africa, And she is South Africa, She is our South Africa, Africa all over!</div> <div class="stanza"> Bitter hard her lovers toiled, Scandalous their payment,— Food forgot on trains derailed; Cattle-dung where fuel failed; Water where the mules had staled; And sackcloth for their raiment! </div> <div class="stanza"> So she filled their mouths with dust And their bones with fever; Greeted them with cruel lies; Treated them despiteful-wise; Meted them calamities Till they vowed to leave her. </div> <div class="stanza"> They took ship and they took sail, Raging, from her borders,— In a little, none the less, They forgat their sore duresse, They forgave her waywardness And returned for orders! </div> <div class="stanza"> They esteemed her favour more Than a Throne’s foundation. For the glory of her face Bade farewell to breed and race— Yea, and made their burial-place Altar of a Nation! </div> <div class="stanza"> Wherefore, being bought by blood, And by blood restorèd To the arms that nearly lost, She, because of all she cost, Stands, a very woman, most Perfect and adorèd! </div> <div class="stanza italic"> On your feet, and let them know This is why we love her! For she is South Africa, She is our South Africa, Is our own South Africa, Africa all over!</div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_SETTLER">THE SETTLER53</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> Here, where my fresh-turned furrows run, And the deep soil glistens red, I will repair the wrong that was done To the living and the dead. Here, where the senseless bullet fell, And the barren shrapnel burst, I will plant a tree, I will dig a well, Against the heat and the thirst. </div> <div class="stanza"> Here, in a large and a sunlit land, Where no wrong bites to the bone, I will lay my hand in my neighbour’s hand, And together we will atone For the set folly and the red breach And the black waste of it all, Giving and taking counsel each Over the cattle-kraal. </div> <div class="stanza"> Here will we join against our foes— The hailstroke and the storm, And the red and rustling cloud that blows The locust’s mile-deep swarm; Frost and murrain and floods let loose Shall launch us side by side In the holy wars that have no truce ’Twixt seed and harvest tide. </div> <div class="stanza"> Earth, where we rode to slay or be slain, Our love shall redeem unto life; We will gather and lead to her lips again The waters of ancient strife, From the far and the fiercely guarded streams And the pools where we lay in wait, Till the corn cover our evil dreams And the young corn our hate. </div> <div class="stanza"> And when we bring old fights to mind, We will not remember the sin— If there be blood on his head of my kind, Or blood on my head of his kin— For the ungrazed upland, the untilled lea Cry, and the fields forlorn: ‘The dead must bury their dead, but ye— Ye serve an host unborn.’ </div> <div class="stanza"> Bless then, our God, the new-yoked plough And the good beasts that draw, And the bread we eat in the sweat of our brow According to Thy Law. After us cometh a multitude— Prosper the work of our hands, That we may feed with our land’s food The folk of all our lands! </div> <div class="stanza"> Here, in the waves and the troughs of the plains, Where the healing stillness lies, And the vast, benignant sky restrains And the long days make wise— Bless to our use the rain and the sun And the blind seed in its bed, That we may repair the wrong that was done To the living and the dead! </div> </div></div> <hr /> 57 <div class="chapter newpageafter"> <h2 id="SERVICE_SONGS">SERVICE SONGS</h2></div> <hr /> 58 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap italic"> ’Tommy’ you was when it began, But now that it is o’er You shall be called The Service Man ’Enceforward, evermore.</div> <div class="stanza italic"> Batt’ry, brigade, flank, centre, van, Defaulter, Army corps— From first to last The Service Man ’Enceforward, evermore.</div> <div class="stanza italic"> From ’Alifax to ’Industan, From York to Singapore— ’Orse, foot, an’ guns, The Service Man ’Enceforward, evermore!</div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="CHANT-PAGAN">CHANT-PAGAN59</h2></div> ENGLISH IRREGULAR: ’99–02 <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> Me that ’ave been what I’ve been, Me that ’ave gone where I’ve gone, Me that ’ave seen what I’ve seen— ’Ow can I ever take on With awful old England again, An’ ’ouses both sides of the street, And ’edges two sides of the lane, And the parson an’ ‘gentry’ between, An’ touchin’ my ’at when we meet— Me that ’ave been what I’ve been? </div> <div class="stanza"> Me that ’ave watched ’arf a world ’Eave up all shiny with dew, Kopje on kop to the sun, An’ as soon as the mist let ’em through Our ’elios winkin’ like fun— Three sides of a ninety-mile square, Over valleys as big as a shire— Are ye there? Are ye there? Are ye there? An’ then the blind drum of our fire ... An’ I’m rollin’ ’is lawns for the Squire, Me! </div> <div class="stanza"> Me that ’ave rode through the dark Forty mile often on end, Along the Ma’ollisberg Range, With only the stars for my mark An’ only the night for my friend, An’ things runnin’ off as you pass, An’ things jumpin’ up in the grass, An’ the silence, the shine an’ the size Of the ’igh, inexpressible skies.... I am takin’ some letters almost As much as a mile, to the post, An’ ‘mind you come back with the change!’ Me! </div> <div class="stanza"> Me that saw Barberton took When we dropped through the clouds on their ’ead, An’ they ’ove the guns over and fled— Me that was through Di’mond ’Ill, An’ Pieters an’ Springs an’ Belfast— From Dundee to Vereeniging all! Me that stuck out to the last (An’ five bloomin’ bars on my chest)— I am doin’ my Sunday-school best, By the ’elp of the Squire an’ his wife (Not to mention the ’ousemaid an’ cook), To come in an’ ’ands up an’ be still, An’ honestly work for my bread, My livin’ in that state of life To which it shall please God to call Me! </div> <div class="stanza"> Me that ’ave followed my trade In the place where the lightnin’s are made, ’Twixt the Rains and the Sun and the Moon; Me that lay down an’ got up Three years an’ the sky for my roof— That ’ave ridden my ’unger an’ thirst Six thousand raw mile on the hoof, With the Vaal and the Orange for cup, An’ the Brandwater Basin for dish,— Oh! it’s ’ard to be’ave as they wish, (Too ’ard, an’ a little too soon), I’ll ’ave to think over it first— Me! </div> <div class="stanza"> I will arise an’ get ’ence;— I will trek South and make sure If it’s only my fancy or not That the sunshine of England is pale, And the breezes of England are stale, An’ there’s somethin’ gone small with the lot; For I know of a sun an’ a wind, An’ some plains and a mountain be’ind, An’ some graves by a barb-wire fence; An’ a Dutchman I’ve fought ’oo might give Me a job were I ever inclined, To look in an’ offsaddle an’ live Where there’s neither a road nor a tree— But only my Maker an’ me, And I think it will kill me or cure, So I think I will go there an’ see. </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="M_I">M. I.64</h2></div> (MOUNTED INFANTRY OF THE LINE) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap i"> I wish my mother could see me now, with a fence-post under my arm, And a knife and a spoon in my putties that I found on a Boer farm, Atop of a sore-backed Argentine, with a thirst that you couldn’t buy. I used to be in the Yorkshires once (Sussex, Lincolns, and Rifles once), Hampshires, Glosters, and Scottish once! (ad lib.) But now I am M. I. </div> <div class="stanza"> That is what we are known as—that is the name you must call If you want officers’ servants, pickets an’ ’orse-guards an’ all— Details for buryin’-parties, company-cooks or supply— Turn out the chronic Ikonas! Roll up the ——1 M. I.! </div> <div class="stanza"> My ’ands are spotty with veldt-sores, my shirt is a button an’ frill, An’ the things I’ve used my bay’nit for would make a tinker ill! An’ I don’t know whose dam’ column I’m in, nor where we’re trekkin’ nor why. I’ve trekked from the Vaal to the Orange once— From the Vaal to the greasy Pongolo once— (Or else it was called the Zambesi once)— For now I am M. I. </div> <div class="stanza"> That is what we are known as—we are the push you require For outposts all night under freezin’, an’ rear-guard all day under fire. Anything ’ot or unwholesome? Anything dusty or dry? Borrow a bunch of Ikonas! Trot out the —— M. I.! </div> <div class="stanza"> Our Sergeant-Major’s a subaltern, our Captain’s a Fusilier— Our Adjutant’s ‘late of Somebody’s ’Orse,’ an’ a Melbourne auctioneer; But you couldn’t spot us at ’arf a mile from the crackest caval-ry. They used to talk about Lancers once, Hussars, Dragoons, an’ Lancers once, ’Elmets, pistols, an’ carbines once, But now we are M. I. </div> <div class="stanza"> That is what we are known as—we are the orphans they blame For beggin’ the loan of an ’ead-stall an’ makin’ a mount to the same: ‘Can’t even look at an ’orselines but some one goes bellerin’ ‘Hi! ‘’Ere comes a burglin’ Ikona!’ Footsack you —— M. I.! </div> <div class="stanza"> We’re trekkin’ our twenty miles a day an’ bein’ loved by the Dutch, But we don’t hold on by the mane no more, nor lose our stirrups—much; An’ we scout with a senior man in charge where the ’oly white flags fly. We used to think they were friendly once, Didn’t take any precautions once (Once, my ducky, an’ only once!) But now we are M. I. </div> <div class="stanza"> That is what we are known as—we are the beggars that got Three days ‘to learn equitation,’ an’ six months o’ bloomin’ well trot! Cow-guns, an’ cattle, an’ convoys—an’ Mister De Wet on the fly— We are the rollin’ Ikonas! We are the —— M. I.! </div> <div class="stanza"> The new fat regiments come from home, imaginin’ vain V.C.’s (The same as our talky-fighty men which are often Number Threes2), But our words o’ command are ‘Scatter’ an’ ‘Close’ an’ ‘Let your wounded lie.’ We used to rescue ’em noble once,— Givin’ the range as we raised ’em once, Gettin’ ’em killed as we saved ’em once— But now we are M. I. </div> <div class="stanza"> That is what we are known as—we are the lanterns you view After a fight round the kopjes, lookin’ for men that we knew; Whistlin’ an’ callin’ together, ’altin’ to catch the reply:— ‘’Elp me! O ’elp me, Ikonas!’ This way, the —— M. I.! </div> <div class="stanza"> I wish my mother could see me now, a-gatherin’ news on my own, When I ride like a General up to the scrub and ride back like Tod Sloan, Remarkable close to my ’orse’s neck to let the shots go by. We used to fancy it risky once (Called it a reconnaissance once), Under the charge of an orf’cer once, But now we are M. I. </div> <div class="stanza"> That is what we are known as—that is the song you must say When you want men to be Mausered at one and a penny a day; We are no five-bob colonials—we are the ’omemade supply, Ask for the London Ikonas! Ring up the —— M. I.! </div> <div class="stanza"> I wish myself could talk to myself as I left ’im a year ago; I could tell ’im a lot that would save ’im a lot on the things that ’e ought to know! When I think o’ that ignorant barrack-bird, it almost makes me cry. I used to belong in an Army once (Gawd! what a rum little Army once), Red little, dead little Army once! But now I am M. I.! </div> <div class="stanza"> That is what we are known as—we are the men that have been Over a year at the business, smelt it an’ felt it an’ seen. We ’ave got ’old of the needful—you will be told by and by; Wait till you’ve ’eard the Ikonas, spoke to the old M. I.! </div> <div class="stanza italic"> Mount—march, Ikonas! Stand to your ’orses again! Mop off the frost on the saddles, mop up the miles on the plain. Out go the stars in the dawnin’, up goes our dust to the sky, Walk—trot, Ikonas! Trek jou,3 the old M. I.!</div> </div></div> <div class="center"><div class="footnote"> 1 Number according to taste and service of audience. 2 Horse-holders when in action, and therefore generally under cover. 3 Get ahead. </div> </div> <h2 id="COLUMNS">COLUMNS72</h2></div> (MOBILE COLUMNS OF THE LATER WAR) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> Out o’ the wilderness, dusty an’ dry (Time, an’ ’igh time to be trekkin’ again!) ’Oo is it ’eads to the Detail Supply? (A section, a pompom, an’ six ’undred men.) </div> <div class="stanza"> ’Ere comes the clerk with ’is lantern an’ keys (Time, an’ ’igh time to be trekkin’ again!) ‘Surplus of everything—draw what you please ‘For the section, the pompom, an’ six ’undred men.’ </div> <div class="stanza"> ‘What are our orders an’ where do we lay?’ (Time, an’ ’igh time to be trekkin’ again!) ‘You came after dark—you will leave before day, ‘You section, you pompom, an’ six ’undred men!’ </div> <div class="stanza"> Down the tin street, ’alf awake an’ unfed, ’Ark to ’em blessin’ the Gen’ral in bed! Now by the church an’ the outspan they wind— Over the ridge an’ it’s all lef’ be’ind For the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Soon they will camp as the dawn’s growin’ grey, Roll up for coffee an’ sleep while they may— The section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Read their ’ome letters, their papers an’ such, For they’ll move after dark to astonish the Dutch With a section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> ’Untin’ for shade as the long hours pass, Blankets on rifles or burrows in grass, Lies the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Dossin’ or beatin’ a shirt in the sun, Watching chameleons or cleanin’ a gun, Waits the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> With nothin’ but stillness as far as you please, An’ the silly mirage stringin’ islands an’ seas Round the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> So they strips off their hide an’ they grills in their bones, Till the shadows crawl out from beneath the pore stones Towards the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> An’ the Mauser-bird stops an’ the jackals begin, An’ the ’orse-guard comes up and the Gunners ’ook in As a ’int to the pompom an’ six ’undred men.... </div> <div class="stanza"> Off through the dark with the stars to rely on— (Alpha Centauri an’ somethin’ Orion) Moves the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Same bloomin’ ’ole which the ant-bear ’as broke, Same bloomin’ stumble an’ same bloomin’ joke Down the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Same ‘which is right?’ where the cart-tracks divide, Same ‘give it up’ from the same clever guide To the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Same tumble-down on the same ’idden farm, Same white-eyed Kaffir ’oo gives the alarm Of the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Same shootin’ wild at the end o’ the night, Same flyin’ tackle an’ same messy fight By the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Same ugly ’iccup an’ same ’orrid squeal, When it’s too dark to see an’ it’s too late to feel In the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> (Same batch of prisoners, ’airy an’ still, Watchin’ their comrades bolt over the ’ill From the section, etc.) </div> <div class="stanza"> Same chilly glare in the eye of the sun As ’e gets up displeasured to see what was done By the section, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Same splash o’ pink on the stoep or the kraal, An’ the same quiet face which ’as finished with all In the section, the pompom, an’ six ’undred men. </div> <div class="stanza italic"> Out o’ the wilderness, dusty an’ dry (Time, an’ ’igh time to be trekkin’ again!) ’Oo is it ’eads to the Detail Supply? (A section, a pompom, an’ six ’undred men.)</div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_PARTING_OF_THE_COLUMNS">THE PARTING OF THE COLUMNS77</h2></div> <blockquote> ‘... On the —th instant a mixed detachment of colonials left —— for Cape Town, there to rejoin their respective homeward-bound contingents, after fifteen months’ service in the field. They were escorted to the station by the regular troops in garrison and the bulk of Colonel ——’s column, which has just come in to refit, preparatory to further operations. The leave-taking was of the most cordial character, the men cheering each other continuously.’—Any Newspaper. </blockquote> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> We’ve rode and fought and ate and drunk as rations come to hand. Together for a year and more around this stinkin’ land: Now you are goin’ home again, but we must see it through. We needn’t tell we liked you well. Good-bye—good luck to you! </div> <div class="stanza"> You ’ad no special call to come, and so you doubled out, And learned us how to camp and cook an’ steal a horse and scout: Whatever game we fancied most, you joyful played it too, And rather better on the whole. Good-bye—good luck to you! </div> <div class="stanza"> There isn’t much we ’aven’t shared, since Kruger cut and run, The same old work, the same old skoff, the same old dust and sun; The same old chance that laid us out, or winked an’ let us through; The same old Life, the same old Death. Good-bye—good luck to you! </div> <div class="stanza"> Our blood ’as truly mixed with yours—all down the Red Cross train, We’ve bit the same thermometer in Bloemingtyphoidtein. We’ve ’ad the same old temp’rature—the same relapses too, The same old saw-backed fever-chart. Good-bye—good luck to you! </div> <div class="stanza"> But ’twasn’t merely this an’ that (which all the world may know), ’Twas how you talked an’ looked at things which made us like you so. All independent, queer an’ odd, but most amazin’ new, My word! you shook us up to rights. Good-bye—good luck to you! </div> <div class="stanza"> Think o’ the stories round the fire, the tales along the trek— O’ Calgary an’ Wellin’ton, an’ Sydney and Quebec; Of mine an’ farm, an’ ranch an’ run, an’ moose an’ cariboo, An’ parrots peckin’ lambs to death! Good-bye—good luck to you! </div> <div class="stanza"> We’ve seen you ’ome by word o’ mouth, we’ve watched your rivers shine, We’ve ’eard your bloomin’ forests blow of eucalip’ and pine; Your young, gay countries north an’ south, we feel we own ’em too, For they was made by rank an’ file. Good-bye—good luck to you! </div> <div class="stanza"> We’ll never read the papers now without inquirin’ first For word from all those friendly dorps where you was born an’ nursed. Why, Dawson, Galle, an’ Montreal—Port Darwin—Timaru, They’re only just across the road! Good-bye—good luck to you! </div> <div class="stanza"> Good-bye!—So-long! Don’t lose yourselves—nor us, nor all kind friends, But tell the girls your side the drift we’re comin’—when it ends! Good-bye, you bloomin’ Atlases! You’ve taught us somethin’ new: The world’s no bigger than a kraal. Good-bye—good luck to you! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="TWO_KOPJES">TWO KOPJES82</h2></div> (MADE YEOMANRY) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> Only two African kopjes, Only the cart-tracks that wind Empty and open between ’em, Only the Transvaal behind; Only an Aldershot column Marching to conquer the land ... Only a sudden and solemn Visit, unarmed, to the Rand. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then scorn not the African kopje, The kopje that smiles in the heat, The wholly unoccupied kopje, The home of Cornelius and Piet. You can never be sure of your kopje, But of this be you blooming well sure, A kopje is always a kopje, And a Boojer is always a Boer! </div> <div class="stanza"> Only two African kopjes, Only the vultures above, Only baboons—at the bottom, Only some buck on the move; Only a Kensington draper Only pretending to scout ... Only bad news for the paper, Only another knock-out. </div> <div class="stanza"> Then mock not the African kopje, And rub not your flank on its side, The silent and simmering kopje, The kopje beloved by the guide. You can never be, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Only two African kopjes, Only the dust of their wheels, Only a bolted commando, Only our guns at their heels ... Only a little barb-wire, Only a natural fort, Only ‘by sections retire,’ Only ‘regret to report’! </div> <div class="stanza"> Then mock not the African kopje, Especially when it is twins, One sharp and one table-topped kopje, For that’s where the trouble begins. You can never be, etc. </div> <div class="stanza"> Only two African kopjes Baited the same as before— Only we’ve had it so often, Only we’re taking no more ... Only a wave to our troopers, Only our flanks swinging past, Only a dozen voorloopers, Only we’ve learned it at last! </div> <div class="stanza"> Then mock not the African kopje, But take off your hat to the same. The patient, impartial old kopje, The kopje that taught us the game! For all that we knew in the Columns, And all they’ve forgot on the Staff, We learned at the fight o’ Two Kopjes, Which lasted two years an’ a half. </div> <div class="stanza italic"> O mock not the African kopje, Not even when peace has been signed— The kopje that isn’t a kopje— The kopje that copies its kind. You can never be sure of your kopje, But of this be you blooming well sure, That a kopje is always a kopje. And a Boojer is always a Boer!</div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_INSTRUCTOR">THE INSTRUCTOR86</h2></div> (CORPORALS) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap al"> At times when under cover I ’ave said, To keep my spirits up an’ raise a laugh, ’Earin’ ’im pass so busy over-’ead— Old Nickel Neck, ’oo isn’t on the Staff— ‘There’s one above is greater than us all.’ </div> <div class="stanza"> Before ’im I ’ave seen my Colonel fall, An’ watched ’im write my Captain’s epitaph, So that a long way off it could be read— He ’as the knack o’ makin’ men feel small— Old Whistle Tip, ’oo isn’t on the Staff. </div> <div class="stanza"> There is no sense in fleein’ (I ’ave fled), Better go on an’ do the belly-crawl, An’ ’ope ’e’ll ’it some other man instead Of you ’e seems to ’unt so speshual— Fitzy van Spitz, ’oo isn’t on the Staff. </div> <div class="stanza"> An’ thus in mem’ry’s gratis biograph, Now that the show is over, I recall The peevish voice an’ ’oary mushroom ’ead Of ’im we owned was greater than us all, ’Oo give instruction to the quick an’ the dead— The Shudderin’ Beggar not upon the Staff. </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="BOOTS">BOOTS88</h2></div> (INFANTRY COLUMNS OF THE EARLIER WAR) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> We’re foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin’ over Africa! Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin’ over Africa— (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin’ up and down again!) There’s no discharge in the war! </div> <div class="stanza"> Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an’-twenty mile to-day— Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before— (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin’ up and down again!) There’s no discharge in the war! </div> <div class="stanza"> Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—look at what’s in front of you (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin’ up an’ down again); Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin’ ’em, An’ there’s no discharge in the war. </div> <div class="stanza"> Try—try—try—try—to think o’ something different— Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin’ lunatic! (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin’ up an’ down again!) There’s no discharge in the war. </div> <div class="stanza"> Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers; If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o’ you (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin’ up and down again)— There’s no discharge in the war! </div> <div class="stanza"> We—can—stick—out—’unger, thirst, an’ weariness, But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of ’em— Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin’ up an’ down again, An’ there’s no discharge in the war! </div> <div class="stanza"> ’Tain’t—so—bad—by—day because o’ company, But night—brings—long—strings o’ forty thousand million Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin’ up an’ down again. There’s no discharge in the war! </div> <div class="stanza"> I—’ave—marched—six—weeks in ’Ell an’ certify It—is—not—fire—devils dark or anything But boots—boots—boots, movin’ up an’ down again, An’ there’s no discharge in the war! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_MARRIED_MAN">THE MARRIED MAN91</h2></div> (RESERVIST OF THE LINE) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> The bachelor ’e fights for one As joyful as can be; But the married man don’t call it fun, Because ’e fights for three— For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It (An’ Two an’ One makes Three) ’E wants to finish ’is little bit, An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea! </div> <div class="stanza"> The bachelor pokes up ’is ’ead To see if you are gone; But the married man lies down instead, An’ waits till the sights come on. For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ a hit (Direct or ricochee) ’E wants to finish ’is little bit, An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea. </div> <div class="stanza"> The bachelor will miss you clear To fight another day; But the married man, ’e says ’No fear!’ ’E wants you out of the way Of ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It (An’ ’is road to ’is farm or the sea), ’E wants to finish ’is little bit, An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea. </div> <div class="stanza"> The bachelor ’e fights ’is fight An’ stretches out an’ snores; But the married man sits up all night— For ’e don’t like out o’ doors: ’E’ll strain an’ listen an’ peer An’ give the first alarm— For the sake o’ the breathin’ ’e’s used to ’ear An’ the ’ead on the thick of ’is arm. </div> <div class="stanza"> The bachelor may risk ’is ’ide To ’elp you when you’re downed; But the married man will wait beside Till the ambulance comes round. ’E’ll take your ’ome address An’ all you’ve time to say, Or if ’e sees there’s ’ope, ’e’ll press Your art’ry ’alf the day— </div> <div class="stanza"> For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It (An’ One from Three leaves Two), For ’e knows you wanted to finish your bit, An’ ’e knows ’oo’s wantin’ you. Yes, ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It (Our ’oly One in Three), We’re all of us anxious to finish our bit, An’ we want to get ’ome to our tea! </div> <div class="stanza"> Yes, It an’ ’Er an’ ’Im, Which often makes me think The married man must sink or swim An’—’e can’t afford to sink! Oh ’Im an’ It an’ ’Er Since Adam an’ Eve began, So I’d rather fight with the bacheler An’ be nursed by the married man! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="LICHTENBERG">LICHTENBERG95</h2></div> (N.S.W. CONTINGENT) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> Smells are surer than sounds or sights To make your heart-strings crack— They start those awful voices o’ nights That whisper, ‘Old man, come back.’ That must be why the big things pass And the little things remain, Like the smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg, Riding in, in the rain. </div> <div class="stanza"> There was some silly fire on the flank And the small wet drizzling down— There were the sold-out shops and the bank And the wet, wide-open town; And we were doing escort-duty To somebody’s baggage-train, And I smelt wattle by Lichtenberg— Riding in, in the rain. </div> <div class="stanza"> It was all Australia to me— All I had found or missed: Every face I was crazy to see, And every woman I’d kissed: All that I shouldn’t ha’ done, God knows! (As He knows I’ll do it again), That smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg, Riding in, in the rain! </div> <div class="stanza"> And I saw Sydney the same as ever, The picnics and brass-bands; And the little homestead on Hunter River And my new vines joining hands. It all came over me in one act Quick as a shot through the brain— With the smell of the wattle round Lichtenberg, Riding in, in the rain. </div> <div class="stanza"> I have forgotten a hundred fights, But one I shall not forget— With the raindrops bunging up my sights And my eyes bunged up with wet; And through the crack and the stink of the cordite (Ah Christ! My country again!) The smell of the wattle by Lichtenberg, Riding in, in the rain! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="STELLENBOSH">STELLENBOSH98</h2></div> (COMPOSITE COLUMNS) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> The General ’eard the firin’ on the flank, An’ ’e sent a mounted man to bring ’im back The silly, pushin’ person’s name an’ rank ’Oo’d dared to answer Brother Boer’s attack. For there might ’ave been a serious engagement, An’ ’e might ’ave wasted ’alf a dozen men; So ’e ordered ’im to stop ’is operations round the kopjes, An’ ’e told ’im off before the Staff at ten! </div> <div class="stanza"> And it all goes into the laundry, But it never comes out in the wash, ’Ow we’re sugared about by the old men (’Eavy-sterned amateur old men!) That ’amper an’ ’inder an’ scold men For fear o’ Stellenbosh! </div> <div class="stanza"> The General ’ad ‘produced a great effect,’ The General ’ad the country cleared—almost; The General ‘’ad no reason to expect,’ And the Boers ’ad us bloomin’ well on toast! For we might ’ave crossed the drift before the twilight, Instead o’ sitting down an’ takin’ root; But we was not allowed, so the Boojers scooped the crowd, To the last survivin’ bandolier an’ boot. </div> <div class="stanza"> The General saw the farm’ouse in ’is rear, With its stoep so nicely shaded from the sun; Sez ’e, ‘I’ll pitch my tabernacle ’ere,’ An’ ’e kept us muckin’ round till ’e ’ad done. For ’e might ’ave caught the confluent pneumonia From sleepin’ in his gaiters in the dew; So ’e took a book an’ dozed while the other columns closed, And ——’s commando out an’ trickled through! </div> <div class="stanza"> The General saw the mountain-range ahead, With their ’elios showin’ saucy on the ’eight, So ’e ’eld us to the level ground instead, An’ telegraphed the Boojers wouldn’t fight. For ’e might ’ave gone an’ sprayed ’em with a pompom, Or ’e might ’ave slung a squadron out to see— But ’e wasn’t takin’ chances in them ’igh an’ ’ostile kranzes— He was markin’ time to earn a K.C.B. The General got ’is decorations thick (The men that backed ’is lies could not complain), The Staff ’ad D.S.O.’s till we was sick, An’ the soldier—’ad the work to do again! For ’e might ’ave known the District was a ’otbed, Instead of ’andin’ over, upside-down, To a man ’oo ’ad to fight ’alf a year to put it right, While the General went an’ slandered ’im in town! </div> <div class="stanza"> An’ it all went into the laundry, But it never came out in the wash. We were sugared about by the old men (Panicky, perishin’ old men) That ’amper an’ ’inder an’ scold men For fear o’ Stellenbosh! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="HALF-BALLAD_OF_WATERVAL">HALF-BALLAD OF WATERVAL102</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> When by the labour of my ’ands I’ve ’elped to pack a transport tight With prisoners for foreign lands, I ain’t transported with delight. I know it’s only just an’ right, But yet it somehow sickens me, For I ’ave learned at Waterval The meanin’ of captivity. </div> <div class="stanza"> Be’ind the pegged barb-wire strands, Beneath the tall electric light, We used to walk in bare-’ead bands, Explainin’ ’ow we lost our fight. An’ that is what they’ll do to-night Upon the steamer out at sea, If I ’ave learned at Waterval The meanin’ of captivity. </div> <div class="stanza"> They’ll never know the shame that brands— Black shame no livin’ down makes white, The mockin’ from the sentry-stands, The women’s laugh, the gaoler’s spite. We are too bloomin’ much polite, But that is ’ow I’d ’ave us be... Since I ’ave learned at Waterval The meanin’ of captivity. </div> <div class="stanza"> They’ll get those draggin’ days all right, Spent as a foreigner commands, An’ ’orrors of the locked-up night, With ’Ell’s own thinkin’ on their ’ands. I’d give the gold o’ twenty Rands (If it was mine) to set ’em free ... For I ’ave learned at Waterval The meanin’ of captivity! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="PIET">PIET104</h2></div> (REGULAR OF THE LINE) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap i"> I do not love my Empire’s foes, Nor call ’em angels; still, What is the sense of ’atin’ those ’Oom you are paid to kill? So, barrin’ all that foreign lot Which only joined for spite, Myself, I’d just as soon as not Respect the man I fight. Ah there, Piet!—’is trousies to ’is knees, ’Is coat-tails lyin’ level in the bullet-sprinkled breeze; ’E does not lose ’is rifle an’ ’e does not lose ’is seat, I’ve known a lot o’ people ride a dam’ sight worse than Piet! </div> <div class="stanza"> I’ve ’eard ’im cryin’ from the ground Like Abel’s blood of old, An’ skirmished out to look, an’ found The beggar nearly cold; I’ve waited on till ’e was dead (Which couldn’t ’elp ’im much), But many grateful things ’e’s said To me for doin’ such. Ah there, Piet! whose time ’as come to die, ’Is carcase past rebellion, but ’is eyes inquirin’ why. Though dressed in stolen uniform with badge o’ rank complete, I’ve known a lot o’ fellers go a dam’ sight worse than Piet. </div> <div class="stanza"> An’ when there wasn’t aught to do But camp and cattle-guards, I’ve fought with ’im the ’ole day through At fifteen ’undred yards; Long afternoons o’ lyin’ still, An’ ’earin’ as you lay The bullets swish from ’ill to ’ill Like scythes among the ’ay. Ah there, Piet!—be’ind ’is stony kop, With ’is Boer bread an’ biltong, an’ ’is flask of awful Dop; ’Is Mauser for amusement an’ ’is pony for retreat, I’ve known a lot o’ fellers shoot a dam’ sight worse than Piet. </div> <div class="stanza"> He’s shoved ’is rifle ’neath my nose Before I’d time to think, An’ borrowed all my Sunday clo’es An’ sent me ’ome in pink; An’ I ’ave crept (Lord, ’ow I’ve crept!) On ’ands an’ knees I’ve gone, And spoored and floored and caught and kept An’ sent him to Ceylon! Ah there, Piet!—you’ve sold me many a pup, When week on week alternate it was you an’ me ‘’ands up!’ But though I never made you walk man-naked in the ’eat, I’ve known a lot of fellows stalk a dam’ sight worse than Piet. </div> <div class="stanza"> From Plewman’s to Marabastad, From Ookiep to De Aar, Me an’ my trusty friend ’ave ’ad, As you might say, a war; But seein’ what both parties done Before ’e owned defeat, I ain’t more proud of ’avin’ won, Than I am pleased with Piet. Ah there, Piet!—picked up be’ind the drive! The wonder wasn’t ’ow ’e fought, but ’ow ’e kep’ alive, With nothin’ in ’is belly, on ’is back, or to ’is feet— I’ve known a lot o’ men behave a dam’ sight worse than Piet. </div> <div class="stanza"> No more I’ll ’ear ’is rifle crack Along the block’ouse fence— The beggar’s on the peaceful tack, Regardless of expense. For countin’ what ’e eats an’ draws, An’ gifts an’ loans as well, ’E’s gettin’ ’alf the Earth, because ’E didn’t give us ’Ell! Ah there, Piet! with your brand-new English plough, Your gratis tents an’ cattle, an’ your most ungrateful frow. You’ve made the British taxpayer rebuild your country-seat— I’ve known some pet battalions charge a dam’ sight less than Piet. </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="WILFUL-MISSING">‘WILFUL-MISSING’110</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> There is a world outside the one you know, To which for curiousness ’Ell can’t compare— It is the place where ‘wilful-missings’ go, As we can testify, for we are there. </div> <div class="stanza"> You may ’ave read a bullet laid us low, That we was gathered in ‘with reverent care’ And buried proper. But it was not so, As we can testify, for we are there. </div> <div class="stanza"> They can’t be certain—faces alter so After the old aasvogel’s ’ad ’is share; The uniform’s the mark by which they go— And—ain’t it odd?—the one we best can spare. </div> <div class="stanza"> We might ’ave seen our chance to cut the show— Name, number, record, an’ begin elsewhere— Leavin’ some not too late-lamented foe One funeral—private—British—for ’is share. </div> <div class="stanza"> We may ’ave took it yonder in the Low Bush-veldt that sends men stragglin’ unaware Among the Kaffirs, till their columns go, An’ they are left past call or count or care. </div> <div class="stanza"> We might ’ave been your lovers long ago, ’Usbands or children—comfort or despair. Our death (an’ burial) settles all we owe, An’ why we done it is our own affair. </div> <div class="stanza"> Marry again, and we will not say no, Nor come to bastardise the kids you bear: Wait on in ’ope—you’ve all your life below Before you’ll ever ’ear us on the stair. </div> <div class="stanza"> There is no need to give our reasons, though Gawd knows we all ’ad reasons which were fair; But other people might not judge ’em so, And now it doesn’t matter what they were. </div> <div class="stanza"> What man can size or weigh another’s woe? There are some things too bitter ’ard to bear. Suffice it we ’ave finished—Domino! As we can testify, for we are there, In the side-world where ‘wilful-missings’ go. </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="UBIQUE">UBIQUE113</h2></div> <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> There is a word you often see, pronounce it as you may— ‘You bike,’ ‘you bykwe,’ ‘ubbikwe’—alludin’ to R.A. It serves ’Orse, Field, an’ Garrison as motto for a crest, An’ when you’ve found out all it means I’ll tell you ’alf the rest. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ubique means the long-range Krupp be’ind the low-range ’ill— Ubique means you’ll pick it up an’ while you do stand still. Ubique means you’ve caught the flash an’ timed it by the sound. Ubique means five gunners’ ’ash before you’ve loosed a round. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ubique means Blue Fuse, an’ make the ’ole to sink the trail. Ubique means stand up an’ take the Mauser’s ’alf-mile ’ail. Ubique means the crazy team not God nor man can ’old. Ubique means that ’orse’s scream which turns your innards cold! </div> <div class="stanza"> Ubique means ‘Bank, ’Olborn, Bank—a penny all the way’— The soothin’, jingle-bump-an’-clank from day to peaceful day. Ubique means ‘They’ve caught De Wet, an’ now we shan’t be long.’ Ubique means ‘I much regret, the beggar’s goin’ strong!’ </div> <div class="stanza"> Ubique means the tearin’ drift where, breech-blocks jammed with mud, The khaki muzzles duck an’ lift across the khaki flood. Ubique means the dancing plain that changes rocks to Boers. Ubique means mirage again an’ shellin’ all outdoors. </div> <div class="stanza"> Ubique means ‘Entrain at once for Grootdefeatfontein’! Ubique means ‘Off-load your guns’—at midnight in the rain! Ubique means ‘More mounted men. Return all guns to store.’ Ubique means the R.A.M.R. Infantillery Corps! </div> <div class="stanza"> Ubique means that warnin’ grunt the perished linesman knows, When o’er ’is strung an’ sufferin’ front the shrapnel sprays ’is foes; An’ as their firin’ dies away the ’usky whisper runs From lips that ’aven’t drunk all day: ‘The Guns! Thank Gawd, the Guns!’ </div> <div class="stanza"> Extreme, depressed, point-blank or short, end-first or any’ow, From Colesberg Kop to Quagga’s Poort—from Ninety-Nine till now— By what I’ve ’eard the others tell an’ I in spots ’ave seen, There’s nothin’ this side ’Eaven or ’Ell Ubique doesn’t mean! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="THE_RETURN">THE RETURN117</h2></div> (ALL ARMS) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> Peace is declared, an’ I return To ’Ackneystadt, but not the same; Things ’ave transpired which made me learn The size and meanin’ of the game. I did no more than others did, I don’t know where the change began; I started as a average kid, I finished as a thinkin’ man. </div> <div class="stanza italic"> If England was what England seems, An’ not the England of our dreams, But only putty, brass, an’ paint, ’Ow quick we’d drop ’er! But she ain’t! </div> <div class="stanza"> Before my gappin’ mouth could speak I ’eard it in my comrade’s tone; I saw it on my neighbour’s cheek Before I felt it flush my own. An’ last it come to me—not pride, Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole (If such a term may be applied), The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul. </div> <div class="stanza"> Rivers at night that cluck an’ jeer, Plains which the moonshine turns to sea, Mountains that never let you near, An’ stars to all eternity; An’ the quick-breathin’ dark that fills The ’ollows of the wilderness, When the wind worries through the ’ills— These may ’ave taught me more or less. </div> <div class="stanza"> Towns without people, ten times took, An’ ten times left an’ burned at last; An’ starvin’ dogs that come to look For owners when a column passed; An’ quiet, ’omesick talks between Men, met by night, you never knew Until—’is face—by shellfire seen— Once—an’ struck off. They taught me too. </div> <div class="stanza"> The day’s lay-out—the mornin’ sun Beneath your ’at-brim as you sight; The dinner-’ush from noon till one, An’ the full roar that lasts till night; An’ the pore dead that look so old An’ was so young an hour ago, An’ legs tied down before they’re cold— These are the things which make you know. </div> <div class="stanza"> Also Time runnin’ into years— A thousand Places left be’ind— An’ Men from both two ’emispheres Discussin’ things of every kind; So much more near than I ’ad known, So much more great than I ’ad guessed— An’ me, like all the rest, alone— But reachin’ out to all the rest! </div> <div class="stanza"> So ’ath it come to me—not pride, Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole (If such a term may be applied), The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul. But now, discharged, I fall away To do with little things again.... Gawd, ’oo knows all I cannot say, Look after me in Thamesfontein! </div> <div class="stanza italic"> If England was what England seems, An’ not the England of our dreams, But only putty, brass, an’ paint, ’Ow quick we’d chuck ’er! But she ain’t! </div> </div></div> <hr /> <h2 id="RECESSIONAL">RECESSIONAL121</h2></div> (1897) <div class="poem-container"> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza drop-cap"> God of our fathers, known of old, Lord of our far-flung battle-line, Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! </div> <div class="stanza"> The tumult and the shouting dies; The captains and the kings depart: Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! </div> <div class="stanza"> Far-called, our navies melt away; On dune and headland sinks the fire: Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! </div> <div class="stanza"> If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe, Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! </div> <div class="stanza"> For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard, All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word— Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! </div> <div class="stanza"> Amen. </div> </div></div> Printed by T. and A. Constable, Printers to His Majesty at the Edinburgh University Press <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.