Buch lesen: «Verses 1889-1896»

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES

1889-1891

TO WOLCOTT BALESTIER

 
  Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled —
  Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled —
  Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world.
 
 
  They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays,
  They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days,
  It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth our Father’s praise.
 
 
  ‘Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael’s outposts are,
  Or buffet a path through the Pit’s red wrath when God goes out to war,
  Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star.
 
 
  They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth —
            they dare not grieve for her pain —
  They know of toil and the end of toil, they know God’s law is plain,
  So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that Sin is vain.
 
 
  And ofttimes cometh our wise Lord God, master of every trade,
  And tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made;
  And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid.
 
 
  To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame —
  Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame,
  Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother’s spirit came.
 
 
  He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth —
  E’en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth,
  In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth.
 
 
  So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high
  And made him place at the banquet board – the Strong Men ranged thereby,
  Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die.
 
 
  Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled,
  Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled,
  Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world.
 

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

 
     To T. A.
         I have made for you a song,
         And it may be right or wrong,
     But only you can tell me if it’s true;
         I have tried for to explain
         Both your pleasure and your pain,
     And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to you!
 
 
         O there’ll surely come a day
         When they’ll give you all your pay,
     And treat you as a Christian ought to do;
         So, until that day comes round,
         Heaven keep you safe and sound,
     And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to you!
 

R. K.

DANNY DEEVER

 
  “What are the bugles blowin’ for?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “To turn you out, to turn you out”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
  “What makes you look so white, so white?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
      For they’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
      The regiment’s in ‘ollow square – they’re hangin’ him to-day;
      They’ve taken of his buttons off an’ cut his stripes away,
      An’ they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.
 
 
  “What makes the rear-rank breathe so ‘ard?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “It’s bitter cold, it’s bitter cold”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
  “What makes that front-rank man fall down?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “A touch o’ sun, a touch o’ sun”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
      They are hangin’ Danny Deever, they are marchin’ of ‘im round,
      They ‘ave ‘alted Danny Deever by ‘is coffin on the ground;
      An’ ‘e’ll swing in ‘arf a minute for a sneakin’ shootin’ hound —
      O they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!
 
 
  “‘Is cot was right-’and cot to mine”, said Files-on-Parade.
  “‘E’s sleepin’ out an’ far to-night”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
  “I’ve drunk ‘is beer a score o’ times”, said Files-on-Parade.
  “‘E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
      They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark ‘im to ‘is place,
      For ‘e shot a comrade sleepin’ – you must look ‘im in the face;
      Nine ‘undred of ‘is county an’ the regiment’s disgrace,
      While they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.
 
 
  “What’s that so black agin’ the sun?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “It’s Danny fightin’ ‘ard for life”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
  “What’s that that whimpers over’ead?” said Files-on-Parade.
  “It’s Danny’s soul that’s passin’ now”, the Colour-Sergeant said.
      For they’re done with Danny Deever, you can ‘ear the quickstep play,
      The regiment’s in column, an’ they’re marchin’ us away;
      Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they’ll want their beer to-day,
      After hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.
 

TOMMY

 
  I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
  The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
   The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
  I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
      O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
      But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,
      The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
      O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.
 
 
  I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
  They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;
  They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
  But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
      For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
      But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
      The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
      O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.
 
 
  Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
  Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
  An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
  Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
      Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ‘ow’s yer soul?”
       But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
      The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
      O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.
 
 
  We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
  But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
  An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
  Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;
      While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind”,
      But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind,
      There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
      O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind.
 
 
  You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
  We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
  Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
  The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
      For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
       But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
      An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
      An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool – you bet that Tommy sees!
 

“FUZZY-WUZZY”

 
(Soudan Expeditionary Force)
  We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas,
    An’ some of ‘em was brave an’ some was not:
  The Paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese;
    But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot.
  We never got a ha’porth’s change of ‘im:
    ‘E squatted in the scrub an’ ‘ocked our ‘orses,
  ‘E cut our sentries up at Suakim,
    An’ ‘e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces.
      So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ‘ome in the Soudan;
      You’re a pore benighted ‘eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;
      We gives you your certificate, an’ if you want it signed
      We’ll come an’ ‘ave a romp with you whenever you’re inclined.
 
 
  We took our chanst among the Khyber ‘ills,
    The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
  The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
    An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style:
  But all we ever got from such as they
    Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
  We ‘eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say,
    But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ‘oller.
      Then ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid;
      Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went an’ did.
      We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it wasn’t ‘ardly fair;
      But for all the odds agin’ you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.
 
 
  ‘E ‘asn’t got no papers of ‘is own,
    ‘E ‘asn’t got no medals nor rewards,
  So we must certify the skill ‘e’s shown
    In usin’ of ‘is long two-’anded swords:
  When ‘e’s ‘oppin’ in an’ out among the bush
    With ‘is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear,
  An ‘appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
    Will last an ‘ealthy Tommy for a year.
      So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which are no more,
      If we ‘adn’t lost some messmates we would ‘elp you to deplore;
      But give an’ take’s the gospel, an’ we’ll call the bargain fair,
      For if you ‘ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!
 
 
  ‘E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
    An’, before we know, ‘e’s ‘ackin’ at our ‘ead;
  ‘E’s all ‘ot sand an’ ginger when alive,
    An’ ‘e’s generally shammin’ when ‘e’s dead.
  ‘E’s a daisy, ‘e’s a ducky, ‘e’s a lamb!
    ‘E’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
  ‘E’s the on’y thing that doesn’t give a damn
    For a Regiment o’ British Infantree!
      So ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ‘ome in the Soudan;
      You’re a pore benighted ‘eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;
      An’ ‘ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ‘ayrick ‘ead of ‘air —
      You big black boundin’ beggar – for you broke a British square!
 

SOLDIER, SOLDIER

 
  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  Why don’t you march with my true love?”
   “We’re fresh from off the ship an’ ‘e’s maybe give the slip,
  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”
       New love!  True love!
      Best go look for a new love,
      The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,
      An’ you’d best go look for a new love.
 
 
  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  What did you see o’ my true love?”
   “I seed ‘im serve the Queen in a suit o’ rifle-green,
  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”
 
 
  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  Did ye see no more o’ my true love?”
   “I seed ‘im runnin’ by when the shots begun to fly —
  But you’d best go look for a new love.”
 
 
  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  Did aught take ‘arm to my true love?”
   “I couldn’t see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white —
  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”
 
 
  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  I’ll up an’ tend to my true love!”
   “‘E’s lying on the dead with a bullet through ‘is ‘ead,
  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”
 
 
  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  I’ll down an’ die with my true love!”
   “The pit we dug’ll ‘ide ‘im an’ the twenty men beside ‘im —
  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”
 
 
  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  Do you bring no sign from my true love?”
   “I bring a lock of ‘air that ‘e allus used to wear,
  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”
 
 
  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
  O then I know it’s true I’ve lost my true love!”
   “An’ I tell you truth again – when you’ve lost the feel o’ pain
  You’d best take me for your true love.”
       True love!  New love!
      Best take ‘im for a new love,
      The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,
      An’ you’d best take ‘im for your true love.
 

SCREW-GUNS

 
  Smokin’ my pipe on the mountings, sniffin’ the mornin’ cool,
  I walks in my old brown gaiters along o’ my old brown mule,
  With seventy gunners be’ind me, an’ never a beggar forgets
  It’s only the pick of the Army
            that handles the dear little pets – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns – the screw-guns they all love you!
      So when we call round with a few guns,
                o’ course you will know what to do – hoo! hoo!
      Jest send in your Chief an’ surrender —
                it’s worse if you fights or you runs:
      You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees,
                but you don’t get away from the guns!
 
 
  They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where they ain’t:
  We’d climb up the side of a sign-board an’ trust to the stick o’ the paint:
  We’ve chivied the Naga an’ Looshai, we’ve give the Afreedeeman fits,
  For we fancies ourselves at two thousand,
            we guns that are built in two bits – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns.
 
 
  If a man doesn’t work, why, we drills ‘im an’ teaches ‘im ‘ow to behave;
  If a beggar can’t march, why, we kills ‘im an’ rattles ‘im into ‘is grave.
  You’ve got to stand up to our business an’ spring without snatchin’ or fuss.
  D’you say that you sweat with the field-guns?
            By God, you must lather with us – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns.
 
 
  The eagles is screamin’ around us, the river’s a-moanin’ below,
  We’re clear o’ the pine an’ the oak-scrub,
            we’re out on the rocks an’ the snow,
  An’ the wind is as thin as a whip-lash what carries away to the plains
  The rattle an’ stamp o’ the lead-mules —
            the jinglety-jink o’ the chains – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns.
 
 
  There’s a wheel on the Horns o’ the Mornin’,
            an’ a wheel on the edge o’ the Pit,
  An’ a drop into nothin’ beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit:
  With the sweat runnin’ out o’ your shirt-sleeves,
            an’ the sun off the snow in your face,
  An’ ‘arf o’ the men on the drag-ropes
            to hold the old gun in ‘er place – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns.
 
 
  Smokin’ my pipe on the mountings, sniffin’ the mornin’ cool,
  I climbs in my old brown gaiters along o’ my old brown mule.
  The monkey can say what our road was —
            the wild-goat ‘e knows where we passed.
  Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin’s!
            Out drag-ropes!  With shrapnel!  Hold fast – ‘Tss! ‘Tss!
      For you all love the screw-guns – the screw-guns they all love you!
      So when we take tea with a few guns,
                o’ course you will know what to do – hoo! hoo!
      Jest send in your Chief an’ surrender —
                it’s worse if you fights or you runs:
      You may hide in the caves, they’ll be only your graves,
                but you can’t get away from the guns!
 

CELLS

 
  I’ve a head like a concertina:  I’ve a tongue like a button-stick:
  I’ve a mouth like an old potato, and I’m more than a little sick,
  But I’ve had my fun o’ the Corp’ral’s Guard:  I’ve made the cinders fly,
  And I’m here in the Clink for a thundering drink
            and blacking the Corporal’s eye.
      With a second-hand overcoat under my head,
      And a beautiful view of the yard,
    O it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.
      For “drunk and resisting the Guard!”
       Mad drunk and resisting the Guard —
      ‘Strewth, but I socked it them hard!
    So it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.
      For “drunk and resisting the Guard.”
 
 
  I started o’ canteen porter, I finished o’ canteen beer,
  But a dose o’ gin that a mate slipped in, it was that that brought me here.
  ‘Twas that and an extry double Guard that rubbed my nose in the dirt;
  But I fell away with the Corp’ral’s stock
            and the best of the Corp’ral’s shirt.
 
 
  I left my cap in a public-house, my boots in the public road,
  And Lord knows where, and I don’t care, my belt and my tunic goed;
  They’ll stop my pay, they’ll cut away the stripes I used to wear,
  But I left my mark on the Corp’ral’s face, and I think he’ll keep it there!
 
 
  My wife she cries on the barrack-gate, my kid in the barrack-yard,
  It ain’t that I mind the Ord’ly room – it’s that that cuts so hard.
  I’ll take my oath before them both that I will sure abstain,
  But as soon as I’m in with a mate and gin, I know I’ll do it again!
      With a second-hand overcoat under my head,
      And a beautiful view of the yard,
    Yes, it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.
      For “drunk and resisting the Guard!”
       Mad drunk and resisting the Guard —
      ‘Strewth, but I socked it them hard!
    So it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.
      For “drunk and resisting the Guard.”
 

GUNGA DIN

 
  You may talk o’ gin and beer
  When you’re quartered safe out ‘ere,
  An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
  But when it comes to slaughter
  You will do your work on water,
  An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ‘im that’s got it.
  Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
  Where I used to spend my time
  A-servin’ of ‘Er Majesty the Queen,
  Of all them blackfaced crew
  The finest man I knew
  Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
        He was “Din! Din! Din!
    You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
        Hi! slippery hitherao!
        Water, get it!  Panee lao!                   [Bring water swiftly.]
    You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”
 
 
  The uniform ‘e wore
  Was nothin’ much before,
  An’ rather less than ‘arf o’ that be’ind,
  For a piece o’ twisty rag
  An’ a goatskin water-bag
  Was all the field-equipment ‘e could find.
  When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
  In a sidin’ through the day,
  Where the ‘eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
  We shouted “Harry By!”           [Mr. Atkins’s equivalent for “O brother.”]
  Till our throats were bricky-dry,
  Then we wopped ‘im ‘cause ‘e couldn’t serve us all.
        It was “Din! Din! Din!
    You ‘eathen, where the mischief ‘ave you been?
        You put some juldee in it                               [Be quick.]
        Or I’ll marrow you this minute                           [Hit you.]
    If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”
 
 
  ‘E would dot an’ carry one
  Till the longest day was done;
  An’ ‘e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
  If we charged or broke or cut,
  You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
  ‘E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
  With ‘is mussick on ‘is back,                               [Water-skin.]
  ‘E would skip with our attack,
  An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire”,
  An’ for all ‘is dirty ‘ide
  ‘E was white, clear white, inside
  When ‘e went to tend the wounded under fire!
        It was “Din! Din! Din!”
     With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
        When the cartridges ran out,
        You could hear the front-files shout,
    “Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”
 
 
  I shan’t forgit the night
  When I dropped be’ind the fight
  With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‘a’ been.
  I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
  An’ the man that spied me first
  Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
  ‘E lifted up my ‘ead,
  An’ he plugged me where I bled,
  An’ ‘e guv me ‘arf-a-pint o’ water-green:
  It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
  But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
  I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
        It was “Din! Din! Din!
    ‘Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ‘is spleen;
        ‘E’s chawin’ up the ground,
        An’ ‘e’s kickin’ all around:
    For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!”
 
 
  ‘E carried me away
  To where a dooli lay,
  An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
  ‘E put me safe inside,
  An’ just before ‘e died,
  “I ‘ope you liked your drink”, sez Gunga Din.
  So I’ll meet ‘im later on
  At the place where ‘e is gone —
  Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;
  ‘E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
  Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
  An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
        Yes, Din! Din! Din!
    You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
        Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
        By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
    You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
 

OONTS

 
(Northern India Transport Train)
  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 a everlastin’ road
  For the commissariat camel an’ ‘is commissariat load.
      O the oont¹, 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.