The seaward lights are veiled, The spent deep feigns her rest: But my ear is laid to her breast, I lift to the swell—I cry! Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! At the careless end of night I thrill to the nearing screw; I turn in the clearing light And I call to the drowsy crew; And the mud boils foul and blue As the blind bow backs away. Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not they! The beach-pools cake and skim, The bursting spray-heads freeze, I gather on crown and rim The grey, grained ice of the seas, Where, sheathed from bitt to trees, The plunging colliers lie. Would I barter my place for the Church's grace? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! Through the blur of the whirling snow, Or the black of the inky sleet, "Ready about-stand by!" Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! I dip and I surge and I swing In the rip of the racing tide, By the gates of doom I sing, On the horns of death I ride. A ship-length overside, Between the course and the sand, Fretted and bound I bide Peril whereof I cry. Would I change with my brother a league inland? (Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I! Mandalay By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: "Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay, An' the dawn comes up like thunder 'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat-jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o' mud Wot they called the Great Gawd Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!" With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the In the sludgy, squdgy creek, was 'arf afraid to speak! ... Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; On the road to Mandalay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! O the road to Mandalay, An' the dawn comes up like thunder The 'Eathen THE 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone; 'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own; 'E keeps 'is side-arms awful: 'e leaves 'em all about, An' then comes up the Regiment an' pokes the 'eathen out. All along o' dirtiness, all along o' mess, All along o' doin' things rather-more-orless, All along of abby-nay, kul, an' hazar-ho, Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so! The young recruit is 'aughty-'e draf's from Gawd knows where; They bid 'im show 'is stockin's an' lay 'is mattress square; 'E calls it bloomin' nonsense-'e doesn't know, no more An' then up comes 'is Company an' kicks 'im round the floor! The young recruit is 'ammered-'e takes it very hard; 'E 'angs 'is 'ead an' mutters-'e sulks about the yard; 'E talks o' "cruel tyrants" which 'e'll swing for by-an'-by, An' the others 'ears an' mocks 'im, an' the boy goes orf to cry. The young recruit is silly-'e thinks o' suicide; 'E's lost 'is gutter-devil; 'e 'asn't got 'is pride; But day by day they kicks 'im, which 'elps 'im on a bit, Till 'e finds 'isself one mornin' with a full an' proper kit. Gettin' clear o' dirtiness, gettin' done with mess, Gettin' shut o' doin' things rather-moreor-less; Me that 'ave rode through the dark Me! Me that saw Barberton took their 'ead, An' they 'ove the guns over and fled- 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! 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 with the sky for my roof- Me! I will arise an' get 'ence ;- For I know of a sun an' a wind, An' some plains and a mountain be'ind, 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, Me! LIONEL JOHNSON (1867-1902) By the Statue of King Charles at SOMBRE and rich, the skies; The splendid silence clings Comely and calm, he rides Gone, too, his Court; and yet, The stars his courtiers are: Stars in their stations set; And every wandering star. Alone he rides, alone, That strange and solemn thing. Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies? Although his whole heart yearn Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends. Brief life, and hapless? Nay: Armoured he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom: He triumphs now, the dead, Beholding London's gloom. Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world's employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy. King, tried in fires of woe! Men hunger for thy grace: And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face. Yet, when the city sleeps; When all the cries are still: The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will. |