Pay-day’s done and I’ve had my little fun—I’ve had my monthly row—And they put me in “the mill” and they told me, “Peace be still,”And—I am on the Water-wagon now.Oh I’m on the Water-wagon and the time is surely draggin’And I’m thirsty as I can be;And I’m nursing of an eye that I got for being fly,And I’m bunking back o’ bars exclusively.Now wouldn’t it upset you—now wouldn’t it afret youIf they jugged you ’cause you got a little tight,And a zig-zag course you laid when doing Dress Parade,And you really thought Guide Right wasColumnRight.Oh I’m on the Water-wagon but the trial is surely laggin’And I’m dryer than the Arizona dust,And my throat is full o’ hay and I’m choppin’ wood all day‘Cause the Sergeant of the Guard, he says I must.The Jug is rank and slummy and I’m sitting like a dummyLooking over at the barracks where I hear the mess-tins clang:And the fool I am comes o’er me, as I chant the same old story,The Ballad of the Guard-house—until I go and hang:—“Oh I’m on the Water-wagon, you’ll never see me saggin’,I am glued and tied and fastened to the seat ...”And I hear the fellers snicker where the two lone candles flicker,And I shut-up like a soldier—with the Ballad incomplete.
Pay-day’s done and I’ve had my little fun—I’ve had my monthly row—And they put me in “the mill” and they told me, “Peace be still,”And—I am on the Water-wagon now.Oh I’m on the Water-wagon and the time is surely draggin’And I’m thirsty as I can be;And I’m nursing of an eye that I got for being fly,And I’m bunking back o’ bars exclusively.Now wouldn’t it upset you—now wouldn’t it afret youIf they jugged you ’cause you got a little tight,And a zig-zag course you laid when doing Dress Parade,And you really thought Guide Right wasColumnRight.Oh I’m on the Water-wagon but the trial is surely laggin’And I’m dryer than the Arizona dust,And my throat is full o’ hay and I’m choppin’ wood all day‘Cause the Sergeant of the Guard, he says I must.The Jug is rank and slummy and I’m sitting like a dummyLooking over at the barracks where I hear the mess-tins clang:And the fool I am comes o’er me, as I chant the same old story,The Ballad of the Guard-house—until I go and hang:—“Oh I’m on the Water-wagon, you’ll never see me saggin’,I am glued and tied and fastened to the seat ...”And I hear the fellers snicker where the two lone candles flicker,And I shut-up like a soldier—with the Ballad incomplete.
Pay-day’s done and I’ve had my little fun—I’ve had my monthly row—And they put me in “the mill” and they told me, “Peace be still,”And—I am on the Water-wagon now.
Oh I’m on the Water-wagon and the time is surely draggin’And I’m thirsty as I can be;And I’m nursing of an eye that I got for being fly,And I’m bunking back o’ bars exclusively.
Now wouldn’t it upset you—now wouldn’t it afret youIf they jugged you ’cause you got a little tight,And a zig-zag course you laid when doing Dress Parade,And you really thought Guide Right wasColumnRight.
Oh I’m on the Water-wagon but the trial is surely laggin’And I’m dryer than the Arizona dust,And my throat is full o’ hay and I’m choppin’ wood all day‘Cause the Sergeant of the Guard, he says I must.
The Jug is rank and slummy and I’m sitting like a dummyLooking over at the barracks where I hear the mess-tins clang:And the fool I am comes o’er me, as I chant the same old story,The Ballad of the Guard-house—until I go and hang:—
“Oh I’m on the Water-wagon, you’ll never see me saggin’,I am glued and tied and fastened to the seat ...”And I hear the fellers snicker where the two lone candles flicker,And I shut-up like a soldier—with the Ballad incomplete.
I’ve hiked a trail where the last marks failAnd the vine-choked jungles yawn,I’ve doubled-out on a dirty scoutTwo hours before the dawn,I’ve done my drill when the palms hung stillAnd the rations nearly gone.I’ve soldier’d in Pinar del Rio—In ’Frisco and Aparri—I’ve lifted their lights through the tropic nightsO’er the breast of a golden sea,But this is surely the craziest puzzleThat ever has puzzled me.It’s this. I’m here in CubaWhere the royal palms swing high,And the White Man’s plantations of all o’ the NationsAre scattered ahither and nighAnd the native galoot whomustrevoluteThough no one can tell you just why.And when I go mapping the mountain and valeOr a practice-march happens my way,Each planter I meet is lovely and sweetAnd setteth them up right away,“And won’t I come in and how’ve I been?”And—“How long do I think the troops stay?”They never besprinkled my bosomWhen I soldier’d over home,Nor clasped me in glee when I came from the seaWhere the Seal Rock breakers comb,Or stamped on a strike and scattered them wideLike the scud of the back-set foam.When I saved ’em their stinking IslandsThey cursed me for being rough:(They wouldn’t dare to have soldier’d thereBut they called me brutal and tough.I had done their work and the land was theirs,Which I reckon was nearly enough).They never enthuse over khaki or “blues”Anywhere else I’ve been.They never go wild and bless the childAnd say “Oh Willie come in.”Though on my soul, I’m damned if I seeJust where is the Cardinal Sin.I’m only a buck o’ the rank and fileAs stupid as I can be,So this is the craziest puzzleThat ever has puzzled me.(I’m perfectly dry but Imustbat an eye,For you think that I cannot see.)
I’ve hiked a trail where the last marks failAnd the vine-choked jungles yawn,I’ve doubled-out on a dirty scoutTwo hours before the dawn,I’ve done my drill when the palms hung stillAnd the rations nearly gone.I’ve soldier’d in Pinar del Rio—In ’Frisco and Aparri—I’ve lifted their lights through the tropic nightsO’er the breast of a golden sea,But this is surely the craziest puzzleThat ever has puzzled me.It’s this. I’m here in CubaWhere the royal palms swing high,And the White Man’s plantations of all o’ the NationsAre scattered ahither and nighAnd the native galoot whomustrevoluteThough no one can tell you just why.And when I go mapping the mountain and valeOr a practice-march happens my way,Each planter I meet is lovely and sweetAnd setteth them up right away,“And won’t I come in and how’ve I been?”And—“How long do I think the troops stay?”They never besprinkled my bosomWhen I soldier’d over home,Nor clasped me in glee when I came from the seaWhere the Seal Rock breakers comb,Or stamped on a strike and scattered them wideLike the scud of the back-set foam.When I saved ’em their stinking IslandsThey cursed me for being rough:(They wouldn’t dare to have soldier’d thereBut they called me brutal and tough.I had done their work and the land was theirs,Which I reckon was nearly enough).They never enthuse over khaki or “blues”Anywhere else I’ve been.They never go wild and bless the childAnd say “Oh Willie come in.”Though on my soul, I’m damned if I seeJust where is the Cardinal Sin.I’m only a buck o’ the rank and fileAs stupid as I can be,So this is the craziest puzzleThat ever has puzzled me.(I’m perfectly dry but Imustbat an eye,For you think that I cannot see.)
I’ve hiked a trail where the last marks failAnd the vine-choked jungles yawn,I’ve doubled-out on a dirty scoutTwo hours before the dawn,I’ve done my drill when the palms hung stillAnd the rations nearly gone.
I’ve soldier’d in Pinar del Rio—In ’Frisco and Aparri—I’ve lifted their lights through the tropic nightsO’er the breast of a golden sea,But this is surely the craziest puzzleThat ever has puzzled me.
It’s this. I’m here in CubaWhere the royal palms swing high,And the White Man’s plantations of all o’ the NationsAre scattered ahither and nighAnd the native galoot whomustrevoluteThough no one can tell you just why.
And when I go mapping the mountain and valeOr a practice-march happens my way,Each planter I meet is lovely and sweetAnd setteth them up right away,“And won’t I come in and how’ve I been?”And—“How long do I think the troops stay?”
They never besprinkled my bosomWhen I soldier’d over home,Nor clasped me in glee when I came from the seaWhere the Seal Rock breakers comb,Or stamped on a strike and scattered them wideLike the scud of the back-set foam.
When I saved ’em their stinking IslandsThey cursed me for being rough:(They wouldn’t dare to have soldier’d thereBut they called me brutal and tough.I had done their work and the land was theirs,Which I reckon was nearly enough).
They never enthuse over khaki or “blues”Anywhere else I’ve been.They never go wild and bless the childAnd say “Oh Willie come in.”Though on my soul, I’m damned if I seeJust where is the Cardinal Sin.
I’m only a buck o’ the rank and fileAs stupid as I can be,So this is the craziest puzzleThat ever has puzzled me.(I’m perfectly dry but Imustbat an eye,For you think that I cannot see.)
We’re walking our post like a little tin soldier,Backward and forward we go,By the Solitary’s cell, which assuredly is hell—It’s five foot square you know.The boy was all right but he would get tightWhen pay-day came around;And the non-com he hated was thereupon slatedTo measure 5-10 on the ground.Oh yes,we’vebeen in the calaboose,We’ve doneourturn in the jug;’Cause the fellow we lick must go raise a kick—The dirty, cowardly mug.His heart was all right and his arm was all right,But it’s fearful what drink will do:And the corporal he hit with the butt of a gunAnd nigh put the corporal through.It’s way against orders, it’s awful, I know,They’d jug me myself—what’s more—But I must slip the beggar a chew and a smokeJust under the jamb of the door.He’s bound to get Ten and a Bob for sureAbreaking stone on the Isle,So they fastened ’im fair in a five foot squareTill the day that they give ’im a trial.Oh the Corporal o’ the Guard is a wakeful man—My duty is written plain,But the Solitary there in his cramped and lonely lair,It’s enough to drive a man insane.He’s time to repent for the money that he spentAnd the temper that cursed him too,When he’s breaking rock all day by the shores o’ ’Frisco BayWhere he sees the happy homeward-bounds come through.Shall we risk it—shall we risk it—heart o’ mine?Ohdamnthe Corporal of the Guard.While we slip “the makings” under to the Solitary’s wonder,And the whispered thanks come back—“God bless you, pard.”
We’re walking our post like a little tin soldier,Backward and forward we go,By the Solitary’s cell, which assuredly is hell—It’s five foot square you know.The boy was all right but he would get tightWhen pay-day came around;And the non-com he hated was thereupon slatedTo measure 5-10 on the ground.Oh yes,we’vebeen in the calaboose,We’ve doneourturn in the jug;’Cause the fellow we lick must go raise a kick—The dirty, cowardly mug.His heart was all right and his arm was all right,But it’s fearful what drink will do:And the corporal he hit with the butt of a gunAnd nigh put the corporal through.It’s way against orders, it’s awful, I know,They’d jug me myself—what’s more—But I must slip the beggar a chew and a smokeJust under the jamb of the door.He’s bound to get Ten and a Bob for sureAbreaking stone on the Isle,So they fastened ’im fair in a five foot squareTill the day that they give ’im a trial.Oh the Corporal o’ the Guard is a wakeful man—My duty is written plain,But the Solitary there in his cramped and lonely lair,It’s enough to drive a man insane.He’s time to repent for the money that he spentAnd the temper that cursed him too,When he’s breaking rock all day by the shores o’ ’Frisco BayWhere he sees the happy homeward-bounds come through.Shall we risk it—shall we risk it—heart o’ mine?Ohdamnthe Corporal of the Guard.While we slip “the makings” under to the Solitary’s wonder,And the whispered thanks come back—“God bless you, pard.”
We’re walking our post like a little tin soldier,Backward and forward we go,By the Solitary’s cell, which assuredly is hell—It’s five foot square you know.
The boy was all right but he would get tightWhen pay-day came around;And the non-com he hated was thereupon slatedTo measure 5-10 on the ground.
Oh yes,we’vebeen in the calaboose,We’ve doneourturn in the jug;’Cause the fellow we lick must go raise a kick—The dirty, cowardly mug.
His heart was all right and his arm was all right,But it’s fearful what drink will do:And the corporal he hit with the butt of a gunAnd nigh put the corporal through.
It’s way against orders, it’s awful, I know,They’d jug me myself—what’s more—But I must slip the beggar a chew and a smokeJust under the jamb of the door.
He’s bound to get Ten and a Bob for sureAbreaking stone on the Isle,So they fastened ’im fair in a five foot squareTill the day that they give ’im a trial.
Oh the Corporal o’ the Guard is a wakeful man—My duty is written plain,But the Solitary there in his cramped and lonely lair,It’s enough to drive a man insane.
He’s time to repent for the money that he spentAnd the temper that cursed him too,When he’s breaking rock all day by the shores o’ ’Frisco BayWhere he sees the happy homeward-bounds come through.
Shall we risk it—shall we risk it—heart o’ mine?Ohdamnthe Corporal of the Guard.While we slip “the makings” under to the Solitary’s wonder,And the whispered thanks come back—“God bless you, pard.”
The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—Do tell!The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—The Sultan of Jolo of great renown—And he’s dressed like a general and walks like a clownAs well.The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—My word!The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—(Don’t call ’im a grafter or chicken-thief,For you’ll surely come to your grief,If heard).The Sultan of Jolo’ssucha stride,And style!The Sultan of Jolo’ssucha stride,And his skin’s the color of rhino hide,And he cheweth betel-nut beside:(Oh vile!)The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot—You bet.The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot,So we line the scorching streets and salute,(“Presenting Arms” to the royal boot),And sweat.The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king—I sayThe Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged kingAs down the regiment’s front they swing,He and his Escort—wing and wing:Hurray!The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight,In truth.The Sultan of Jolo feels his weightAs he marches by in regal stateWith Major Sour and all The Great,Forsooth.The Sultan proudly treads the earthWith “cuz.”The Sultan proudly treads the earthO’ershadowed by the Major’s girth,But he knows just what the Major’s worth:He does.The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—(Don’t quiz).The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—An honest, virtuous gentleman—And he’s rated high in Washington—He is.The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird—Whoopee!The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird,But we in our ignorance pledge our wordHis asinine plumage is absurdTo see.The Sultan and Major Sour areSuch chums:The Sultan and Major Sour areSo wrapped in love exceeding par,That war shall never war-time mar——what comes.(The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right—Yo ho!The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right,As sure as daytime follows night,That Major Sour wouldn’t fight:Lord—no!)The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise—(And weeds).The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise,In spite of innocent, bovine eyes,And the soothing tongue o’ the Eastern skiesAnd creeds.The Sultan of Jolo passeth by—Oh Lor’!The Sultan of Jolo passeth by,But we in the ranks can’t wink an eye,Though we think we know the Reasons Why,And more.The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat—(Have a care!)The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat,But Nature’s surely the cause of that;And he’s salaried high—and sleek and fat—So there!The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee—Why not?The Sultan of Jolo laughs in gleeAs his wages come across the seaFrom those whohatepolygamy—God wot!Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt—He is.Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt,His chest and his sleeves and his good sword hilt,And he knows the lines on which are built—Hisbiz.
The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—Do tell!The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—The Sultan of Jolo of great renown—And he’s dressed like a general and walks like a clownAs well.The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—My word!The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—(Don’t call ’im a grafter or chicken-thief,For you’ll surely come to your grief,If heard).The Sultan of Jolo’ssucha stride,And style!The Sultan of Jolo’ssucha stride,And his skin’s the color of rhino hide,And he cheweth betel-nut beside:(Oh vile!)The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot—You bet.The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot,So we line the scorching streets and salute,(“Presenting Arms” to the royal boot),And sweat.The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king—I sayThe Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged kingAs down the regiment’s front they swing,He and his Escort—wing and wing:Hurray!The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight,In truth.The Sultan of Jolo feels his weightAs he marches by in regal stateWith Major Sour and all The Great,Forsooth.The Sultan proudly treads the earthWith “cuz.”The Sultan proudly treads the earthO’ershadowed by the Major’s girth,But he knows just what the Major’s worth:He does.The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—(Don’t quiz).The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—An honest, virtuous gentleman—And he’s rated high in Washington—He is.The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird—Whoopee!The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird,But we in our ignorance pledge our wordHis asinine plumage is absurdTo see.The Sultan and Major Sour areSuch chums:The Sultan and Major Sour areSo wrapped in love exceeding par,That war shall never war-time mar——what comes.(The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right—Yo ho!The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right,As sure as daytime follows night,That Major Sour wouldn’t fight:Lord—no!)The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise—(And weeds).The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise,In spite of innocent, bovine eyes,And the soothing tongue o’ the Eastern skiesAnd creeds.The Sultan of Jolo passeth by—Oh Lor’!The Sultan of Jolo passeth by,But we in the ranks can’t wink an eye,Though we think we know the Reasons Why,And more.The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat—(Have a care!)The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat,But Nature’s surely the cause of that;And he’s salaried high—and sleek and fat—So there!The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee—Why not?The Sultan of Jolo laughs in gleeAs his wages come across the seaFrom those whohatepolygamy—God wot!Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt—He is.Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt,His chest and his sleeves and his good sword hilt,And he knows the lines on which are built—Hisbiz.
The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—Do tell!The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—The Sultan of Jolo of great renown—And he’s dressed like a general and walks like a clownAs well.
The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—My word!The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—(Don’t call ’im a grafter or chicken-thief,For you’ll surely come to your grief,If heard).
The Sultan of Jolo’ssucha stride,And style!The Sultan of Jolo’ssucha stride,And his skin’s the color of rhino hide,And he cheweth betel-nut beside:(Oh vile!)
The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot—You bet.The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot,So we line the scorching streets and salute,(“Presenting Arms” to the royal boot),And sweat.
The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king—I sayThe Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged kingAs down the regiment’s front they swing,He and his Escort—wing and wing:Hurray!
The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight,In truth.The Sultan of Jolo feels his weightAs he marches by in regal stateWith Major Sour and all The Great,Forsooth.
The Sultan proudly treads the earthWith “cuz.”The Sultan proudly treads the earthO’ershadowed by the Major’s girth,But he knows just what the Major’s worth:He does.
The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—(Don’t quiz).The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—An honest, virtuous gentleman—And he’s rated high in Washington—He is.
The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird—Whoopee!The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird,But we in our ignorance pledge our wordHis asinine plumage is absurdTo see.
The Sultan and Major Sour areSuch chums:The Sultan and Major Sour areSo wrapped in love exceeding par,That war shall never war-time mar——what comes.
(The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right—Yo ho!The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right,As sure as daytime follows night,That Major Sour wouldn’t fight:Lord—no!)
The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise—(And weeds).The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise,In spite of innocent, bovine eyes,And the soothing tongue o’ the Eastern skiesAnd creeds.
The Sultan of Jolo passeth by—Oh Lor’!The Sultan of Jolo passeth by,But we in the ranks can’t wink an eye,Though we think we know the Reasons Why,And more.
The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat—(Have a care!)The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat,But Nature’s surely the cause of that;And he’s salaried high—and sleek and fat—So there!
The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee—Why not?The Sultan of Jolo laughs in gleeAs his wages come across the seaFrom those whohatepolygamy—God wot!
Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt—He is.Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt,His chest and his sleeves and his good sword hilt,And he knows the lines on which are built—Hisbiz.
Clear down the thin-thatched barrack-roomThe varying voices rise—The shrill New England teacher’s—(The wisest of the wise)—And the Cowboy cleaning cartridgesAnd telling fearful lies.The Bowery Boy is fast asleepPerforming Bunk-fatigue,The Kid who simply can’t keep stillIs pounding through a jig,And a plain darn fool just sits and singsAnd sneaks another swig.A bouncing bargain-counter clerkDilates to Private Brown,The lordly top-notch swell he isWhenheis back in town,And the scion of an ancient nameJust yawns and hides a frown.The mountain-riding Parson talksT’ his Y. M. C. A. band,And mine Professor’s turning KeatsWith hard and grimy hand,And Johnny’s reading football newsWhen baseball fills the land.And some they pull together—And some won’t gee at all—And some are looking for a fightAnd riding for a fall—And some, they ran from prison bars;And some, just heard The Call.And some are simply “rotters”—And some the Country’s best:And some are from the cultured East—And some the sculptured West:And some they never heard of Burke—And some they sport a crest.(“The Backbone of the Army”—“The Chosen of the Lord”—The Faithful of the Fathers—The Wielders of the Sword—The hired of the helpless—The bruisers and the bored.)The east-sides of the citiesAre aye foregathered here;The best sides of the citiesAre come from far and near,To mix their books and BiblesWith oaths and rotten beer.. . . . . . . . . .Clear down the mud-browed, blood-plowed ranksThe thin, tanned faces lift;The long, lean line that hears the whineOf the bamboo’s silken sift,And the sudden rush and the chug and the hushWhere the careless bullets drift.The Parson’s up and shootingAnd cursing like a fool;The Bowery Boy is bleeding fastIn a red and ragged pool;And mine Professor gags the wound—(Which he didn’t learn in school).. . . . . . . . . .Nor creed nor sign nor order—Nor clan nor clique nor class:Never a mark to brand himAs he chokes in the paddy grass:Only the tide of Bunker Hill,That ebbs, but may not pass.
Clear down the thin-thatched barrack-roomThe varying voices rise—The shrill New England teacher’s—(The wisest of the wise)—And the Cowboy cleaning cartridgesAnd telling fearful lies.The Bowery Boy is fast asleepPerforming Bunk-fatigue,The Kid who simply can’t keep stillIs pounding through a jig,And a plain darn fool just sits and singsAnd sneaks another swig.A bouncing bargain-counter clerkDilates to Private Brown,The lordly top-notch swell he isWhenheis back in town,And the scion of an ancient nameJust yawns and hides a frown.The mountain-riding Parson talksT’ his Y. M. C. A. band,And mine Professor’s turning KeatsWith hard and grimy hand,And Johnny’s reading football newsWhen baseball fills the land.And some they pull together—And some won’t gee at all—And some are looking for a fightAnd riding for a fall—And some, they ran from prison bars;And some, just heard The Call.And some are simply “rotters”—And some the Country’s best:And some are from the cultured East—And some the sculptured West:And some they never heard of Burke—And some they sport a crest.(“The Backbone of the Army”—“The Chosen of the Lord”—The Faithful of the Fathers—The Wielders of the Sword—The hired of the helpless—The bruisers and the bored.)The east-sides of the citiesAre aye foregathered here;The best sides of the citiesAre come from far and near,To mix their books and BiblesWith oaths and rotten beer.. . . . . . . . . .Clear down the mud-browed, blood-plowed ranksThe thin, tanned faces lift;The long, lean line that hears the whineOf the bamboo’s silken sift,And the sudden rush and the chug and the hushWhere the careless bullets drift.The Parson’s up and shootingAnd cursing like a fool;The Bowery Boy is bleeding fastIn a red and ragged pool;And mine Professor gags the wound—(Which he didn’t learn in school).. . . . . . . . . .Nor creed nor sign nor order—Nor clan nor clique nor class:Never a mark to brand himAs he chokes in the paddy grass:Only the tide of Bunker Hill,That ebbs, but may not pass.
Clear down the thin-thatched barrack-roomThe varying voices rise—The shrill New England teacher’s—(The wisest of the wise)—And the Cowboy cleaning cartridgesAnd telling fearful lies.
The Bowery Boy is fast asleepPerforming Bunk-fatigue,The Kid who simply can’t keep stillIs pounding through a jig,And a plain darn fool just sits and singsAnd sneaks another swig.
A bouncing bargain-counter clerkDilates to Private Brown,The lordly top-notch swell he isWhenheis back in town,And the scion of an ancient nameJust yawns and hides a frown.
The mountain-riding Parson talksT’ his Y. M. C. A. band,And mine Professor’s turning KeatsWith hard and grimy hand,And Johnny’s reading football newsWhen baseball fills the land.
And some they pull together—And some won’t gee at all—And some are looking for a fightAnd riding for a fall—And some, they ran from prison bars;And some, just heard The Call.
And some are simply “rotters”—And some the Country’s best:And some are from the cultured East—And some the sculptured West:And some they never heard of Burke—And some they sport a crest.
(“The Backbone of the Army”—“The Chosen of the Lord”—The Faithful of the Fathers—The Wielders of the Sword—The hired of the helpless—The bruisers and the bored.)
The east-sides of the citiesAre aye foregathered here;The best sides of the citiesAre come from far and near,To mix their books and BiblesWith oaths and rotten beer.. . . . . . . . . .Clear down the mud-browed, blood-plowed ranksThe thin, tanned faces lift;The long, lean line that hears the whineOf the bamboo’s silken sift,And the sudden rush and the chug and the hushWhere the careless bullets drift.
The Parson’s up and shootingAnd cursing like a fool;The Bowery Boy is bleeding fastIn a red and ragged pool;And mine Professor gags the wound—(Which he didn’t learn in school).. . . . . . . . . .Nor creed nor sign nor order—Nor clan nor clique nor class:Never a mark to brand himAs he chokes in the paddy grass:Only the tide of Bunker Hill,That ebbs, but may not pass.
Tell about the feverAnd all y’ tropic ills,Tell about the cholera campOver ’mong the hills;Tell about the small-poxWhere the bamboos switch,But close y’ face and let me tellAbout the Dobie Itch.It isn’t erysipelas—It isn’t nettle-rash;It isn’t got from eating pork,Or drinking native trash.You smear your toes with ointment,And think you’re getting well,And then the damn thing comes againAnd simply raises hell.You’ve hiked all day in sun and rainThrough hills and paddy mire,Abaft the slippery googoosWho shoot—and then retire:And now you’ve taken off your shoesAnd settled for a rest,When suddenly your feet they startTo itchlike all possessed.(Better take your socks offAnd then see how it goes....“Ouch! m’ bloody stockin’sStickin’ to m’ toes.”)Scratching, scratching, scratching,Burning scab and sore,(“Stop, you fool, you’ll poison ’em!”Hear your bunkie roar).Never mind the poison—Ease the maddening pain,Till your poor old tired feetStart to bleed again.Tell about the feverAnd all y’ tropic ills,Tell about the cholera campOver ’mong the hills;Tell about the small-poxWhere the bamboos switch,But close y’ face and let me tellAbout the Dobie Itch.
Tell about the feverAnd all y’ tropic ills,Tell about the cholera campOver ’mong the hills;Tell about the small-poxWhere the bamboos switch,But close y’ face and let me tellAbout the Dobie Itch.It isn’t erysipelas—It isn’t nettle-rash;It isn’t got from eating pork,Or drinking native trash.You smear your toes with ointment,And think you’re getting well,And then the damn thing comes againAnd simply raises hell.You’ve hiked all day in sun and rainThrough hills and paddy mire,Abaft the slippery googoosWho shoot—and then retire:And now you’ve taken off your shoesAnd settled for a rest,When suddenly your feet they startTo itchlike all possessed.(Better take your socks offAnd then see how it goes....“Ouch! m’ bloody stockin’sStickin’ to m’ toes.”)Scratching, scratching, scratching,Burning scab and sore,(“Stop, you fool, you’ll poison ’em!”Hear your bunkie roar).Never mind the poison—Ease the maddening pain,Till your poor old tired feetStart to bleed again.Tell about the feverAnd all y’ tropic ills,Tell about the cholera campOver ’mong the hills;Tell about the small-poxWhere the bamboos switch,But close y’ face and let me tellAbout the Dobie Itch.
Tell about the feverAnd all y’ tropic ills,Tell about the cholera campOver ’mong the hills;Tell about the small-poxWhere the bamboos switch,But close y’ face and let me tellAbout the Dobie Itch.
It isn’t erysipelas—It isn’t nettle-rash;It isn’t got from eating pork,Or drinking native trash.You smear your toes with ointment,And think you’re getting well,And then the damn thing comes againAnd simply raises hell.
You’ve hiked all day in sun and rainThrough hills and paddy mire,Abaft the slippery googoosWho shoot—and then retire:And now you’ve taken off your shoesAnd settled for a rest,When suddenly your feet they startTo itchlike all possessed.
(Better take your socks offAnd then see how it goes....“Ouch! m’ bloody stockin’sStickin’ to m’ toes.”)
Scratching, scratching, scratching,Burning scab and sore,(“Stop, you fool, you’ll poison ’em!”Hear your bunkie roar).Never mind the poison—Ease the maddening pain,Till your poor old tired feetStart to bleed again.
Tell about the feverAnd all y’ tropic ills,Tell about the cholera campOver ’mong the hills;Tell about the small-poxWhere the bamboos switch,But close y’ face and let me tellAbout the Dobie Itch.
Clear from clotted Bunker HillAnd frozen Valley Forge,To the Luzon trenchesAnd the fern-choked gorge:All the Service—all the Arms—Horse and Foot and Guns—East and West who gave your best—Stand and pledge your Sons!
Clear from clotted Bunker HillAnd frozen Valley Forge,To the Luzon trenchesAnd the fern-choked gorge:All the Service—all the Arms—Horse and Foot and Guns—East and West who gave your best—Stand and pledge your Sons!
Clear from clotted Bunker HillAnd frozen Valley Forge,To the Luzon trenchesAnd the fern-choked gorge:All the Service—all the Arms—Horse and Foot and Guns—East and West who gave your best—Stand and pledge your Sons!
The Infantry:
As the Juggernaut slow rollsRinging red with reeking tolls,Crushing out its Hindu soulsIn Vishnu’s name:As the unrelenting tideSweeps the weary wreckage wide,Bidding all men stand asideOr rue the game:Meeting front and flank and rear,Charge on charge with cheer on cheer,Where the senseless corpses leerAgainst the sun:Sure as fate and faith and signI o’erwhelm them—they are mine;And I pause where weeps the wineOf battle won.
As the Juggernaut slow rollsRinging red with reeking tolls,Crushing out its Hindu soulsIn Vishnu’s name:As the unrelenting tideSweeps the weary wreckage wide,Bidding all men stand asideOr rue the game:Meeting front and flank and rear,Charge on charge with cheer on cheer,Where the senseless corpses leerAgainst the sun:Sure as fate and faith and signI o’erwhelm them—they are mine;And I pause where weeps the wineOf battle won.
As the Juggernaut slow rollsRinging red with reeking tolls,Crushing out its Hindu soulsIn Vishnu’s name:As the unrelenting tideSweeps the weary wreckage wide,Bidding all men stand asideOr rue the game:
Meeting front and flank and rear,Charge on charge with cheer on cheer,Where the senseless corpses leerAgainst the sun:Sure as fate and faith and signI o’erwhelm them—they are mine;And I pause where weeps the wineOf battle won.
The Artillery:
As the slumbering craters wake,And the neighboring foot hills shake,As in shotted flame they breakAthwart the sky:As the swollen streams of SpringMeet their river wing and wing,Till it sweeps a monstrous thingWhere cities die:With a cold sardonic smile,At a range of half a mile,I—I lop them off in styleBy six and eights:As they come—their Country’s best—Like a roaring, seething crest,And I knock them Galley WestWhere Glory Waits.
As the slumbering craters wake,And the neighboring foot hills shake,As in shotted flame they breakAthwart the sky:As the swollen streams of SpringMeet their river wing and wing,Till it sweeps a monstrous thingWhere cities die:With a cold sardonic smile,At a range of half a mile,I—I lop them off in styleBy six and eights:As they come—their Country’s best—Like a roaring, seething crest,And I knock them Galley WestWhere Glory Waits.
As the slumbering craters wake,And the neighboring foot hills shake,As in shotted flame they breakAthwart the sky:As the swollen streams of SpringMeet their river wing and wing,Till it sweeps a monstrous thingWhere cities die:
With a cold sardonic smile,At a range of half a mile,I—I lop them off in styleBy six and eights:As they come—their Country’s best—Like a roaring, seething crest,And I knock them Galley WestWhere Glory Waits.
The Cavalry:
As the tidal wave in spateBatters down the great flood gateWhere the huddled children waitBehind the doors:As the eagle in its flightSweeps the plain to left and right,Strewing carnage, wreck and blightAnd homeward soars:As the raging, wild typhoon,’Neath a white and callous moon,Lifts the listless low lagoonInto the sea:In my tyranny and powerI have swept them where they cower,I have turned the battle-hourTo the cry of Victory!
As the tidal wave in spateBatters down the great flood gateWhere the huddled children waitBehind the doors:As the eagle in its flightSweeps the plain to left and right,Strewing carnage, wreck and blightAnd homeward soars:As the raging, wild typhoon,’Neath a white and callous moon,Lifts the listless low lagoonInto the sea:In my tyranny and powerI have swept them where they cower,I have turned the battle-hourTo the cry of Victory!
As the tidal wave in spateBatters down the great flood gateWhere the huddled children waitBehind the doors:As the eagle in its flightSweeps the plain to left and right,Strewing carnage, wreck and blightAnd homeward soars:
As the raging, wild typhoon,’Neath a white and callous moon,Lifts the listless low lagoonInto the sea:In my tyranny and powerI have swept them where they cower,I have turned the battle-hourTo the cry of Victory!
They have carried my couch to the windowUp over the river high,That a Great Mogul may have his wishEre he lay him down to die.And the wish was ever this, and is,Ere the last least shadows flee,To gaze at the end o’er the river’s bendOn the shrine that I raised for thee.And the plans I wrought from the plans they brought,And I watched it slowly rise,A vision of snow forever aglowIn the blue of the northern skies.For I built it of purest marble,That all the World might seeThe depth of thy matchless beautyAnd the light that ye were to me.The silver Jumna broadens—The day is growing dark,And only the peacock’s callingComes over the rose-rimmed park.And soon thy sunset marbleWill glow as the amethyst,And moonlit skies shall make thee riseA vision of pearly mist.A vision of light and wonderFor the hordes in the covered wains,From the snow-peaked north where the tides burst forthTo the Ghauts and the Rajput plains.From the sapphire lakes in the Kashmir hills,Whence crystal rivers rise,To the jungles where the tiger’s lairLies bare to the Deccan skies.And the proud Mahratta chieftainsAnd the Afghan lords shall seeThe tender gleam of thy living dream,Through all Eternity.The black is bending lower—Ah wife—the day-star nears—And I see you come with calling armsAs ye came in the yester-years.And the joy is mine that ne’er was mineBy Palace and Peacock Throne—By marble and gold where the World grows coldIn the seed that It has sown.More bright than the Rajputana starsThine eyes shone out to me—More gay thy laugh than the rainbow chaffThat lifts from the Southern Sea.More fair thy hair than any silkIn Delhi’s proud bazaars—More true thy heart than the tulwar’s start—Blood-wet in a hundred wars.More red thy lips than the Flaming TreesThat brighten the Punjab plains—More soft thy tread than the winds that spreadThe last of the summer rains.No blush of the dawning heavens—No rose by the garden wall,May ever seek to match thy cheek—Oh fairest rose of all.Above the bending riverThe midday sun is gone,But the glow of thy tomb dispels the gloomWhere doubting shadows yawn.And the glow of thy tomb shall break the gloomThrough the march of the marching years,Where, builded and bound from the dome to the groundIt was wrought of a monarch’s tears.The silver Jumna broadensLike a moonlit summer sea,But bank and bower and town and towerHave bidden farewell to me:And only the tall white minarets,And the matchless dome shine through—The silver Jumna broadens and—It bears me—love—to you.
They have carried my couch to the windowUp over the river high,That a Great Mogul may have his wishEre he lay him down to die.And the wish was ever this, and is,Ere the last least shadows flee,To gaze at the end o’er the river’s bendOn the shrine that I raised for thee.And the plans I wrought from the plans they brought,And I watched it slowly rise,A vision of snow forever aglowIn the blue of the northern skies.For I built it of purest marble,That all the World might seeThe depth of thy matchless beautyAnd the light that ye were to me.The silver Jumna broadens—The day is growing dark,And only the peacock’s callingComes over the rose-rimmed park.And soon thy sunset marbleWill glow as the amethyst,And moonlit skies shall make thee riseA vision of pearly mist.A vision of light and wonderFor the hordes in the covered wains,From the snow-peaked north where the tides burst forthTo the Ghauts and the Rajput plains.From the sapphire lakes in the Kashmir hills,Whence crystal rivers rise,To the jungles where the tiger’s lairLies bare to the Deccan skies.And the proud Mahratta chieftainsAnd the Afghan lords shall seeThe tender gleam of thy living dream,Through all Eternity.The black is bending lower—Ah wife—the day-star nears—And I see you come with calling armsAs ye came in the yester-years.And the joy is mine that ne’er was mineBy Palace and Peacock Throne—By marble and gold where the World grows coldIn the seed that It has sown.More bright than the Rajputana starsThine eyes shone out to me—More gay thy laugh than the rainbow chaffThat lifts from the Southern Sea.More fair thy hair than any silkIn Delhi’s proud bazaars—More true thy heart than the tulwar’s start—Blood-wet in a hundred wars.More red thy lips than the Flaming TreesThat brighten the Punjab plains—More soft thy tread than the winds that spreadThe last of the summer rains.No blush of the dawning heavens—No rose by the garden wall,May ever seek to match thy cheek—Oh fairest rose of all.Above the bending riverThe midday sun is gone,But the glow of thy tomb dispels the gloomWhere doubting shadows yawn.And the glow of thy tomb shall break the gloomThrough the march of the marching years,Where, builded and bound from the dome to the groundIt was wrought of a monarch’s tears.The silver Jumna broadensLike a moonlit summer sea,But bank and bower and town and towerHave bidden farewell to me:And only the tall white minarets,And the matchless dome shine through—The silver Jumna broadens and—It bears me—love—to you.
They have carried my couch to the windowUp over the river high,That a Great Mogul may have his wishEre he lay him down to die.
And the wish was ever this, and is,Ere the last least shadows flee,To gaze at the end o’er the river’s bendOn the shrine that I raised for thee.
And the plans I wrought from the plans they brought,And I watched it slowly rise,A vision of snow forever aglowIn the blue of the northern skies.
For I built it of purest marble,That all the World might seeThe depth of thy matchless beautyAnd the light that ye were to me.
The silver Jumna broadens—The day is growing dark,And only the peacock’s callingComes over the rose-rimmed park.
And soon thy sunset marbleWill glow as the amethyst,And moonlit skies shall make thee riseA vision of pearly mist.
A vision of light and wonderFor the hordes in the covered wains,From the snow-peaked north where the tides burst forthTo the Ghauts and the Rajput plains.
From the sapphire lakes in the Kashmir hills,Whence crystal rivers rise,To the jungles where the tiger’s lairLies bare to the Deccan skies.
And the proud Mahratta chieftainsAnd the Afghan lords shall seeThe tender gleam of thy living dream,Through all Eternity.
The black is bending lower—Ah wife—the day-star nears—And I see you come with calling armsAs ye came in the yester-years.
And the joy is mine that ne’er was mineBy Palace and Peacock Throne—By marble and gold where the World grows coldIn the seed that It has sown.
More bright than the Rajputana starsThine eyes shone out to me—More gay thy laugh than the rainbow chaffThat lifts from the Southern Sea.
More fair thy hair than any silkIn Delhi’s proud bazaars—More true thy heart than the tulwar’s start—Blood-wet in a hundred wars.
More red thy lips than the Flaming TreesThat brighten the Punjab plains—More soft thy tread than the winds that spreadThe last of the summer rains.
No blush of the dawning heavens—No rose by the garden wall,May ever seek to match thy cheek—Oh fairest rose of all.
Above the bending riverThe midday sun is gone,But the glow of thy tomb dispels the gloomWhere doubting shadows yawn.
And the glow of thy tomb shall break the gloomThrough the march of the marching years,Where, builded and bound from the dome to the groundIt was wrought of a monarch’s tears.
The silver Jumna broadensLike a moonlit summer sea,But bank and bower and town and towerHave bidden farewell to me:
And only the tall white minarets,And the matchless dome shine through—The silver Jumna broadens and—It bears me—love—to you.
The Lord looked down on the nether EarthHe had made so fair and green,Fertile valleys and snow-capped hillsAnd the oceans that lie between.The Lord looked down on Man and Maid,Through the birth of the crystal air:And the Lord leaned back in His well-earned rest—And He knew that the sight was fair.The eons crept and the eons sweptAnd His children multiplied,And ever they lived in simple faith,And in simple faith they died.They blessed the earth that gave them birth—They wept to the midnight star—And they stood in awe where the tides off-shoreRose leaping across the bar.They blessed the earth that gave them birth—But passed all time and tide,They blessed their Lord-Creator—Nor knew Him mystified.They came and went—the little men—The men of a primal breed—And the Lord He gathered them as they lived,Each in his simple creed.And the Lord He gathered them as they came—Ere the Earth had time to coolAnd the horde of Cain had clouted the brain’Neath the lash of a monstrous school.
The Lord looked down on the nether EarthHe had made so fair and green,Fertile valleys and snow-capped hillsAnd the oceans that lie between.The Lord looked down on Man and Maid,Through the birth of the crystal air:And the Lord leaned back in His well-earned rest—And He knew that the sight was fair.The eons crept and the eons sweptAnd His children multiplied,And ever they lived in simple faith,And in simple faith they died.They blessed the earth that gave them birth—They wept to the midnight star—And they stood in awe where the tides off-shoreRose leaping across the bar.They blessed the earth that gave them birth—But passed all time and tide,They blessed their Lord-Creator—Nor knew Him mystified.They came and went—the little men—The men of a primal breed—And the Lord He gathered them as they lived,Each in his simple creed.And the Lord He gathered them as they came—Ere the Earth had time to coolAnd the horde of Cain had clouted the brain’Neath the lash of a monstrous school.
The Lord looked down on the nether EarthHe had made so fair and green,Fertile valleys and snow-capped hillsAnd the oceans that lie between.
The Lord looked down on Man and Maid,Through the birth of the crystal air:And the Lord leaned back in His well-earned rest—And He knew that the sight was fair.
The eons crept and the eons sweptAnd His children multiplied,And ever they lived in simple faith,And in simple faith they died.
They blessed the earth that gave them birth—They wept to the midnight star—And they stood in awe where the tides off-shoreRose leaping across the bar.
They blessed the earth that gave them birth—But passed all time and tide,They blessed their Lord-Creator—Nor knew Him mystified.
They came and went—the little men—The men of a primal breed—And the Lord He gathered them as they lived,Each in his simple creed.
And the Lord He gathered them as they came—Ere the Earth had time to coolAnd the horde of Cain had clouted the brain’Neath the lash of a monstrous school.
The Lord looked down on the nether EarthHe had made so fair and green—Fertile valleys and snow-capped hillsAnd the oceans that lie between.And He saw the strife of the thousand sects—And ever anew they came—Torture and farce and infamyCommitted in His name.Figure and form and fetich—Councils of hate and greed—Prophet on prophet warring,Each to his separate need.Symbol and sign and surpliceAnd ostentatious prayer,And the hollow mock of the chanceled darkFlung back through the raftered air.. . . . . . . . . .And the Lord He gazèd wistfullyThrough the track of a falling star;And He turned His sight from the homes of men,Where the ranting cabals are.
The Lord looked down on the nether EarthHe had made so fair and green—Fertile valleys and snow-capped hillsAnd the oceans that lie between.And He saw the strife of the thousand sects—And ever anew they came—Torture and farce and infamyCommitted in His name.Figure and form and fetich—Councils of hate and greed—Prophet on prophet warring,Each to his separate need.Symbol and sign and surpliceAnd ostentatious prayer,And the hollow mock of the chanceled darkFlung back through the raftered air.. . . . . . . . . .And the Lord He gazèd wistfullyThrough the track of a falling star;And He turned His sight from the homes of men,Where the ranting cabals are.
The Lord looked down on the nether EarthHe had made so fair and green—Fertile valleys and snow-capped hillsAnd the oceans that lie between.
And He saw the strife of the thousand sects—And ever anew they came—Torture and farce and infamyCommitted in His name.
Figure and form and fetich—Councils of hate and greed—Prophet on prophet warring,Each to his separate need.
Symbol and sign and surpliceAnd ostentatious prayer,And the hollow mock of the chanceled darkFlung back through the raftered air.. . . . . . . . . .And the Lord He gazèd wistfullyThrough the track of a falling star;And He turned His sight from the homes of men,Where the ranting cabals are.
The Outbound Trail—The Outbound Trail—We hear it calling still:Coralline bight where the waves churn white—Ocean and plain and hill:Jungle and palm—where the starlit calmThe Wanderer’s loves fulfil.Where the bleak, black blizzards blinding sweepAcross the crumpled floe,And the Living Light makes white the nightAbove the boundless snow,And the sentinel penguins watch the wasteWhere the whale and the walrus go:Where the phosphor fires flash and flareAlong the bellowing bow,And the soft salt breeze of the Southern SeasIs sifting across the prow,And the glittering Cross in the blue-black sky,The Watcher of Then and Now:We’ll lift again the lineless plainWhere the deep-cut rivers run—And the pallid peaks as the eagle seeksHis crag when the day is done:And the rose-red glaciers glance and gleamIn the glow of the setting sun.We’ll go once more to a farther shore—We’ll track the outbound trail;Harbor and hill where the World stands still—Where the strange-rigged fishers sail—And only the tune of the tasseled fronds,Like the moan of a distant gale.We’ll tramp anew the jungle throughWhere ferned Pitcairnias rise,And the softly fanned Tjemaras standGreen lace against the skies,And the last red ray of the tropic dayFlickers and flares and dies.Across the full-swung, shifting seasThere comes a beck’ing gleam,Strong as the iron hand of Fate—Sweet as a lover’s dream.What can bind us—what can keep us—Who shall tell us nay?When the Outbound Trail is calling us—Is calling us away.
The Outbound Trail—The Outbound Trail—We hear it calling still:Coralline bight where the waves churn white—Ocean and plain and hill:Jungle and palm—where the starlit calmThe Wanderer’s loves fulfil.Where the bleak, black blizzards blinding sweepAcross the crumpled floe,And the Living Light makes white the nightAbove the boundless snow,And the sentinel penguins watch the wasteWhere the whale and the walrus go:Where the phosphor fires flash and flareAlong the bellowing bow,And the soft salt breeze of the Southern SeasIs sifting across the prow,And the glittering Cross in the blue-black sky,The Watcher of Then and Now:We’ll lift again the lineless plainWhere the deep-cut rivers run—And the pallid peaks as the eagle seeksHis crag when the day is done:And the rose-red glaciers glance and gleamIn the glow of the setting sun.We’ll go once more to a farther shore—We’ll track the outbound trail;Harbor and hill where the World stands still—Where the strange-rigged fishers sail—And only the tune of the tasseled fronds,Like the moan of a distant gale.We’ll tramp anew the jungle throughWhere ferned Pitcairnias rise,And the softly fanned Tjemaras standGreen lace against the skies,And the last red ray of the tropic dayFlickers and flares and dies.Across the full-swung, shifting seasThere comes a beck’ing gleam,Strong as the iron hand of Fate—Sweet as a lover’s dream.What can bind us—what can keep us—Who shall tell us nay?When the Outbound Trail is calling us—Is calling us away.
The Outbound Trail—The Outbound Trail—We hear it calling still:Coralline bight where the waves churn white—Ocean and plain and hill:Jungle and palm—where the starlit calmThe Wanderer’s loves fulfil.
Where the bleak, black blizzards blinding sweepAcross the crumpled floe,And the Living Light makes white the nightAbove the boundless snow,And the sentinel penguins watch the wasteWhere the whale and the walrus go:
Where the phosphor fires flash and flareAlong the bellowing bow,And the soft salt breeze of the Southern SeasIs sifting across the prow,And the glittering Cross in the blue-black sky,The Watcher of Then and Now:
We’ll lift again the lineless plainWhere the deep-cut rivers run—And the pallid peaks as the eagle seeksHis crag when the day is done:And the rose-red glaciers glance and gleamIn the glow of the setting sun.
We’ll go once more to a farther shore—We’ll track the outbound trail;Harbor and hill where the World stands still—Where the strange-rigged fishers sail—And only the tune of the tasseled fronds,Like the moan of a distant gale.
We’ll tramp anew the jungle throughWhere ferned Pitcairnias rise,And the softly fanned Tjemaras standGreen lace against the skies,And the last red ray of the tropic dayFlickers and flares and dies.
Across the full-swung, shifting seasThere comes a beck’ing gleam,Strong as the iron hand of Fate—Sweet as a lover’s dream.What can bind us—what can keep us—Who shall tell us nay?When the Outbound Trail is calling us—Is calling us away.
In the first gray dawn of historyA Paleolithic manObserved an irate mammoth—Observed how his neighbors ran:And he sat on a naked boulderWhere the plains stretched out to the sun,And jowl in hand he frowned and plannedAs none before had done.Next day his neighbors passed him,And still he sat and thought,And the next day and the next day,But never a deed was wrought.Till the fifth sun saw him flakingSome flint where the rocks fall free—And the sixth sun saw him shapingA shaft from a fallen tree.Enak and Oonak and AnakAnd their children and kith and kin,They paused where they watched him working,And they smiled and they raised the chin,And they tapped their foreheads knowingly—As you and I have done—But he—he had never a momentTo mark their mocking fun.And Enak passed on to buryHis brother the mammoth slew.And Oonak, to stay his starving,With his fingers grubbed anew.And Anak, he thought of his tender spouseAn ichthyosaurus ate—Because in seeking the nearest treeShe had reached it a trifle late.. . . . . . . . . .Around the Council fire,More beast and ape than man,The hairy hosts assembled,And their talk to the crazed one ran.And they said, “It is best that we kill himEre he strangle us in the night,Or brings on our head the curse of the deadWhen the thundering heavens light.“It is best that we rid our cavernsOf neighbors such as these—It is best—” but the Council shudderedAt the rustle of parting leaves.Out of the primal forestStraight to their midst he strode—Weathered and gaunt—but they gave no taunt—As he flung to the ground his load.They eyed them with suspicion—The long smooth shafts and lean:They felt of the thong-bound flint barbs—They saw that the work was clean.Like children with a plaything,When first it is understood,They leapt to their feet and hurled them—And they knew that the act was good.They pictured the mighty mammothAs the hurtling spear shafts sank,They pictured the unsuspecting gameDown by the river’s bank;They pictured their safe-defended homes—They pictured the fallen foe....And the Fool they led to the highest seat,Where the Council fires glow.
In the first gray dawn of historyA Paleolithic manObserved an irate mammoth—Observed how his neighbors ran:And he sat on a naked boulderWhere the plains stretched out to the sun,And jowl in hand he frowned and plannedAs none before had done.Next day his neighbors passed him,And still he sat and thought,And the next day and the next day,But never a deed was wrought.Till the fifth sun saw him flakingSome flint where the rocks fall free—And the sixth sun saw him shapingA shaft from a fallen tree.Enak and Oonak and AnakAnd their children and kith and kin,They paused where they watched him working,And they smiled and they raised the chin,And they tapped their foreheads knowingly—As you and I have done—But he—he had never a momentTo mark their mocking fun.And Enak passed on to buryHis brother the mammoth slew.And Oonak, to stay his starving,With his fingers grubbed anew.And Anak, he thought of his tender spouseAn ichthyosaurus ate—Because in seeking the nearest treeShe had reached it a trifle late.. . . . . . . . . .Around the Council fire,More beast and ape than man,The hairy hosts assembled,And their talk to the crazed one ran.And they said, “It is best that we kill himEre he strangle us in the night,Or brings on our head the curse of the deadWhen the thundering heavens light.“It is best that we rid our cavernsOf neighbors such as these—It is best—” but the Council shudderedAt the rustle of parting leaves.Out of the primal forestStraight to their midst he strode—Weathered and gaunt—but they gave no taunt—As he flung to the ground his load.They eyed them with suspicion—The long smooth shafts and lean:They felt of the thong-bound flint barbs—They saw that the work was clean.Like children with a plaything,When first it is understood,They leapt to their feet and hurled them—And they knew that the act was good.They pictured the mighty mammothAs the hurtling spear shafts sank,They pictured the unsuspecting gameDown by the river’s bank;They pictured their safe-defended homes—They pictured the fallen foe....And the Fool they led to the highest seat,Where the Council fires glow.
In the first gray dawn of historyA Paleolithic manObserved an irate mammoth—Observed how his neighbors ran:And he sat on a naked boulderWhere the plains stretched out to the sun,And jowl in hand he frowned and plannedAs none before had done.
Next day his neighbors passed him,And still he sat and thought,And the next day and the next day,But never a deed was wrought.Till the fifth sun saw him flakingSome flint where the rocks fall free—And the sixth sun saw him shapingA shaft from a fallen tree.
Enak and Oonak and AnakAnd their children and kith and kin,They paused where they watched him working,And they smiled and they raised the chin,And they tapped their foreheads knowingly—As you and I have done—But he—he had never a momentTo mark their mocking fun.
And Enak passed on to buryHis brother the mammoth slew.And Oonak, to stay his starving,With his fingers grubbed anew.And Anak, he thought of his tender spouseAn ichthyosaurus ate—Because in seeking the nearest treeShe had reached it a trifle late.. . . . . . . . . .Around the Council fire,More beast and ape than man,The hairy hosts assembled,And their talk to the crazed one ran.And they said, “It is best that we kill himEre he strangle us in the night,Or brings on our head the curse of the deadWhen the thundering heavens light.
“It is best that we rid our cavernsOf neighbors such as these—It is best—” but the Council shudderedAt the rustle of parting leaves.Out of the primal forestStraight to their midst he strode—Weathered and gaunt—but they gave no taunt—As he flung to the ground his load.
They eyed them with suspicion—The long smooth shafts and lean:They felt of the thong-bound flint barbs—They saw that the work was clean.Like children with a plaything,When first it is understood,They leapt to their feet and hurled them—And they knew that the act was good.
They pictured the mighty mammothAs the hurtling spear shafts sank,They pictured the unsuspecting gameDown by the river’s bank;They pictured their safe-defended homes—They pictured the fallen foe....And the Fool they led to the highest seat,Where the Council fires glow.
The White Ship lifts the horizon—The masts are shot with gold—And I know by the shining canvasThe cargo in the hold.And now they’ve warped and fastened her,Where I impatient wait—To find a hollow mockery,Or a rank and rotted freight.. . . . . . . . . .The Black Ship shows against the storm—Her hull is low and lean—And a flag of gore at the stern and fore,And the skull and bones between.I shun the wharf where she bears downAnd her desperate crew make fast,But manifold from the darkest holdCome forth my dreams at last.The White Ships and the Black ShipsThey loom across the sea—But I may not know until they dock—The wares they bring to me.
The White Ship lifts the horizon—The masts are shot with gold—And I know by the shining canvasThe cargo in the hold.And now they’ve warped and fastened her,Where I impatient wait—To find a hollow mockery,Or a rank and rotted freight.. . . . . . . . . .The Black Ship shows against the storm—Her hull is low and lean—And a flag of gore at the stern and fore,And the skull and bones between.I shun the wharf where she bears downAnd her desperate crew make fast,But manifold from the darkest holdCome forth my dreams at last.The White Ships and the Black ShipsThey loom across the sea—But I may not know until they dock—The wares they bring to me.
The White Ship lifts the horizon—The masts are shot with gold—And I know by the shining canvasThe cargo in the hold.
And now they’ve warped and fastened her,Where I impatient wait—To find a hollow mockery,Or a rank and rotted freight.. . . . . . . . . .The Black Ship shows against the storm—Her hull is low and lean—And a flag of gore at the stern and fore,And the skull and bones between.
I shun the wharf where she bears downAnd her desperate crew make fast,But manifold from the darkest holdCome forth my dreams at last.
The White Ships and the Black ShipsThey loom across the sea—But I may not know until they dock—The wares they bring to me.
In the days of prose ere a bard aroseThere came from a Northern Land,A man with tales of the spouting whalesAnd the Lights that the ice-winds fanned.And they sat them ’round on the barren ground,And they clicked their spears to the time,And they lingered each on the golden speechOf the man with the words that rhyme.With the words that rhyme like the rolling chimeOf the tread of the rhythmic sea,And silent they listened with eyes that glistenedIn savage ecstasy.Over the plain as a pall was lainThe hand of the primal heart,Till slowly there rose through the rock-bound closeThe first faint glimmering Start.As a ray of light in the storm-lashed night,O’er the virgin forests sweptFrom the star-staked sea the Symbols Three—And the cave-men softly wept.Softly wept as slowly creptTo the depth of the savage brain,Honor, forsooth, and Faith and Truth—And they rose from the rock-rimmed plain—And in twos and threes ’neath the mammoth treesThey whispered as children do:And the Great World sprang from the Bard that sang,And the First of the Men that Knew.
In the days of prose ere a bard aroseThere came from a Northern Land,A man with tales of the spouting whalesAnd the Lights that the ice-winds fanned.And they sat them ’round on the barren ground,And they clicked their spears to the time,And they lingered each on the golden speechOf the man with the words that rhyme.With the words that rhyme like the rolling chimeOf the tread of the rhythmic sea,And silent they listened with eyes that glistenedIn savage ecstasy.Over the plain as a pall was lainThe hand of the primal heart,Till slowly there rose through the rock-bound closeThe first faint glimmering Start.As a ray of light in the storm-lashed night,O’er the virgin forests sweptFrom the star-staked sea the Symbols Three—And the cave-men softly wept.Softly wept as slowly creptTo the depth of the savage brain,Honor, forsooth, and Faith and Truth—And they rose from the rock-rimmed plain—And in twos and threes ’neath the mammoth treesThey whispered as children do:And the Great World sprang from the Bard that sang,And the First of the Men that Knew.
In the days of prose ere a bard aroseThere came from a Northern Land,A man with tales of the spouting whalesAnd the Lights that the ice-winds fanned.
And they sat them ’round on the barren ground,And they clicked their spears to the time,And they lingered each on the golden speechOf the man with the words that rhyme.
With the words that rhyme like the rolling chimeOf the tread of the rhythmic sea,And silent they listened with eyes that glistenedIn savage ecstasy.
Over the plain as a pall was lainThe hand of the primal heart,Till slowly there rose through the rock-bound closeThe first faint glimmering Start.
As a ray of light in the storm-lashed night,O’er the virgin forests sweptFrom the star-staked sea the Symbols Three—And the cave-men softly wept.
Softly wept as slowly creptTo the depth of the savage brain,Honor, forsooth, and Faith and Truth—And they rose from the rock-rimmed plain—
And in twos and threes ’neath the mammoth treesThey whispered as children do:And the Great World sprang from the Bard that sang,And the First of the Men that Knew.