Chapter 2

ARTHUR'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere? sez I;'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, so you 'aven't gotnothin' to fear.'But 'e marched me 'ere, an' 'e marched me there,To burn blank cartridges everywhere;An' 'e made me sweat, an' 'e made me swear—Did Arthur!Wot can the Gen'ral do? sez I;Wot can the Gen'ral do?'O, 'e 's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e don't knowmuch aboutyou!'But 'e doubled me round on a big field day:An' 'e checked me for loafin'—a mile away!An' I found there's a time for work an' playWith Arthur!Wot 'as the Gen'ral done, sez I?Wot 'as the Gen'ral done?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' they chucked 'im 'isrank for fun!'But that was a lie, for I found out since'E's ninepence a soldier an' thruppence a prince!'E stood fire in Egypt, an' 'e didn't wince!Not Arthur!Wot does the Gen'ral know? sez I;Wot does the Gen'ral know?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e 's on'ygot up for show!'But I 'chanced' kit inspection, an' thought it a 'cert.';But 'e put me down, smart, for a tunic an' shirt!An', insult to injury—checked me for dirt!Did Arthur!'Ow is 'e liked by you? sez I;'Ow is 'e liked by you?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, but I reckonsome'ow 'e'll do!'I'm willin' to risk, as I've done before,A Fox 'Ills fight, or a native war,Or front rank man in an Army Corps,With Arthur!Wot is 'e, after all? sez I;Wot is 'e, after all?'O, 'e's a swaddle, the same as you, an' 'e goes to the"orficers' call"!''E's a gentleman, Tommy, when all's said an' done!'Is ma is the lady 'oo 's second to none,An' we love 'er the better because of 'er son—That's Arthur!LEGACIESThe dog is yours; and so's the photo frames,Them pictures wot I cut, an' my new box.The pack of cards, the dominoes, an' games,The knittin' needles, an' the knitted socks,An' all, except the letters and the ring—You'll find them all together tied with string.My public clothin'—that goes back to stores—My kit'll sell by auction on the square;An' other fellers will be 'formin' fours'An' 'markin' time' in boots I used to wear.They're welcome; but you won't forget to sendThe ring an' all the letters to my——friend?The pain ain't near so bad as wot it wereThe day they dragged me from the limber wheels;Ain't I a wreck! for God's sake don't tell 'er;Say it was fever—peaceful—in the 'ills;An' write about the wreaths, the 'Jack,' and band,An'—send a bit of hair: you understand?The ring—— Oh no, the doctor lets me talk,I ain't a-tirin'—'cept a funny light,An' just a feelin' that I'd like to walkTo where it seems to flicker in the night.Better for me to go with aching 'ead,Than go in trouble with my say unsaid.The ring—it ain't long since she sent it back;I never meant no 'arm, God only knows,But things—I can't tell now—looked very black,And she believed the others—I suppose,I'm sorry for 'er now—that cursed wheel!—You see she is a woman, an' she'llfeel.* * * * *The dog is yours, I told you that before.The spurs you'll find 'em in my private kit.The letters, an' the ring, an' nothin' more,—An'hair—it's foolish—but a little bit.* * * * *'Our Father'—Lord, how strange! It's all—ri'—sir.The—lett—an—th'—ring—an'—hair—for—'er!T. A. IN LOVEDreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Sittin' with my elbow on my knee.Iorterbe a polishin' the meat-dish an' the can—(Iorterdraw the groceries—for I am ord'ly man!But wot are bloomin' ration calls, an' wot's a pot or pan,When I'm dreaming O my darlin' one, of thee?)Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Firin' at the rifle range I be.I've missed a fust-class targit—an' I've missed the 'ill be'ind!I nearly shot a marker once! (which wasn't very kind);The orficer 'e swears at me—but re'ly, I don't mind!I am dreamin', O my darlin' one, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Me, as was the smartest man in 'B'!My kit is all untidy, and it's inches thick in dust;An' my rifle's fouled an' filthy, an' my bay'nit's red with rust;They've tried to find the reason—but I've seen 'em furder fust!An' they never guess I'm dreamin', dear, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!They can't make out wot's comin' over me.The fellows think I'm barmy, an' the Major thinks it's drink,The Sergeant thought it laziness, so shoved me in the clink!The Colonel called it 'thoughtlessness,' so gave me time to think,An' to dream again, my darlin' one, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Wot's two 'ours' sentry-go to me?A sittin' in the sentry-box, a-thinkin' of your eyes,The ord'ly orficer come along, an' took me by surprise!'E said as I was sleepin'—an' the usual orfice lies!When I was on'y dreamin', love, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Rubbin' tarry oakum on my knee!Oh, when I weigh that oakum in, I know I'll cop it 'ot!I'll be 'auled before the Gov'nor, an' I'll git an 'our's shot;But whether I git punishment, or whether I do not,They can't prevent me dreamin', love, of thee!TOMMY ADVISESTake your rifle from the rack:Take your bay'nit from the shelf;Clean your straps for marchin' order,An' git ready for the Border.For it ain't no sham attack,So you needn't kid yourself.It's a ball an' bay'nit actionWith the perfect satisfactionOf a medal, an' a ribbon, and perhaps a clasp or two.For a-doin' of the little job your betters couldn't do.Pack your socks, an' fold your shirt,Wash your water-bottle out,It'll make your marchin' easyIf your boots are nice an' greasy,—An' some dubbin wouldn't 'urt.You can chuck your weight about;There's an 'appy day before you,When the civvies will adore you,And the things wot used to shock 'em will be favoured with a smile.And your little faults an' failin's won't be noticed for a while.Git a guernsey out of store—Winter's very cold above,An' the wind an' rain will find youIf you leave your clothes behind you!Trust your pretty self beforeAny Quartermaster's love;For there's no store to go untoAn' no tailors' shops to run to;For it ain't no ten days' skirmish these manoeuvres wot you're in,An' a little flannel weskit 'ides a multitood of skin!Write your letters for the mail;Tell your people all the news—For your folks'll prize the writin'Of 'my son who's out a-fightin'.'Don't you spin an awful tale,Just to give your mother blues,For the day the boys are cryin''List o' wounded, dead and dyin'!'Will be tons of time for them at 'ome to feel a trifle blue,When they see a dozen Smiths are killed—and wonder which is you!THE NUMBER ONEThe number one, 'e's on the bridge,There's goin' to be a row,The Gold Coast is upon our port,An', 'ull down, on our bow;Makin' for 'ome for all she's worth—A slaver's bloomin' dhow!The number one is on the bridge,The buntin' tosser's aft;An' down below, in the 'eat an' glow,The men are at their graft.They've peeled their shirts, to get the steam,To over-'aul that craft.The number one is in command,The skipper's sick below,A touch o' fever from the coast,'As made the old man so;But 'e's passed the word to the engineer,'For Gawd's sake make 'er go!'The 'gen'ral quarters' sounded orf,The bugler's made a call(A call that means the 'red' marines,With fifty rounds of ball,Are goin' to git a medal an' clasp,Or an ensign for a pall!)The number one is on the bridge,The sun is low an' red!An' shot an' shell, like fiends of 'ell,Are shriekin' round 'is 'ead,An' three marines are crippled,An' their sergeant-major's dead!The number one is on the bridge,The dhow's a battered sight;'Er rascal chief 'as come to grief;'E's fought 'is final fight,But the number one lies on the bridge,An' 'is face is ghastly white.A smile is on 'is bloodless lips,'Is sword 'angs from 'is wrist,And a lock of 'air of a maiden fair.Is clasped in 'is bloodstained fist,But 'e'll meet 'er at the great roll-call,When they muster by 'open list'!BRITANNIA TO HER FIRST-BORNI am no maiden, highly strung,To faint, when bloody death is nigh.I have not lived, by might of tongueNor by vain boastings, wind-wide flung!But on fame's endless ladder, IHave fought my way, from rung to rung!I am no fretful, whimp'ring miss;I am a woman, learned of years.And once I felt your baby kiss:Your bliss for me had greater bliss!Your youthful sorrows had my tears.O son o' mine, remember this!Your foes were mine, in those dear days:Your friends were kind, and kin to me.We parted—so, we will not raiseThe long dead years. We went our ways,I, brooding by the cold grey sea;You, pride-flushed, with your new-won bays!The years have passed; it does but seemAs yester-eve you left my side.I journeyed with you, dream on dream—I heard your great war eagle's scream!And on sweet Progress, your fair bride,I saw the sun of Fortune's beam!I mourned your follies, word and deed;I watched your rising, when you rose,By sober prayer, by Cross and Bead;Until you found that greater Creed,That in the broader channel flows,The lowly truths, that higher lead!You are my son, and born of me.My laws of Right are Laws to youWhose hands were stained in blood, to beThe hands that set the slave-man free!And now, again, you dare and do—For Justice, and Humanity!The days to be are big with Fate!Go fight your battle, Son o' mine:And State to Shire, and Shire to State,Its better self shall dedicate!So, let the wily foe combine,Whilst, hand-locked, heart-locked, we can wait!TOMMY TO HIS LAUREATE(CAPETOWN,January25, 1898.)O good-mornin', Mister Kiplin'! You are welcome to our shores:To the land of millionaires and potted meat:To the country of the 'fonteins' (we 'ave got no 'bads' or 'pores'),To the place where di'monds lay about the streetAt your feet;To the 'unting-ground of raiders indiscreet.I suppose you know this station, for you sort of keep in touchWith Tommy wheresoever 'e may go;An' you know our 'bat's' a shandy, made of 'Ottentot an' Dutch,It's a language which is 'ideous an' low,Don't you knowThat it's 'Wacht-een-beitje' 'stead of ''Arf a mo'?'We should like to come an' meet you, but we can't without a pass;Even then we'd 'ardly like to make a fuss;For out 'ere, they've got a notion that a Tommy isn't class;'E's a sort of brainless animal, or wuss!Vicious cuss!No, they don't expect intelligence from us.You 'ave met us in the tropics, you 'ave met us in the snows;But mostly in the Punjab an' the 'Ills.You 'ave seen us in Mauritius, where the naughty cyclone blows.You 'ave met us underneath a sun that kills,An' we grills!An' I ask you, do we fill the bloomin' bills?Since the time when Tommy's uniform was musketoon an' wig,There 'as always been a bloke wot 'ad a wayOf writin' of the Glory an' forgettin' the fatig','Oo saw 'im in 'is tunic day by day,Smart an' gay,An' forgot about the smallness of his pay!But you'reourpartic'lar author, you're our patron an' our friend,You're the poet of the cuss-word an' the swear,You're the poet of the people, where the red-mapped lands extend,You're the poet of the jungle an' the lair,An' compare,To the ever-speaking voice of everywhere!There are poets wot can please you with their primrose-vi'let lays,There are poets wot can drive a man to drink;But it takes a 'pukka' poet, in a Patriotic Craze,To make a chortlin' nation squirm an' shrink,Gasp an' blink;An' 'eedless, thoughtless people stop an' think!Yes, the 'and wot banged the banjo an' made Tommy comic songs,'Oo wrote of Empires, 'Lion's 'Ead to Line,''Oo found an 'idden poem in M'Andrew's Injin gongs,Was the checkin' 'and wot gave the warnin' sign,In a line—That gave the people soda after wine.THE MISSION THAT FAILEDOur troop was encamped by the side of a streamAn' a very smart troop were we.We 'ad Cavalry orficers—straight from town,An' we escorted Mister Commissioner Brown,Commissioner Brown, C.B.An' we 'eard that the Governor put 'im down,For a spare K.C.M.G.!We wos camped near by to a border town,On the borders of Creegerland—A very despotic, republican state—An' there we 'ad got the order to wait,But why, we did not understand.So we bedded our 'orses, an' cussed at our fate(For you can't cuss the man in command).One mornin' sez Mister Commissioner Brown,Sez 'e to the 'ole parade,'I've bin inspired by a dream just now—I can't say why, an' I can't say 'ow—But a voice in my dream it said,"O in Joannistown there's a deuce of a rowAnd badly they want your aid!"'Now Joannistown is in Creegerland,Which same is a friendly state.An' it isn't no joke—which is puttin' it fine—To pass without notice the border-post sign;But we did it, as I will relate.—We really intended to drop 'em a line!But we 'adn't got time to wait.We 'ad ridden some miles into CreegerlandWhen Commissioner Brown, C.B.,'E called an 'alt,—which a troop requires,For a man, 'e tires, as 'is 'orse perspires,—An' 'e sez to the troop, sez 'e,'About ten miles from 'ere are some telegraph wires,An' a very good thought struck me.'For fear of my dream bein' misunderstoodAn' the evil constructions of liars!—For fear of alarmin' the dear farmers' wivesAn' disturbin' the quiet an' peace of their lives,I think we will sever them wires!An' I'll give somethin' 'andsome to 'im 'oo contrivesTo cut off the current—with pliers!'An' Michael M'Carty, Lance-Corp'ral was 'e,Right guide to a section of 'A,'Started orf on the job, an' we whispered a cheer,An' we each gave the beggar our flasks—full of beer—To 'elp for to lighten 'is way!We gave 'im cheap drinks—though it was very dearWhen it came round to settling day!M'Carty 'e rode, an' M'Carty 'e swilled,An' M'Carty got big in the 'ead,Till 'e couldn't tell telegraph poles from trees,An' 'e wandered around, sorter go-as-you-pleaseTill 'is wonderin' wanderin's ledTo the wires—of a fence! an' reclinin' at ease'E cut up these wasters instead!It's all over now: an' Brown 'e got jugged,And the Burghers of Creegerland knowed.They licked us to fits in a sweet little fight,An' the King of Jerusalem wired 'is delight!An' the Laureate wrote us an Ode!An' Europe got ready for action that night'Cos M'Carty got drunk on the road!M'Carty's a thief, M'Carty's a beast,An' M'Carty is likewise a liar!'E went an' got drunk, which 'e shouldn't 'ave done;'E went an' got drunk, an' 'e spoilt the 'ole fun:An' the moral to them wot conspireIs,Don't send a beer-swilling son of a gunWhen you're cuttin a telegraph wire!THE PRAYERO God of Battles! Lord of Might!A sentry, in the silent night,I, 'oo 'ave never prayed,Kneel on the dew-damp sands, to say,O see me through the comin' day—But, please remember, though I pray,That I am not afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!'Ere in the dusky, starry light,My inner self I've weighed;An' I 'ave seen my guilt an' sin;I'm black as black can be, within,But though I would forgiveness win,It ain't 'cos I'm afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!Keep me, to-morrow, in Your sight!—Far 'ave I erred an' strayed.I've flaunted You, with gibe an' sneer,At 'ome, with chums to laugh and cheer,But now, I am alone—out 'ere!But still I ain't afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!The en'my's camp-fires twinkle bright.To-morrow, Lord, Your aid;The canteen was my Sunday-school:The drill-book was my Golden Rule;Wot are they now? O 'elpless fool!But still, I'm not afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!The price of every thoughtless slightTo-morrow will be paid!A voice is whisp'rin' to my 'eart—A voice that makes me sweat an' start!—'To-morrow, soul an' soldier part!'But I—I'm not afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!'Ere, in the silence of the night,My 'umble prayer is prayed!All life an' death are one to you!If I must die—O 'elp me to!In that last moment, see me through—My God! Iamafraid!CEASE FIREThe fight was done an hour ago:The whole brigade has fallen back,And I've been wand'rin' to and fro,A-askin' any—white or black,'Say—have you seen my brother, Jack?His troop was first in the attack!'I should have seen him here by now:An hour ago the 'cease fire' went.He isn't wounded any'ow,'Cos with the stretcher squads I went,An' all my other time I've spentA-hangin' round the doctor's tent.Among the huddled, fallen menI picked a way across the plain.I got a dozen yards, an' thenCame back for fear I'd turn my brain....The mangled horrors of the slain!O Christ! I can't gothereagain!Say, haveyouseen my brother Jack?Don't know! an' damn you, don't much care!—But 'scuse me, chum, a-talkin' back,I'm sorter flustered with the glare.These sands are hot, an' so's the air—Perhaps he's doin' guard somewhere!Old mother said before we went,'Be sure you keep him in your sight'(Not knowin' what a campaign meant).'Don't let him stay out late o' night!'—I wonder if he funked the fightAn' bolted. O pray God he might!They're layin' out our dead just now,He can't be——, no, that—that ain't sense,An' when he comes there'll be a row!A-keepin' me in this suspense!'Tis here our line of killed commence,I'll sorter look—for make-pretence!Pretendin' some one's here I know—I'm half inclined to turn aback—But one by one, along I go,And see the crimson clottin' black....His troop was first in the attack!What! Jack! Is this—this Thing our Jack?TOMMY'S AUTOGRAPHI 'ad lorst my situation, an' the girl she got the 'ump,An' the naggin' of my muvver nearly drove me orf my chump.So I 'oofed it down to Woolwich, to the old recruitin' starf,An' they give to me a paper for to fix my autygrarf!Just to fix my autygrarf!Lor' you should a 'eard me larf!For the blessed Sergeant-Major wos a tryin' on 'is chaff.Didn't mind the Doctor's soundin's,Nor 'is soap an' water barf!But the fing as knocked me silly wos that bloomin' autygrarf!I wos took before the colonel, an' I took a Bible oafThat I'd serve my Queen an' country, an' be square unto them boaf.Then they got a printed paper, an' this Colonel on the starfSez, 'You'll kindly read this over, an' affix your autygrarf!'To affix my autygrarf!Larf! You orter 'eard me larf!Signin' fings like ''Enry Irvin,' Knight Commornder of the Barf!Made me want to do a swaggerLike a Piccadilly calf!On'y fancy! People wantin' Tommy Atkins' autygrarf!Then I signs my name an' birfplace, an' the county I wos from,An' I dots the 'i' in Atkins, an' I crorst the 't' in tom.A recruit is wurf a dollar, an' the sergeant gets an 'arf;Just for 'andin' me a paper for to put my autygrarf!Just to put my autygrarf!Larf? You should 'ave 'eard them larf!From the colonel wiv 'is spurs on, to the sergeant in 'is scarf.When I sez, 'Wot's this for, mister?'Sez the colonel, 'Go to Barf!''Don't you know the Queen is anxious for to get your autygrarf?'I 'ave autygrarfed for clobber, I 'ave autygrarfed for pay;I 'ave signed it wiv a flourish, I 'ave signed it wiv a 'j'On an Army Temperance pledge-book(O the straight an' narrer parf!)—To a 'drunk' fine in the pay list, I've affixed my autygrarf!Wot a name! An autygrarf!'Nuff to drive a feller darf;Callin' Christian name an 'auty' an' the uvver name a 'grarf,'Writin' in a pocket-ledger—'Stead of album bound in calf—'Doo to soldier: Nil' (that's Latin), an' your bloomin' autygrarf!AT THE BRINK!'Tis now, as we tighten the girth,'Tis now, as we buckle the sword,When bitterness hardens our mirth,'Tis now that we seek you, O Lord!Give us hope now the future is black,From fatuous arrogance ward—The words that we cannot hold back!Give peace in our time, O Lord!You know of the hate—folly born;You know of the wrath—money bred;The impotent rage, and the scorn,The trust and the faith that are dead.Lest sorrow should spring from the land—The crop of the seed of the sword—O, stay the imperious hand;Give peace in our time, O Lord!'Tis good when the man loves the land,'Tis good when he falls for his creed,But woe to the hate that is fannedBy folly begotten of greed.When the weak become foolishly strong,When peoples, unwitting, applaud,—The folly wrought wrong—still is wrong!Give peace in our time, O Lord!When the voice in the senate is stilled;When the councillor speaks in a tent;When the lands are untended, untilled;What use if the stubborn relent?What gain will the simpleton's shame,The shrifts and lamentings, afford?To-day, on their conduct, the blame;Give peace in our time, O Lord!Give peace: that is rooted in Right.Give peace: that is strengthened by Grace.Give peace: that we stand in your sight,Thrice over a justified race.'Tis peace—and with honour—we need,And the child of our child shall awardThe praise for our failing, or deed.Give peace in our time, O Lord!

ARTHUR

'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere? sez I;'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, so you 'aven't gotnothin' to fear.'But 'e marched me 'ere, an' 'e marched me there,To burn blank cartridges everywhere;An' 'e made me sweat, an' 'e made me swear—Did Arthur!Wot can the Gen'ral do? sez I;Wot can the Gen'ral do?'O, 'e 's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e don't knowmuch aboutyou!'But 'e doubled me round on a big field day:An' 'e checked me for loafin'—a mile away!An' I found there's a time for work an' playWith Arthur!Wot 'as the Gen'ral done, sez I?Wot 'as the Gen'ral done?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' they chucked 'im 'isrank for fun!'But that was a lie, for I found out since'E's ninepence a soldier an' thruppence a prince!'E stood fire in Egypt, an' 'e didn't wince!Not Arthur!Wot does the Gen'ral know? sez I;Wot does the Gen'ral know?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e 's on'ygot up for show!'But I 'chanced' kit inspection, an' thought it a 'cert.';But 'e put me down, smart, for a tunic an' shirt!An', insult to injury—checked me for dirt!Did Arthur!'Ow is 'e liked by you? sez I;'Ow is 'e liked by you?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, but I reckonsome'ow 'e'll do!'I'm willin' to risk, as I've done before,A Fox 'Ills fight, or a native war,Or front rank man in an Army Corps,With Arthur!Wot is 'e, after all? sez I;Wot is 'e, after all?'O, 'e's a swaddle, the same as you, an' 'e goes to the"orficers' call"!''E's a gentleman, Tommy, when all's said an' done!'Is ma is the lady 'oo 's second to none,An' we love 'er the better because of 'er son—That's Arthur!

'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere? sez I;

'Oo's the Gen'ral 'ere?

'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, so you 'aven't got

nothin' to fear.'

But 'e marched me 'ere, an' 'e marched me there,

To burn blank cartridges everywhere;

An' 'e made me sweat, an' 'e made me swear—

Did Arthur!

Wot can the Gen'ral do? sez I;Wot can the Gen'ral do?'O, 'e 's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e don't knowmuch aboutyou!'But 'e doubled me round on a big field day:An' 'e checked me for loafin'—a mile away!An' I found there's a time for work an' playWith Arthur!

Wot can the Gen'ral do? sez I;

Wot can the Gen'ral do?

'O, 'e 's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e don't know

much aboutyou!'

But 'e doubled me round on a big field day:

An' 'e checked me for loafin'—a mile away!

An' I found there's a time for work an' play

With Arthur!

Wot 'as the Gen'ral done, sez I?Wot 'as the Gen'ral done?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' they chucked 'im 'isrank for fun!'But that was a lie, for I found out since'E's ninepence a soldier an' thruppence a prince!'E stood fire in Egypt, an' 'e didn't wince!Not Arthur!

Wot 'as the Gen'ral done, sez I?

Wot 'as the Gen'ral done?

'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' they chucked 'im 'is

rank for fun!'

But that was a lie, for I found out since

'E's ninepence a soldier an' thruppence a prince!

'E stood fire in Egypt, an' 'e didn't wince!

Not Arthur!

Wot does the Gen'ral know? sez I;Wot does the Gen'ral know?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e 's on'ygot up for show!'But I 'chanced' kit inspection, an' thought it a 'cert.';But 'e put me down, smart, for a tunic an' shirt!An', insult to injury—checked me for dirt!Did Arthur!

Wot does the Gen'ral know? sez I;

Wot does the Gen'ral know?

'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, an' 'e 's on'y

got up for show!'

But I 'chanced' kit inspection, an' thought it a 'cert.';

But 'e put me down, smart, for a tunic an' shirt!

An', insult to injury—checked me for dirt!

Did Arthur!

'Ow is 'e liked by you? sez I;'Ow is 'e liked by you?'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, but I reckonsome'ow 'e'll do!'

'Ow is 'e liked by you? sez I;

'Ow is 'e liked by you?

'O, 'e's a Prince o' the Royal Blood, but I reckon

some'ow 'e'll do!'

I'm willin' to risk, as I've done before,A Fox 'Ills fight, or a native war,Or front rank man in an Army Corps,With Arthur!

I'm willin' to risk, as I've done before,

A Fox 'Ills fight, or a native war,

Or front rank man in an Army Corps,

With Arthur!

Wot is 'e, after all? sez I;Wot is 'e, after all?'O, 'e's a swaddle, the same as you, an' 'e goes to the"orficers' call"!''E's a gentleman, Tommy, when all's said an' done!'Is ma is the lady 'oo 's second to none,An' we love 'er the better because of 'er son—That's Arthur!

Wot is 'e, after all? sez I;

Wot is 'e, after all?

'O, 'e's a swaddle, the same as you, an' 'e goes to the

"orficers' call"!'

'E's a gentleman, Tommy, when all's said an' done!

'Is ma is the lady 'oo 's second to none,

An' we love 'er the better because of 'er son—

That's Arthur!

LEGACIES

The dog is yours; and so's the photo frames,Them pictures wot I cut, an' my new box.The pack of cards, the dominoes, an' games,The knittin' needles, an' the knitted socks,An' all, except the letters and the ring—You'll find them all together tied with string.My public clothin'—that goes back to stores—My kit'll sell by auction on the square;An' other fellers will be 'formin' fours'An' 'markin' time' in boots I used to wear.They're welcome; but you won't forget to sendThe ring an' all the letters to my——friend?The pain ain't near so bad as wot it wereThe day they dragged me from the limber wheels;Ain't I a wreck! for God's sake don't tell 'er;Say it was fever—peaceful—in the 'ills;An' write about the wreaths, the 'Jack,' and band,An'—send a bit of hair: you understand?The ring—— Oh no, the doctor lets me talk,I ain't a-tirin'—'cept a funny light,An' just a feelin' that I'd like to walkTo where it seems to flicker in the night.Better for me to go with aching 'ead,Than go in trouble with my say unsaid.The ring—it ain't long since she sent it back;I never meant no 'arm, God only knows,But things—I can't tell now—looked very black,And she believed the others—I suppose,I'm sorry for 'er now—that cursed wheel!—You see she is a woman, an' she'llfeel.* * * * *The dog is yours, I told you that before.The spurs you'll find 'em in my private kit.The letters, an' the ring, an' nothin' more,—An'hair—it's foolish—but a little bit.* * * * *'Our Father'—Lord, how strange! It's all—ri'—sir.The—lett—an—th'—ring—an'—hair—for—'er!

The dog is yours; and so's the photo frames,

Them pictures wot I cut, an' my new box.

The pack of cards, the dominoes, an' games,

The knittin' needles, an' the knitted socks,

An' all, except the letters and the ring—

You'll find them all together tied with string.

My public clothin'—that goes back to stores—My kit'll sell by auction on the square;An' other fellers will be 'formin' fours'An' 'markin' time' in boots I used to wear.They're welcome; but you won't forget to sendThe ring an' all the letters to my——friend?

My public clothin'—that goes back to stores—

My kit'll sell by auction on the square;

An' other fellers will be 'formin' fours'

An' 'markin' time' in boots I used to wear.

They're welcome; but you won't forget to send

The ring an' all the letters to my——friend?

The pain ain't near so bad as wot it wereThe day they dragged me from the limber wheels;Ain't I a wreck! for God's sake don't tell 'er;Say it was fever—peaceful—in the 'ills;An' write about the wreaths, the 'Jack,' and band,An'—send a bit of hair: you understand?

The pain ain't near so bad as wot it were

The day they dragged me from the limber wheels;

Ain't I a wreck! for God's sake don't tell 'er;

Say it was fever—peaceful—in the 'ills;

An' write about the wreaths, the 'Jack,' and band,

An'—send a bit of hair: you understand?

The ring—— Oh no, the doctor lets me talk,I ain't a-tirin'—'cept a funny light,An' just a feelin' that I'd like to walkTo where it seems to flicker in the night.Better for me to go with aching 'ead,Than go in trouble with my say unsaid.

The ring—— Oh no, the doctor lets me talk,

I ain't a-tirin'—'cept a funny light,

An' just a feelin' that I'd like to walk

To where it seems to flicker in the night.

Better for me to go with aching 'ead,

Than go in trouble with my say unsaid.

The ring—it ain't long since she sent it back;I never meant no 'arm, God only knows,But things—I can't tell now—looked very black,And she believed the others—I suppose,I'm sorry for 'er now—that cursed wheel!—You see she is a woman, an' she'llfeel.* * * * *The dog is yours, I told you that before.The spurs you'll find 'em in my private kit.The letters, an' the ring, an' nothin' more,—An'hair—it's foolish—but a little bit.* * * * *'Our Father'—Lord, how strange! It's all—ri'—sir.The—lett—an—th'—ring—an'—hair—for—'er!

The ring—it ain't long since she sent it back;

I never meant no 'arm, God only knows,

But things—I can't tell now—looked very black,

And she believed the others—I suppose,

I'm sorry for 'er now—that cursed wheel!—

You see she is a woman, an' she'llfeel.

* * * * *

The dog is yours, I told you that before.

The spurs you'll find 'em in my private kit.

The letters, an' the ring, an' nothin' more,—

An'hair—it's foolish—but a little bit.* * * * *

An'hair—it's foolish—but a little bit.

* * * * *

'Our Father'—Lord, how strange! It's all—ri'—sir.

The—lett—an—th'—ring—an'—hair—for—'er!

T. A. IN LOVE

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Sittin' with my elbow on my knee.Iorterbe a polishin' the meat-dish an' the can—(Iorterdraw the groceries—for I am ord'ly man!But wot are bloomin' ration calls, an' wot's a pot or pan,When I'm dreaming O my darlin' one, of thee?)Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Firin' at the rifle range I be.I've missed a fust-class targit—an' I've missed the 'ill be'ind!I nearly shot a marker once! (which wasn't very kind);The orficer 'e swears at me—but re'ly, I don't mind!I am dreamin', O my darlin' one, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Me, as was the smartest man in 'B'!My kit is all untidy, and it's inches thick in dust;An' my rifle's fouled an' filthy, an' my bay'nit's red with rust;They've tried to find the reason—but I've seen 'em furder fust!An' they never guess I'm dreamin', dear, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!They can't make out wot's comin' over me.The fellows think I'm barmy, an' the Major thinks it's drink,The Sergeant thought it laziness, so shoved me in the clink!The Colonel called it 'thoughtlessness,' so gave me time to think,An' to dream again, my darlin' one, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Wot's two 'ours' sentry-go to me?A sittin' in the sentry-box, a-thinkin' of your eyes,The ord'ly orficer come along, an' took me by surprise!'E said as I was sleepin'—an' the usual orfice lies!When I was on'y dreamin', love, of thee!Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Rubbin' tarry oakum on my knee!Oh, when I weigh that oakum in, I know I'll cop it 'ot!I'll be 'auled before the Gov'nor, an' I'll git an 'our's shot;But whether I git punishment, or whether I do not,They can't prevent me dreamin', love, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!

Sittin' with my elbow on my knee.

Iorterbe a polishin' the meat-dish an' the can—

(Iorterdraw the groceries—for I am ord'ly man!

But wot are bloomin' ration calls, an' wot's a pot or pan,

When I'm dreaming O my darlin' one, of thee?)

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!

Firin' at the rifle range I be.I've missed a fust-class targit—an' I've missed the 'ill be'ind!I nearly shot a marker once! (which wasn't very kind);The orficer 'e swears at me—but re'ly, I don't mind!I am dreamin', O my darlin' one, of thee!

Firin' at the rifle range I be.

I've missed a fust-class targit—an' I've missed the 'ill be'ind!

I nearly shot a marker once! (which wasn't very kind);

The orficer 'e swears at me—but re'ly, I don't mind!

I am dreamin', O my darlin' one, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Me, as was the smartest man in 'B'!My kit is all untidy, and it's inches thick in dust;An' my rifle's fouled an' filthy, an' my bay'nit's red with rust;They've tried to find the reason—but I've seen 'em furder fust!An' they never guess I'm dreamin', dear, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!

Me, as was the smartest man in 'B'!

My kit is all untidy, and it's inches thick in dust;

An' my rifle's fouled an' filthy, an' my bay'nit's red with rust;

They've tried to find the reason—but I've seen 'em furder fust!

An' they never guess I'm dreamin', dear, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!They can't make out wot's comin' over me.The fellows think I'm barmy, an' the Major thinks it's drink,The Sergeant thought it laziness, so shoved me in the clink!The Colonel called it 'thoughtlessness,' so gave me time to think,An' to dream again, my darlin' one, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!

They can't make out wot's comin' over me.

The fellows think I'm barmy, an' the Major thinks it's drink,

The Sergeant thought it laziness, so shoved me in the clink!

The Colonel called it 'thoughtlessness,' so gave me time to think,

An' to dream again, my darlin' one, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Wot's two 'ours' sentry-go to me?A sittin' in the sentry-box, a-thinkin' of your eyes,The ord'ly orficer come along, an' took me by surprise!'E said as I was sleepin'—an' the usual orfice lies!When I was on'y dreamin', love, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!

Wot's two 'ours' sentry-go to me?

A sittin' in the sentry-box, a-thinkin' of your eyes,

The ord'ly orficer come along, an' took me by surprise!

'E said as I was sleepin'—an' the usual orfice lies!

When I was on'y dreamin', love, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!Rubbin' tarry oakum on my knee!Oh, when I weigh that oakum in, I know I'll cop it 'ot!I'll be 'auled before the Gov'nor, an' I'll git an 'our's shot;But whether I git punishment, or whether I do not,They can't prevent me dreamin', love, of thee!

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee!

Rubbin' tarry oakum on my knee!

Oh, when I weigh that oakum in, I know I'll cop it 'ot!

I'll be 'auled before the Gov'nor, an' I'll git an 'our's shot;

But whether I git punishment, or whether I do not,

They can't prevent me dreamin', love, of thee!

TOMMY ADVISES

Take your rifle from the rack:Take your bay'nit from the shelf;Clean your straps for marchin' order,An' git ready for the Border.For it ain't no sham attack,So you needn't kid yourself.It's a ball an' bay'nit actionWith the perfect satisfactionOf a medal, an' a ribbon, and perhaps a clasp or two.For a-doin' of the little job your betters couldn't do.Pack your socks, an' fold your shirt,Wash your water-bottle out,It'll make your marchin' easyIf your boots are nice an' greasy,—An' some dubbin wouldn't 'urt.You can chuck your weight about;There's an 'appy day before you,When the civvies will adore you,And the things wot used to shock 'em will be favoured with a smile.And your little faults an' failin's won't be noticed for a while.Git a guernsey out of store—Winter's very cold above,An' the wind an' rain will find youIf you leave your clothes behind you!Trust your pretty self beforeAny Quartermaster's love;For there's no store to go untoAn' no tailors' shops to run to;For it ain't no ten days' skirmish these manoeuvres wot you're in,An' a little flannel weskit 'ides a multitood of skin!Write your letters for the mail;Tell your people all the news—For your folks'll prize the writin'Of 'my son who's out a-fightin'.'Don't you spin an awful tale,Just to give your mother blues,For the day the boys are cryin''List o' wounded, dead and dyin'!'Will be tons of time for them at 'ome to feel a trifle blue,When they see a dozen Smiths are killed—and wonder which is you!

Take your rifle from the rack:

Take your bay'nit from the shelf;

Clean your straps for marchin' order,

An' git ready for the Border.

For it ain't no sham attack,

So you needn't kid yourself.

It's a ball an' bay'nit action

With the perfect satisfaction

Of a medal, an' a ribbon, and perhaps a clasp or two.

For a-doin' of the little job your betters couldn't do.

Pack your socks, an' fold your shirt,Wash your water-bottle out,It'll make your marchin' easyIf your boots are nice an' greasy,—An' some dubbin wouldn't 'urt.You can chuck your weight about;There's an 'appy day before you,When the civvies will adore you,And the things wot used to shock 'em will be favoured with a smile.And your little faults an' failin's won't be noticed for a while.

Pack your socks, an' fold your shirt,

Wash your water-bottle out,

It'll make your marchin' easy

If your boots are nice an' greasy,—

An' some dubbin wouldn't 'urt.

You can chuck your weight about;

There's an 'appy day before you,

When the civvies will adore you,

And the things wot used to shock 'em will be favoured with a smile.

And your little faults an' failin's won't be noticed for a while.

Git a guernsey out of store—Winter's very cold above,An' the wind an' rain will find youIf you leave your clothes behind you!Trust your pretty self beforeAny Quartermaster's love;For there's no store to go untoAn' no tailors' shops to run to;For it ain't no ten days' skirmish these manoeuvres wot you're in,An' a little flannel weskit 'ides a multitood of skin!

Git a guernsey out of store—

Winter's very cold above,

An' the wind an' rain will find you

If you leave your clothes behind you!

Trust your pretty self before

Any Quartermaster's love;

For there's no store to go unto

An' no tailors' shops to run to;

For it ain't no ten days' skirmish these manoeuvres wot you're in,

An' a little flannel weskit 'ides a multitood of skin!

Write your letters for the mail;Tell your people all the news—For your folks'll prize the writin'Of 'my son who's out a-fightin'.'Don't you spin an awful tale,Just to give your mother blues,For the day the boys are cryin''List o' wounded, dead and dyin'!'Will be tons of time for them at 'ome to feel a trifle blue,When they see a dozen Smiths are killed—and wonder which is you!

Write your letters for the mail;

Tell your people all the news—

For your folks'll prize the writin'

Of 'my son who's out a-fightin'.'

Don't you spin an awful tale,

Just to give your mother blues,

For the day the boys are cryin'

'List o' wounded, dead and dyin'!'

Will be tons of time for them at 'ome to feel a trifle blue,

When they see a dozen Smiths are killed—and wonder which is you!

THE NUMBER ONE

The number one, 'e's on the bridge,There's goin' to be a row,The Gold Coast is upon our port,An', 'ull down, on our bow;Makin' for 'ome for all she's worth—A slaver's bloomin' dhow!The number one is on the bridge,The buntin' tosser's aft;An' down below, in the 'eat an' glow,The men are at their graft.They've peeled their shirts, to get the steam,To over-'aul that craft.The number one is in command,The skipper's sick below,A touch o' fever from the coast,'As made the old man so;But 'e's passed the word to the engineer,'For Gawd's sake make 'er go!'The 'gen'ral quarters' sounded orf,The bugler's made a call(A call that means the 'red' marines,With fifty rounds of ball,Are goin' to git a medal an' clasp,Or an ensign for a pall!)The number one is on the bridge,The sun is low an' red!An' shot an' shell, like fiends of 'ell,Are shriekin' round 'is 'ead,An' three marines are crippled,An' their sergeant-major's dead!The number one is on the bridge,The dhow's a battered sight;'Er rascal chief 'as come to grief;'E's fought 'is final fight,But the number one lies on the bridge,An' 'is face is ghastly white.A smile is on 'is bloodless lips,'Is sword 'angs from 'is wrist,And a lock of 'air of a maiden fair.Is clasped in 'is bloodstained fist,But 'e'll meet 'er at the great roll-call,When they muster by 'open list'!

The number one, 'e's on the bridge,There's goin' to be a row,The Gold Coast is upon our port,An', 'ull down, on our bow;Makin' for 'ome for all she's worth—A slaver's bloomin' dhow!

The number one, 'e's on the bridge,

There's goin' to be a row,

The Gold Coast is upon our port,

An', 'ull down, on our bow;

Makin' for 'ome for all she's worth—

A slaver's bloomin' dhow!

The number one is on the bridge,The buntin' tosser's aft;An' down below, in the 'eat an' glow,The men are at their graft.They've peeled their shirts, to get the steam,To over-'aul that craft.

The number one is on the bridge,

The buntin' tosser's aft;

An' down below, in the 'eat an' glow,

The men are at their graft.

They've peeled their shirts, to get the steam,

To over-'aul that craft.

The number one is in command,The skipper's sick below,A touch o' fever from the coast,'As made the old man so;But 'e's passed the word to the engineer,'For Gawd's sake make 'er go!'

The number one is in command,

The skipper's sick below,

A touch o' fever from the coast,

'As made the old man so;

But 'e's passed the word to the engineer,

'For Gawd's sake make 'er go!'

The 'gen'ral quarters' sounded orf,The bugler's made a call(A call that means the 'red' marines,With fifty rounds of ball,Are goin' to git a medal an' clasp,Or an ensign for a pall!)

The 'gen'ral quarters' sounded orf,

The bugler's made a call

(A call that means the 'red' marines,

With fifty rounds of ball,

Are goin' to git a medal an' clasp,

Or an ensign for a pall!)

The number one is on the bridge,The sun is low an' red!An' shot an' shell, like fiends of 'ell,Are shriekin' round 'is 'ead,An' three marines are crippled,An' their sergeant-major's dead!

The number one is on the bridge,

The sun is low an' red!

An' shot an' shell, like fiends of 'ell,

Are shriekin' round 'is 'ead,

An' three marines are crippled,

An' their sergeant-major's dead!

The number one is on the bridge,The dhow's a battered sight;'Er rascal chief 'as come to grief;'E's fought 'is final fight,But the number one lies on the bridge,An' 'is face is ghastly white.

The number one is on the bridge,

The dhow's a battered sight;

'Er rascal chief 'as come to grief;

'E's fought 'is final fight,

But the number one lies on the bridge,

An' 'is face is ghastly white.

A smile is on 'is bloodless lips,'Is sword 'angs from 'is wrist,And a lock of 'air of a maiden fair.Is clasped in 'is bloodstained fist,But 'e'll meet 'er at the great roll-call,When they muster by 'open list'!

A smile is on 'is bloodless lips,

'Is sword 'angs from 'is wrist,

And a lock of 'air of a maiden fair.

Is clasped in 'is bloodstained fist,

But 'e'll meet 'er at the great roll-call,

When they muster by 'open list'!

BRITANNIA TO HER FIRST-BORN

I am no maiden, highly strung,To faint, when bloody death is nigh.I have not lived, by might of tongueNor by vain boastings, wind-wide flung!But on fame's endless ladder, IHave fought my way, from rung to rung!I am no fretful, whimp'ring miss;I am a woman, learned of years.And once I felt your baby kiss:Your bliss for me had greater bliss!Your youthful sorrows had my tears.O son o' mine, remember this!Your foes were mine, in those dear days:Your friends were kind, and kin to me.We parted—so, we will not raiseThe long dead years. We went our ways,I, brooding by the cold grey sea;You, pride-flushed, with your new-won bays!The years have passed; it does but seemAs yester-eve you left my side.I journeyed with you, dream on dream—I heard your great war eagle's scream!And on sweet Progress, your fair bride,I saw the sun of Fortune's beam!I mourned your follies, word and deed;I watched your rising, when you rose,By sober prayer, by Cross and Bead;Until you found that greater Creed,That in the broader channel flows,The lowly truths, that higher lead!You are my son, and born of me.My laws of Right are Laws to youWhose hands were stained in blood, to beThe hands that set the slave-man free!And now, again, you dare and do—For Justice, and Humanity!The days to be are big with Fate!Go fight your battle, Son o' mine:And State to Shire, and Shire to State,Its better self shall dedicate!So, let the wily foe combine,Whilst, hand-locked, heart-locked, we can wait!

I am no maiden, highly strung,

To faint, when bloody death is nigh.

I have not lived, by might of tongue

Nor by vain boastings, wind-wide flung!

But on fame's endless ladder, I

Have fought my way, from rung to rung!

I am no fretful, whimp'ring miss;I am a woman, learned of years.And once I felt your baby kiss:Your bliss for me had greater bliss!Your youthful sorrows had my tears.O son o' mine, remember this!

I am no fretful, whimp'ring miss;

I am a woman, learned of years.

And once I felt your baby kiss:

Your bliss for me had greater bliss!

Your youthful sorrows had my tears.

O son o' mine, remember this!

Your foes were mine, in those dear days:Your friends were kind, and kin to me.We parted—so, we will not raiseThe long dead years. We went our ways,I, brooding by the cold grey sea;You, pride-flushed, with your new-won bays!

Your foes were mine, in those dear days:

Your friends were kind, and kin to me.

We parted—so, we will not raise

The long dead years. We went our ways,

I, brooding by the cold grey sea;

You, pride-flushed, with your new-won bays!

The years have passed; it does but seemAs yester-eve you left my side.I journeyed with you, dream on dream—I heard your great war eagle's scream!And on sweet Progress, your fair bride,I saw the sun of Fortune's beam!

The years have passed; it does but seem

As yester-eve you left my side.

I journeyed with you, dream on dream—

I heard your great war eagle's scream!

And on sweet Progress, your fair bride,

I saw the sun of Fortune's beam!

I mourned your follies, word and deed;I watched your rising, when you rose,By sober prayer, by Cross and Bead;Until you found that greater Creed,That in the broader channel flows,The lowly truths, that higher lead!

I mourned your follies, word and deed;

I watched your rising, when you rose,

By sober prayer, by Cross and Bead;

Until you found that greater Creed,

That in the broader channel flows,

The lowly truths, that higher lead!

You are my son, and born of me.My laws of Right are Laws to youWhose hands were stained in blood, to beThe hands that set the slave-man free!And now, again, you dare and do—For Justice, and Humanity!

You are my son, and born of me.

My laws of Right are Laws to you

Whose hands were stained in blood, to be

The hands that set the slave-man free!

And now, again, you dare and do—

For Justice, and Humanity!

The days to be are big with Fate!Go fight your battle, Son o' mine:And State to Shire, and Shire to State,Its better self shall dedicate!So, let the wily foe combine,Whilst, hand-locked, heart-locked, we can wait!

The days to be are big with Fate!

Go fight your battle, Son o' mine:

And State to Shire, and Shire to State,

Its better self shall dedicate!

So, let the wily foe combine,

Whilst, hand-locked, heart-locked, we can wait!

TOMMY TO HIS LAUREATE

(CAPETOWN,January25, 1898.)

O good-mornin', Mister Kiplin'! You are welcome to our shores:To the land of millionaires and potted meat:To the country of the 'fonteins' (we 'ave got no 'bads' or 'pores'),To the place where di'monds lay about the streetAt your feet;To the 'unting-ground of raiders indiscreet.I suppose you know this station, for you sort of keep in touchWith Tommy wheresoever 'e may go;An' you know our 'bat's' a shandy, made of 'Ottentot an' Dutch,It's a language which is 'ideous an' low,Don't you knowThat it's 'Wacht-een-beitje' 'stead of ''Arf a mo'?'We should like to come an' meet you, but we can't without a pass;Even then we'd 'ardly like to make a fuss;For out 'ere, they've got a notion that a Tommy isn't class;'E's a sort of brainless animal, or wuss!Vicious cuss!No, they don't expect intelligence from us.You 'ave met us in the tropics, you 'ave met us in the snows;But mostly in the Punjab an' the 'Ills.You 'ave seen us in Mauritius, where the naughty cyclone blows.You 'ave met us underneath a sun that kills,An' we grills!An' I ask you, do we fill the bloomin' bills?Since the time when Tommy's uniform was musketoon an' wig,There 'as always been a bloke wot 'ad a wayOf writin' of the Glory an' forgettin' the fatig','Oo saw 'im in 'is tunic day by day,Smart an' gay,An' forgot about the smallness of his pay!But you'reourpartic'lar author, you're our patron an' our friend,You're the poet of the cuss-word an' the swear,You're the poet of the people, where the red-mapped lands extend,You're the poet of the jungle an' the lair,An' compare,To the ever-speaking voice of everywhere!There are poets wot can please you with their primrose-vi'let lays,There are poets wot can drive a man to drink;But it takes a 'pukka' poet, in a Patriotic Craze,To make a chortlin' nation squirm an' shrink,Gasp an' blink;An' 'eedless, thoughtless people stop an' think!Yes, the 'and wot banged the banjo an' made Tommy comic songs,'Oo wrote of Empires, 'Lion's 'Ead to Line,''Oo found an 'idden poem in M'Andrew's Injin gongs,Was the checkin' 'and wot gave the warnin' sign,In a line—That gave the people soda after wine.

O good-mornin', Mister Kiplin'! You are welcome to our shores:

To the land of millionaires and potted meat:

To the country of the 'fonteins' (we 'ave got no 'bads' or 'pores'),

To the place where di'monds lay about the street

At your feet;

To the 'unting-ground of raiders indiscreet.

I suppose you know this station, for you sort of keep in touchWith Tommy wheresoever 'e may go;An' you know our 'bat's' a shandy, made of 'Ottentot an' Dutch,It's a language which is 'ideous an' low,Don't you knowThat it's 'Wacht-een-beitje' 'stead of ''Arf a mo'?'

I suppose you know this station, for you sort of keep in touch

With Tommy wheresoever 'e may go;

An' you know our 'bat's' a shandy, made of 'Ottentot an' Dutch,

It's a language which is 'ideous an' low,

Don't you know

That it's 'Wacht-een-beitje' 'stead of ''Arf a mo'?'

We should like to come an' meet you, but we can't without a pass;Even then we'd 'ardly like to make a fuss;For out 'ere, they've got a notion that a Tommy isn't class;'E's a sort of brainless animal, or wuss!Vicious cuss!No, they don't expect intelligence from us.

We should like to come an' meet you, but we can't without a pass;

Even then we'd 'ardly like to make a fuss;

For out 'ere, they've got a notion that a Tommy isn't class;

'E's a sort of brainless animal, or wuss!

Vicious cuss!

No, they don't expect intelligence from us.

You 'ave met us in the tropics, you 'ave met us in the snows;But mostly in the Punjab an' the 'Ills.You 'ave seen us in Mauritius, where the naughty cyclone blows.You 'ave met us underneath a sun that kills,An' we grills!An' I ask you, do we fill the bloomin' bills?

You 'ave met us in the tropics, you 'ave met us in the snows;

But mostly in the Punjab an' the 'Ills.

You 'ave seen us in Mauritius, where the naughty cyclone blows.

You 'ave met us underneath a sun that kills,

An' we grills!

An' I ask you, do we fill the bloomin' bills?

Since the time when Tommy's uniform was musketoon an' wig,There 'as always been a bloke wot 'ad a wayOf writin' of the Glory an' forgettin' the fatig','Oo saw 'im in 'is tunic day by day,Smart an' gay,An' forgot about the smallness of his pay!

Since the time when Tommy's uniform was musketoon an' wig,

There 'as always been a bloke wot 'ad a way

Of writin' of the Glory an' forgettin' the fatig',

'Oo saw 'im in 'is tunic day by day,

Smart an' gay,

An' forgot about the smallness of his pay!

But you'reourpartic'lar author, you're our patron an' our friend,You're the poet of the cuss-word an' the swear,You're the poet of the people, where the red-mapped lands extend,You're the poet of the jungle an' the lair,An' compare,To the ever-speaking voice of everywhere!

But you'reourpartic'lar author, you're our patron an' our friend,

You're the poet of the cuss-word an' the swear,

You're the poet of the people, where the red-mapped lands extend,

You're the poet of the jungle an' the lair,

An' compare,

To the ever-speaking voice of everywhere!

There are poets wot can please you with their primrose-vi'let lays,There are poets wot can drive a man to drink;But it takes a 'pukka' poet, in a Patriotic Craze,To make a chortlin' nation squirm an' shrink,Gasp an' blink;An' 'eedless, thoughtless people stop an' think!

There are poets wot can please you with their primrose-vi'let lays,

There are poets wot can drive a man to drink;

But it takes a 'pukka' poet, in a Patriotic Craze,

To make a chortlin' nation squirm an' shrink,

Gasp an' blink;

An' 'eedless, thoughtless people stop an' think!

Yes, the 'and wot banged the banjo an' made Tommy comic songs,'Oo wrote of Empires, 'Lion's 'Ead to Line,''Oo found an 'idden poem in M'Andrew's Injin gongs,Was the checkin' 'and wot gave the warnin' sign,In a line—That gave the people soda after wine.

Yes, the 'and wot banged the banjo an' made Tommy comic songs,

'Oo wrote of Empires, 'Lion's 'Ead to Line,'

'Oo found an 'idden poem in M'Andrew's Injin gongs,

Was the checkin' 'and wot gave the warnin' sign,

In a line—

That gave the people soda after wine.

THE MISSION THAT FAILED

Our troop was encamped by the side of a streamAn' a very smart troop were we.We 'ad Cavalry orficers—straight from town,An' we escorted Mister Commissioner Brown,Commissioner Brown, C.B.An' we 'eard that the Governor put 'im down,For a spare K.C.M.G.!We wos camped near by to a border town,On the borders of Creegerland—A very despotic, republican state—An' there we 'ad got the order to wait,But why, we did not understand.So we bedded our 'orses, an' cussed at our fate(For you can't cuss the man in command).One mornin' sez Mister Commissioner Brown,Sez 'e to the 'ole parade,'I've bin inspired by a dream just now—I can't say why, an' I can't say 'ow—But a voice in my dream it said,"O in Joannistown there's a deuce of a rowAnd badly they want your aid!"'Now Joannistown is in Creegerland,Which same is a friendly state.An' it isn't no joke—which is puttin' it fine—To pass without notice the border-post sign;But we did it, as I will relate.—We really intended to drop 'em a line!But we 'adn't got time to wait.We 'ad ridden some miles into CreegerlandWhen Commissioner Brown, C.B.,'E called an 'alt,—which a troop requires,For a man, 'e tires, as 'is 'orse perspires,—An' 'e sez to the troop, sez 'e,'About ten miles from 'ere are some telegraph wires,An' a very good thought struck me.'For fear of my dream bein' misunderstoodAn' the evil constructions of liars!—For fear of alarmin' the dear farmers' wivesAn' disturbin' the quiet an' peace of their lives,I think we will sever them wires!An' I'll give somethin' 'andsome to 'im 'oo contrivesTo cut off the current—with pliers!'An' Michael M'Carty, Lance-Corp'ral was 'e,Right guide to a section of 'A,'Started orf on the job, an' we whispered a cheer,An' we each gave the beggar our flasks—full of beer—To 'elp for to lighten 'is way!We gave 'im cheap drinks—though it was very dearWhen it came round to settling day!M'Carty 'e rode, an' M'Carty 'e swilled,An' M'Carty got big in the 'ead,Till 'e couldn't tell telegraph poles from trees,An' 'e wandered around, sorter go-as-you-pleaseTill 'is wonderin' wanderin's ledTo the wires—of a fence! an' reclinin' at ease'E cut up these wasters instead!It's all over now: an' Brown 'e got jugged,And the Burghers of Creegerland knowed.They licked us to fits in a sweet little fight,An' the King of Jerusalem wired 'is delight!An' the Laureate wrote us an Ode!An' Europe got ready for action that night'Cos M'Carty got drunk on the road!M'Carty's a thief, M'Carty's a beast,An' M'Carty is likewise a liar!'E went an' got drunk, which 'e shouldn't 'ave done;'E went an' got drunk, an' 'e spoilt the 'ole fun:An' the moral to them wot conspireIs,Don't send a beer-swilling son of a gunWhen you're cuttin a telegraph wire!

Our troop was encamped by the side of a stream

An' a very smart troop were we.

We 'ad Cavalry orficers—straight from town,

An' we escorted Mister Commissioner Brown,

Commissioner Brown, C.B.

An' we 'eard that the Governor put 'im down,

For a spare K.C.M.G.!

We wos camped near by to a border town,On the borders of Creegerland—A very despotic, republican state—An' there we 'ad got the order to wait,But why, we did not understand.So we bedded our 'orses, an' cussed at our fate(For you can't cuss the man in command).

We wos camped near by to a border town,

On the borders of Creegerland—

A very despotic, republican state—

An' there we 'ad got the order to wait,

But why, we did not understand.

So we bedded our 'orses, an' cussed at our fate

(For you can't cuss the man in command).

One mornin' sez Mister Commissioner Brown,Sez 'e to the 'ole parade,'I've bin inspired by a dream just now—I can't say why, an' I can't say 'ow—But a voice in my dream it said,"O in Joannistown there's a deuce of a rowAnd badly they want your aid!"'

One mornin' sez Mister Commissioner Brown,

Sez 'e to the 'ole parade,

'I've bin inspired by a dream just now—

I can't say why, an' I can't say 'ow—

But a voice in my dream it said,

"O in Joannistown there's a deuce of a row

And badly they want your aid!"'

Now Joannistown is in Creegerland,Which same is a friendly state.An' it isn't no joke—which is puttin' it fine—To pass without notice the border-post sign;But we did it, as I will relate.—We really intended to drop 'em a line!But we 'adn't got time to wait.

Now Joannistown is in Creegerland,

Which same is a friendly state.

An' it isn't no joke—which is puttin' it fine—

To pass without notice the border-post sign;

But we did it, as I will relate.—

We really intended to drop 'em a line!

But we 'adn't got time to wait.

We 'ad ridden some miles into CreegerlandWhen Commissioner Brown, C.B.,'E called an 'alt,—which a troop requires,For a man, 'e tires, as 'is 'orse perspires,—An' 'e sez to the troop, sez 'e,'About ten miles from 'ere are some telegraph wires,An' a very good thought struck me.

We 'ad ridden some miles into Creegerland

When Commissioner Brown, C.B.,

'E called an 'alt,—which a troop requires,

For a man, 'e tires, as 'is 'orse perspires,—

An' 'e sez to the troop, sez 'e,

'About ten miles from 'ere are some telegraph wires,

An' a very good thought struck me.

'For fear of my dream bein' misunderstoodAn' the evil constructions of liars!—For fear of alarmin' the dear farmers' wivesAn' disturbin' the quiet an' peace of their lives,I think we will sever them wires!An' I'll give somethin' 'andsome to 'im 'oo contrivesTo cut off the current—with pliers!'

'For fear of my dream bein' misunderstood

An' the evil constructions of liars!—

For fear of alarmin' the dear farmers' wives

An' disturbin' the quiet an' peace of their lives,

I think we will sever them wires!

An' I'll give somethin' 'andsome to 'im 'oo contrives

To cut off the current—with pliers!'

An' Michael M'Carty, Lance-Corp'ral was 'e,Right guide to a section of 'A,'Started orf on the job, an' we whispered a cheer,An' we each gave the beggar our flasks—full of beer—To 'elp for to lighten 'is way!We gave 'im cheap drinks—though it was very dearWhen it came round to settling day!

An' Michael M'Carty, Lance-Corp'ral was 'e,

Right guide to a section of 'A,'

Started orf on the job, an' we whispered a cheer,

An' we each gave the beggar our flasks—full of beer—

To 'elp for to lighten 'is way!

We gave 'im cheap drinks—though it was very dear

When it came round to settling day!

M'Carty 'e rode, an' M'Carty 'e swilled,An' M'Carty got big in the 'ead,Till 'e couldn't tell telegraph poles from trees,An' 'e wandered around, sorter go-as-you-pleaseTill 'is wonderin' wanderin's ledTo the wires—of a fence! an' reclinin' at ease'E cut up these wasters instead!

M'Carty 'e rode, an' M'Carty 'e swilled,

An' M'Carty got big in the 'ead,

Till 'e couldn't tell telegraph poles from trees,

An' 'e wandered around, sorter go-as-you-please

Till 'is wonderin' wanderin's led

To the wires—of a fence! an' reclinin' at ease

'E cut up these wasters instead!

It's all over now: an' Brown 'e got jugged,And the Burghers of Creegerland knowed.They licked us to fits in a sweet little fight,An' the King of Jerusalem wired 'is delight!An' the Laureate wrote us an Ode!An' Europe got ready for action that night'Cos M'Carty got drunk on the road!

It's all over now: an' Brown 'e got jugged,

And the Burghers of Creegerland knowed.

They licked us to fits in a sweet little fight,

An' the King of Jerusalem wired 'is delight!

An' the Laureate wrote us an Ode!

An' Europe got ready for action that night

'Cos M'Carty got drunk on the road!

M'Carty's a thief, M'Carty's a beast,An' M'Carty is likewise a liar!'E went an' got drunk, which 'e shouldn't 'ave done;'E went an' got drunk, an' 'e spoilt the 'ole fun:An' the moral to them wot conspireIs,Don't send a beer-swilling son of a gunWhen you're cuttin a telegraph wire!

M'Carty's a thief, M'Carty's a beast,

An' M'Carty is likewise a liar!

'E went an' got drunk, which 'e shouldn't 'ave done;

'E went an' got drunk, an' 'e spoilt the 'ole fun:

An' the moral to them wot conspire

Is,Don't send a beer-swilling son of a gun

When you're cuttin a telegraph wire!

THE PRAYER

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!A sentry, in the silent night,I, 'oo 'ave never prayed,Kneel on the dew-damp sands, to say,O see me through the comin' day—But, please remember, though I pray,That I am not afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!'Ere in the dusky, starry light,My inner self I've weighed;An' I 'ave seen my guilt an' sin;I'm black as black can be, within,But though I would forgiveness win,It ain't 'cos I'm afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!Keep me, to-morrow, in Your sight!—Far 'ave I erred an' strayed.I've flaunted You, with gibe an' sneer,At 'ome, with chums to laugh and cheer,But now, I am alone—out 'ere!But still I ain't afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!The en'my's camp-fires twinkle bright.To-morrow, Lord, Your aid;The canteen was my Sunday-school:The drill-book was my Golden Rule;Wot are they now? O 'elpless fool!But still, I'm not afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!The price of every thoughtless slightTo-morrow will be paid!A voice is whisp'rin' to my 'eart—A voice that makes me sweat an' start!—'To-morrow, soul an' soldier part!'But I—I'm not afraid!O God of Battles! Lord of Might!'Ere, in the silence of the night,My 'umble prayer is prayed!All life an' death are one to you!If I must die—O 'elp me to!In that last moment, see me through—My God! Iamafraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!

A sentry, in the silent night,

I, 'oo 'ave never prayed,

Kneel on the dew-damp sands, to say,

O see me through the comin' day—

But, please remember, though I pray,

That I am not afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!'Ere in the dusky, starry light,My inner self I've weighed;An' I 'ave seen my guilt an' sin;I'm black as black can be, within,But though I would forgiveness win,It ain't 'cos I'm afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!

'Ere in the dusky, starry light,

My inner self I've weighed;

An' I 'ave seen my guilt an' sin;

I'm black as black can be, within,

But though I would forgiveness win,

It ain't 'cos I'm afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!Keep me, to-morrow, in Your sight!—Far 'ave I erred an' strayed.I've flaunted You, with gibe an' sneer,At 'ome, with chums to laugh and cheer,But now, I am alone—out 'ere!But still I ain't afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!

Keep me, to-morrow, in Your sight!—

Far 'ave I erred an' strayed.

I've flaunted You, with gibe an' sneer,

At 'ome, with chums to laugh and cheer,

But now, I am alone—out 'ere!

But still I ain't afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!The en'my's camp-fires twinkle bright.To-morrow, Lord, Your aid;The canteen was my Sunday-school:The drill-book was my Golden Rule;Wot are they now? O 'elpless fool!But still, I'm not afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!

The en'my's camp-fires twinkle bright.

To-morrow, Lord, Your aid;

The canteen was my Sunday-school:

The drill-book was my Golden Rule;

Wot are they now? O 'elpless fool!

But still, I'm not afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!The price of every thoughtless slightTo-morrow will be paid!A voice is whisp'rin' to my 'eart—A voice that makes me sweat an' start!—'To-morrow, soul an' soldier part!'But I—I'm not afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!

The price of every thoughtless slight

To-morrow will be paid!

A voice is whisp'rin' to my 'eart—

A voice that makes me sweat an' start!—

'To-morrow, soul an' soldier part!'

But I—I'm not afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!'Ere, in the silence of the night,My 'umble prayer is prayed!All life an' death are one to you!If I must die—O 'elp me to!In that last moment, see me through—My God! Iamafraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!

'Ere, in the silence of the night,

My 'umble prayer is prayed!

All life an' death are one to you!

If I must die—O 'elp me to!

In that last moment, see me through—

My God! Iamafraid!

CEASE FIRE

The fight was done an hour ago:The whole brigade has fallen back,And I've been wand'rin' to and fro,A-askin' any—white or black,'Say—have you seen my brother, Jack?His troop was first in the attack!'I should have seen him here by now:An hour ago the 'cease fire' went.He isn't wounded any'ow,'Cos with the stretcher squads I went,An' all my other time I've spentA-hangin' round the doctor's tent.Among the huddled, fallen menI picked a way across the plain.I got a dozen yards, an' thenCame back for fear I'd turn my brain....The mangled horrors of the slain!O Christ! I can't gothereagain!Say, haveyouseen my brother Jack?Don't know! an' damn you, don't much care!—But 'scuse me, chum, a-talkin' back,I'm sorter flustered with the glare.These sands are hot, an' so's the air—Perhaps he's doin' guard somewhere!Old mother said before we went,'Be sure you keep him in your sight'(Not knowin' what a campaign meant).'Don't let him stay out late o' night!'—I wonder if he funked the fightAn' bolted. O pray God he might!They're layin' out our dead just now,He can't be——, no, that—that ain't sense,An' when he comes there'll be a row!A-keepin' me in this suspense!'Tis here our line of killed commence,I'll sorter look—for make-pretence!Pretendin' some one's here I know—I'm half inclined to turn aback—But one by one, along I go,And see the crimson clottin' black....His troop was first in the attack!What! Jack! Is this—this Thing our Jack?

The fight was done an hour ago:

The whole brigade has fallen back,

And I've been wand'rin' to and fro,

A-askin' any—white or black,'Say—have you seen my brother, Jack?His troop was first in the attack!'

A-askin' any—white or black,

'Say—have you seen my brother, Jack?

His troop was first in the attack!'

I should have seen him here by now:An hour ago the 'cease fire' went.He isn't wounded any'ow,'Cos with the stretcher squads I went,An' all my other time I've spentA-hangin' round the doctor's tent.

I should have seen him here by now:

An hour ago the 'cease fire' went.

He isn't wounded any'ow,

'Cos with the stretcher squads I went,An' all my other time I've spentA-hangin' round the doctor's tent.

'Cos with the stretcher squads I went,

An' all my other time I've spent

A-hangin' round the doctor's tent.

Among the huddled, fallen menI picked a way across the plain.I got a dozen yards, an' thenCame back for fear I'd turn my brain....The mangled horrors of the slain!O Christ! I can't gothereagain!

Among the huddled, fallen men

I picked a way across the plain.

I got a dozen yards, an' then

Came back for fear I'd turn my brain....The mangled horrors of the slain!O Christ! I can't gothereagain!

Came back for fear I'd turn my brain....

The mangled horrors of the slain!

O Christ! I can't gothereagain!

Say, haveyouseen my brother Jack?Don't know! an' damn you, don't much care!—But 'scuse me, chum, a-talkin' back,I'm sorter flustered with the glare.These sands are hot, an' so's the air—Perhaps he's doin' guard somewhere!

Say, haveyouseen my brother Jack?

Don't know! an' damn you, don't much care!—

But 'scuse me, chum, a-talkin' back,

I'm sorter flustered with the glare.These sands are hot, an' so's the air—Perhaps he's doin' guard somewhere!

I'm sorter flustered with the glare.

These sands are hot, an' so's the air—

Perhaps he's doin' guard somewhere!

Old mother said before we went,'Be sure you keep him in your sight'(Not knowin' what a campaign meant).'Don't let him stay out late o' night!'—I wonder if he funked the fightAn' bolted. O pray God he might!

Old mother said before we went,

'Be sure you keep him in your sight'

(Not knowin' what a campaign meant).

'Don't let him stay out late o' night!'—I wonder if he funked the fightAn' bolted. O pray God he might!

'Don't let him stay out late o' night!'—

I wonder if he funked the fight

An' bolted. O pray God he might!

They're layin' out our dead just now,He can't be——, no, that—that ain't sense,An' when he comes there'll be a row!A-keepin' me in this suspense!'Tis here our line of killed commence,I'll sorter look—for make-pretence!

They're layin' out our dead just now,

He can't be——, no, that—that ain't sense,

An' when he comes there'll be a row!

A-keepin' me in this suspense!'Tis here our line of killed commence,I'll sorter look—for make-pretence!

A-keepin' me in this suspense!

'Tis here our line of killed commence,

I'll sorter look—for make-pretence!

Pretendin' some one's here I know—I'm half inclined to turn aback—But one by one, along I go,And see the crimson clottin' black....His troop was first in the attack!What! Jack! Is this—this Thing our Jack?

Pretendin' some one's here I know—

I'm half inclined to turn aback—

But one by one, along I go,

And see the crimson clottin' black....His troop was first in the attack!What! Jack! Is this—this Thing our Jack?

And see the crimson clottin' black....

His troop was first in the attack!

What! Jack! Is this—this Thing our Jack?

TOMMY'S AUTOGRAPH

I 'ad lorst my situation, an' the girl she got the 'ump,An' the naggin' of my muvver nearly drove me orf my chump.So I 'oofed it down to Woolwich, to the old recruitin' starf,An' they give to me a paper for to fix my autygrarf!Just to fix my autygrarf!Lor' you should a 'eard me larf!For the blessed Sergeant-Major wos a tryin' on 'is chaff.Didn't mind the Doctor's soundin's,Nor 'is soap an' water barf!But the fing as knocked me silly wos that bloomin' autygrarf!I wos took before the colonel, an' I took a Bible oafThat I'd serve my Queen an' country, an' be square unto them boaf.Then they got a printed paper, an' this Colonel on the starfSez, 'You'll kindly read this over, an' affix your autygrarf!'To affix my autygrarf!Larf! You orter 'eard me larf!Signin' fings like ''Enry Irvin,' Knight Commornder of the Barf!Made me want to do a swaggerLike a Piccadilly calf!On'y fancy! People wantin' Tommy Atkins' autygrarf!Then I signs my name an' birfplace, an' the county I wos from,An' I dots the 'i' in Atkins, an' I crorst the 't' in tom.A recruit is wurf a dollar, an' the sergeant gets an 'arf;Just for 'andin' me a paper for to put my autygrarf!Just to put my autygrarf!Larf? You should 'ave 'eard them larf!From the colonel wiv 'is spurs on, to the sergeant in 'is scarf.When I sez, 'Wot's this for, mister?'Sez the colonel, 'Go to Barf!''Don't you know the Queen is anxious for to get your autygrarf?'I 'ave autygrarfed for clobber, I 'ave autygrarfed for pay;I 'ave signed it wiv a flourish, I 'ave signed it wiv a 'j'On an Army Temperance pledge-book(O the straight an' narrer parf!)—To a 'drunk' fine in the pay list, I've affixed my autygrarf!Wot a name! An autygrarf!'Nuff to drive a feller darf;Callin' Christian name an 'auty' an' the uvver name a 'grarf,'Writin' in a pocket-ledger—'Stead of album bound in calf—'Doo to soldier: Nil' (that's Latin), an' your bloomin' autygrarf!

I 'ad lorst my situation, an' the girl she got the 'ump,

An' the naggin' of my muvver nearly drove me orf my chump.

So I 'oofed it down to Woolwich, to the old recruitin' starf,

An' they give to me a paper for to fix my autygrarf!

Just to fix my autygrarf!Lor' you should a 'eard me larf!For the blessed Sergeant-Major wos a tryin' on 'is chaff.Didn't mind the Doctor's soundin's,Nor 'is soap an' water barf!But the fing as knocked me silly wos that bloomin' autygrarf!

Just to fix my autygrarf!Lor' you should a 'eard me larf!

Just to fix my autygrarf!

Lor' you should a 'eard me larf!

For the blessed Sergeant-Major wos a tryin' on 'is chaff.

Didn't mind the Doctor's soundin's,Nor 'is soap an' water barf!

Didn't mind the Doctor's soundin's,

Nor 'is soap an' water barf!

But the fing as knocked me silly wos that bloomin' autygrarf!

I wos took before the colonel, an' I took a Bible oafThat I'd serve my Queen an' country, an' be square unto them boaf.Then they got a printed paper, an' this Colonel on the starfSez, 'You'll kindly read this over, an' affix your autygrarf!'

I wos took before the colonel, an' I took a Bible oaf

That I'd serve my Queen an' country, an' be square unto them boaf.

Then they got a printed paper, an' this Colonel on the starf

Sez, 'You'll kindly read this over, an' affix your autygrarf!'

To affix my autygrarf!Larf! You orter 'eard me larf!Signin' fings like ''Enry Irvin,' Knight Commornder of the Barf!Made me want to do a swaggerLike a Piccadilly calf!On'y fancy! People wantin' Tommy Atkins' autygrarf!

To affix my autygrarf!Larf! You orter 'eard me larf!

To affix my autygrarf!

Larf! You orter 'eard me larf!

Signin' fings like ''Enry Irvin,' Knight Commornder of the Barf!

Made me want to do a swaggerLike a Piccadilly calf!

Made me want to do a swagger

Like a Piccadilly calf!

On'y fancy! People wantin' Tommy Atkins' autygrarf!

Then I signs my name an' birfplace, an' the county I wos from,An' I dots the 'i' in Atkins, an' I crorst the 't' in tom.A recruit is wurf a dollar, an' the sergeant gets an 'arf;Just for 'andin' me a paper for to put my autygrarf!

Then I signs my name an' birfplace, an' the county I wos from,

An' I dots the 'i' in Atkins, an' I crorst the 't' in tom.

A recruit is wurf a dollar, an' the sergeant gets an 'arf;

Just for 'andin' me a paper for to put my autygrarf!

Just to put my autygrarf!Larf? You should 'ave 'eard them larf!From the colonel wiv 'is spurs on, to the sergeant in 'is scarf.When I sez, 'Wot's this for, mister?'Sez the colonel, 'Go to Barf!''Don't you know the Queen is anxious for to get your autygrarf?'

Just to put my autygrarf!Larf? You should 'ave 'eard them larf!

Just to put my autygrarf!

Larf? You should 'ave 'eard them larf!

From the colonel wiv 'is spurs on, to the sergeant in 'is scarf.

When I sez, 'Wot's this for, mister?'Sez the colonel, 'Go to Barf!'

When I sez, 'Wot's this for, mister?'

Sez the colonel, 'Go to Barf!'

'Don't you know the Queen is anxious for to get your autygrarf?'

I 'ave autygrarfed for clobber, I 'ave autygrarfed for pay;I 'ave signed it wiv a flourish, I 'ave signed it wiv a 'j'On an Army Temperance pledge-book(O the straight an' narrer parf!)—To a 'drunk' fine in the pay list, I've affixed my autygrarf!

I 'ave autygrarfed for clobber, I 'ave autygrarfed for pay;

I 'ave signed it wiv a flourish, I 'ave signed it wiv a 'j'

On an Army Temperance pledge-book

(O the straight an' narrer parf!)—

To a 'drunk' fine in the pay list, I've affixed my autygrarf!

Wot a name! An autygrarf!'Nuff to drive a feller darf;Callin' Christian name an 'auty' an' the uvver name a 'grarf,'Writin' in a pocket-ledger—'Stead of album bound in calf—'Doo to soldier: Nil' (that's Latin), an' your bloomin' autygrarf!

Wot a name! An autygrarf!'Nuff to drive a feller darf;

Wot a name! An autygrarf!

'Nuff to drive a feller darf;

Callin' Christian name an 'auty' an' the uvver name a 'grarf,'

Writin' in a pocket-ledger—'Stead of album bound in calf—

Writin' in a pocket-ledger—

'Stead of album bound in calf—

'Doo to soldier: Nil' (that's Latin), an' your bloomin' autygrarf!

AT THE BRINK!

'Tis now, as we tighten the girth,'Tis now, as we buckle the sword,When bitterness hardens our mirth,'Tis now that we seek you, O Lord!Give us hope now the future is black,From fatuous arrogance ward—The words that we cannot hold back!Give peace in our time, O Lord!You know of the hate—folly born;You know of the wrath—money bred;The impotent rage, and the scorn,The trust and the faith that are dead.Lest sorrow should spring from the land—The crop of the seed of the sword—O, stay the imperious hand;Give peace in our time, O Lord!'Tis good when the man loves the land,'Tis good when he falls for his creed,But woe to the hate that is fannedBy folly begotten of greed.When the weak become foolishly strong,When peoples, unwitting, applaud,—The folly wrought wrong—still is wrong!Give peace in our time, O Lord!When the voice in the senate is stilled;When the councillor speaks in a tent;When the lands are untended, untilled;What use if the stubborn relent?What gain will the simpleton's shame,The shrifts and lamentings, afford?To-day, on their conduct, the blame;Give peace in our time, O Lord!Give peace: that is rooted in Right.Give peace: that is strengthened by Grace.Give peace: that we stand in your sight,Thrice over a justified race.'Tis peace—and with honour—we need,And the child of our child shall awardThe praise for our failing, or deed.Give peace in our time, O Lord!

'Tis now, as we tighten the girth,

'Tis now, as we buckle the sword,

When bitterness hardens our mirth,

'Tis now that we seek you, O Lord!

Give us hope now the future is black,

From fatuous arrogance ward—

The words that we cannot hold back!

Give peace in our time, O Lord!

You know of the hate—folly born;You know of the wrath—money bred;The impotent rage, and the scorn,The trust and the faith that are dead.Lest sorrow should spring from the land—The crop of the seed of the sword—O, stay the imperious hand;Give peace in our time, O Lord!

You know of the hate—folly born;

You know of the wrath—money bred;

The impotent rage, and the scorn,

The trust and the faith that are dead.

Lest sorrow should spring from the land—

The crop of the seed of the sword—

O, stay the imperious hand;

Give peace in our time, O Lord!

'Tis good when the man loves the land,'Tis good when he falls for his creed,But woe to the hate that is fannedBy folly begotten of greed.When the weak become foolishly strong,When peoples, unwitting, applaud,—The folly wrought wrong—still is wrong!Give peace in our time, O Lord!

'Tis good when the man loves the land,

'Tis good when he falls for his creed,

But woe to the hate that is fanned

By folly begotten of greed.

When the weak become foolishly strong,

When peoples, unwitting, applaud,—

The folly wrought wrong—still is wrong!

Give peace in our time, O Lord!

When the voice in the senate is stilled;When the councillor speaks in a tent;When the lands are untended, untilled;What use if the stubborn relent?What gain will the simpleton's shame,The shrifts and lamentings, afford?To-day, on their conduct, the blame;Give peace in our time, O Lord!

When the voice in the senate is stilled;

When the councillor speaks in a tent;

When the lands are untended, untilled;

What use if the stubborn relent?

What gain will the simpleton's shame,

The shrifts and lamentings, afford?

To-day, on their conduct, the blame;

Give peace in our time, O Lord!

Give peace: that is rooted in Right.Give peace: that is strengthened by Grace.Give peace: that we stand in your sight,Thrice over a justified race.'Tis peace—and with honour—we need,And the child of our child shall awardThe praise for our failing, or deed.Give peace in our time, O Lord!

Give peace: that is rooted in Right.

Give peace: that is strengthened by Grace.

Give peace: that we stand in your sight,

Thrice over a justified race.

'Tis peace—and with honour—we need,

And the child of our child shall award

The praise for our failing, or deed.

Give peace in our time, O Lord!

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