Part 2

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'll _feel_.

* * * * *

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 LOVE*

Dreamin' of thee! Dreamin' of thee! Sittin' with my elbow on my knee. I _orter_ be a polishin' the meat-dish an' the can-- (I _orter_ draw 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 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 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' 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 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!

*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'!

*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 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!

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 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!

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!

*TOMMY TO HIS LAUREATE*

(CAPETOWN, _January_ 25, 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 street At your feet; To the 'unting-ground of raiders indiscreet.

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.

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 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're _our_ partic'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 FAILED*

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).

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.

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' 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 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-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!

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 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! I _am_ afraid!

*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 spent A-hangin' round the doctor's tent.

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 go _there_ again!

Say, have _you_ seen 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 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!

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 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 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 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!

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 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!

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!

*THE KING OF OOJEE-MOOJEE*

We 'ave stowed our ammunition, we 'ave taken in our store, An' our very last instructions we 'ave 'ad by semy-fore; The Flagship's made a signal, 'We wish you all success,' An' we're off to Oojee-Moojee on the armoured cruiser 'Bess.'

_For the King of Oojee-Moojee_ _Is a-comin of 'is tricks,_ _'E's cheeked the English Consul,_ _An 'e's chucked 'is wooden bricks._ _'E won't do kindergarden,_ _An' 'e's done 'is lessons wrong;_ _Altogether Oojee-Moojee_ _Is a-comin' of it strong!_

An' the Point is miles be'ind us, an' 'eadquarters furder still; We've exchanged a friendly greetin' wi' the bloke on Signal 'Ill; We are off to Oojee-Moojee, an' we cannot be detained, For relations dip-lo-matic 'ave become a trifle strained!

Now the King of Oojee-Moojee is a little coloured kid; An' 'e rules some thousand niggers, an' 'e does as 'e is bid! For the Government of England, with 'is interests in view, 'As civilised 'is country--an' collects 'is revenue!

For the King wot reigned afore 'im was an 'eathen nigger thief, So we sent a missionary, for to teach 'im our belief. (To prevent misunderstandin's, an' avoid unpleasant scenes, We likewise sent an 'Otchkiss, an' a 'undred red marines.)

'E wouldn't take our gospel, an' unpleasantness arose, Which cost six whites, and niggermen proportionate to those; An' we left the King a-swingin' from a 'Lyptus tree above, Just to show as there was iron underneath the velvet glove.

Then our skipper very kindly did an 'andsome sort of thing, For 'e made a proclamation that the nevvy of the King-- A funny little kiddy, with a sat-on sorter face-- Should rule the Oojee-Moojee, an' should take 'is uncle's place.

So we dressed 'im up in velvets, an' we fed 'im up on buns, An' we gave 'is bit of buntin' a salute of twenty guns, An' we gave to 'im a doctor for to cure 'is chills an' croups; With a tutor, an' a gen'ral for to organise 'is troops.

So 'is tutor taught 'im manners, an' the way to part 'is 'air, An' the gen'ral, in 'is spare time, taught 'im proper ways to sware; The doctor, to complete 'im, was a-teaching him to mill-- When 'is 'ighness put the veto on the Education Bill.

Then 'e cheeked the British Consul! Then 'e cussed the doctor's wife! An' 'e chased 'is good, kind tutor, with a bloomin' carvin' knife; Tore 'is books an' burnt 'is grammar (said they wasn't good for 'ealf), Boned some whisky from the General, an' unchristianised 'isself!

_So, we're bound for Oojee-Moojee,_ _An we mus'n't be detained;_ _For relations dip-lo-matic_ _'Ave become a trifle strained:_ _'Situations complicated'--_ _'Warship ordered to the scene!'--_ _Just because a nigger kiddy's_ _Playin' truant with the Queen!_

*THE SONG OF THE TOWN*

Sing hey! for the sand-freckled plain; Sing ho! for the flower-flushed valley; A song for the ship-sprinkled main, And the sports where the wanderers rally, A song for the lawn sloping down-- The lawn with its terrace and fountain, But here's a song of the square white Town By the mist-wrapped, cloud-capped mountain!