Had us in charge for a thousand days
And thousand-year-long night.
We saw more than the nights could hide —
More than the waves could keep —
And — certain faces over the side
Which do not go from our sleep.
We were more tired than words can tell
While the pied craft fled by,
And the swinging mounds of the Western swell
Hoisted us Heavens-high...
Now there is nothing — not even our rank —
To witness what we have been;
And I am returned to my Walworth Bank,
And you to your margarine!
Chant-Pagan
ENGLISH IRREGULAR, DISCHARGED
Me that ‘ave been what I’ve been —
Me that ‘ave gone where I’ve gone —
Me that ‘ave seen what I’ve seen —
‘Ow can I ever take on
With awful old England again,
An’ ‘ouses both sides of the street,
And ‘edges two sides of the lane,
And the parson an’ gentry between,
An’ touchin’ my ‘at when we meet —
Me that ‘ave been what I’ve been?
Me that ‘ave watched ‘arf a world
‘Eave up all shiny with dew,
Kopje on kop to the sun,
An’ as soon as the mist let ‘em through
Our ‘elios winkin’ like fun —
Three sides of a ninety-mile square,
Over valleys as big as a shire —
“Are ye there? Are ye there? Are ye there?”
An’ then the blind drum of our fire . . .
An’ I’m rollin’ ‘is lawns for the Squire,
Me!
Me that ‘ave rode through the dark
Forty mile, often, on end,
Along the Ma’ollisberg Range,
With only the stars for my mark
An’ only the night for my friend,
An’ things runnin’ off as you pass,
An’ things jumpin’ up in the grass,
An’ the silence, the shine an’ the size
Of the ‘igh, unexpressible skies —
I am takin’ some letters almost
As much as a mile to the post,
An’ “mind you come back with the change!”
Me!
Me that saw Barberton took
When we dropped through the clouds on their ‘ead,
An’ they ‘ove the guns over and fled —
Me that was through Di’mond ‘Ill,
An’ Pieters an’ Springs an’ Belfast —
From Dundee to Vereeniging all —
Me that stuck out to the last
(An’ five bloomin’ bars on my chest) —
I am doin’ my Sunday-school best,
By the ‘elp of the Squire an’ ‘is wife
(Not to mention the ‘ousemaid an’ cook),
To come in an’ ‘ands up an’ be still,
An’ honestly work for my bread,
My livin’ in that state of life
To which it shall please God to call
Me!
Me that ‘ave followed my trade
In the place where the Lightnin’s are made;
‘Twixt the Rains and the Sun and the Moon —
Me that lay down an’ got up
Three years with the sky for my roof —
That ‘ave ridden my ‘unger an’ thirst
Six thousand raw mile on the hoof,
With the Vaal and the Orange for cup,
An’ the Brandwater Basin for dish, —
Oh! it’s ‘ard to be’ave as they wish
(Too ‘ard, an’ a little too soon),
I’ll ‘ave to think over it first —
Me!
I will arise an’ get ‘ence —
I will trek South and make sure
If it’s only my fancy or not
That the sunshine of England is pale,
And the breezes of England are stale,
An’ there’s something’ gone small with the lot.
For I know of a sun an’ a wind,
An’ some plains and a mountain be’ind,
An’ some graves by a barb-wire fence,
An’ a Dutchman I’ve fought ‘oo might give
Me a job where I ever inclined
To look in an’ offsaddle an’ live
Where there’s neither a road nor a tree —
But only my Maker an’ me,
And I think it will kill me or cure,
So I think I will go there an’ see.
Chapter Headings
Plain Tales From the Hills
Look, you have cast out Love! What Gods are these
You bid me please?
The Three in One, the One in Three? Not so!
To my own Gods I go.
It may be they shall give me greater ease
Than your cold Christ and tangled Trinities.
Lispeth.
When the earth was sick and the skies were grey,
And the woods were rotted with rain,
The Dead Man rode through the autumn day
To visit his love again.
His love she neither saw nor heard,
So heavy was her shame;
And tho’ the babe within her stirred
She knew not that he came.
The Other Man.
Cry “Murder” in the market-place, and each
Will turn upon his neighbour anxious eyes
Asking: “Art thou the man?” We hunted Cain
Some centuries ago across the world.
This bred the fear our own misdeeds maintain
To-day.
His Wedded Wife.
Go, stalk the red deer o’er the heather,
Ride, follow the fox if you can!
But, for pleasure and profit together,
Allow me the hunting of Man —
The chase of the Human, the search for the Soul
To its ruin — the hunting of Man.
Pig
“ ‘Stopped in the straight when the race was his own
Look at him cutting it — cur to the bone!”
Ask ere the youngster be rated and chidden
What did he carry and how was he ridden?
May be they used him too much at the start.
May be Fate’s weight-cloth are breaking his heart.
In the Pride of his Youth.
“And some are sulky, while some will plunge.
(So ho! Steady! Stand still, you!)
Some you must gentle, and some you must lunge.
(There! There! Who wants to kill you?)
Some-there are losses in every trade —
Wll break their hearts ere bitted and made,
Will fight like fiends as the rope cuts hard,
And die dumb-mad in the breaking-yard.”
Thrown Away.
The World hath set its heavy yoke
Upon the old white-bearded folk
Who strive to please the King.
God’s mercy is upon the young,
God’s wisdom in the baby tongue
That fears not anything.
Tod’s Amendment.
Not though you die to-night, 0 Sweet, and wail,
A spectre at my door,
Shall mortal Fear make Love immortal fail —
I shall but love you more,
Who, from Death’s House returning, give me still
One moment’s comfort in my matchless ill.
By Word of Mouth.
They burnt a corpse upon the sand —
The light shone out afar;
It guided home the plunging dhows
That beat from Zanzibar.
Spirit of Fire, where’er Thy altars rise,
Thou art the Light of Guidance to-our eyes!
In Error.
Ride with an idle whip, ride
with an unused heel,
But, once in a way, there will come a day
When the colt must be taught to feel
The lash that falls, and the curb that galls, and the sting of the rowelled steel.
The Conversion of Aurelian McGoggin.
It was not in the open fight
We threw away the sword,
But in the lonely watching
In the darkness by the ford.
The waters lapped, the night-wind blew,
Full-armed the Fear was born and grew,
And we were flying ere we knew
From panic in the night.
The Rout of the White Hussars.
In the daytime, when she moved about me,
In the night, when she was sleeping at my side, —
I was wearied, I was wearied of her presence.
Day by day and night by night I grew to hate her —
Would God that she or I had died!
The Bronckhorst Divorce Case.
A stone’s throw out on either hand
From that well-ordered road we tread,
And all the world is wild and strange;
Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite
Shall bear us company to-night,
For we have reached the Oldest Land
Wherein the powers of Darkness range.
In The House of Suddhoo.
To-night, God knows what thing shall tide,
The Earth is racked and fain —
Expectant, sleepless, open-eyed;
And we, who from the Earth were made,
Thrill with our Mother’s pain.
False Dawn.
Pit where the buffalo cooled his hide,
By the hot sun emptied, and blistered and dried;
Log in the plume-grass, hidden and lone;
Bund where the earth-rat’s mounds are strown;
Cave in the bank where the sly stream steals;
Aloe that stabs at the belly and heels,
Jump if you dare on a steed untried —
Safer it is to go wide-go wide!
Hark, from in front where the best men ride; —
“Pull to the off, boys! Wide! Go wide!”
Cupid’s Arrows.
He drank strong waters and his speech was coarse;
He purchased raiment and forbore to pay;
He stuck a trusting junior with a horse,
And won gymkhanas in a doubtful way.
Then, ‘twixt a vice and folly, turned aside
To do good deeds — and straight to cloak them, lied.
A Bank Fraud.
A Charm
Take of English earth as much
As either hand may rightly clutch.
In the taking of it breathe
Prayer for all who lie beneath.
Not the great nor well-bespoke,
But the mere uncounted folk
Of whose life and death is none
Report or lamentation.
Lay that earth upon thy heart,
And thy sickness shall depart!
It shall sweeten and make whole
Fevered breath and festered soul.
It shall mightily restrain
Over-busied hand and brain.
It shall ease thy mortal strife
‘Gainst the immortal woe of life,
Till thyself, restored, shall prove
By what grace the Heavens do move.
Take of English flowers these —
Spring’s full-faced primroses,
Summer’s wild wide-hearted rose,
Autumn’s wall-flower of the close,
And, thy darkness to illume,
Winter’s bee-thronged ivy-bloom.
Seek and serve them where they bide
From Candlemas to Christmas-tide,
For these simples, used aright,
Can restore a failing sight.
These shall cleanse and purify
Webbed and inward-turning eye;
These shall show thee treasure hid
Thy familiar fields amid;
And reveal (which is thy need)
Every man a King indeed!
Chartres Windows
1925
COLOUR fulfils where Music has no power:
By each man’s light the unjudging glass betrays
All men’s surrender, each man’s holiest hour
And all the lit confusion of our days-
Purfled with iron, traced in dusk and fire,
Challenging ordered Time who, at the last,
Shall bring it, grozed and leaded and wedged fast,
To the cold stone that curbs or crowns desire.
Yet on the pavement that all feet have trod-
Even as the Spirit, in her deeps and heights,
Turns only, and that voiceless, to her God-
There falls no tincture from those anguished lights.
And Heaven’s one light, behind them, striking through
Blazons what each man dreamed no other knew.
The Children
1914-1918
“The Honours of War” - A Diversity of Creatures
These were our children who died for our land: they were dear in our sight.
We have only the memory left of their home-treasured saying and laughter.
The price of our loss shall be paid to our hands, not another’s hereafter.
Neither the Alien nor Priest shall decide on it. That is our right.
But who shall return us the children?
At the hour the Barbarian chose to disclose his pretences,
And raged against Man, they engaged, on the breasts that they bared for us,
The first felon-stroke of the sword he had long-time prepared for us –
Their bodies were all our defense while we wrought our defenses.
They bought us anew with their blood, forbearing to blame us,
Those hours which we had not made good when the Judgment o’ercame us.
They believed us and perished for it. Our statecraft, our learning
Delivered them bound to the Pit and alive to the burning
Whither they mirthfully hastened as jostling for honour –
Nor since her birth has our Earth seen such worth loosed upon her.
Nor was their agony brief, or once only imposed on them.
The wounded, the war-spent, the sick received no exemption:
Being cured they returned and endured and achieved our redemption,
Hopeless themselves of relief, till Death, marveling, closed on them.
That flesh we had nursed from the first in all cleanness was given
To corruption unveiled and assailed by the malice of Heaven –
By the heart-shaking jests of Decay where it lolled in the wires –
To be blanched or gay-painted by fumes – to be cindered by fires –
To be senselessly tossed and retossed in stale mutilation
From crater to crater. For that we shall take expiation.
But who shall return us our children?
The Children’s Song
Puck of Pook’s Hills
Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee
Our love and toil in the years to be;
When we are grown and take our place
As men and women with our race.
Father in Heaven who lovest all,
Oh, help Thy children when they call;
That they may build from age to age
An undefiled heritage.
Teach us to bear the yoke in youth,
With steadfastness and careful truth;
That, in our time, Thy Grace may give
The Truth whereby the Nations live.
Teach us to rule ourselves alway,
Controlled and cleanly night and day;
That we may bring, if need arise,
No maimed or worthless sacrifice.
Teach us to look in all our ends
On Thee for judge, and not our
friends;
That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed
By fear or favour of the crowd.
Teach us the Strength that cannot seek,
By deed or thought, to hurt the weak;
That, under Thee, we may possess
Man’s strength to comfort man’s distress.
Teach us Delight in simple things,
And Mirth that has no bitter springs;
Forgiveness free of evil done,
And Love to all men ‘neath the sun!
Land of our Birth, our faith, our pride,
For whose dear sake our fathers died;
Oh, Motherland, we pledge to thee
Head, heart and hand through the years to be!
A Child’s Garden
R. L. Stevenson
— The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)
Now there is nothing wrong with me
Except — I think it’s called T.B.
And that is why I have to lay
Out in the garden all the day.
Our garden is not very wide,
And cars go by on either side,
And make an angry-hooty noise
That rather startles little boys.
But worst of all is when they take
Me out in cars that growl and shake,
With charabancs so dreadful-near
I have to shut my eyes for fear.
But when I’m on my back again,
I watch the Croydon aeroplane
That flies across to France, and sings
Like hitting thick piano-strings.
When I am strong enough to do
The things I’m truly wishful to,
I’ll never use a car or train
But always have an aeroplane;
And just go zooming round and round,
And frighten Nursey with the sound,
And see the angel-side of clouds,
And spit on all those motor-crowds!
Chil’s Song
“Red Dog” - The Second Jungle Book
These were my companions going forth by night –
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 759