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The men that fought at Minden, they ’ad ever cash in ’and
Which they did not bank nor save,
But spent it gay an’ free on their betters – such as me –
For the good advice I gave.
The men that fought at Minden, they was civil – yuss, they was –
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Never didn’t talk o’ rights an’ wrongs,
But they got it with the toe (same as you will get it – so!) –
For interrupting songs.
The men that fought at Minden, they was several other things
Which I don’t remember clear;
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But that’s the reason why, now the six-year men are dry,
The rooks will stand the beer!
Then do not be discouraged, ’Eaven is your ’elper,
We’ll learn you not to forget;
An’ you mustn’t swear an’ curse, or you’ll only catch it worse,
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An’ we’ll make you soldiers yet!
Soldiers yet, if you’ve got it in you –
All for the sake of the Core;
Soldiers yet, if we ’ave to skin you –
Run an’ get the beer, Johnny Raw – Johnny Raw!
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Ho! run an’ get the beer, Johnny Raw!
‘The stream is shrunk – the pool is dry’
The stream is shrunk – the pool is dry,
And we be comrades, thou and I;
With fevered jowl and dusty flank
Each jostling each along the bank;
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And, by one drouthy fear made still,
Forgoing thought of quest or kill.
Now ’neath his dam the fawn may see
The lean Pack-wolf as cowed as he,
And the tall buck, unflinching, note
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The fangs that tore his father’s throat.
The pools are shrunk – the streams are dry,
And we be playmates, thou and I,
Till yonder cloud – Good Hunting! – loose
The rain that breaks our Water Truce.
‘The ’Eathen’
The ’eathen in ’is blindness bows down to wood an’ stone;
’E don’t obey no orders unless they is ’is own;
’E keeps ’is side-arms awful: ’e leaves ’em all about,
An’ then comes up the Regiment an’ pokes the ’eathen out.
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All along o’ dirtiness, all along o’ mess,
All along o’ doin’ things rather-more-or-less,
All along of abby-nay, kul, an’ hazar-ho,
Mind you keep your rifle an’ yourself jus’ so!
The young recruit is ’aughty – ’e draf’s from Gawd knows where;
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They bid ’im show ’is stockin’s an’ lay ’is mattress square;
’E calls it bloomin’ nonsense – ’e doesn’t know no more –
An’ then up comes ’is Company an’ kicks ’im round the floor!
The young recruit is ’ammered – ’e takes it very ’ard;
’E ’angs ’is ’ead an’ mutters – ’e sulks about the yard;
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’E talks o’ ‘cruel tyrants’ which ’e’ll swing for by-an’-by,
An’ the others ’ears an’ mocks ’im, an’ the boy goes orf to cry.
The young recruit is silly – ’e thinks o’ suicide.
’E’s lost ’is gutter-devil; ’e ’asn’t got ’is pride;
But day by day they kicks ’im, which ’elps ’im on a bit,
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Till ’e finds ’isself one mornin’ with a full an’ proper kit.
Gettin’ clear o’ dirtiness, gettin’ done with mess,
Gettin’ shut o’ doin’ things rather-more-or-less;
Not so fond of abby-nay, kul, nor hazar-ho,
Learns to keep ’is rifle an’ ’isself jus’ so!
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The young recruit is ’appy – ’e throws a chest to suit;
You see ’im grow mustaches; you ’ear ’im slap ’is boot.
’E learns to drop the ‘bloodies’ from every word ’e slings,
An’ ’e shows an ’ealthy brisket when ’e strips for bars an’ rings.
The cruel-tyrant-Sergeants they watch ’im ’arf a year;
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They watch ’im with ’is comrades, they watch ’im with ’is beer;
They watch ’im with the women at the Regimental dance,
An’ the cruel-tyrant-Sergeants send ’is name along for ‘Lance.’
An’ now ’e’s ’arf o’ nothin’, an’ all a private yet,
’Is room they up an’ rags ’im to see what they will get.
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They rags ’im low an’ cunnin’, each dirty trick they can,
But ’e learns to sweat ’is temper an’ ’e learns to sweat ’is man.
An’, last, a Colour-Sergeant, as such to be obeyed,
’E schools ’is men at cricket, ’e tells ’em on parade;
They sees ’im quick an’ ’andy, uncommon set an’ smart,
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An’ so ’e talks to orficers which ’ave the Core at ’eart.
’E learns to do ’is watchin’ without it showin’ plain;
’E learns to save a dummy, an’ shove ’im straight again;
’E learns to check a ranker that’s buyin’ leave to shirk;
An ’e learns to make men like ’im so they’ll learn to like their work.
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An’ when it comes to marchin’ he’ll see their socks are right,
An’ when it comes to action ’e shows ’em how to sight.
’E knows their ways of thinkin’ and just what’s in their mind;
’E knows when they are takin’ on an’ when they’ve fell be’ind.
’E knows each talkin’ corp’ral that leads a squad astray;
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’E feels ’is innards ’eavin’, ’is bowels givin’ way;
’E sees the blue-white faces all tryin’ ’ard to grin,
An ’e stands an’ waits an’ suffers till it’s time to cap ’em in.
An’ now the hugly bullets come peckin’ through the dust,
An’ no one wants to face ’em, but every beggar must;
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So, like a man in irons, which isn’t glad to go,
They moves ’em off by companies uncommon stiff an’ slow.
Of all ’is five years’ schoolin’ they don’t remember much
Excep’ the not retreatin’, the step an’ keepin’ touch.
It looks like teachin’ wasted when they duck an’ spread an’ ’op –
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But if ’e ’adn’t learned ’em they’d be all about the shop!
An’ now it’s ‘’Oo goes backward?’ an’ now it’s ‘’Oo comes on?’
And now it’s ‘Get the doolies,’ an’ now the Captain’s gone;
An’ now it’s bloody murder, but all the while they ’ear
’Is voice, the same as barrick-drill, a-shepherdin’ the rear.
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’E’s just as sick as they are, ’is ’eart is like to split.
But ’e works ’em, works ’em, works ’em till he feels ’em take the bit;
The rest is ’oldin’ steady till the watchful bugles play,
An’ ’e lifts ’em, lifts ’em, lifts ’em through the charge that wins the day!
The ’eathen in ’is blindness bows down to wood an’ stone;
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’E don’t obey no orders unless they is ’is own.
The ’eathen in ’is blindness must end where ’e began,
But the backbone of the Army is the Non-commissioned man!
Keep away from dirtiness – keep away from mess,
Don’t get into doin’ things rather-more-or-less!
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Let’s ha’ done with abby-nay, kul, and hazar-ho;
Mind you keep your rifle an’ yourself jus’ so!
The King
‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Cave-men said;
‘With bone well carved He went away.
Flint arms the ignoble arrowhead,
And jasper tips the spear to-day.
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Changed are the Gods of Hunt and Dance,
And He with these. Farewell, Romance!’
‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Lake-folk sighed;
‘We lift the weight of flatling years;
The caverns of the mountain-side
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Hold Him who scorns our hutted piers.
Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell,
Guard ye His rest. Romance, Farewell!’
‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Soldier spoke;
‘By sleight of sword we may not win,
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But scuffle ’mid uncleanly smoke
Of arquebus and culverin.
Honour is lost, and none may tell
Who paid good blows. Romance, farewell!’
‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Traders cried;
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‘Our keels have lain with every sea.
The dull-returning wind and tide
Heave up the wharf where we would be;
The known and noted breezes swell
Our trudging sails. Romance, farewell!’
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‘Goodbye, Romance!’ the Skipper said;
‘He vanished with the coal we burn.
Our dial marks full-steam ahead,
Our speed is timed to half a turn.
Sure as the ferried barge we ply
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’Twixt port and port. Romance, good-bye!’
‘Romance!’ the season-tickets mourn,
‘He never ran to catch his train,
But passed with coach and guard and horn –
And left the agent – Late again!
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Confound Romance!’ … And all unseen
Romance brought up the nine-fifteen.
His hand was on the lever laid,
His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks,
His whistle waked the snowbound grade,
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His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks;
By dock and deep and mine and mill
The Boy-god reckless laboured still!
Robed, crowned and throned, He wove His spell,
Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke curled,
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With unconsidered miracle,
Hedged in a backward-gazing world:
Then taught His chosen bard to say:
‘Our King was with us – yesterday!’
The Derelict
‘And reports the derelict Margaret Pollock still at sea.’
Shipping News
I was the staunchest of our fleet
Till the sea rose beneath my feet
Unheralded, in hatred past all measure.
Into his pits he stamped my crew,
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Buffeted, blinded, bound and threw,
Bidding me eyeless wait upon his pleasure.
Man made me, and my will
Is to my maker still,
Whom now the currents con, the rollers steer –
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Lifting forlorn to spy
Trailed smoke along the sky,
Falling afraid lest any keel come near!
Wrenched as the lips of thirst,
Wried, dried, and split and burst,
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Bone-bleached my decks, wind-scoured to the graining;
And, jarred at every roll,
The gear that was my soul
Answers the anguish of my beams’ complaining.
For life that crammed me full,
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Gangs of the prying gull
That shriek and scrabble on the riven hatches.
For roar that dumbed the gale,
My hawse-pipes’ guttering wail,
Sobbing my heart out through the uncounted watches.
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Blind in the hot blue ring
Through all my points I swing –
Swing and return to shift the sun anew.
Blind in my well-known sky
I hear the stars go by,
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Mocking the prow that cannot hold one true.
White on my wasted path
Wave after wave in wrath
Frets ’gainst his fellow, warring where to send me.
Flung forward, heaved aside,
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Witless and dazed I bide
The mercy of the comber that shall end me.
North where the bergs careen,
The spray of seas unseen
Smokes round my head and freezes in the falling.
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South where the corals breed,
The footless, floating weed
Folds me and fouls me, strake on strake upcrawling.
I that was clean to run
My race against the sun –
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Strength on the deep – am bawd to all disaster;
Whipped forth by night to meet
My sister’s careless feet,
And with a kiss betray her to my master.
Man made me, and my will
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Is to my maker still –
To him and his, our peoples at their pier:
Lifting in hope to spy
Trailed smoke along the sky,
Falling afraid lest any keel come near!
‘When ’Omer smote ’is bloomin’ lyre’
When ’Omer smote ’is bloomin’ lyre,
’E’d ’eard men sing by land an’ sea;
An’ what ’e thought ’e might require,
’E went an’ took – the same as me!
5
The market-girls an’ fishermen,
The shepherds an’ the sailors, too,
They ’eard old songs turn up again,
But kep’ it quiet – same as you!
They knew ’e stole; ’e knew they knowed.
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They didn’t tell, nor make a fuss.
But winked at ’Omer down the road,
An’ ’e winked back – the same as us!
The Ladies
I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it;
I’ve rogued an’ I’ve ranged in my time;
I’ve ’ad my pickin’ o’ sweethearts,
An’ four o’ the lot was prime.
5
One was an ’arf-caste widow,
One was a woman at Prome,
One was the wife of a jemadar-sais,
An’ one is a girl at ’ome.
Now I aren’t no ’and with the ladies,
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For, takin’ ’em all along,
You never can say till you’ve tried ’em,
An’ then you are like to be wrong.
There’s times when you’ll think that you mightn’t,
There’s times when you’ll know that you might;
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But the things you will learn from the Yellow an’ Brown
Rudyard Kipling: Selected Poems Page 10