Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room Ballads Part 7

WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID June 21st, 1887

By the well, where the bullocks go Silent and blind and slow-- By the field where the young corn dies In the face of the sultry skies, They have heard, as the dull Earth hears The voice of the wind of an hour, The sound of the Great Queen's voice: "My G.o.d hath given me years, Hath granted dominion and power: And I bid you, O Land, rejoice."

And the ploughman settles the share More deep in the grudging clod; For he saith: "The wheat is my care, And the rest is the will of G.o.d.

"He sent the Mahratta spear As He sendeth the rain, And the Mlech, in the fated year, Broke the spear in twain.

"And was broken in turn. Who knows How our Lords make strife?

It is good that the young wheat grows, For the bread is Life."

Then, far and near, as the twilight drew, Hissed up to the scornful dark Great serpents, blazing, of red and blue, That rose and faded, and rose anew.

That the Land might wonder and mark "Today is a day of days," they said, "Make merry, O People, all!"

And the Ploughman listened and bowed his head: "Today and tomorrow G.o.d's will," he said, As he trimmed the lamps on the wall.

"He sendeth us years that are good, As He sendeth the dearth, He giveth to each man his food, Or Her food to the Earth.

"Our Kings and our Queens are afar-- On their peoples be peace-- G.o.d bringeth the rain to the Bar, That our cattle increase."

And the Ploughman settled the share More deep in the sun-dried clod: "Mogul Mahratta, and Mlech from the North, And White Queen over the Seas-- G.o.d raiseth them up and driveth them forth As the dust of the ploughshare flies in the breeze; But the wheat and the cattle are all my care, And the rest is the will of G.o.d."

THE UNDERTAKER'S HORSE

"To-tschin-shu is condemned to death.

How can he drink tea with the Executioner?"

j.a.panese Proverb.

The eldest son bestrides him, And the pretty daughter rides him, And I meet him oft o' mornings on the Course; And there kindles in my bosom An emotion chill and gruesome As I canter past the Undertaker's Horse.

Neither shies he nor is restive, But a hideously suggestive Trot, professional and placid, he affects; And the cadence of his hoof-beats To my mind this grim reproof beats:-- "Mend your pace, my friend, I'm coming. Who's the next?"

Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen, I have watched the strongest go--men Of pith and might and muscle--at your heels, Down the plantain-bordered highway, (Heaven send it ne'er be my way!) In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.

Answer, sombre beast and dreary, Where is Brown, the young, the cheery, Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force?

You were at that last dread dak We must cover at a walk, Bring them back to me, O Undertaker's Horse!

With your mane unhogged and flowing, And your curious way of going, And that businesslike black crimping of your tail, E'en with Beauty on your back, Sir, Pacing as a lady's hack, Sir, What wonder when I meet you I turn pale?

It may be you wait your time, Beast, Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast-- Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the gla.s.s-- Follow after with the others, Where some dusky heathen smothers Us with marigolds in lieu of English gra.s.s.

Or, perchance, in years to follow, I shall watch your plump sides hollow, See Carnifex (gone lame) become a corse-- See old age at last o'erpower you, And the Station Pack devour you, I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker's Horse!

But to insult, jibe, and quest, I've Still the hideously suggestive Trot that hammers out the unrelenting text, And I hear it hard behind me In what place soe'er I find me:-- "'Sure to catch you sooner or later. Who's the next?"

THE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE

This fell when dinner-time was done-- 'Twixt the first an' the second rub-- That oor mon Jock cam' hame again To his rooms ahist the Club.

An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang, An' syne we thocht him fou, An' syne he trumped his partner's trick, An' garred his partner rue.

Then up and spake an elder mon, That held the Spade its Ace-- "G.o.d save the lad! Whence comes the licht "That wimples on his face?"

An' Jock he sn.i.g.g.e.red, an' Jock he smiled, An' ower the card-brim wunk:-- "I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg, "May be that I am drunk."

"There's whusky brewed in Galashils "An' L. L. L. forbye; "But never liquor lit the lowe "That keeks fra' oot your eye.

"There's a third o' hair on your dress-coat breast, "Aboon the heart a wee?"

"Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye "That s...o...b..rs ower me."

"Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts, "An' terrier dogs are fair, "But never yet was terrier born, "Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!

"There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast, "Below the left lappel?"

"Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar, "Whenas the stump-end fell."

"Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coa.r.s.e, "For ye are short o' cash, "An' best Havanas couldna leave "Sae white an' pure an ash.

"This nicht ye stopped a story braid, "An' stopped it wi' a curse.

"Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel'-- "An' capped it wi' a worse!

"Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou!

"But plainly we can ken "Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band "O' cantie single men!"

An' it fell when sirris-shaws were sere, An' the nichts were lang and mirk, In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring, Oor Jock gaed to the Kirk!

ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER

A great and glorious thing it is To learn, for seven years or so, The Lord knows what of that and this, Ere reckoned fit to face the foe-- The flying bullet down the Pa.s.s, That whistles clear: "All flesh is gra.s.s."

Three hundred pounds per annum spent On making brain and body meeter For all the murderous intent Comprised in "villainous saltpetre!"

And after--ask the Yusufzaies What comes of all our 'ologies.

A scrimmage in a Border Station-- A canter down some dark defile-- Two thousand pounds of education Drops to a ten-rupee jezail-- The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride, Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

No proposition Euclid wrote, No formulae the text-books know, Will turn the bullet from your coat, Or ward the tulwar's downward blow Strike hard who cares--shoot straight who can-- The odds are on the cheaper man.

One sword-knot stolen from the camp Will pay for all the school expenses Of any Kurrum Valley scamp Who knows no word of moods and tenses, But, being blessed with perfect sight, Picks off our messmates left and right.

With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem, The troop-ships bring us one by one, At vast expense of time and steam, To slay Afridis where they run.