Poems Teachers Ask For Volume II Part 35

When the cartridges ran out, You could 'ear the front-files shout: "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I sha'n't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.

I was chokin' mad with thirst, An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.

'E lifted up my 'ead, An' 'e plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me arf-a-pint o' water--green: It was crawlin' and it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was "Din! Din! Din!

'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away To where a _dooli_ lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.

'E put me safe inside, An', just before 'e died: "I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.

So I'll meet 'im later on In the place where 'e is gone-- Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to pore d.a.m.ned souls, An' I'll get a swig in h.e.l.l from Gunga Din!

Din! Din! Din!

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

_Rudyard Kipling._

"Panee lao"--Bring water swiftly.

"Harry Ry"-The British soldier's equivalent of "O Brother!"

"Put some juldee in it"--Be quick.

"Marrow you"--Hit you.

"Mussick"--Water-skin.

Warren's Address to the American Soldiers

(_Bunker Hill, June 17, 1775_)

Stand! the ground's your own, my braves!

Will ye give it up to slaves?

Will ye look for greener graves?

Hope ye mercy still?

What's the mercy despots feel?

Hear it in that battle peal!

Read it on yon bristling steel!

Ask it--ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?

Will ye to your homes retire?

Look behind you! They're afire!

And, before you, see Who have done it! From the vale On they come! and will ye quail?

Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be!

In the G.o.d of battles trust!

Die we may--and die we must; But, O where can dust to dust Be consigned so well, As where Heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head, Of his deeds to tell!

_John Pierpont._

Mad River

IN THE WHITE MOUNTAINS

_Traveler_

Why dost thou wildly rush and roar, Mad River, O Mad River?

Wilt thou not pause and cease to pour Thy hurrying, headlong waters o'er This rocky shelf forever?

What secret trouble stirs thy breast?

Why all this fret and flurry?

Dost thou not know that what is best In this too restless world is rest From overwork and worry?

_The River_

What wouldst thou in these mountains seek, O stranger from the city?

Is it perhaps some foolish freak Of thine, to put the words I speak Into a plaintive ditty?

_Traveler_

Yes; I would learn of thee thy song, With all its flowing numbers, And in a voice as fresh and strong As thine is, sing it all day long, And hear it in my slumbers.

_The River_

A brooklet nameless and unknown Was I at first, resembling A little child, that all alone Comes venturing down the stairs of stone, Irresolute and trembling.

Later, by wayward fancies led, For the wide world I panted; Out of the forest dark and dread Across the open fields I fled, Like one pursued and haunted.

I tossed my arms, I sang aloud, My voice exultant blending With thunder from the pa.s.sing cloud, The wind, the forest bent and bowed, The rush of rain descending.

I heard the distant ocean call, Imploring and entreating; Drawn onward, o'er this rocky wall I plunged, and the loud waterfall Made answer to the greeting.

And now, beset with many ills, A toilsome life I follow; Compelled to carry from the hills These logs to the impatient mills Below there in the hollow.

Yet something ever cheers and charms The rudeness of my labors; Daily I water with these arms The cattle of a hundred farms, And have the birds for neighbors.

Men call me Mad, and well they may, When, full of rage and trouble, I burst my banks of sand and clay, And sweep their wooden bridge away, Like withered reeds or stubble.