THE MOTHER-LODGE

       There was Rundle, Station Master,

      “FOLLOW ME 'OME”

       There was no one like 'im, 'Orse or Foot,

      THE SERGEANT'S WEDDIN'

       'E was warned agin 'er,

      THE JACKET

       Through the Plagues of Egyp' we was chasin' Arabi,

      THE 'EATHEN

       The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone,

      THE SHUT-EYE SENTRY

       Sez the Junior Orderly Sergeant,

      “MARY, PITY WOMEN!”

       You call yourself a man,

      FOR TO ADMIRE

       The Injian Ocean sets an' smiles,

      L'ENVOI

       When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS AND OTHER VERSES

       Table of Contents

      1889–1891

      TO WOLCOTT BALESTIER

       Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled—

       Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled—

       Live such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world.

       They are purged of pride because they died, they know the worth of their bays,

       They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine and the Gods of the Elder Days,

       It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth our Father's praise.

       'Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael's outposts are,

       Or buffet a path through the Pit's red wrath when God goes out to war,

       Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star.

       They take their mirth in the joy of the Earth—

       they dare not grieve for her pain—

       They know of toil and the end of toil, they know God's law is plain,

       So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that Sin is vain.

       And ofttimes cometh our wise Lord God, master of every trade,

       And tells them tales of His daily toil, of Edens newly made;

       And they rise to their feet as He passes by, gentlemen unafraid.

       To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame—

       Gods for they knew the hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame,

       Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother's spirit came.

       He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth—

       E'en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth,

       In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth.

       So cup to lip in fellowship they gave him welcome high

       And made him place at the banquet board—the Strong Men ranged thereby,

       Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die.

       Beyond the loom of the last lone star, through open darkness hurled,

       Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled,

       Sits he with those that praise our God for that they served His world.

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

       Table of Contents

      To T. A.

      I have made for you a song,

       And it may be right or wrong,

       But only you can tell me if it's true;

       I have tried for to explain

       Both your pleasure and your pain,

       And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you!

       O there'll surely come a day

       When they'll give you all your pay,

       And treat you as a Christian ought to do;

       So, until that day comes round,

       Heaven keep you safe and sound,

       And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you!

       R. K.

      DANNY DEEVER

       “What are the bugles blowin' for?” said Files-on-Parade.

       “To turn you out, to turn you out”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

       “What makes you look so white, so white?” said Files-on-Parade.

       “I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

       For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,

       The regiment's in 'ollow square—they're hangin' him to-day;

       They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,

       An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

       “What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?” said Files-on-Parade.

       “It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

       “What makes that front-rank man fall down?” said Files-on-Parade.

       “A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun”, the Colour-Sergeant said.

       They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,

       They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;