Let us honour, O my brothers, Christmas Day!
Call a truce, then, to our labours – let us feast
with friends and neighbours,
And be merry as the custom of our caste;
For, if ‘faint and forced the laughter’, and if
sadness follow after,
We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.
THE BETROTHED
‘You must choose between me and your cigar’ –
Breach of Promise Case, circa 1885
Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and
I are out.
We quarrelled about Havanas – we fought o’er a
good cheroot,
And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.
Open the old cigar-box – let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on
Maggie’s face.
Maggie is pretty to look at – Maggie’s a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of
loves must pass.
There’s peace in a Laranaga, there’s calm in a
Henry Clay;
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and
thrown away –
Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe
and brown –
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o’ the talk
o’ the town!
Maggie, my wife at fifty – grey and dour and old –
With never another Maggie to purchase for love
or gold!
And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the
Days that Are,
And Love’s torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a
dead cigar –
The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in
your pocket –
With never a new one to light tho’ it’s charred and
black to the socket!
Open the old cigar-box – let me consider a while.
Here is a mild Manilla – there is a wifely smile.
Which is the better portion – bondage bought with
a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?
Counsellors cunning and silent – comforters true
and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?
Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my
eyelids close,
This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a Suttee’s passion – to do their duty and burn.
This will the fifty give me. When they are spent
and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.
The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish
Main,
When they hear that my harem is empty will send me
my brides again.
I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their
mouths withal,
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the
showers fall.
I will scent ’em with best vanilla, with tea will
I temper their hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read
the tale of my brides.
For Maggie has written a letter to give me my
choice between
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god
Nick o’ Teen.
And I have been servant of Love for barely a
twelvemonth clear,
But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of
seven year;
And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the
cheery light
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure
and Work and Fight.
And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and
I must prove,
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o’-the-
Wisp of Love.
Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me
bogged in the mire?
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the
fitful fire?
Open the old cigar-box – let me consider anew –
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should
abandon you?
A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is
a Smoke.
Light me another Cuba – I hold to my first-sworn vows.
If Maggie will have no rival, I’ll have no Maggie
for Spouse!
THE WINNERS
What is the moral? Who rides may read.
When the night is thick and the tracks are blind
A friend at a pinch is a friend indeed,
But a fool to wait for the laggard behind.
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
White hands cling to the tightened rein,
Slipping the spur from the booted heel,
Tenderest voices cry ‘Turn again!’
Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel.
High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone –
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
One may fall but he falls by himself –
Falls by himself with himself to blame.
One may attain and to him is pelf –
Loot of the city in Gold or Fame.
Plunder of earth shall be all his own
Who travels the fastest and travels alone.
Wherefore the more ye be holpen and stayed –
Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil,
Sing the heretical song I have made –
His be the labour and yours be the spoil.
Win by his aid and the aid disown –
He travels the fastest who travels alone!
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;
An’ ’e’ll swing in ‘arf a minute for a sneakin’
shootin’ hound –
O they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!
‘ ’Is cot was right-’and cot to mine,’ said Files-on-
Parade.
‘ ’E’s sleepin’ out an’ far to-night,’ the Colour-Sergeant
said.
‘I’ve drunk ’is beer a score o’ times,’ said Files-on-
Parade.
‘ ’E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone,’ the Colour-Sergeant
/>
said.
They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark
’Im to ’is place,
For ’e shot a comrade sleepin’ – you must look
’Im in the face;
Nine ‘undred of ’is county an’ the regiment’s
disgrace,
While they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the
mornin’.
‘What’s that so black agin the sun?’ said Files-on-
Parade.
‘It’s Danny fightin’ ‘ard for life,’ the Colour-Sergeant
said.
‘What’s that that whimpers over ’ead?’ said Files-on-
Parade.
‘It’s Danny’s soul that’s passin’ now,’ the Colour-
Sergeant said.
For they’re done with Danny Deever, you can ’ear
the quickstep play,
The regiment’s in column, an’ they’re marchin’
us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they’ll want
their beer to-day,
After hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!
SHILLIN’ A DAY
My name is O’Kelly, I’ve heard the Revelly
From Birr to Bareilly, from Leeds to Lahore,
Hong-Kong and Peshawur,
Lucknow and Etawah,
And fifty-five more all endin’ in ‘pore’.
Black death and his quickness, the depth and the
thickness
Of sorrow and sickness I’ve known on my way,
But I’m old and I’m nervis,
I’m cast from the Service,
And all I deserve is a shillin’ a day.
(Chorus) Shillin’ a day
Bloomin’ good pay –
Lucky to touch it, a shillin’ a day!
Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days I
Went slap for the Ghazi, my sword at my side,
When we rode Hell-for-leather
Both squadrons together,
That didn’t care whether we lived or we died.
But it’s no use despairin’, my wife must go charin’
An’ me commissairin’, the pay-bills to better,
So if me you be’old
In the wet and the cold,
By the Grand Metropold, won’t you give me a letter?
(Full chorus) Give ’Im a letter –
Can’t do no better,
Late Troop-Sergeant-Major an’–runs with a letter!
Think what ’e’s been,
Think what ’e’s seen.
Think of his pension an’
GAWD SAVE THE QUEEN!
TOMMY
I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ’e up an’ sez, ‘We serve no red-coats
here.’
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled
fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Tommy,
go away’;
But it’s ‘Thank you, Mister Atkins,’ when the band
begins to play –
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins
to play,
O it’s ‘Thank you, Mister Atkins,’ when the band
begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none
for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me
in the stalls!
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Tommy,
wait outside’;
But it’s ‘Special train for Atkins’ when the trooper’s
on the tide –
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the
troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s ‘Special train for Atkins’ when the trooper’s
on the tide.
Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while
you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation
cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large
a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Tommy,
’ow’s yer soul?’
But it’s ‘Thin red line of ’Eroes’ when the drums
begin to roll –
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin
to roll,
O it’s ‘Thin red line of ’Eroes’ when the drums begin
to roll.
We aren’t no thin red ’Eroes, nor we aren’t no
blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster
saints;
While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’
‘Tommy, fall be’ind,’
But it’s ‘Please to walk in front, sir,’ when there’s
trouble in the wind –
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s
trouble in the wind,
O it’s ‘Please to walk in front, sir,’ when there’s
trouble in the wind.
You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires,
an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to
our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ ‘Chuck
him out, the brute! ’
But it’s ‘Saviour of ’is country’ when the guns begin
to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything
you please;
An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool – you bet that
Tommy sees!
THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR
’ave you ’eard o’ the Widow at Windsor
With a hairy gold crown on ’Er head?
She ’as ships on the foam – she ’as millions at ’ome,
An’ she pays us poor beggars in red.
(Ow, poor beggars in red!)
There’s ’Er nick on the cavalry ‘orses,
There’s ’Er mark on the medical stores –
An’ ’Er troopers you’ll find with a fair wind be’ind
That takes us to various wars.
(Poor beggars! – barbarious wars!)
Then ’Ere’s to the Widow at Windsor,
An’ ’Ere’s to the stores an’ the guns,
The men an’ the ‘orses what makes up the forces
O’ Missis Victorier’s sons.
(Poor beggars! Victorier’s sons!)
Walk wide o’ the Widow at Windsor,
For ‘alf o’ Creation she owns:
We ’ave bought ’Er the same with the sword an’ the flame,
An’ we’ve salted it down with our bones
(Poor beggars! – it’s blue with our bones!)
Hands off o’ the sons o’ the Widow,
Hands off o’ the goods in ’Er shop,
For the Kings must come down an’ the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says ‘Stop!’
(Poor beggars! – we’re sent to say ‘Stop!’)
Then ’Ere’s to the Lodge o’ the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs –
To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an’
the file,
An’ open in form with the guns.
(Poor beggars! – it’s alw
ays they guns!)
We ’ave ’eard o’ the Widow at Windsor,
It’s safest to let ’Er alone:
For ’Er sentries we stand by the sea an’ the land
Wherever the bugles are blown.
(Poor beggars! – an’ don’t we get blown!)
Take ‘old o’ the Wings o’ the Mornin’,
An’ flop round the earth till you’re dead;
But you won’t get away from the tune that they play
To the bloomin’ old rag over’ead.
(Poor beggars! – it’s ’ot over’ead!)
Then ’Ere’s to the Sons o’ the Widow,
Wherever, ‘owever they roam.
’Ere’s all they desire, an’ if they require
A speedy return to their ’ome.
(Poor beggars! – they’ll never see ’ome!)
GENTLEMEN-RANKERS
To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the
damned,
To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,
Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely
crammed,
And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.
Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own
six horses,
And faith he went the pace and went it blind,
And the world was more than kin while he held the
ready tin,
But to-day the Sergeant’s something less than kind.
We’re poor little lambs who’ve lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray,
Baa – aa – aa!
Gentlemen rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha’ mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!
Oh, it’s sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty
kitchen slops,
And it’s sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,
To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops
And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.
Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be ‘Rider’ to your troop,
And branded with a blasted worsted spur,
Kipling: Poems Page 2
