Kitabı oku: «Verses 1889-1896», sayfa 3

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,
  When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being cleanly
   Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you “Sir”.
 
 
  If the home we never write to, and the oaths we never keep,
   And all we know most distant and most dear,
  Across the snoring barrack-room return to break our sleep,
   Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?
  When the drunken comrade mutters and the great guard-lantern gutters
   And the horror of our fall is written plain,
  Every secret, self-revealing on the aching white-washed ceiling,
   Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?
 
 
  We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to Love and Truth,
   We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,
  And the measure of our torment is the measure of our youth.
   God help us, for we knew the worst too young!
  Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that brought the sentence,
   Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,
  And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf enfolds us
   And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.
      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!
 

ROUTE MARCHIN’

 
  We’re marchin’ on relief over Injia’s sunny plains,
  A little front o’ Christmas-time an’ just be’ind the Rains;
  Ho! get away you bullock-man, you’ve ‘eard the bugle blowed,
  There’s a regiment a-comin’ down the Grand Trunk Road;
      With its best foot first
      And the road a-sliding past,
      An’ every bloomin’ campin’-ground exactly like the last;
      While the Big Drum says,
      With ‘is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!” —
      “Kiko kissywarsti don’t you hamsher argy jow?”²
 
 
  Oh, there’s them Injian temples to admire when you see,
  There’s the peacock round the corner an’ the monkey up the tree,
  An’ there’s that rummy silver grass a-wavin’ in the wind,
  An’ the old Grand Trunk a-trailin’ like a rifle-sling be’ind.
      While it’s best foot first,.
 
 
  At half-past five’s Revelly, an’ our tents they down must come,
  Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick ‘em up at ‘ome.
  But it’s over in a minute, an’ at six the column starts,
  While the women and the kiddies sit an’ shiver in the carts.
      An’ it’s best foot first,.
 
 
  Oh, then it’s open order, an’ we lights our pipes an’ sings,
  An’ we talks about our rations an’ a lot of other things,
  An’ we thinks o’ friends in England, an’ we wonders what they’re at,
  An’ ‘ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.³
      An’ it’s best foot first,.
 
 
  It’s none so bad o’ Sunday, when you’re lyin’ at your ease,
  To watch the kites a-wheelin’ round them feather-’eaded trees,
  For although there ain’t no women, yet there ain’t no barrick-yards,
  So the orficers goes shootin’ an’ the men they plays at cards.
      Till it’s best foot first,.
 
 
  So ‘ark an’ ‘eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin’ sore,
  There’s worser things than marchin’ from Umballa to Cawnpore;
  An’ if your ‘eels are blistered an’ they feels to ‘urt like ‘ell,
  You drop some tallow in your socks an’ that will make ‘em well.
      For it’s best foot first,.
 
 
  We’re marchin’ on relief over Injia’s coral strand,
  Eight ‘undred fightin’ Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;
  Ho! get away you bullock-man, you’ve ‘eard the bugle blowed,
  There’s a regiment a-comin’ down the Grand Trunk Road;
      With its best foot first
      And the road a-sliding past,
      An’ every bloomin’ campin’-ground exactly like the last;
      While the Big Drum says,
      With ‘is “rowdy-dowdy-dow!” —
      “Kiko kissywarsti don’t you hamsher argy jow?”
 

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.
 

OTHER VERSES

THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST

 
       Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
       Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;
       But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
       When two strong men stand face to face,
         tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!
 
 
  Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,
  And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the Colonel’s pride:
  He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,
  And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.
  Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a troop of the Guides:
  “Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?”
   Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
  “If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.
  At dusk he harries the Abazai – at dawn he is into Bonair,
  But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,
  So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
  By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.
  But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,
  For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men.
  There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
  And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.”
   The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
  With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell
    and the head of the gallows-tree.
  The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat —
  Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
  He’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
  Till he was aware of his father’s mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,
  Till he was aware of his father’s mare with Kamal upon her back,
  And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.
  He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
  “Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said.  “Show now if ye can ride.”
   It’s up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,
  The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
  The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,
  But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.
  There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
  And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho’ never a man was seen.
  They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,
  The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.
  The dun he fell at a water-course – in a woful heap fell he,
  And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
  He has knocked the pistol out of his hand – small room was there to strive,
  “‘Twas only by favour of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive:
  There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
  But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
  If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
  The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:
  If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
  The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.”
   Lightly answered the Colonel’s son:  “Do good to bird and beast,
  But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
  If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,
  Belike the price of a jackal’s meal were more than a thief could pay.
  They will feed their horse on the standing crop,
    their men on the garnered grain,
  The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
  But if thou thinkest the price be fair, – thy brethren wait to sup,
  The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, – howl, dog, and call them up!
  And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
  Give me my father’s mare again, and I’ll fight my own way back!”
   Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
  “No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet.
  May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
  What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?”
   Lightly answered the Colonel’s son:  “I hold by the blood of my clan:
  Take up the mare for my father’s gift – by God, she has carried a man!”
   The red mare ran to the Colonel’s son, and nuzzled against his breast;
  “We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger best.
  So she shall go with a lifter’s dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
  My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.”
   The Colonel’s son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,
  “Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he;
    “will ye take the mate from a friend?”
   “A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb.
  Thy father has sent his son to me, I’ll send my son to him!”
   With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest —
  He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.
  “Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides,
  And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.
  Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,
  Thy life is his – thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.
  So, thou must eat the White Queen’s meat, and all her foes are thine,
  And thou must harry thy father’s hold for the peace of the Border-line,
  And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power —
  Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.”
 
 
  They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,
  They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:
  They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,
  On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.
  The Colonel’s son he rides the mare and Kamal’s boy the dun,
  And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
  And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear —
  There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.
  “Ha’ done! ha’ done!” said the Colonel’s son.
    “Put up the steel at your sides!
  Last night ye had struck at a Border thief —
    to-night ‘tis a man of the Guides!”
 
 
       Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
       Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat;
       But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
       When two strong men stand face to face,
         tho’ they come from the ends of the earth!
 

THE LAST SUTTEE

 
       Not many years ago a King died in one of the Rajpoot States.
       His wives, disregarding the orders of the English against Suttee,
       would have broken out of the palace had not the gates been barred.
       But one of them, disguised as the King’s favourite dancing-girl,
       passed through the line of guards and reached the pyre.  There,
       her courage failing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court,
       to kill her.  This he did, not knowing who she was.
  Udai Chand lay sick to death
      In his hold by Gungra hill.
  All night we heard the death-gongs ring
  For the soul of the dying Rajpoot King,
  All night beat up from the women’s wing
      A cry that we could not still.
 
 
  All night the barons came and went,
      The lords of the outer guard:
  All night the cressets glimmered pale
  On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail,
  Mewar headstall and Marwar mail,
      That clinked in the palace yard.
 
 
  In the Golden room on the palace roof
      All night he fought for air:
  And there was sobbing behind the screen,
  Rustle and whisper of women unseen,
  And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen
      On the death she might not share.
 
 
  He passed at dawn – the death-fire leaped
      From ridge to river-head,
  From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars:
  And wail upon wail went up to the stars
  Behind the grim zenana-bars,
      When they knew that the King was dead.
 
 
  The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth
      And robe him for the pyre.
  The Boondi Queen beneath us cried:
  “See, now, that we die as our mothers died
  In the bridal-bed by our master’s side!
      Out, women! – to the fire!”
 
 
  We drove the great gates home apace:
      White hands were on the sill:
  But ere the rush of the unseen feet
  Had reached the turn to the open street,
  The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat —
      We held the dovecot still.
 
 
  A face looked down in the gathering day,
      And laughing spoke from the wall:
  “Oh]/e, they mourn here:  let me by —
  Azizun, the  Lucknow nautch-girl, I!
  When the house is rotten, the rats must fly,
      And I seek another thrall.
 
 
  “For I ruled the King as ne’er did Queen, —
      To-night the Queens rule me!
  Guard them safely, but let me go,
  Or ever they pay the debt they owe
  In scourge and torture!”  She leaped below,
      And the grim guard watched her flee.
 
 
  They knew that the King had spent his soul
      On a North-bred dancing-girl:
  That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god,
  And kissed the ground where her feet had trod,
  And doomed to death at her drunken nod,
      And swore by her lightest curl.
 
 
  We bore the King to his fathers’ place,
      Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand:
  Where the gray apes swing, and the peacocks preen
  On fretted pillar and jewelled screen,
  And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen
      On the drift of the desert sand.
 
 
  The herald read his titles forth,
      We set the logs aglow:
  “Friend of the English, free from fear,
  Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer,
  Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer,
      King of the Jungle, – go!”
 
 
  All night the red flame stabbed the sky
      With wavering wind-tossed spears:
  And out of a shattered temple crept
  A woman who veiled her head and wept,
  And called on the King – but the great King slept,
      And turned not for her tears.
 
 
  Small thought had he to mark the strife —
      Cold fear with hot desire —
  When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame,
  And thrice she beat her breast for shame,
  And thrice like a wounded dove she came
      And moaned about the fire.
 
 
  One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze,
      The silent streets between,
  Who had stood by the King in sport and fray,
  To blade in ambush or boar at bay,
  And he was a baron old and gray,
      And kin to the Boondi Queen.
 
 
  He said:  “O shameless, put aside
      The veil upon thy brow!
  Who held the King and all his land
  To the wanton will of a harlot’s hand!
  Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand?
      Stoop down, and call him now!”
 
 
  Then she:  “By the faith of my tarnished soul,
      All things I did not well,
  I had hoped to clear ere the fire died,
  And lay me down by my master’s side
  To rule in Heaven his only bride,
      While the others howl in Hell.
 
 
  “But I have felt the fire’s breath,
      And hard it is to die!
  Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord
  To sully the steel of a Thakur’s sword
  With base-born blood of a trade abhorred,” —
      And the Thakur answered, “Ay.”
 
 
  He drew and struck:  the straight blade drank
      The life beneath the breast.
  “I had looked for the Queen to face the flame,
  But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame —
  Sister of mine, pass, free from shame,
      Pass with thy King to rest!”
 
 
  The black log crashed above the white:
      The little flames and lean,
  Red as slaughter and blue as steel,
  That whistled and fluttered from head to heel,
  Leaped up anew, for they found their meal
      On the heart of – the Boondi Queen!
 

THE BALLAD OF THE KING’S MERCY

 
            Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told.
            His mercy fills the Khyber hills – his grace is manifold;
            He has taken toll of the North and the South – 
             his glory reacheth far,
            And they tell the tale of his charity from Balkh to Kandahar.
 
 
  Before the old Peshawur Gate, where Kurd and Kaffir meet,
  The Governor of Kabul dealt the Justice of the Street,
  And that was strait as running noose and swift as plunging knife,
  Tho’ he who held the longer purse might hold the longer life.
 
 
  There was a hound of Hindustan had struck a Euzufzai,
  Wherefore they spat upon his face and led him out to die.
  It chanced the King went forth that hour when throat was bared to knife;
  The Kaffir grovelled under-hoof and clamoured for his life.
 
 
  Then said the King:  “Have hope, O friend!  Yea, Death disgraced is hard;
  Much honour shall be thine”; and called the Captain of the Guard,
  Yar Khan, a bastard of the Blood, so city-babble saith,
  And he was honoured of the King – the which is salt to Death;
  And he was son of Daoud Shah, the Reiver of the Plains,
  And blood of old Durani Lords ran fire in his veins;
  And ‘twas to tame an Afghan pride nor Hell nor Heaven could bind,
  The King would make him butcher to a yelping cur of Hind.
 
 
  “Strike!” said the King.  “King’s blood art thou —
    his death shall be his pride!”
   Then louder, that the crowd might catch:  “Fear not – his arms are tied!”
   Yar Khan drew clear the Khyber knife, and struck, and sheathed again.
  “O man, thy will is done,” quoth he; “a King this dog hath slain.”
 
 
            Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, to the North and the South is sold.
            The North and the South shall open their mouth
              to a Ghilzai flag unrolled,
            When the big guns speak to the Khyber peak, and his dog-Heratis fly:
            Ye have heard the song – How long?  How long?
              Wolves of the Abazai!
  That night before the watch was set, when all the streets were clear,
  The Governor of Kabul spoke:  “My King, hast thou no fear?
  Thou knowest – thou hast heard,” – his speech died at his master’s face.
  And grimly said the Afghan King:  “I rule the Afghan race.
  My path is mine – see thou to thine – to-night upon thy bed
  Think who there be in Kabul now that clamour for thy head.”
 
 
  That night when all the gates were shut to City and to throne,
  Within a little garden-house the King lay down alone.
  Before the sinking of the moon, which is the Night of Night,
  Yar Khan came softly to the King to make his honour white.
  The children of the town had mocked beneath his horse’s hoofs,
  The harlots of the town had hailed him “butcher!” from their roofs.
  But as he groped against the wall, two hands upon him fell,
  The King behind his shoulder spake:  “Dead man, thou dost not well!
  ‘Tis ill to jest with Kings by day and seek a boon by night;
  And that thou bearest in thy hand is all too sharp to write.
  But three days hence, if God be good, and if thy strength remain,
  Thou shalt demand one boon of me and bless me in thy pain.
  For I am merciful to all, and most of all to thee.
  My butcher of the shambles, rest – no knife hast thou for me!”
 
 
            Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief,
              holds hard by the South and the North;
            But the Ghilzai knows, ere the melting snows,
              when the swollen banks break forth,
            When the red-coats crawl to the sungar wall,
              and his Usbeg lances fail:
            Ye have heard the song – How long?  How long?
              Wolves of the Zuka Kheyl!
  They stoned him in the rubbish-field when dawn was in the sky,
  According to the written word, “See that he do not die.”
 
 
  They stoned him till the stones were piled above him on the plain,
  And those the labouring limbs displaced they tumbled back again.
 
 
  One watched beside the dreary mound that veiled the battered thing,
  And him the King with laughter called the Herald of the King.
 
 
  It was upon the second night, the night of Ramazan,
  The watcher leaning earthward heard the message of Yar Khan.
  From shattered breast through shrivelled lips broke forth the rattling breath,
  “Creature of God, deliver me from agony of Death.”
 
 
  They sought the King among his girls, and risked their lives thereby:
  “Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that he die!”
 
 
  “Bid him endure until the day,” a lagging answer came;
  “The night is short, and he can pray and learn to bless my name.”
 
 
  Before the dawn three times he spoke, and on the day once more:
  “Creature of God, deliver me, and bless the King therefor!”
 
 
  They shot him at the morning prayer, to ease him of his pain,
  And when he heard the matchlocks clink, he blessed the King again.
 
 
  Which thing the singers made a song for all the world to sing,
  So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy of the King.
 
 
            Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told,
            He has opened his mouth to the North and the South,
              they have stuffed his mouth with gold.
            Ye know the truth of his tender ruth – and sweet his favours are:
            Ye have heard the song – How long?  How long?
              from Balkh to Kandahar.