I am no maiden, highly strung,
To faint, when bloody death is nigh.
I have not lived, by might of tongue
Nor by vain boastings, wind-wide flung!
But on fame's endless ladder, I
Have fought my way, from rung to rung!

I am no fretful, whimp'ring miss;
I am a woman, learned of years.
And once I felt your baby kiss:
Your bliss for me had greater bliss!
Your youthful sorrows had my tears.
O son o' mine, remember this!

Your foes were mine, in those dear days:
Your friends were kind, and kin to me.
We parted – so, we will not raise
The long dead years. We went our ways,
I, brooding by the cold grey sea;
You, pride-flushed, with your new-won bays!

The years have passed; it does but seem
As yester-eve you left my side.
I journeyed with you, dream on dream —
I heard your great war eagle's scream!
And on sweet Progress, your fair bride,
I saw the sun of Fortune's beam!

I mourned your follies, word and deed;
I watched your rising, when you rose,
By sober prayer, by Cross and Bead;
Until you found that greater Creed,
That in the broader channel flows,
The lowly truths, that higher lead!

You are my son, and born of me.
My laws of Right are Laws to you
Whose hands were stained in blood, to be
The hands that set the slave-man free!
And now, again, you dare and do —
For Justice, and Humanity!

The days to be are big with Fate!
Go fight your battle, Son o' mine:
And State to Shire, and Shire to State,
Its better self shall dedicate!
So, let the wily foe combine,
Whilst, hand-locked, heart-locked, we can wait!

TOMMY TO HIS LAUREATE

(CAPETOWN, January 25, 1898.)

O good-mornin', Mister Kiplin'! You are welcome to our shores:
To the land of millionaires and potted meat:
To the country of the 'fonteins' (we 'ave got no 'bads' or 'pores'),
To the place where di'monds lay about the street
At your feet;
To the 'unting-ground of raiders indiscreet.

I suppose you know this station, for you sort of keep in touch
With Tommy wheresoever 'e may go;
An' you know our 'bat's' a shandy, made of 'Ottentot an' Dutch,
It's a language which is 'ideous an' low,
Don't you know
That it's 'Wacht-een-beitje' 'stead of ''Arf a mo'?'

We should like to come an' meet you, but we can't without a pass;
Even then we'd 'ardly like to make a fuss;
For out 'ere, they've got a notion that a Tommy isn't class;
'E's a sort of brainless animal, or wuss!
Vicious cuss!
No, they don't expect intelligence from us.

You 'ave met us in the tropics, you 'ave met us in the snows;
But mostly in the Punjab an' the 'Ills.
You 'ave seen us in Mauritius, where the naughty cyclone blows.
You 'ave met us underneath a sun that kills,
An' we grills!
An' I ask you, do we fill the bloomin' bills?

Since the time when Tommy's uniform was musketoon an' wig,
There 'as always been a bloke wot 'ad a way
Of writin' of the Glory an' forgettin' the fatig',
'Oo saw 'im in 'is tunic day by day,
Smart an' gay,
An' forgot about the smallness of his pay!

But you're our partic'lar author, you're our patron an' our friend,
You're the poet of the cuss-word an' the swear,
You're the poet of the people, where the red-mapped lands extend,
You're the poet of the jungle an' the lair,
An' compare,
To the ever-speaking voice of everywhere!

There are poets wot can please you with their primrose-vi'let lays,
There are poets wot can drive a man to drink;
But it takes a 'pukka' poet, in a Patriotic Craze,
To make a chortlin' nation squirm an' shrink,
Gasp an' blink;
An' 'eedless, thoughtless people stop an' think!

Yes, the 'and wot banged the banjo an' made Tommy comic songs,
'Oo wrote of Empires, 'Lion's 'Ead to Line,'
'Oo found an 'idden poem in M'Andrew's Injin gongs,
Was the checkin' 'and wot gave the warnin' sign,
In a line —
That gave the people soda after wine.

THE MISSION THAT FAILED

Our troop was encamped by the side of a stream
An' a very smart troop were we.
We 'ad Cavalry orficers – straight from town,
An' we escorted Mister Commissioner Brown,
Commissioner Brown, C.B.
An' we 'eard that the Governor put 'im down,
For a spare K.C.M.G.!

We wos camped near by to a border town,
On the borders of Creegerland —
A very despotic, republican state —
An' there we 'ad got the order to wait,
But why, we did not understand.
So we bedded our 'orses, an' cussed at our fate
(For you can't cuss the man in command).

One mornin' sez Mister Commissioner Brown,
Sez 'e to the 'ole parade,
'I've bin inspired by a dream just now —
I can't say why, an' I can't say 'ow —
But a voice in my dream it said,
"O in Joannistown there's a deuce of a row
And badly they want your aid!"'

Now Joannistown is in Creegerland,
Which same is a friendly state.
An' it isn't no joke – which is puttin' it fine —
To pass without notice the border-post sign;
But we did it, as I will relate. —
We really intended to drop 'em a line!
But we 'adn't got time to wait.

We 'ad ridden some miles into Creegerland
When Commissioner Brown, C.B.,
'E called an 'alt, – which a troop requires,
For a man, 'e tires, as 'is 'orse perspires, —
An' 'e sez to the troop, sez 'e,
'About ten miles from 'ere are some telegraph wires,
An' a very good thought struck me.

'For fear of my dream bein' misunderstood
An' the evil constructions of liars! —
For fear of alarmin' the dear farmers' wives
An' disturbin' the quiet an' peace of their lives,
I think we will sever them wires!
An' I'll give somethin' 'andsome to 'im 'oo contrives
To cut off the current – with pliers!'

An' Michael M'Carty, Lance-Corp'ral was 'e,
Right guide to a section of 'A,'
Started orf on the job, an' we whispered a cheer,
An' we each gave the beggar our flasks – full of beer —
To 'elp for to lighten 'is way!
We gave 'im cheap drinks – though it was very dear
When it came round to settling day!

M'Carty 'e rode, an' M'Carty 'e swilled,
An' M'Carty got big in the 'ead,
Till 'e couldn't tell telegraph poles from trees,
An' 'e wandered around, sorter go-as-you-please
Till 'is wonderin' wanderin's led
To the wires – of a fence! an' reclinin' at ease
'E cut up these wasters instead!

It's all over now: an' Brown 'e got jugged,
And the Burghers of Creegerland knowed.
They licked us to fits in a sweet little fight,
An' the King of Jerusalem wired 'is delight!
An' the Laureate wrote us an Ode!
An' Europe got ready for action that night
'Cos M'Carty got drunk on the road!

M'Carty's a thief, M'Carty's a beast,
An' M'Carty is likewise a liar!
'E went an' got drunk, which 'e shouldn't 'ave done;
'E went an' got drunk, an' 'e spoilt the 'ole fun:
An' the moral to them wot conspire
Is, Don't send a beer-swilling son of a gun
When you're cuttin a telegraph wire!

THE PRAYER

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!
A sentry, in the silent night,
I, 'oo 'ave never prayed,
Kneel on the dew-damp sands, to say,
O see me through the comin' day —
But, please remember, though I pray,
That I am not afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!
'Ere in the dusky, starry light,
My inner self I've weighed;
An' I 'ave seen my guilt an' sin;
I'm black as black can be, within,
But though I would forgiveness win,
It ain't 'cos I'm afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!
Keep me, to-morrow, in Your sight! —
Far 'ave I erred an' strayed.
I've flaunted You, with gibe an' sneer,
At 'ome, with chums to laugh and cheer,
But now, I am alone – out 'ere!
But still I ain't afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!
The en'my's camp-fires twinkle bright.
To-morrow, Lord, Your aid;
The canteen was my Sunday-school:
The drill-book was my Golden Rule;
Wot are they now? O 'elpless fool!
But still, I'm not afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!
The price of every thoughtless slight
To-morrow will be paid!
A voice is whisp'rin' to my 'eart —
A voice that makes me sweat an' start! —
'To-morrow, soul an' soldier part!'
But I – I'm not afraid!

O God of Battles! Lord of Might!
'Ere, in the silence of the night,
My 'umble prayer is prayed!
All life an' death are one to you!
If I must die – O 'elp me to!
In that last moment, see me through —
My God! I am afraid!