Writ in Barracks

An 'e's chucked 'is wooden bricks.
'E won't do kindergarden,
An' 'e's done 'is lessons wrong;
Altogether Oojee-Moojee
Is a-comin' of it strong!

An' the Point is miles be'ind us, an' 'eadquarters furder still;
We've exchanged a friendly greetin' wi' the bloke on Signal 'Ill;
We are off to Oojee-Moojee, an' we cannot be detained,
For relations dip-lo-matic 'ave become a trifle strained!

Now the King of Oojee-Moojee is a little coloured kid;
An' 'e rules some thousand niggers, an' 'e does as 'e is bid!
For the Government of England, with 'is interests in view,
'As civilised 'is country – an' collects 'is revenue!

For the King wot reigned afore 'im was an 'eathen nigger thief,
So we sent a missionary, for to teach 'im our belief.
(To prevent misunderstandin's, an' avoid unpleasant scenes,
We likewise sent an 'Otchkiss, an' a 'undred red marines.)

'E wouldn't take our gospel, an' unpleasantness arose,
Which cost six whites, and niggermen proportionate to those;
An' we left the King a-swingin' from a 'Lyptus tree above,
Just to show as there was iron underneath the velvet glove.

Then our skipper very kindly did an 'andsome sort of thing,
For 'e made a proclamation that the nevvy of the King —
A funny little kiddy, with a sat-on sorter face —
Should rule the Oojee-Moojee, an' should take 'is uncle's place.

So we dressed 'im up in velvets, an' we fed 'im up on buns,
An' we gave 'is bit of buntin' a salute of twenty guns,
An' we gave to 'im a doctor for to cure 'is chills an' croups;
With a tutor, an' a gen'ral for to organise 'is troops.

So 'is tutor taught 'im manners, an' the way to part 'is 'air,
An' the gen'ral, in 'is spare time, taught 'im proper ways to sware;
The doctor, to complete 'im, was a-teaching him to mill —
When 'is 'ighness put the veto on the Education Bill.

Then 'e cheeked the British Consul!
Then 'e cussed the doctor's wife!
An' 'e chased 'is good, kind tutor, with a bloomin' carvin' knife;
Tore 'is books an' burnt 'is grammar (said they wasn't good for 'ealf),
Boned some whisky from the General, an' unchristianised 'isself!

So, we're bound for Oojee-Moojee,
An we mus'n't be detained;
For relations dip-lo-matic
'Ave become a trifle strained:
'Situations complicated' —
'Warship ordered to the scene!' —
Just because a nigger kiddy's
Playin' truant with the Queen!

THE SONG OF THE TOWN

Sing hey! for the sand-freckled plain;
Sing ho! for the flower-flushed valley;
A song for the ship-sprinkled main,
And the sports where the wanderers rally,
A song for the lawn sloping down —
The lawn with its terrace and fountain,
But here's a song of the square white Town
By the mist-wrapped, cloud-capped mountain!

The whitewashed, square-cut town,
By the grey-green wind-swept sea;
The moving throng,
And the motor gong,
These sing the song for me!

Sing hey! for the Town and its folk,
The comers, the goers, the stayers;
The just arrived waster, dead-broke,
The homeward-bound mummers and players;
The white man suspiciously dark!
The trooper-man, newly recruited;
The hand-bagged and frock-coated clerk,
The pioneer corded and booted!

The motley-peopled town!
Its raw and cultured folk,
Live, work, and play
'Twixt Mount and Bay,
And bear one equal yoke.

Sing hey! for the Town, and its dress,
The garbs of the twenty-one nations:
The Kafir in blanket – and less,
The lady in Paris 'creations';
The-man-about-town, rather loud,
The nigger in checks somewhat rasher;
Here, fez to the turban is bow'd,
There, top-hat comes off to the 'smasher.'

The particoloured town,
Where plush and broadcloth meet:
Where Islam's green