Writ in Barracks

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;