You can leave ‘im at night on a bald man’s ‘ead, to paddle ‘is own canoe —

  ‘E’s a sort of a bloomin’ cosmopolouse — soldier an’ sailor too.

  We’ve fought ‘em in trooper, we’ve fought ‘em in dock, and drunk with ‘em in betweens,

  When they called us the seasick scull’ry-maids, an’ we called ‘em the Ass Marines;

  But, when we was down for a double fatigue, from Woolwich to Bernardmyo,

  We sent for the Jollies — ‘Er Majesty’s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!

  They think for ‘emselves, an’ they steal for ‘emselves, and they never ask what’s to do,

  But they’re camped an’ fed an’ they’re up an’ fed before our bugle’s blew.

  Ho! they ain’t no limpin’ procrastitutes — soldier an’ sailor too.

  You may say we are fond of an ‘arness-cut, or ‘ootin’ in barrick-yards,

  Or startin’ a Board School mutiny along o’ the Onion Guards;

  But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view,

  The same as the Jollies — ‘Er Majesty’s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!

  They come of our lot, they was brothers to us; they was beggars we’d met an’ knew;

  Yes, barrin’ an inch in the chest an’ the arm, they was doubles o’ me an’ you;

  For they weren’t no special chrysanthemums — soldier an’ sailor too!

  To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about,

  Is nothing so bad when you’ve cover to ‘and, an’ leave an’ likin’ to shout;

  But to stand an’ be still to the Birken’ead drill is a damn tough bullet to chew,

  An’ they done it, the Jollies — ‘Er Majesty’s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!

  Their work was done when it ‘adn’t begun; they was younger nor me an’ you;

  Their choice it was plain between drownin’ in ‘eaps an’ bein’ mopped by the screw,

  So they stood an’ was still to the Birken’ead drill, soldier an’ sailor too!

  We’re most of us liars, we’re ‘arf of us thieves, an’ the rest are as rank as can be,

  But once in a while we can finish in style (which I ‘ope it won’t ‘appen to me).

  But it makes you think better o’ you an’ your friends, an’ the work you may ‘ave to do,

  When you think o’ the sinkin’ Victorier’s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!

  Now there isn’t no room for to say ye don’t know — they ‘ave proved it plain and true —

  That whether it’s Widow, or whether it’s ship, Victorier’s work is to do,

  An’ they done it, the Jollies — ‘Er Majesty’s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!

  Soldier, Soldier

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

  Why don’t you march with my true love?”

  “We’re fresh from off the ship an’ ‘e’s maybe give the slip,

  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

  New love! True love!

  Best go look for a new love,

  The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,

  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

  What did you see o’ my true love?”

  “I seed ‘im serve the Queen in a suit o’ rifle-green,

  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

  Did ye see no more o’ my true love?”

  “I seed ‘im runnin’ by when the shots begun to fly —

  But you’d best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

  Did aught take ‘arm to my true love?”

  “I couldn’t see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white —

  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

  I’ll up an’ tend to my true love!”

  “‘E’s lying on the dead with a bullet through ‘is ‘ead,

  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

  I’ll down an’ die with my true love!”

  “The pit we dug’ll ‘ide ‘im an’ the twenty men beside ‘im —

  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

  Do you bring no sign from my true love?”

  “I bring a lock of ‘air that ‘e allus used to wear,

  An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

  “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,

  O then I know it’s true I’ve lost my true love!”

  “An’ I tell you truth again — when you’ve lost the feel o’ pain

  You’d best take me for your true love.”

  True love! New love!

  Best take ‘im for a new love,

  The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,

  An’ you’d best take ‘im for your true love.

  A Song at Cock-Crow

  1918

  “Ille autem iterum negavit.”

  The first time that Peter denied his Lord

  He shrank from the cudgel, the scourge and the cord,

  But followed far off to see what they would do,

  Till the cock crew — till the cock crew —

  After Gethsemane, till the cock crew!

  The first time that Peter denied his Lord

  ‘Twas only a maid in the palace who heard,

  As he sat by the fire and warmed himself through.

  Then the cock crew! Then the cock crew!

  (“Though also art one of them.”) Then the cock crew!

  The first time that Peter denied his Lord

  He had neither the Throne, nor the Keys nor the Sword —

  A poor silly fisherman, what could he do,

  When the cock crew — when the cock crew —

  But weep for his wickedness when the cock crew?

  . . . . . .

  The next time that Peter denied his Lord

  He was Fisher of Men, as foretold by the Word,

  With the Crown on his brow and the Cross on his shoe,

  When the cock crew — when the cock crew —

  In Flanders and Picardy when the cock crew!

  The next time that Peter denied his Lord

  ‘Twas Mary the Mother in Heaven Who heard,

  She grieved for the maidens and wives that they slew

  When the cock crew — when the cock crew —

  At Tirmonde and Aerschott when the cock crew!

  The next time that Peter denied his Lord

  The Babe in the Manger awakened and stirred,

  And He stretched out His arms for the playmates

  He knew —

  When the cock crew — when the cock crew —

  But the waters had covered them when the cock crew!

  The next time that Peter denied his Lord

  ‘Twas Earth in her agony waited his word,

  But he sat by the fire and naught would he do,

  Though the cock crew — though the cock crew —

  Over all Christendom, though the cock crew!

  The last time that Peter denied his Lord,

  The Father took from him the Keys and the Sword,

  And the Mother and Babe brake his Kingdom in two,

  When the cock crew — when the cock crew —

  (Because of his wickedness) when the cock crew!

  A Song in the Desert

  P. L. OB. JAN. 1927

  FRIEND, thou beholdest the lightning? Who has the charge of it-

  To decree which rock-ridge shall receive-shall be chosen for targe of it?

  Which crown among palms shall go down, by the thunderbolt broken;

  While the floods drown the sere wadis where no bud is token?

  First for my eyes, above all, he made show of his treasure.

  First in his ear, before all, I made sure of my measure.

  If it were good-what acclaim! None other so moved me.

  If it were faulty-shame? While he mocked me he loved me.

  Friend, thou hast seen in Rida’ar, the low moon descending,

  One silent, swart, swift-striding camel, oceanward wending?

  Browbound and jawbound the rider, his shadow in front of him,

  Ceaselessly eating the distances? That was the wont of him.

  Whether the cliff-walled defiles, the ambush prepared for him;

  Whether the wave-crested dunes-a single sword bared for him-

  Whether cold danger fore-weighed, or quick peril that took him

  Alone, out of comfort or aid, no breath of it shook him.

  Whether he feasted or fasted, sweated or shivered,

  There was no proof of the matter-no sign was delivered.

  Whatever this dust or that heat, or those fools that he laboured with,

  He forgot and forbore no observance towards any he neighboured with.

  Friend, thou hast known at Rida’ar, when the Council was bidden,

  One face among faces that leaped to the light and were hidden?

  One voice among night-wasting voices of boasting and shouting?

  And that face and that voice abide with thee? His beyond doubting!

  Never again in Rida’ar, my watch-fire burning,

  That he might see from afar, shall I wait his returning;

  Or the roar of his beast as she knelt and he leaped to unlade her

  Two-handedly tossing me jewels. He was no trader!

  Gems and wrought gold, never sold-brought for me to behold them;

  Tales of far magic unrolled-to me only he told them,

  With the light, easy laugh of dismissal ‘twixt story and story-

  As a man brushes sand from his hand, or the great dismiss glory.

  Never again in Rida’ar! My ways are made black to me!

  Whether I sing or am silent, he shall not come back to me!

  There is no measure for trial, nor treasure for bringing.

  Allah divides the Companions. (Yet he said-yet he said: — ”Cease

  not from singing.”)

  A Song In Storm

  1914-18

  Be well assured that on our side

  The abiding oceans fight,

  Though headlong wind and heaping tide

  Make us their sport to-night.

  By force of weather, not of war,

  In jeopardy we steer.

  Then welcome Fate’s discourtesy

  Whereby it shall appear

  How in all time of our distress,

  And our deliverance too,

  The game is more than the player of the game,

  And the ship is more than the crew!

  Out of the mist into the mirk

  The glimmering combers roll.

  Almost these mindless waters work

  As though they had a soul —

  Almost as though they leagued to whelm

  Our flag beneath their green:

  Then welcome Fate’s discourtesy

  Whereby it shall be seen, etc.

  Be well assured, though wave and wind

  Have mightier blows in store,

  That we who keep the watch assigned

  Must stand to it the more;

  And as our streaming bows rebuke

  Each billow’s baulked career,

  Sing, welcome Fate’s discourtesy

  Whereby it is made clear, etc.

  No matter though our decks be swept

  And mast and timber crack —

  We can make good all loss except

  The loss of turning back.

  So, ‘twixt these Devils and our deep

  Let courteous trumpets sound,

  To welcome Fate’s discourtesy

  Whereby it will be found, etc.

  Be well assured, though in our power

  Is nothing left to give

  But chance and place to meet the hour,

  And leave to strive to live.

  Till these dissolve our Order holds,

  Our Service binds us here.

  Then welcome Fate’s discourtesy

  Whereby it is made clear

  How in all time of our distress,

  As in our triumph too,

  The game is more than the player of the game

  And the ship is more than the crew!

  The Song of the Banjo

  You couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile —

  You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp

  You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile,

  And play it in an Equatorial swamp.

  I travel with the cooking-pots and pails —

  I’m sandwiched ‘tween the coffee and the pork —

  And when the dusty column checks and tails,

  You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk!

  With my “Pilly-willy-wirky-wirky-popp!”

  [Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!]

  So I keep ‘em moving forward till they drop;

  So I play ‘em up to water and to bed.

  In the silence of the camp before the fight,

  When it’s good to make your will and say your prayer,

  You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight,

  Explaining ten to one was always fair.

  I’m the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,

  Of the Patently Impossible and Vain

  And when the Thing that Couldn’t has occurred,

  Give me time to change my leg and go again.

  With my “Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tump!”

  In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled.

  There was never voice before us till I fed our lonely chorus,

  I the war-drum of the White Man round the world!

  By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,

  Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own, —

  ‘Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,

  In the silence of the herder’s hut alone —

  In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,

  Hear me babble what the weakest won’t confess —

  I am Memory and Torment — I am Town!

  I am all that ever went with evening dress!

  With my “Tunka-tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!”

  [So the lights — the London Lights grow near and plain!]

  So I rowel’em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh

  Till I bring my broken rankers home again.

  In desire of many marvels over sea,

  Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,

  I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay

  Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.

  He is blooded to the open and the sky,

  He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,

  He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,

  Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.

  With my “Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!”

  (Oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck!]

  Are you sick o’ towns and men? You must sign and sail again,

  For it’s “Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!”

  Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear —

  Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel —

  Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer; —

  Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:

  Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,

  Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,

  Hear me lead my reckless children from below

  Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine!

  With my “Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!”

  [Oh, the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]

  And we ride the iron stallions down to drink,

  Through the canons to the waters of the West!

  And the tunes that mean so much to you alone —

  Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose —

  Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan —

  I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;

  With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun —

  And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,

  And the merry play that drops you, when you’re done.

  To the thoughs that burn like irons if you think.

  With my “Plunka-lunka-linka-lunka-lunka!”

  Here’s a trifle on account of pleasure past,

  Ere the wit made you win gives you eyes to see your sin

  And — the heavier repentance at the last!

  Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof —

  I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!

  Let the trumpet snare the foeman to the proof —

  I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!

  My bray ye may not alter nor mistake

  When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,

  But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,

  Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?

  With my “Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!”

  [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?]

  But the word — the word is mine, when the order moves the line

  And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die!

  The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre —

  [Oh, the blue below the little fisher-huts!]

  That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire,

  Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts!

  By the wisdom of the centuries I speak —

  To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth —

  I, the joy of life unquestioned — I, the Greek —