The seaward lights are veiled,

The spent deep feigns her rest:

But my ear is laid to her breast,

I lift to the swell—I cry!

Could I wait in sloth on the Church's oath?

(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

At the careless end of night

I thrill to the nearing screw;

I turn in the clearing light

And I call to the drowsy crew; And the mud boils foul and blue As the blind bow backs away.

Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?

(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not they!

The beach-pools cake and skim,

The bursting spray-heads freeze,

I gather on crown and rim

The grey, grained ice of the seas, Where, sheathed from bitt to trees, The plunging colliers lie.

Would I barter my place for the Church's grace?

(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

Through the blur of the whirling snow,

Or the black of the inky sleet,
The lanterns gather and grow,
And I look for the homeward fleet.
Rattle of block and sheet-

"Ready about-stand by!"

Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?

(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing

In the rip of the racing tide,

By the gates of doom I sing,

On the horns of death I ride. A ship-length overside, Between the course and the sand,

Fretted and bound I bide

Peril whereof I cry.

Would I change with my brother a league inland?

(Shoal! 'Ware shoal!) Not I!

Mandalay

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,

There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;

For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:

"Come you back, you British soldier;

come you back to Mandalay!" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay:

Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin'

from Rangoon to Mandalay?

On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder
outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap

was green,

An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat-jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,

An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,

An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:

Bloomin' idol made o' mud

Wot they called the Great Gawd
Budd-

Plucky lot she cared for idols when

I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!"

With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek

We useter watch the steamers an' the
hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak

In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you

was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

...

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;

For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;

On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,

With our sick beneath the awnings

when we went to Mandalay!

O the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder
outer China 'crost the Bay!

The 'Eathen

THE 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone;

'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is

own;

'E keeps 'is side-arms awful: 'e leaves 'em all about,

An' then comes up the Regiment an' pokes the 'eathen out.

All along o' dirtiness, all along o' mess, All along o' doin' things rather-more-orless,

All along of abby-nay, kul, an' hazar-ho, Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so!

The young recruit is 'aughty-'e draf's from Gawd knows where;

They bid 'im show 'is stockin's an' lay 'is mattress square;

'E calls it bloomin' nonsense-'e doesn't know, no more

An' then up comes 'is Company an' kicks 'im round the floor!

The young recruit is 'ammered-'e takes it very hard;

'E 'angs 'is 'ead an' mutters-'e sulks about the yard;

'E talks o' "cruel tyrants" which 'e'll swing for by-an'-by,

An' the others 'ears an' mocks 'im, an' the boy goes orf to cry.

The young recruit is silly-'e thinks o' suicide;

'E's lost 'is gutter-devil; 'e 'asn't got 'is pride;

But day by day they kicks 'im, which 'elps 'im on a bit,

Till 'e finds 'isself one mornin' with a full an' proper kit.

Gettin' clear o' dirtiness, gettin' done with

mess,

Gettin' shut o' doin' things rather-moreor-less;

Me that 'ave rode through the dark
Forty mile, often, on end,
Along the Ma'ollisberg Range,
With only the stars for my mark
An' only the night for my friend,
An' things runnin' off as you pass,
An' things jumpin' up in the grass,
An' the silence, the shine an' the size
Of the 'igh, unexpressible skies-
I am takin' some letters almost
As much as a mile to the post,
An' “mind you come back with the
change"!

Me!

Me that saw Barberton took
When we dropped through the clouds on

their 'ead,

An' they 'ove the guns over and fled-
Me that was through Di'mond 'Ill,
An' Pieters an' Springs an' Belfast-
From Dundee to Vereeniging all-
Me that stuck out to the last
(An' five bloomin' bars on my chest)—
I am doin' my Sunday-school best,
By the 'elp of the Squire an' 'is wife
(Not to mention the 'ousemaid an'

cook),

To come in an' 'ands up an' be still, An' honestly work for my bread, My livin' in that state of life

To which it shall please God to call

Me!

Me that 'ave followed my trade In the place where the Lightnin's are made,

'Twixt the Rains and the Sun and the Moon

Me that lay down an' got up

Three years with the sky for my roof-
That 'ave ridden my 'unger an' thirst
Six thousand raw mile on the hoof
With the Vaal and the Orange for cup,
An' the Brandwater Basin for dish,-
Oh! it's 'ard to be'ave as they wish
(Too 'ard, an' a little too soon),
I'll 'ave to think over it first-

Me!

I will arise an' get 'ence ;-
I will trek South and make sure
If it's only my fancy or not
That the sunshine of England is pale,
And the breezes of England are stale,
An' there's somethin' gone small with the
lot;

For I know of a sun an' a wind,

An' some plains and a mountain be'ind,
An' some graves by a barb-wire fence;
An' a Dutchman I've fought 'oo might
give

Me a job were I ever inclined,

To look in an' offsaddle an' live

Where there's neither a road nor a tree

But only my Maker an' me,

And I think it will kill me or cure,
So I think I will go there an' see.

Me!

LIONEL JOHNSON (1867-1902)

By the Statue of King Charles at
Charing Cross

SOMBRE and rich, the skies;
Great glooms, and starry plains.
Gently the night wind sighs;
Else a vast silence reigns.

The splendid silence clings
Around me: and around
The saddest of all kings
Crowned, and again discrowned.

Comely and calm, he rides
Hard by his own Whitehall:
Only the night wind glides:
No crowds, nor rebels, brawl.

Gone, too, his Court; and yet, The stars his courtiers are: Stars in their stations set; And every wandering star.

Alone he rides, alone,
The fair and fatal king:
Dark night is all his own,

That strange and solemn thing.

Which are more full of fate: The stars; or those sad eyes? Which are more still and great: Those brows; or the dark skies?

Although his whole heart yearn
In passionate tragedy:
Never was face so stern
With sweet austerity.

Vanquished in life, his death By beauty made amends: The passing of his breath Won his defeated ends.

Brief life, and hapless? Nay:
Through death, life grew sublime.
Speak after sentence? Yea:
And to the end of time.

Armoured he rides, his head Bare to the stars of doom: He triumphs now, the dead, Beholding London's gloom.

Our wearier spirit faints, Vexed in the world's employ: His soul was of the saints; And art to him was joy.

King, tried in fires of woe! Men hunger for thy grace: And through the night I go, Loving thy mournful face.

Yet, when the city sleeps; When all the cries are still: The stars and heavenly deeps Work out a perfect will.