Acerca de este libro
Mi biblioteca
Libros en Google Play
CONTENTS
BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS
1889-1891
TO WOLCOTT BALESTIER .
Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled,
"What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade,
"FUZZY-WUZZY"
We've fought with many men acroet.the seas,
Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool,
PAGE
XX
3
6
9
12
14
I've a head like a concertina: I've a tongue like a button-stick,
Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to penk, wot makes 'im to perspire?
If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back,
"SNARLEYOW"
29
This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps,
There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,
When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East,
.MANDALAY
40
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the damned,
We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,
• 50
53
56
THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST
61
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told,
THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST
When spring-time flushes the desert grass,
WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI.
The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck,
THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE.
This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,
THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE
THIEF
O woe is me for the merry life,
1
THE BALLAD OF THE "CLAMPHERDOWN"
It was our war-ship Clampherdown,
THE BALLAD OF THE "BOLIVAR"
Seven men from all the world back to Docks again,
Read here: This is the story of Evarra-man
THE CONUNDRUM OF. THE WORKSHOPS.
When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
132
136
Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro,
"CLEARED".
143
Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,
Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed,
TOMLINSON
Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square,
There's a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield,
. 158
166
168
175
181
Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees,
THE SONG OF THE DEAD
Hear now the Song of the Dead-in the North by the torn berg-edges,
The wrecks dissolve above us; their dust drops down from afar—,
One from the ends of the earth-gifts at an open door-,
187
188