DANNY DEEVER Kudyard Kipling "WHAT are the bugles blowin' for ?" said Files-on-Parade. "To turn you out, to turn you out," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade. "I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the Color-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play, The regiment's in 'ollow square they 're hangin' him to-day; They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. "What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall They are hangin' Danny Deever, they An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'! "'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade. "E's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Color-Sergeant said. "I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade. 16 'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the ColorSergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, you While they're hangin' Danny Deever "What's that so black agin the sun?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Color-Sergeant said. "What's that that whimpers over❜ead?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Color-Sergeant said. For they're done with Danny Deever, Ho! the young recruits are shakin', "FUZZY-WUZZY " (SOUDAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE) WE'VE fought with many men acrost the seas, An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not, The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese ; But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot. We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im : 'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses, 'E cut our sentries up at Suakim, An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces. So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you 're inclined. We took our chanst among the Kyber 'ills, The Boers knocked us silly at a mile, The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills, An' a Zulu impi dished us up in style: But all we ever got from such as they Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller; We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say, But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller. Then 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' Our orders was to break you, an' of But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy- 'E 'as n't got no papers of 'is own, 'E 'as n't got no medals nor rewards, So we must certify the skill 'e 's shown In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords : When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovelspear, An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' For if you 'ave lost more than us, you 'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive, An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead; 'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive, An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead. 'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e 's a lamb ! 'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree, 'E's the only thing that does n't give a damn For a Regiment o' British Infantree! So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan ; with You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man ; An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air You big black boundin' beggar - for you broke a British square ! -- THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST OH, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth! Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side, And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride: He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides: "Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides ? " Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar, "If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. At dusk he harries the Abazai he is into Bonair, at dawn But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, By the favor of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai, But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men. There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, and the head of the gallows tree. The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as Till he was aware of his father's mare in And when he could spy the white of her It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go, The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, But the red mare played with the snaffle bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. The dun he fell at a water-course in a woful heap fell he, And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. He has knocked the pistol out of his hand - small room was there to strive, ""T was only by favor of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive: There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row : If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly." Lightly answered the Colonel's son: good to bird and beast, "Do But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. But if thou thinkest the price be fair, thy brethren wait to sup, The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, howl, dog, and call them up! And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!" Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. "No talk shall be of dogs," said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet. May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?" Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan : Take up the mare for my father's gift by God, she has carried a man!" The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast, "We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best. Thy life is his - thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. So thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the border-line. And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur." They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, They have taken the Oath of the Brother in-Blood on leavened bread and salt : They have taken the Oath of the Brother in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God. The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun, And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. "Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son. "Put up the steel at your sides! Last night ye had struck at a Border thief - to-night 't is a man of the Guides!" Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth. THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS WHEN the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold, Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould ; And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart, Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art?" Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew— The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review; And he left his lore to the use of his song - and that was a glorious gain When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art ?" in the ear of the branded Cain. They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart, Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art ?" The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung, While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue. They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West, Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest Had rest till the dank, blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start, And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?" The tale is as old as the Eden Tree- and new as the new-cut toothFor each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth; And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart, The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art ?" We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg, We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg, We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart; But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art?" When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold, The sons of Adam sit them down and scraten with their pens in the mould — They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start, For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art ?” |