THE LOST LEGION (1895) HERE'S a Legion that never was 'listed, TH But, split in a thousand detachments, Is breaking the road for the rest. Our fathers they left us their blessing They taught us, and groomed us, and crammed; But we've shaken the Clubs and the Messes To go and find out and be damned. (Dear boys!), To go and get shot and be damned. So some of us chivy the slaver, And some of us cherish the black, And some of us drift up The Fly, Take tea with the giddy Masai. We've painted The Islands vermilion, THE LOST LEGION We've laughed at the world as we found it,- From Sayyid Burgash in a tantrum We've a little account with Loben. The ends o' the Earth were our portion, To an I. D. B. race on the Pan (Dear boys!), With the Mounted Police on the Pan. We preach in advance of the Army, When we're scuppered and left in the lurch. But we know as the cartridges finish, And we're filed on our last little shelves, That the Legion that never was 'listed Will send us as good as ourselves (Good men!), Five hundred as good as ourselves. Then a health (we must drink it in whispers), To our wholly unauthorised horde To the line of our dusty foreloopers, The Gentlemen Rovers abroad Yes, a health to ourselves ere we scatter, For the steamer won't wait for the train, And the Legion that never was 'listed Goes back into quarters again! 'Regards! Goes back under canvas again. Hurrah! The swag and the billy again. Here's how! The trail and the packhorse again. Salue! The trek and the lager again. THE SEA-WIFE (1893) HERE dwells a wife by the Northern Gate, And some are drowned in deep water, And word goes back to the weary wife For since that wife had gate or gear, She willed her sons to the white harvest, She wills her sons to the wet ploughing, And syne her sons come back again The good wife's sons come home again With little into their hands, But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men In the new and naked lands; But the faith of men that ha' brothered men By more than easy breath, And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men In the open books of death. Rich are they, rich in wonders seen, But poor in the goods o' men; So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teeth They sell for their teeth again. For whether they lose to the naked life Her hearth is wide to every wind (Out with great mirth that do desire In with content to wait their watch And some return by failing light, And some in waking dream, For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts That ride the rough roof-beam. Home, they come home from all the ports, The living and the dead; The good wife's sons come home again For her blessing on their head! |