When Earth's Last  Picture is Painted

 

1892

 

When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it - lie down for an aeon or two,

Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew.

 

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair.

They shall find real saints to draw from - Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

 

And only The Master shall praise us, and only The Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,

But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!

 

 

Mandalay

 

 

 

 

 

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at 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 the 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 'ethen idols foot:

Bloomin' idol made o' mud -

Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd -

Pluckey lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stood!

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...

 

But that's all shove be'ind me - long ago an' fur away,

An' there ain't no busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;

An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten year soldier tells:

"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."

No! you won't  'eed nothin' else

But them spicy garlic smells,

An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple bells;

On the road to Mandalay...

 

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,

An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;

Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,

 

 

The Last of the Light Brigade

 

 

 

1891

 

 

 

There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,

There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.

They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;

They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

 

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,

That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.

They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;

And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

 

They laid their heads together that were lined and scarred and grey;

Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;

And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes

The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

 

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,

To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;

And, waiting his servants order, by the garden gate they stayed,

A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

 

They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil bowed back;

They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;

With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,

They shambled in to his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

 

The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,

"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.

An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;

For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.

 

"No thank you we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write

A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?

We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?

You wrote we was heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

 

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.

And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of the scorn."

And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,

Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

 

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,

Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food tonight;

Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made"

And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

 

 

The Lost Legion

 

 

 

1895

 

 

 

There's a Legion that never was listed,

                 That carries no colours or crest.

 

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 chivvy the slaver,

And some of us cherish the black,

And some of us hunt on the Oil Coast,

And some on the Wallaby track:

And some of us drift to Sarawak,

And some of us drift up The Fly,

And some share our tucker with tigers,

And some with the gentle Masai,

(Dear boys!),

Take tea with the giddy Masai.

 

We've painted The Islands vermilion,

We've pearled on half-shares in the Bay,

We've shouted on seven-ounce nuggets,

We've starved on Seedeeboy's pay;

We've laughed at the world as we found it,-

Its women and cities and men -

From Sayyid Burgash in a tantrum

To the smoke-reddened eyes of Loben,

(Dear boys!),

We've a little account with Loben.

 

The ends of the Earth were our portion,

The ocean at large was our share.

There was never a skirmish to windward

But the Leaderless Legion was there:

Yes, somehow and somewhere and always

We were first when the trouble began,

From a lottery row in Manila,

To an I.D.B. race on the Pan

(Dear boys!),

With the Mounted Police on the Pan.

 

We preached in advance of the Army,

We skirmished ahead of the Church,

With never a gunboat to help us

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 our selves

(Good men!),

Five hundred as good as ourselves!

 

 

Then a health (we must drink it in whispers).

To our wholly unauthorized 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 in to quarters again!

Hurrah!

The swag and the billy again.

Here's how!

The trail and the packhorse again.

Salue!

The treck and the laager again!