Songs of Action | Page 5

our toilet's not complete.
We've no quarrel with the shirt,?But the breeches wouldn't hurt,?For the evening air is chilly in Cremona.'
THE STORMING PARTY
Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,?'Though the breach is steep and narrow,
If we only gain the summit
Then it's odds we hold the fort.?I have ten and you have twenty,?And the thirty should be plenty,?With Henderson and Henty
And McDermott in support.'
Said Barrow to Leroy,?'It's a solid job, my boy,
For they've flanked it, and they've banked it,
And they've bored it with a mine.?But it's only fifty paces?Ere we look them in the faces;?And the men are in their places,
With their toes upon the line.'
Said Paul Leroy to Barrow,?'See that first ray, like an arrow,
How it tinges all the fringes
Of the sullen drifting skies.?They told me to begin it?At five-thirty to the minute,?And at thirty-one I'm in it,
Or my sub will get his rise.
'So we'll wait the signal rocket,?Till . . . Barrow, show that locket,?That turquoise-studded locket,?Which you slipped from out your pocket
And are pressing with a kiss!?Turquoise-studded, spiral-twisted,?It is hers! And I had missed it?From her chain; and you have kissed it:
Barrow, villain, what is this?'
'Leroy, I had a warning,?That my time has come this morning,?So I speak with frankness, scorning
To deny the thing that's true.?Yes, it's Amy's, is the trinket,?Little turquoise-studded trinket,?Not her gift--oh, never think it!
For her thoughts were all for you.
'As we danced I gently drew it?From her chain--she never knew it
But I love her--yes, I love her:
I am candid, I confess.?But I never told her, never,?For I knew 'twas vain endeavour,?And she loved you--loved you ever,
Would to God she loved you less!'
'Barrow, Barrow, you shall pay me!?Me, your comrade, to betray me!
Well I know that little Amy
Is as true as wife can be.?She to give this love-badged locket!?She had rather . . . Ha, the rocket!?Hi, McDougall! Sound the bugle!
Yorkshires, Yorkshires, follow me!'
? * *
Said Paul Leroy to Amy,?'Well, wifie, you may blame me,?For my passion overcame me,
When he told me of his shame;?But when I saw him lying,?Dead amid a ring of dying,?Why, poor devil, I was trying
To forget, and not to blame.
'And this locket, I unclasped it?From the fingers that still grasped it:?He told me how he got it,
How he stole it in a valse.'?And she listened leaden-hearted:?Oh, the weary day they parted!?For she loved him--yes, she loved him -?For his youth and for his truth,
And for those dying words, so false.
THE FRONTIER LINE
What marks the frontier line?
Thou man of India, say!?Is it the Himalayas sheer,?The rocks and valleys of Cashmere,?Or Indus as she seeks the south?From Attoch to the fivefold mouth?
'Not that! Not that!'?Then answer me, I pray!?What marks the frontier line?
What marks the frontier line?
Thou man of Burmah, speak!?Is it traced from Mandalay,?And down the marches of Cathay,?From Bhamo south to Kiang-mai,?And where the buried rubies lie?
'Not that! Not that!'?Then tell me what I seek:?What marks the frontier line?
What marks the frontier line?
Thou Africander, say!?Is it shown by Zulu kraal,?By Drakensberg or winding Vaal,?Or where the Shire waters seek?Their outlet east at Mozambique?
'Not that! Not that!?There is a surer way?To mark the frontier line.'
What marks the frontier line?
Thou man of Egypt, tell!?Is it traced on Luxor's sand,?Where Karnak's painted pillars stand,?Or where the river runs between?The Ethiop and Bishareen?
'Not that! Not that!?By neither stream nor well?We mark the frontier line.
'But be it east or west,
One common sign we bear,?The tongue may change, the soil, the sky,?But where your British brothers lie,?The lonely cairn, the nameless grave,?Still fringe the flowing Saxon wave.
'Tis that! 'Tis where?THEY lie--the men who placed it there,?That marks the frontier line.'
CORPORAL DICK'S PROMOTION?A BALLAD OF '82
The Eastern day was well-nigh o'er?When, parched with thirst and travel sore,?Two of McPherson's flanking corps
Across the Desert were tramping.?They had wandered off from the beaten track?And now were wearily harking back,?Ever staring round for the signal jack
That marked their comrades camping.
The one was Corporal Robert Dick,?Bearded and burly, short and thick,?Rough of speech and in temper quick,
A hard-faced old rapscallion.?The other, fresh from the barrack square,?Was a raw recruit, smooth-cheeked and fair?Half grown, half drilled, with the weedy air
Of a draft from the home battalion.
Weary and parched and hunger-torn,?They had wandered on from early morn,?And the young boy-soldier limped forlorn,
Now stumbling and now falling.?Around the orange sand-curves lay,?Flecked with boulders, black or grey,?Death-silent, save that far away
A kite was shrilly calling.
A kite? Was THAT a kite? The yell?That shrilly rose and faintly fell??No kite's, and yet the kite knows well
The long-drawn wild halloo.?And right athwart the evening sky?The yellow sand-spray spurtled high,?And shrill and shriller swelled the cry
Of 'Allah! Allahu!'
The Corporal peered at the crimson West,?Hid his pipe in his khaki vest.?Growled out an oath and onward pressed,
Still glancing over his shoulder.?'Bedouins, mate!' he curtly said;?'We'll find some work for steel and lead,?And maybe sleep in a sandy bed,
Before we're one hour older.
'But just one