The Collected Works | Page 8

again!
You may hold with surface-drainage, and the sun-for-garbage cure, Till
you've been a periwinkle shrinking coyly up a sewer.
I believe in well-flushed culverts. . . .
This is why the death-rate's small; And, if you don't believe me, get
shikarred yourself. That's all.
A CODE OF MORALS
Lest you should think this story true
I merely mention I
Evolved it
lately. 'Tis a most
Unmitigated misstatement.
Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order, And
hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,
To sit on a
rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught His wife the working
of the Code that sets the miles at naught.
And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;
So
Cupid and Apollo linked , per heliograph, the pair.
At dawn, across

the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise-- At e'en, the dying
sunset bore her husband's homilies.
He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold, As
much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;
But kept his
gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)
That snowy-haired
Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.
'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way,
When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.
They thought
of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt-- So stopped to take
the message down--and this is what they learnt--
"Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot" twice. The General swore.
"Was ever General Officer addressed as 'dear' before?
"'My Love,' i'
faith! 'My Duck,' Gadzooks! 'My darling popsy-wop!' "Spirit of great
Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?"
The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still, As,
dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill; For
clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran:-- "Don't
dance or ride with General Bangs--a most immoral man."
[At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise-- But,
howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.] With
damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife
Some interesting
details of the General's private life.
The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still, And
red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill.
And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not):-- "I think
we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!"
All honour unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones thereafter know
By word
or act official who read off that helio.

But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan They know
the worthy General as "that most immoral man."
THE LAST DEPARTMENT
Twelve hundred million men are spread
About this Earth, and I and
You
Wonder, when You and I are dead,
"What will those luckless
millions do?"
None whole or clean, " we cry, "or free from stain
Of favour." Wait
awhile, till we attain
The Last Department where nor fraud nor fools,

Nor grade nor greed, shall trouble us again.
Fear, Favour, or Affection--what are these
To the grim Head who
claims our services?
I never knew a wife or interest yet
Delay that
pukka step, miscalled "decease";
When leave, long overdue, none can deny;
When idleness of all
Eternity
Becomes our furlough, and the marigold
Our thriftless,
bullion-minting Treasury
Transferred to the Eternal Settlement,
Each in his strait,
wood-scantled office pent,
No longer Brown reverses Smith's appeals,

Or Jones records his Minute of Dissent.
And One, long since a pillar of the Court,
As mud between the beams
thereof is wrought;
And One who wrote on phosphates for the crops

Is subject-matter of his own Report.
These be the glorious ends whereto we pass--
Let Him who Is, go call
on Him who Was;
And He shall see the mallie steals the slab
For
currie-grinder, and for goats the grass.
A breath of wind, a Border bullet's flight,
A draught of water, or a
horse's fright--
The droning of the fat Sheristadar
Ceases, the
punkah stops, and falls the night

For you or Me. Do those who live decline
The step that offers, or
their work resign?
Trust me, Today's Most Indispensables,
Five
hundred men can take your place or mine.
OTHER VERSES
RECESSIONAL
(A Victorian Ode)
God of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far-flung battle line--

Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and
pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies--
The Captains and the Kings
depart--
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a
contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away--
On dune and headland sinks the
fire--
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not
Thee in awe--
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds
without the Law--
Lord God of