(All Arms)

Peace is declared, an’ I return To ’Ackneystadt, but not the same; Things ’ave transpired which made me learn The size and meanin’ of the game. I did no more than others did, I don’t know where the change began; I started as a average kid, I finished as a thinkin’ man.

If England was what England seems, An’ not the England of our dreams, But only putty, brass, an’ paint, ’Ow quick we’d drop ’er! But she ain’t!

Before my gappin’ mouth could speak I ’eard it in my comrade’s tone; I saw it on my neighbour’s cheek Before I felt it flush my own. An’ last it come to me--not pride, Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole (If such a term may be applied), The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul.

Rivers at night that cluck an’ jeer, Plains which the moonshine turns to sea, Mountains that never let you near, An’ stars to all eternity; An’ the quick-breathin’ dark that fills The ’ollows of the wilderness, When the wind worries through the ’ills-- These may ’ave taught me more or less.

Towns without people, ten times took, An’ ten times left an’ burned at last; An’ starvin’ dogs that come to look For owners when a column passed; An’ quiet, ’omesick talks between Men, met by night, you never knew Until--’is face--by shellfire seen-- Once--an’ struck off. They taught me too.

The day’s lay-out--the mornin’ sun Beneath your ’at-brim as you sight; The dinner-’ush from noon till one, An’ the full roar that lasts till night; An’ the pore dead that look so old An’ was so young an hour ago, An’ legs tied down before they’re cold-- These are the things which make you know.

Also Time runnin’ into years-- A thousand Places left be’ind-- An’ Men from both two ’emispheres Discussin’ things of every kind; So much more near than I ’ad known, So much more great than I ’ad guessed-- An’ me, like all the rest, alone-- But reachin’ out to all the rest!

So ’ath it come to me--not pride, Nor yet conceit, but on the ’ole (If such a term may be applied), The makin’s of a bloomin’ soul. But now, discharged, I fall away To do with little things again.... Gawd, ’oo knows all I cannot say, Look after me in Thamesfontein!

If England was what England seems, An’ not the England of our dreams, But only putty, brass, an’ paint, ’Ow quick we’d chuck ’er! But she ain’t!

RECESSIONAL

(1897)

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 Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard, All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding, calls not Thee to guard, For frantic boast and foolish word-- Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Amen.

Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty at the

Edinburgh University Press