Writ in Barracks

by Edgar Wallace

CEASE FIRE

The fight was done an hour ago:

The whole brigade has fallen back,

And I've been wand'rin' to and fro,

A-askin' any—white or black,

'Say—have you seen my brother, Jack?

His troop was first in the attack!'

I should have seen him here by now:

An hour ago the 'cease fire' went.

He isn't wounded any'ow,

'Cos with the stretcher squads I went,

An' all my other time I've spent

A-hangin' round the doctor's tent.

Among the huddled, fallen men

I picked a way across the plain.

I got a dozen yards, an' then

Came back for fear I'd turn my brain....

The mangled horrors of the slain!

O Christ! I can't go there again!

Say, have you seen my brother Jack?

Don't know! an' damn you, don't much care!—

But 'scuse me, chum, a-talkin' back,

I'm sorter flustered with the glare.

These sands are hot, an' so's the air—

Perhaps he's doin' guard somewhere!

Old mother said before we went,

'Be sure you keep him in your sight'

(Not knowin' what a campaign meant).

'Don't let him stay out late o' night!'—

I wonder if he funked the fight

An' bolted. O pray God he might!

They're layin' out our dead just now,

He can't be——, no, that—that ain't sense,

An' when he comes there'll be a row!

A-keepin' me in this suspense!

'Tis here our line of killed commence,

I'll sorter look—for make-pretence!

Pretendin' some one's here I know—

I'm half inclined to turn aback—

But one by one, along I go,

And see the crimson clottin' black....

His troop was first in the attack!

What! Jack! Is this—this Thing our Jack?

TOMMY'S AUTOGRAPH

I 'ad lorst my situation, an' the girl she got the 'ump,

An' the naggin' of my muvver nearly drove me orf my chump.

So I 'oofed it down to Woolwich, to the old recruitin' starf,

An' they give to me a paper for to fix my autygrarf!

Just to fix my autygrarf!

Lor' you should a 'eard me larf!

For the blessed Sergeant-Major wos a tryin' on 'is chaff.

Didn't mind the Doctor's soundin's,

Nor 'is soap an' water barf!

But the fing as knocked me silly wos that bloomin' autygrarf!

I wos took before the colonel, an' I took a Bible oaf

That I'd serve my Queen an' country, an' be square unto them boaf.

Then they got a printed paper, an' this Colonel on the starf

Sez, 'You'll kindly read this over, an' affix your autygrarf!'

To affix my autygrarf!

Larf! You orter 'eard me larf!

Signin' fings like ''Enry Irvin,' Knight Commornder of the Barf!

Made me want to do a swagger

Like a Piccadilly calf!

On'y fancy! People wantin' Tommy Atkins' autygrarf!

Then I signs my name an' birfplace, an' the county I wos from,

An' I dots the 'i' in Atkins, an' I crorst the 't' in tom.

A recruit is wurf a dollar, an' the sergeant gets an 'arf;

Just for 'andin' me a paper for to put my autygrarf!

Just to put my autygrarf!

Larf? You should 'ave 'eard them larf!

From the colonel wiv 'is spurs on, to the sergeant in 'is scarf.

When I sez, 'Wot's this for, mister?'

Sez the colonel, 'Go to Barf!'

'Don't you know the Queen is anxious for to get your autygrarf?'

I 'ave autygrarfed for clobber, I 'ave autygrarfed for pay;

I 'ave signed it wiv a flourish, I 'ave signed it wiv a 'j'

On an Army Temperance pledge-book

(O the straight an' narrer parf!)—

To a 'drunk' fine in the pay list, I've affixed my autygrarf!

Wot a name! An autygrarf!

'Nuff to drive a feller darf;

Callin' Christian name an 'auty' an' the uvver name a 'grarf,'

Writin' in a pocket-ledger—

'Stead of album bound in calf—

'Doo to soldier: Nil' (that's Latin), an' your bloomin' autygrarf!

AT THE BRINK!

'Tis now, as we tighten the girth,

'Tis now, as we buckle the sword,

When bitterness hardens our mirth,

'Tis now that we seek you, O Lord!

Give us hope now the future is black,

From fatuous arrogance ward—

The words that we cannot hold back!

Give peace in our time, O Lord!

You know of the hate—folly born;

You know of the wrath—money bred;

The impotent rage, and the scorn,

The trust and the faith that are dead.

Lest sorrow should spring from the land—

The crop of the seed of the sword—

O, stay the imperious hand;

Give peace in our time, O Lord!

'Tis good when the man loves the land,

'Tis good when he falls for his creed,

But woe to the hate that is fanned

By folly begotten of greed.

When the weak become foolishly strong,

When peoples, unwitting, applaud,—

The folly wrought wrong—still is wrong!

Give peace in our time, O Lord!

When the voice in the senate is stilled;

When the councillor speaks in a tent;

When the lands are untended, untilled;

What use if the stubborn relent?

What gain will the simpleton's shame,

The shrifts and lamentings, afford?

To-day, on their conduct, the blame;

Give peace in our time, O Lord!

Give peace: that is rooted in Right.

Give peace: that is strengthened by Grace.

Give peace: that we stand in your sight,

Thrice over a justified race.

'Tis peace—and with honour—we need,

And the child of our child shall award

The praise for our failing, or deed.

Give peace in our time, O Lord!

THE KING OF OOJEE-MOOJEE

We 'ave stowed our ammunition, we 'ave taken in our store,

An' our very last instructions we 'ave 'ad by semy-fore;

The Flagship's made a signal, 'We wish you all success,'

An' we're off to Oojee-Moojee on the armoured cruiser 'Bess.'

For the King of Oojee-Moojee

Is a-comin of 'is tricks,

'E's cheeked the English Consul,

An 'e's chucked 'is wooden bricks.

'E won't do kindergarden,

An' 'e's done 'is lessons wrong;

Altogether Oojee-Moojee

Is a-comin' of it strong!

An' the Point is miles be'ind us, an' 'eadquarters furder still;

We've exchanged a friendly greetin' wi' the bloke on Signal 'Ill;

We are off to Oojee-Moojee, an' we cannot be detained,

For relations dip-lo-matic 'ave become a trifle strained!

Now the King of Oojee-Moojee is a little coloured kid;

An' 'e rules some thousand niggers, an' 'e does as 'e is bid!

For the Government of England, with 'is interests in view,

'As civilised 'is country—an' collects 'is revenue!

For the King wot reigned afore 'im was an 'eathen nigger thief,

So we sent a missionary, for to teach 'im our belief.

(To prevent misunderstandin's, an' avoid unpleasant scenes,

We likewise sent an 'Otchkiss, an' a 'undred red marines.)

'E wouldn't take our gospel, an' unpleasantness arose,

Which cost six whites, and niggermen proportionate to those;

An' we left the King a-swingin' from a 'Lyptus tree above,

Just to show as there was iron underneath the velvet glove.

Then our skipper very kindly did an 'andsome sort of thing,

For 'e made a proclamation that the nevvy of the King—

A funny little kiddy, with a sat-on sorter face—

Should rule the Oojee-Moojee, an' should take 'is uncle's place.

So we dressed 'im up in velvets, an' we fed 'im up on buns,

An' we gave 'is bit of buntin' a salute of twenty guns,

An' we gave to 'im a doctor for to cure 'is chills an' croups;

With a tutor, an' a gen'ral for to organise 'is troops.

So 'is tutor taught 'im manners, an' the way to part 'is 'air,

An' the gen'ral, in 'is spare time, taught 'im proper ways to sware;

The doctor, to complete 'im, was a-teaching him to mill—

When 'is 'ighness put the veto on the Education Bill.

Then 'e cheeked the British Consul!

Then 'e cussed the doctor's wife!

An' 'e chased 'is good, kind tutor, with a bloomin' carvin' knife;

Tore 'is books an' burnt 'is grammar (said they wasn't good for 'ealf),

Boned some whisky from the General, an' unchristianised 'isself!

So, we're bound for Oojee-Moojee,

An we mus'n't be detained;

For relations dip-lo-matic

'Ave become a trifle strained:

'Situations complicated'—

'Warship ordered to the scene!'—

Just because a nigger kiddy's

Playin' truant with the Queen!

THE SONG OF THE TOWN

Sing hey! for the sand-freckled plain;

Sing ho! for the flower-flushed valley;

A song for the ship-sprinkled main,

And the sports where the wanderers rally,

A song for the lawn sloping down—

The lawn with its terrace and fountain,

But here's a song of the square white Town

By the mist-wrapped, cloud-capped mountain!

The whitewashed, square-cut town,

By the grey-green wind-swept sea;

The moving throng,

And the motor gong,

These sing the song for me!

Sing hey! for the Town and its folk,

The comers, the goers, the stayers;

The just arrived waster, dead-broke,

The homeward-bound mummers and players;

The white man suspiciously dark!

The trooper-man, newly recruited;

The hand-bagged and frock-coated clerk,

The pioneer corded and booted!

The motley-peopled town!

Its raw and cultured folk,

Live, work, and play

'Twixt Mount and Bay,

And bear one equal yoke.

Sing hey! for the Town, and its dress,

The garbs of the twenty-one nations:

The Kafir in blanket—and less,

The lady in Paris 'creations';

The-man-about-town, rather loud,

The nigger in checks somewhat rasher;

Here, fez to the turban is bow'd,

There, top-hat comes off to the 'smasher.'

The particoloured town,

Where plush and broadcloth meet:

Where Islam's green

And Worth-wrought sheen

Rub textures in the street!

Sing hey! for the Town, as a town,

A song of its bricks and its plaster;

The slum that is mouldering down—

The mansion that's rising the faster.

Sing hey! for its one-storied past,

Be-flagged, and be-stoeped, and be-whitened;

Its five-storied future more vast,

Its breadth to be broadened and heightened.

The grim old, prim old town,

A brand-new vestment wears,

And arc-lights purr

Where blue-gums were,

And the blanket-Kafir stares!