THE DYAK CHIEF
AND OTHER VERSES

The Dyak Chief
and Other Verses

BY
ERWIN CLARKSON GARRETT
Author of
“My Bunkie and Other Ballads”

NEW YORK
BARSE & HOPKINS
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1914
By BARSE & HOPKINS

To My Mother

Some Ye bid to teach us, Lord,
And some Ye bid to learn;
And some Ye bid to triumph—
And some to yearn and yearn:
And some Ye bid to conquer
In blood by land and sea;
And some Ye bid to tarry here—
To prove the love of Thee.

PREFACE

Neither desiring to plagiarize Cæsar nor to compare my book to Gaul, I wish to mention briefly that this volume as a whole is divided into three parts, of which one is occupied by the single poem, “The Dyak Chief,” the verses that give title to the book; another, the second, is occupied by American army ballads, and yet another, the third, is occupied by various verses on miscellaneous subjects.

However, if recollections of my personal campaigns against Cæsar—armed only with a Latin vocabulary and grammar—serve me rightly, the old Roman was not merely a worthy foe, but one who might well be held up as a worthy example; who dealt with his chronicles as he dealt with his enemies on the field, in a simple, direct, forcible manner, bare of circumlocution, tautology or ambiguity—that he who runs may read—and reading, know his Gaul and Gallic chieftains, his Cæsar and his Cæsar’s legionaries, even as Cæsar knew them.

The initial poem, “The Dyak Chief,” forming Part One, is a romance of Central Borneo, that I visited in July, 1908, during a little trip around the World.

Coming over from Java, which I had just finished touring, I arrived at Bandjermasin, in southeastern Borneo, near the coast, and from whence I took a small steamer up the Barito River to Poeroek Tjahoe, pronounced “Poorook Jow,” deep in the interior of the island.

Poeroek Tjahoe was the last white (Dutch) settlement, and from there I went with three Malay coolies five days tramp on foot through the jungle, northwest, penetrating the very heart of Borneo, sleeping the first three nights in the houses of the Dyaks, some nomadic tribes of whom still roam the jungle as head-hunters, and the last two nights upon improvised platforms out in the open, till I reached Batoe Paoe, a town or kampong in the geographical center of the island.

I also visited a nearby village, Olong Liko, afterwards returning by the Moeroeng and Barito Rivers to Poeroek Tjahoe, and from thence back to Bandjermasin on the little river-steamer and then by boat to Singapore, which was the radiating headquarters for my trips to Sumatra, Java, Borneo and Siam.

Having thus reached the very center of Borneo on foot, I had an excellent opportunity to study the country, the people and the general conditions, so that the reader of “The Dyak Chief” need feel no hesitancy in accepting as accurate and authentic, all descriptions, details and touches of “local color” or “atmosphere” contained in the poem.

Full notes on “The Dyak Chief” will be found at the end of the volume.

Part Two contains a number of new American army ballads, gathered mostly as a result of my personal observations and experiences when serving as a private in Companies “L” and “G,” 23rd U. S. Infantry (Regulars) and Troop “I,” 5th U. S. Cavalry (Regulars), during the Philippine Insurrection of 1899-1902.

As I have just mentioned, the army verses are all new ones, and consequently not to be found among those contained in my previous volume, “My Bunkie and Other Ballads.”

Part Three consists of individual poems on various subjects without any interrelation.

It is sincerely hoped that the reader will make full use of the notes appended at the end of the book, which addenda I have endeavored to treat with as much brevity as may be compatible with succinctness.

E. C. G.

Philadelphia, February 1st, 1914.

CONTENTS

PART ONE
THE DYAK CHIEF

THE DYAK CHIEF

Hear ye a tale from the deepest depths of the heart of Borneo,
Where the Moeroeng leaps in wild cascades,
And the endless green of the jungle fades,
And night shuts down on the fern-choked glades
Where the kampong hearth-fires glow.

Listen, Oh White Man, that ye hear
The words of a Dyak chief,
Till ye learn the weight of the Dyak hate
And the depth of the Dyak grief.

Once in the days of my strength and pride
I loved a kampong maid,
And very old was the tale I told
’Neath the lace of the jungle shade.

And very old was the tale I told,
Though born year by year;
Till I thought of the headless waist I bore—
And I drew the maiden near:

And I pledged her there by the tree-banked stream
Where the rippling shadows flee,
“None but the skull of a kampong chief
Shall hang at my belt for thee.”

II

When over the palm-topped endless hills
First broke the golden day,
The taintless breeze in the highest trees
Laughed as I swung away.

Laughed as I climbed the mountain path
Or skirted the river’s bank,
And the great lianes sung to me
As on my knees I drank.

And the great lianes softly swayed
And twisted in snake-like guise,
Till I lost their sight in the leafy height
Where peeped the purple skies.

And down through the dank morasses
I leapt from clod to clod,
O’er fallen trunk and lifted root
And the ooze of the sunken sod—

Where the tiny trees stand tall and straight,
A mass of mossy green,
And lighting all like a fairy hall
The sunlight sifts between.

Day by day through stress and strain
I pressed my marches through;
Day by day through strain and stress
The weary hours flew.

And silent, from the dank brown leaves
As swept my hurrying tread,
The little waiting leeches rose
And caught me as I sped.

Till my feet and ankles bled in streams—
But I let them clinging stay,
And they swelled to seven times their size
And glutted and fell away.

For never time had I to stop,
And so they sucked their fill,
As I splashed through the knee-deep rivers
And clambered the jungle hill.

And only night could halt me,
And the stars in their proud parade,
They bade me look to the fray before,
And back to the kampong maid.

III

Weary at last I reached a height
That showed a fertile glade,
Where the bending trees of the river brink
Leaned out o’er a wild cascade.

And white above the waving banks
The towering giants rose high,
And tossed their heads in hauteur,
Full-plumed across the sky.

And waved their long lianes
A hundred feet in air,
And shook their clinging vine-leaves
As a Dyak maid her hair.

And down by the Moeroeng’s turning
The river rock rose sheer,
And out of the cracks the tasseled palms
Like mighty plumes hung clear.

While still, behind a boulder,
Where the little ripples gleam,
A fisher sat in his sunken proa
In the midst of the gliding stream.

Only the crash of the underbrush
Told where a hunter sped,
And I caught the glint of the morning sun
On the blow-spear’s glittering head.

Only the crack of a mandauw
Felling the little trees,
And the murmuring call of a water-fall
That echoed the jungle breeze.

But more to me than the hunter—
The fisher and stream and hill—
Was the kampong deep in the hollow,
Nestling dark and still.

Dark and still in the valley,
A single house and strong;
Perched on piles two warriors high
And a hundred paces long.

And straight before the tall-stepped door
The mighty chief poles rose,
And seemed to shake their tasseled tops
In warning to their foes—

As they who slept beneath them
Once did, when in their might—
With shining steel and sinews—
Full-armed they sprang to fight.

Long from the hill-side trees I watched
The water women go
Back and forth to the river bank,
Chattering to and fro.

Long from the hill-side trees I watched
Till—straight as the windless flame—
With spear and shield and mandauw,
The kampong chieftain came.

Full well I knew the waist-cloth blue
Where hung each shriveled head.
Full well I saw the eyes of awe
That followed in his tread.

Full well I heard the spoken word—
The quick obedience fanned—
And I felt the trance of the royal glance
Of the Lord of the Jungle-land.

Lightly he scorned the proffered guard
As he strode the upland grade,
And softly I drew my mandauw
And fingered the sharpened blade.

Was it for game or a head he came
To the hills in the golden morn?
But little I cared as the heavens stared
On the day that my hope was born.

For over and over I muttered—
As I slunk from tree to tree—
“None but the head of a kampong chief
Shall hang at my belt for thee.”

(None but the head of a kampong chief
For you my belt shall grace,
Taken by right in fairest fight—
Full-fronted—face to face.)

And I found a leafy clearing
That lay across his path,
And I stood to wait his coming—
The chieftain in his wrath.

As the moan before the wind-storm
That breaks across the night,
Were the rhythmic, muffled foot falls
Of the war-lord come to fight.

The crack of little branches—
The branches pushed away—
And the Scourge of the Moeroeng Valley
Sprang straight to the waiting fray.

’Twas then I knew the stories true
They told of his fearful fame,
As through my shield a hand’s-length
His hurtling spearhead came.

Stunned I reeled and a moment kneeled
To the shock of the blinding blow,
But I rose again at the stinging pain
And the wet of the warm blood’s flow.

And I staggered straight and I scorned to wait
And I swept my mandauw high—
But ere my stroke descended
He smote me athwart the thigh.

As the lean rattan at the workman’s knife—
As the stricken game in the dell—
As a bird on the wing at the blow-spear’s sting,
To the reddened earth I fell.

And merrily with fiendish glee
He knelt and held me fast;
And I looked on high at the fleecy sky—
And I thought the look was the last.

But by the will that knows no law
I wrenched my right hand free,
And I drove my mandauw’s gleaming point
A hand’s-breadth in his knee.

Stung by the pain he loosened,
And a moment bared his breast,
And like the dash of the lightning flash
My weapon sought its rest.

As a log in the Moeroeng rapids
The mighty chieftain rolled,
And I pinned him fast for the head-stroke,
In the reek of the blood-stained mold.

And I pinned him fast for the head-stroke—
But the glare of the dying eyes
Gleamed forth to show the worthy foe
And the heart that never dies.
. . . . . . . . . .
A moment toward a kampong,
And toward a kampong maid,
I looked ... and a head rolled helpless
To the crash of a falling blade.

IV

With strips from my torn jacket
I bound my arm and thigh,
And I headed back o’er the leafy track
With hope and spirits high.

And as I sped with leaping heart
All Nature seemed to sing;
And my legs ran red where trickling bled
The head of the Jungle King.

The purring tree-tops called me—
The fleecy clouds rolled by—
And the forest green was a sun-shot sheen,
And the sky was a laughing sky.

And only night could halt me,
And the stars in their proud parade,
They bade me look to the path before
That led to the kampong maid.

Bleeding and torn, spent and worn,
At last I reached the hill,
Whence each hearth-light in the falling night
Was a welcome bright and still.

For each hearth-light in the falling night
Cut clear through the growing gloam—
Of all brave things the best that brings
The weary Wanderer home.

But the waiting watchers spied me,
And met me as I ran;
And they saw the head of the chieftain,
And they hailed me man and man.

But through the heart-whole greetings
I felt the anxious gaze,
And over my brain like a pall was lain
The weight of the Doubter’s craze.

And I begged them to tell me quickly—
For I quailed at the story stayed—
And I asked them if aught had happened
To the head of the kampong maid.

And there in the leafy gloaming—
Where the stars lit one by one,
They told me the tale at my homing—
And I felt the passions run—

Hate as the white-hot flame jet—
Shame as the burning bar—
Grief as the poisoned arrow—
Revenge as the salted scar:

Rankling—roaring—blinding—
Rising and ebbing low;
Till overhead the skies burst red,
And I tottered beneath the blow.

For they told of a White Man’s coming,
And the weapon that carries far;
And his love for the Maid—but over it laid
The hush of the falling star.

Faithlessness—treachery—cunning—
Weakness and love and fear—
Oh very old was the tale they told,
Though born year by year.

And I drew my blade and I leapt away—
But they sprang and held me fast:
And they promised me there by the dead chief’s hair,
My hate should be filled to the last.

And they showed me him bound and knotted
To the base of a splintered tree,
Stripped to the sun and spat upon
And taunted—awaiting me.

And I saw her in the shadows—
But ... I might not know her, then—
A sneer for the kampong women—
And a jest for the kampong men.
. . . . . . . . . .
And thus in the days of my strength and pride,
From over the distant sea,
The White Man came in his open shame
And stole my love from me.

V

The next morn at the rising sun
The tom-toms roared their fill,
And echoed like rolling thunder
From hill to farthest hill.

And the birds of the jungle fluttered
And lifted and soared away,
And we dragged the fettered prisoner forth
To blink at the blinding day.

Full length and naked on the ground
We staked him foot and hand,
And we laughed in glee as we watched to see
The pest of the jungle-land.

Oh we laughed in glee as we watched to see
The little leeches swing,
End on end till they reached the flesh
Of the prostrate, struggling Thing.

Like river flies in the summer rains
They covered the White Man o’er—
Body and legs and arms and face,
Till the whole was a bleeding sore.

And the red streams ran from the crusted pools
And crimsoned the leafy ground,
And the scent of gore but brought the more
As the smell of game to the hound.

Hour by hour I watched him die,
Slowly day by day,
Hour by hour I watched the flesh
Sinking and turning gray:

Hour by hour I heard him shriek
To the skies and the White Man’s God—
But only the gluttons came again
And reddened the reeking sod.

Weeping, writhing, groaning—
Paled to an ashen dun—
And the clotted blood turned black as mud
And stunk in the midday sun.

(Bones where stretched the tautening flesh—
A shining, yellow sheen—
And the flies that helped the leeches work
In the stagnant pools between.)
. . . . . . . . . .
Till the fourth day broke in a blaze of gold—
And I knew the end was nigh—
And I called the tribes from near and far,
To watch the White Man die.

From every kampong of the south
Where the broad Barito winds—
From every kampong of the east
The murmuring hill-wind finds—

From every kampong of the west
Where the Djoeloi falls and leaps—
From every kampong of the north
Where the great Mohakkam sweeps—

From east and west and south and north
The mighty warriors came,
To prove the weight of the Dyak hate
And the shame of the naked shame.

In noiseless scorn and wonder
They scanned the victim there,
Except that when an Elder spake
To mock at his despair.

Or when from out the long-house—
Where loosened footboards creaked—
A woman leaned in frenzy
And tore her hair and shrieked.

And from the wooded hill-tops
The answering echoes came,
Till all our far-flung wilderness
Stooped down to curse his name.

In sullen, savage silence
They watched the streamlets flow:
In savage, sullen silence—
The war-lords—row on row—

Ranged around by rank and years,
Oh goodly was the sight,
Square shouldered—spare—with muscles bare
Coiled in their knotted might—

And little serpent eyes that gleamed
In glittering, primal hate,
Like adders, that beneath the leaves
The coming foot falls wait.

The shrunken heads about their belts
Stared with senseless grin,
As though in voiceless mummery
They mocked him in his sin.

As though in sightless greeting—
To make his entry good
To th’ lost and leering legion
Of the martyred brotherhood.
. . . . . . . . . .
We rubbed his lips with costly salt—
(You know how far it comes)—
And when he called for drink—we laughed—
And rolled the Sick-man’s Drums.
. . . . . . . . . .
They beckoned me unto his side—
The blood-stench filled the dell—
They asked me—“Ye are satisfied?”
And I answered—“It is well.”

The final glaze was settling fast—
The weary struggles ceased—
And on his breath was the moan of death
That prayed for life released.

So we propped his mouth wide open
With a knob of rotten vine,
And the leeches entered greedily
As white men to their wine.

Palate and roof and tongue and gums,
They gushed in rivers gay—
And gasping—his own blood choked him—
And his Spirit passed away.

This is the tale the old chief tells
When the western gold-belt dies,
And the jungle trees in the evening breeze
Tower against the skies,
And the good-wife bakes the greasy cakes
Where the kampong hearth-fires rise.

PART TWO
AMERICAN ARMY BALLADS

ON THE WATER-WAGON

Pay-day’s done and I’ve had my little fun—
I’ve had my monthly row—
And they put me in “the mill” and they told me, “Peace be still,”
And—I am on the Water-wagon now.

Oh I’m on the Water-wagon and the time is surely draggin’
And I’m thirsty as I can be;
And I’m nursing of an eye that I got for being fly,
And I’m bunking back o’ bars exclusively.

Now wouldn’t it upset you—now wouldn’t it afret you
If they jugged you ’cause you got a little tight,
And a zig-zag course you laid when doing Dress Parade,
And you really thought Guide Right was Column Right.

Oh I’m on the Water-wagon but the trial is surely laggin’
And I’m dryer than the Arizona dust,
And my throat is full o’ hay and I’m choppin’ wood all day
‘Cause the Sergeant of the Guard, he says I must.

The Jug is rank and slummy and I’m sitting like a dummy
Looking over at the barracks where I hear the mess-tins clang:
And the fool I am comes o’er me, as I chant the same old story,
The Ballad of the Guard-house—until I go and hang:—

“Oh I’m on the Water-wagon, you’ll never see me saggin’,
I am glued and tied and fastened to the seat ...”
And I hear the fellers snicker where the two lone candles flicker,
And I shut-up like a soldier—with the Ballad incomplete.

ARMY OF PACIFICATION
Cuba 1907

I’ve hiked a trail where the last marks fail
And the vine-choked jungles yawn,
I’ve doubled-out on a dirty scout
Two hours before the dawn,
I’ve done my drill when the palms hung still
And the rations nearly gone.

I’ve soldier’d in Pinar del Rio—
In ’Frisco and Aparri—
I’ve lifted their lights through the tropic nights
O’er the breast of a golden sea,
But this is surely the craziest puzzle
That ever has puzzled me.

It’s this. I’m here in Cuba
Where the royal palms swing high,
And the White Man’s plantations of all o’ the Nations
Are scattered ahither and nigh
And the native galoot who must revolute
Though no one can tell you just why.

And when I go mapping the mountain and vale
Or a practice-march happens my way,
Each planter I meet is lovely and sweet
And setteth them up right away,
“And won’t I come in and how’ve I been?”
And—“How long do I think the troops stay?”

They never besprinkled my bosom
When I soldier’d over home,
Nor clasped me in glee when I came from the sea
Where the Seal Rock breakers comb,
Or stamped on a strike and scattered them wide
Like the scud of the back-set foam.

When I saved ’em their stinking Islands
They cursed me for being rough:
(They wouldn’t dare to have soldier’d there
But they called me brutal and tough.
I had done their work and the land was theirs,
Which I reckon was nearly enough).

They never enthuse over khaki or “blues”
Anywhere else I’ve been.
They never go wild and bless the child
And say “Oh Willie come in.”
Though on my soul, I’m damned if I see
Just where is the Cardinal Sin.

I’m only a buck o’ the rank and file
As stupid as I can be,
So this is the craziest puzzle
That ever has puzzled me.
(I’m perfectly dry but I must bat an eye,
For you think that I cannot see.)

SOLITARY

We’re walking our post like a little tin soldier,
Backward and forward we go,
By the Solitary’s cell, which assuredly is hell—
It’s five foot square you know.

The boy was all right but he would get tight
When pay-day came around;
And the non-com he hated was thereupon slated
To measure 5-10 on the ground.

Oh yes, we’ve been in the calaboose,
We’ve done our turn in the jug;
’Cause the fellow we lick must go raise a kick—
The dirty, cowardly mug.

His heart was all right and his arm was all right,
But it’s fearful what drink will do:
And the corporal he hit with the butt of a gun
And nigh put the corporal through.

It’s way against orders, it’s awful, I know,
They’d jug me myself—what’s more—
But I must slip the beggar a chew and a smoke
Just under the jamb of the door.

He’s bound to get Ten and a Bob for sure
Abreaking stone on the Isle,
So they fastened ’im fair in a five foot square
Till the day that they give ’im a trial.

Oh the Corporal o’ the Guard is a wakeful man—
My duty is written plain,
But the Solitary there in his cramped and lonely lair,
It’s enough to drive a man insane.

He’s time to repent for the money that he spent
And the temper that cursed him too,
When he’s breaking rock all day by the shores o’ ’Frisco Bay
Where he sees the happy homeward-bounds come through.

Shall we risk it—shall we risk it—heart o’ mine?
Oh damn the Corporal of the Guard.
While we slip “the makings” under to the Solitary’s wonder,
And the whispered thanks come back—“God bless you, pard.”

THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN
A Philippine Reminiscence of 1900

The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—
Do tell!
The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—
The Sultan of Jolo of great renown—
And he’s dressed like a general and walks like a clown
As well.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—
My word!
The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—
(Don’t call ’im a grafter or chicken-thief,
For you’ll surely come to your grief,
If heard).

The Sultan of Jolo’s such a stride,
And style!
The Sultan of Jolo’s such a stride,
And his skin’s the color of rhino hide,
And he cheweth betel-nut beside:
(Oh vile!)

The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot—
You bet.
The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot,
So we line the scorching streets and salute,
(“Presenting Arms” to the royal boot),
And sweat.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king—
I say
The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king
As down the regiment’s front they swing,
He and his Escort—wing and wing:
Hurray!

The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight,
In truth.
The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight
As he marches by in regal state
With Major Sour and all The Great,
Forsooth.

The Sultan proudly treads the earth
With “cuz.”
The Sultan proudly treads the earth
O’ershadowed by the Major’s girth,
But he knows just what the Major’s worth:
He does.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—
(Don’t quiz).
The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—
An honest, virtuous gentleman—
And he’s rated high in Washington—
He is.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird—
Whoopee!
The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird,
But we in our ignorance pledge our word
His asinine plumage is absurd
To see.

The Sultan and Major Sour are
Such chums:
The Sultan and Major Sour are
So wrapped in love exceeding par,
That war shall never war-time mar—
—what comes.

(The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right—
Yo ho!
The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right,
As sure as daytime follows night,
That Major Sour wouldn’t fight:
Lord—no!)

The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise—
(And weeds).
The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise,
In spite of innocent, bovine eyes,
And the soothing tongue o’ the Eastern skies
And creeds.

The Sultan of Jolo passeth by—
Oh Lor’!
The Sultan of Jolo passeth by,
But we in the ranks can’t wink an eye,
Though we think we know the Reasons Why,
And more.

The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat—
(Have a care!)
The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat,
But Nature’s surely the cause of that;
And he’s salaried high—and sleek and fat—
So there!

The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee—
Why not?
The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee
As his wages come across the sea
From those who hate polygamy—
God wot!

Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt—
He is.
Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt,
His chest and his sleeves and his good sword hilt,
And he knows the lines on which are built—
His biz.

PHILIPPINE RANKERS

Clear down the thin-thatched barrack-room
The varying voices rise—
The shrill New England teacher’s—
(The wisest of the wise)—
And the Cowboy cleaning cartridges
And telling fearful lies.

The Bowery Boy is fast asleep
Performing Bunk-fatigue,
The Kid who simply can’t keep still
Is pounding through a jig,
And a plain darn fool just sits and sings
And sneaks another swig.

A bouncing bargain-counter clerk
Dilates to Private Brown,
The lordly top-notch swell he is
When he is back in town,
And the scion of an ancient name
Just yawns and hides a frown.

The mountain-riding Parson talks
T’ his Y. M. C. A. band,
And mine Professor’s turning Keats
With hard and grimy hand,
And Johnny’s reading football news
When baseball fills the land.

And some they pull together—
And some won’t gee at all—
And some are looking for a fight
And riding for a fall—
And some, they ran from prison bars;
And some, just heard The Call.

And some are simply “rotters”—
And some the Country’s best:
And some are from the cultured East—
And some the sculptured West:
And some they never heard of Burke—
And some they sport a crest.

(“The Backbone of the Army”—
“The Chosen of the Lord”—
The Faithful of the Fathers—
The Wielders of the Sword—
The hired of the helpless—
The bruisers and the bored.)

The east-sides of the cities
Are aye foregathered here;
The best sides of the cities
Are come from far and near,
To mix their books and Bibles
With oaths and rotten beer.
. . . . . . . . . .
Clear down the mud-browed, blood-plowed ranks
The thin, tanned faces lift;
The long, lean line that hears the whine
Of the bamboo’s silken sift,
And the sudden rush and the chug and the hush
Where the careless bullets drift.

The Parson’s up and shooting
And cursing like a fool;
The Bowery Boy is bleeding fast
In a red and ragged pool;
And mine Professor gags the wound—
(Which he didn’t learn in school).
. . . . . . . . . .
Nor creed nor sign nor order—
Nor clan nor clique nor class:
Never a mark to brand him
As he chokes in the paddy grass:
Only the tide of Bunker Hill,
That ebbs, but may not pass.

DOBIE ITCH

Tell about the fever
And all y’ tropic ills,
Tell about the cholera camp
Over ’mong the hills;
Tell about the small-pox
Where the bamboos switch,
But close y’ face and let me tell
About the Dobie Itch.

It isn’t erysipelas—
It isn’t nettle-rash;
It isn’t got from eating pork,
Or drinking native trash.
You smear your toes with ointment,
And think you’re getting well,
And then the damn thing comes again
And simply raises hell.

You’ve hiked all day in sun and rain
Through hills and paddy mire,
Abaft the slippery googoos
Who shoot—and then retire:
And now you’ve taken off your shoes
And settled for a rest,
When suddenly your feet they start
To itch like all possessed.

(Better take your socks off
And then see how it goes....
“Ouch! m’ bloody stockin’s
Stickin’ to m’ toes.”)

Scratching, scratching, scratching,
Burning scab and sore,
(“Stop, you fool, you’ll poison ’em!”
Hear your bunkie roar).
Never mind the poison—
Ease the maddening pain,
Till your poor old tired feet
Start to bleed again.

Tell about the fever
And all y’ tropic ills,
Tell about the cholera camp
Over ’mong the hills;
Tell about the small-pox
Where the bamboos switch,
But close y’ face and let me tell
About the Dobie Itch.

THE SERVICE ARMS

Clear from clotted Bunker Hill
And frozen Valley Forge,
To the Luzon trenches
And the fern-choked gorge:
All the Service—all the Arms—
Horse and Foot and Guns—
East and West who gave your best—
Stand and pledge your Sons!

The Infantry:

As the Juggernaut slow rolls
Ringing red with reeking tolls,
Crushing out its Hindu souls
In Vishnu’s name:
As the unrelenting tide
Sweeps the weary wreckage wide,
Bidding all men stand aside
Or rue the game:

Meeting front and flank and rear,
Charge on charge with cheer on cheer,
Where the senseless corpses leer
Against the sun:
Sure as fate and faith and sign
I o’erwhelm them—they are mine;
And I pause where weeps the wine
Of battle won.

The Artillery:

As the slumbering craters wake,
And the neighboring foot hills shake,
As in shotted flame they break
Athwart the sky:
As the swollen streams of Spring
Meet their river wing and wing,
Till it sweeps a monstrous thing
Where cities die:

With a cold sardonic smile,
At a range of half a mile,
I—I lop them off in style
By six and eights:
As they come—their Country’s best—
Like a roaring, seething crest,
And I knock them Galley West
Where Glory Waits.

The Cavalry:

As the tidal wave in spate
Batters down the great flood gate
Where the huddled children wait
Behind the doors:
As the eagle in its flight
Sweeps the plain to left and right,
Strewing carnage, wreck and blight
And homeward soars:

As the raging, wild typhoon,
’Neath a white and callous moon,
Lifts the listless low lagoon
Into the sea:
In my tyranny and power
I have swept them where they cower,
I have turned the battle-hour
To the cry of Victory!

PART THREE
OTHER VERSES

SHAH JEHAN
BUILDER OF THE TAJ MAHAL.

They have carried my couch to the window
Up over the river high,
That a Great Mogul may have his wish
Ere he lay him down to die.

And the wish was ever this, and is,
Ere the last least shadows flee,
To gaze at the end o’er the river’s bend
On the shrine that I raised for thee.

And the plans I wrought from the plans they brought,
And I watched it slowly rise,
A vision of snow forever aglow
In the blue of the northern skies.

For I built it of purest marble,
That all the World might see
The depth of thy matchless beauty
And the light that ye were to me.

The silver Jumna broadens—
The day is growing dark,
And only the peacock’s calling
Comes over the rose-rimmed park.

And soon thy sunset marble
Will glow as the amethyst,
And moonlit skies shall make thee rise
A vision of pearly mist.

A vision of light and wonder
For the hordes in the covered wains,
From the snow-peaked north where the tides burst forth
To the Ghauts and the Rajput plains.

From the sapphire lakes in the Kashmir hills,
Whence crystal rivers rise,
To the jungles where the tiger’s lair
Lies bare to the Deccan skies.

And the proud Mahratta chieftains
And the Afghan lords shall see
The tender gleam of thy living dream,
Through all Eternity.

The black is bending lower—
Ah wife—the day-star nears—
And I see you come with calling arms
As ye came in the yester-years.

And the joy is mine that ne’er was mine
By Palace and Peacock Throne—
By marble and gold where the World grows cold
In the seed that It has sown.

More bright than the Rajputana stars
Thine eyes shone out to me—
More gay thy laugh than the rainbow chaff
That lifts from the Southern Sea.

More fair thy hair than any silk
In Delhi’s proud bazaars—
More true thy heart than the tulwar’s start—
Blood-wet in a hundred wars.

More red thy lips than the Flaming Trees
That brighten the Punjab plains—
More soft thy tread than the winds that spread
The last of the summer rains.

No blush of the dawning heavens—
No rose by the garden wall,
May ever seek to match thy cheek—
Oh fairest rose of all.

Above the bending river
The midday sun is gone,
But the glow of thy tomb dispels the gloom
Where doubting shadows yawn.

And the glow of thy tomb shall break the gloom
Through the march of the marching years,
Where, builded and bound from the dome to the ground
It was wrought of a monarch’s tears.

The silver Jumna broadens
Like a moonlit summer sea,
But bank and bower and town and tower
Have bidden farewell to me:

And only the tall white minarets,
And the matchless dome shine through—
The silver Jumna broadens and—
It bears me—love—to you.

THE OMNIPOTENT

The Lord looked down on the nether Earth
He had made so fair and green,
Fertile valleys and snow-capped hills
And the oceans that lie between.

The Lord looked down on Man and Maid,
Through the birth of the crystal air:
And the Lord leaned back in His well-earned rest—
And He knew that the sight was fair.

The eons crept and the eons swept
And His children multiplied,
And ever they lived in simple faith,
And in simple faith they died.

They blessed the earth that gave them birth—
They wept to the midnight star—
And they stood in awe where the tides off-shore
Rose leaping across the bar.

They blessed the earth that gave them birth—
But passed all time and tide,
They blessed their Lord-Creator—
Nor knew Him mystified.

They came and went—the little men—
The men of a primal breed—
And the Lord He gathered them as they lived,
Each in his simple creed.

And the Lord He gathered them as they came—
Ere the Earth had time to cool
And the horde of Cain had clouted the brain
’Neath the lash of a monstrous school.

II

The Lord looked down on the nether Earth
He had made so fair and green—
Fertile valleys and snow-capped hills
And the oceans that lie between.

And He saw the strife of the thousand sects—
And ever anew they came—
Torture and farce and infamy
Committed in His name.

Figure and form and fetich—
Councils of hate and greed—
Prophet on prophet warring,
Each to his separate need.

Symbol and sign and surplice
And ostentatious prayer,
And the hollow mock of the chanceled dark
Flung back through the raftered air.
. . . . . . . . . .
And the Lord He gazèd wistfully
Through the track of a falling star;
And He turned His sight from the homes of men,
Where the ranting cabals are.

THE OUTBOUND TRAIL

The Outbound Trail—The Outbound Trail—
We hear it calling still:
Coralline bight where the waves churn white—
Ocean and plain and hill:
Jungle and palm—where the starlit calm
The Wanderer’s loves fulfil.

Where the bleak, black blizzards blinding sweep
Across the crumpled floe,
And the Living Light makes white the night
Above the boundless snow,
And the sentinel penguins watch the waste
Where the whale and the walrus go:

Where the phosphor fires flash and flare
Along the bellowing bow,
And the soft salt breeze of the Southern Seas
Is sifting across the prow,
And the glittering Cross in the blue-black sky,
The Watcher of Then and Now:

We’ll lift again the lineless plain
Where the deep-cut rivers run—
And the pallid peaks as the eagle seeks
His crag when the day is done:
And the rose-red glaciers glance and gleam
In the glow of the setting sun.

We’ll go once more to a farther shore—
We’ll track the outbound trail;
Harbor and hill where the World stands still—
Where the strange-rigged fishers sail—
And only the tune of the tasseled fronds,
Like the moan of a distant gale.

We’ll tramp anew the jungle through
Where ferned Pitcairnias rise,
And the softly fanned Tjemaras stand
Green lace against the skies,
And the last red ray of the tropic day
Flickers and flares and dies.

Across the full-swung, shifting seas
There comes a beck’ing gleam,
Strong as the iron hand of Fate—
Sweet as a lover’s dream.
What can bind us—what can keep us—
Who shall tell us nay?
When the Outbound Trail is calling us—
Is calling us away.

THE FOOL

In the first gray dawn of history
A Paleolithic man
Observed an irate mammoth—
Observed how his neighbors ran:
And he sat on a naked boulder
Where the plains stretched out to the sun,
And jowl in hand he frowned and planned
As none before had done.

Next day his neighbors passed him,
And still he sat and thought,
And the next day and the next day,
But never a deed was wrought.
Till the fifth sun saw him flaking
Some flint where the rocks fall free—
And the sixth sun saw him shaping
A shaft from a fallen tree.

Enak and Oonak and Anak
And their children and kith and kin,
They paused where they watched him working,
And they smiled and they raised the chin,
And they tapped their foreheads knowingly—
As you and I have done—
But he—he had never a moment
To mark their mocking fun.

And Enak passed on to bury
His brother the mammoth slew.
And Oonak, to stay his starving,
With his fingers grubbed anew.
And Anak, he thought of his tender spouse
An ichthyosaurus ate—
Because in seeking the nearest tree
She had reached it a trifle late.
. . . . . . . . . .
Around the Council fire,
More beast and ape than man,
The hairy hosts assembled,
And their talk to the crazed one ran.
And they said, “It is best that we kill him
Ere he strangle us in the night,
Or brings on our head the curse of the dead
When the thundering heavens light.

“It is best that we rid our caverns
Of neighbors such as these—
It is best—” but the Council shuddered
At the rustle of parting leaves.
Out of the primal forest
Straight to their midst he strode—
Weathered and gaunt—but they gave no taunt—
As he flung to the ground his load.

They eyed them with suspicion—
The long smooth shafts and lean:
They felt of the thong-bound flint barbs—
They saw that the work was clean.
Like children with a plaything,
When first it is understood,
They leapt to their feet and hurled them—
And they knew that the act was good.

They pictured the mighty mammoth
As the hurtling spear shafts sank,
They pictured the unsuspecting game
Down by the river’s bank;
They pictured their safe-defended homes—
They pictured the fallen foe....
And the Fool they led to the highest seat,
Where the Council fires glow.

THE SHIPS

The White Ship lifts the horizon—
The masts are shot with gold—
And I know by the shining canvas
The cargo in the hold.

And now they’ve warped and fastened her,
Where I impatient wait—
To find a hollow mockery,
Or a rank and rotted freight.
. . . . . . . . . .
The Black Ship shows against the storm—
Her hull is low and lean—
And a flag of gore at the stern and fore,
And the skull and bones between.

I shun the wharf where she bears down
And her desperate crew make fast,
But manifold from the darkest hold
Come forth my dreams at last.

The White Ships and the Black Ships
They loom across the sea—
But I may not know until they dock—
The wares they bring to me.

THE FIRST POET

In the days of prose ere a bard arose
There came from a Northern Land,
A man with tales of the spouting whales
And the Lights that the ice-winds fanned.

And they sat them ’round on the barren ground,
And they clicked their spears to the time,
And they lingered each on the golden speech
Of the man with the words that rhyme.

With the words that rhyme like the rolling chime
Of the tread of the rhythmic sea,
And silent they listened with eyes that glistened
In savage ecstasy.

Over the plain as a pall was lain
The hand of the primal heart,
Till slowly there rose through the rock-bound close
The first faint glimmering Start.

As a ray of light in the storm-lashed night,
O’er the virgin forests swept
From the star-staked sea the Symbols Three—
And the cave-men softly wept.

Softly wept as slowly crept
To the depth of the savage brain,
Honor, forsooth, and Faith and Truth—
And they rose from the rock-rimmed plain—

And in twos and threes ’neath the mammoth trees
They whispered as children do:
And the Great World sprang from the Bard that sang,
And the First of the Men that Knew.

THE TEST

The Lord He scanned His children,
His good, well-meaning children,
And He murmured as He saw them
Where they came and paused and passed;
“I will drag them I will drive them
Through the fourfold Hells of Torture,
And—I will test the product
That comes back to me at last.”

His children came—His children paused—
His children slowly passed Him—
And for the sweat upon the brow
And scar upon the cheek,
He heaped the burdens higher—
He cut and smote and lashed them—
And as they swayed and tottered
He hurled them spent and weak.

They cast an eye, a gleaming eye,
Above to where they sought Him—
But blank the empty skies gave back,
And blank the heavens stared.
And even they with riven heart,
Who strove to hide the hiding,
He drove the scalpel deeper,
That the inmost core lay bared.

At last He took the Test-Tubes
And the Acids of the Ages,
And he lit the Mighty Forges
With the Fires of the Years,
And He turned and smote and hammered,
And He poured and paused and pondered,
Till a clear precipitate formed ’neath
A residue of tears.

Across the outer spaces—
Beyond the last least sun-path,
He called them gently homeward
And He murmured as they passed,
“I have driven ye and dragged ye
Through the fourfold Hells of Torture,
And—I will keep the product
That comes back to me at last.”

THE PORT O’ LOST DELIGHT

Some call it Fame or Honor—
Some call it Love or Power—
Whence running rails and bellied sails
The four-banked galleons tower.
To each the separate vision—
To each the guiding light—
Where, ’bove the dim horizon lifts
The Port o’ Lost Delight.

’Mid mighty cheers and the hope of years
They swung the good Ship free,
And with laughter brave she took the wave
Of the wonderful, whispering sea.

Over the scud of the white-capped flood—
Over the strong, young days—
Over the lift of the chaff-churned drift
And the mist of the moonlit haze—

Running the lights o’ the Ports-o’-Call,
Where the beckoning beacons shine;
But she passed them by with callous eye,
Nor saw the luring sign.

Piercing the glow of the ocean’s dawn,
As slow the seas unfold;
Scudding again across the plain
Of rippling, sunset gold.

Joyous and fair in the brine-wet air,
Where the phosphor bow-wave slips,
And the Wraiths of the Deep their secrets keep
Of the tale o’ the passing ships.

II

Till there lifted a wondrous Haven
Across the swinging main,
As ne’er before had lifted—
Nor e’er might lift again.

Clear it shone, each gleaming stone,
Mystic, white and far,
Castle and tree above the sea
Where the lilac combers are.

And over all there came a call,
As a Siren’s soft refrain—
Nor ever a helm to guide her,
The Good Ship turned again.

Swift o’er the back-set breakers
She plunged against the wind,
And never a look to left or right,
And never a thought behind: