_For--_

_On the road to Mandalay the flying-fishes play, But there are no omnibuses to ply.

Is there not a thirst here, and are there any ten commandments?

O you commandments! you first, second, third ... and tenth commandments!

What has Mandalay to do with you, and what have you to do with Mandalay?_

_Ha! What is that?_

_Is it a sound, is it the thunder, the sudden thunder, strepitant, tonant?

Is it the midday (twelve o'clock) cannon?_

_ No!_

_Is it not then the ocean, the storm of the ocean?_

_ Divil a bit!_

_Return, return then O soldiers, Return, you that have been discharged with pensions, as time-expired men, or as incorrigible and worthless, Return, for it is the dawn, and it is calling to you as it comes up from China, Though why from China do you ask me?

Then ask me another!_

A BALLAD OF b.u.t.tONRY

_Clothes and the Man I sing._ Reformers, note These of the Subaltern who owned a Coat.

He was what veterans miscall, for short, By that objectionable term, a wart:[2]

The Coat an item of the 'sealed' attire Wrung from his helpless but reluctant sire;

Also the tails were long; and, for the pride Thereof, were b.u.t.tons on the after-side;

Majestic orbs, whose gilded obverse bore The bossy symbol of his future corps.

The youth, ere sailing for a distant land, Did, in the interval, receive command

[Footnote 2: A last-joined young officer.--_Military Definitions._]

To join a 'Course,' where men of grave repute Instruct the young idea how to shoot.

Thither he sped, and on the opening day Rose, and, empanoplied in brave array,

(Ample of flowing skirt, and with great craft And pomp of blazoned b.u.t.tonry abaft)

Won to the mess, and preened his fledgling plumes Both in the breakfast and the ante-rooms.

Awhile he moved in rapture, and awhile Thrilled in the old, inevitable style

To that stern joy which youthful warriors feel In wearing garments worthy of their zeal;

Then came the seneschal upon the scenes, And knocked his infant pride to smithereens.

For out, alack! the Fathers of the mess Strictly prohibited that form of dress,

Being by sad experience led to find Disaster in the b.u.t.tonry behind,

Which tore and scratched the leather-cushioned chairs, And cost a perfect fortune in repairs!

It was a crushing blow. That Subaltern Discovered that he had a lot to learn;

Removed his Coat, and laid it, weeping, in Its long sarcophagus of beaten tin:

Buried it deep, and drew it thence no more; Finished his Course, and sought an alien sh.o.r.e.

So runs the tale. I had it from the youth Himself, and I suppose he told the truth.

(The words alone are mine; I need but hint That his were too emotional for print.)

And as in India, though the chairs are hard, His Coat--delicious irony--is barred;

Being designed for cooler zones, and not For one inadequately known as 'hot';

And, furthermore, as bold Sir Fashion brings Changes, yea, even to the soldier's things:

He questions if the Coat were worth the price, Seeing that he will hardly wear it twice.

THE IRON HAND

'The Government of India _has been pleased_ to sanction the infliction of a fine of ..., etc.'

To him that reads with careless eyes My present theme affords But little scope for enterprise In b.u.t.tering one's lords: Fines, he would urge, have always bulked Largely to Those that rule, For, plainly, every man They mulct Contributes to the pool.

But when in ages dead and gone Our fathers fought with Sin, However hard they laid it on, They didn't rub it in; While These not only bring to bear Their dark prerogatives, But diabolically air The pleasure that it gives!

Here is the Iron Hand that builds Our realms beyond the sea; No _suaviter in modo_ gilds Their _fort.i.ter in re_; Here is no washy velvet glove To pad the Fist of Fear-- None of your guiding charms of Love-- None of your hogwash here!

No. From Their thrones amid the stars They glower athwart the land Implacable, with 'eye like Mars To threaten and command.'

Too cold, too truculent, to stay The awful bolt They fling, They make no bones about it--They Are _pleased_ to do this thing!

Blind to the victim's mask of woe, Deaf to his poignant howls, No pity stirs Their bosoms, no Reluctance wrings Their bow'ls!