“We have threshed a stook of print and book,
and winnowed a chattering wind
And many a soul wherefrom he stole, but his we cannot
find:
We have handled him, we have dandled him, we have
seared him to the bone,
And sure if tooth and nail show truth he has no soul
of his own.”
The Devil he bowed his head on his breast and rumbled
deep and low:—
“I’m all o’er-sib to Adam’s
breed that I should bid him go.
“Yet close we lie, and deep we lie, and if I
gave him place,
My gentlemen that are so proud would flout me to my
face;
They’d call my house a common stews and me a
careless host,
And—I would not anger my gentlemen for
the sake of a shiftless ghost.”
The Devil he looked at the mangled Soul that prayed
to feel the flame,
And he thought of Holy Charity, but he thought of
his own good name:—
“Now ye could haste my coal to waste, and sit
ye down to fry:
Did ye think of that theft for yourself?” said
he; and Tomlinson said, “Ay!”
The Devil he blew an outward breath, for his heart
was free from care:—
“Ye have scarce the soul of a louse,”
he said, “but the roots of sin are
there,
And for that sin should ye come in were I the lord
alone.
But sinful pride has rule inside—and mightier
than my own.
“Honour and Wit, fore-damned they sit, to each
his priest and whore: Nay, scarce I dare myself
go there, and you they’d torture sore.
“Ye are neither spirit nor spirk,” he
said;
“ye are neither
book nor brute—
Go, get ye back to the flesh again for the sake of
Man’s repute.
“I’m all o’er-sib to Adam’s
breed that I should mock your pain,
But look that ye win to worthier sin ere ye come back
again.
Get hence, the hearse is at your door—the
grim black stallions wait—
They bear your clay to place today. Speed, lest
ye come too late!
Go back to Earth with a lip unsealed—go
back with an open eye,
And carry my word to the Sons of Men or ever ye come
to die:
That the sin they do by two and two they must pay
for one by one—
And. . .the God that you took from a printed book
be with you, Tomlinson!”
* * * * * * *
BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS
Dedication
To T. A.
I have made for you a song,
And it may be right or wrong,
But only you can tell me if it’s true;
I have tried for to explain
Both your pleasure and your pain,
And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to
you!
O there’ll surely come
a day
When they’ll give you all your pay,
And treat you as a Christian ought to do;
So, until that day comes round,
Heaven keep you safe and sound,
And, Thomas, here’s my best respects to
you!
—R. K.
DANNY DEEVER
“What are the bugles blowin’ for?”
said Files-on-Parade.
“To turn you out, to turn you out”, the
Colour-Sergeant said.
