'Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, 'Thy life is his-thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. 'So thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, 'And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line, 'And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power 'Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.' They have looked the other between the eyes, and there they have found no fault, They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God. The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun, And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. 'Ha' done! ha' done!' said the Colonel's son. 'Put up your steel at your sides! 'Last night ye had struck at a Border thief-tonight 'tis a man of the Guides !' Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth. MANDALAY. By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea, Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay; Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer 'Er petticut was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' her name was Supi-yaw-lat-jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her fust a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er On the road to Mandalay. When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd get 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kullalo-lo!" With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' her cheek agin my cheek We uster watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay. But that's all shove be'ind me-long ago an' fur away, An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Benk to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the tenyear sodger tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', why, you won't 'eed nothin' else." No! you won't 'eed nothing else But them spicy garlic smells An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the On the road to Mandalay. I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gutty pavin' stones, An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Beefy face an' grubby 'and Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay. Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there ain't no Ten Commandments, an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be- On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! Oh, the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! RECESSIONAL. God of our fathers, known of old- Dominion over palm and pine- The tumult and the shouting dies- An humble and a contrite heart, 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 Such boasting as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the LawLord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust And guarding calls not Thee to guard, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen. THE literary genius of Bunyan has long been obscured by his peculiar fame as a religious writer. His character is largely misunderstood to-day, even by his readers, though the "Pilgrim's Progress" is said to circulate in larger numbers than any book next after the Bible. He was not a tinker, nor a reprobate in youth, nor a fanatical pietist; nor was he twelve years in prison as we understand it, nor did he originate the religious allegory. Bunyan was born in 1628, the son of a plumber, established in a prosperous business, which John carried on for many years in the town of Bedford with marked success. Under religious conviction he took to earnest preaching of Baptist doctrines, against the law suppressing Dissenters. His fervor and homely wit gained him popularity, which was not lessened by the spice of persecution. After five years of this illegal course, he was sentenced for contumacy, yet the agents of the law used every means of persuasion to induce their distinguished prisoner to liberate himself by a simple promise to abstain from preaching. Bunyan rather chose the jail, in which for twelve years, off and on, he dwelt as a prisoner on parole, preaching regularly to his fellow-prisoners, attending to his business and family affairs, and finding leisure to cultivate literature as it came to him in the form of Fox's "Book of Martyrs," sundry romances of the period, as "Sir Bevis of Hampton," and perhaps versions of allegories like the "Faery Queen." The mediæval French production of Guillaume de Guileville, "The Pilgrimage of the Soul," is thought by some literary investigators to have suggested the "Pilgrim's Progress." |