All English glory is in "Kipling's Boots."

O English People! read that poem true,

And answer,—are those maddening men not you?

Oh, not yea few, who gather all the loots,

But yea vast legions, lured to be recruits

To march, march, march and march with naught in view

But boots, boots, boots with blood and mud soaked through,—

And, after ages, with out rest, or fruits!

"Boots, boots, boots, and no discharge from war,"—

That is the Empire's anthem. Brass it out,

Ye Orchestras! But oh, leave not in doubt

Its import, Kipling,—that 'tis maelstrom roar—

'Tis England's streams of home-life, world about

And down a gulf, for Greed and Pride on shore!