  BY HENRY L. MENCKEN TO R. K.[1] Prophet of brawn and bravery! Bard of the fighting man! You have made us kneel to a God of Steel, And to fear his church's ban; You have taught the song that the bullet sings— The knell and the crowning ode of kings; The ne'er denied appeal! Prophet of brain and handicraft! Bard of our grim machines! You have made us dream of a God of Steam, And have shown what his worship means In the clanking rod and the whirring wheel A life and a soul your songs reveal, And power and might supreme. Bard of the East and mystery! Singer of those who bow To the earthen clods that they call their gods And with god-like fees endow; You have shown that these heed not the suppliant's plea, Nor the prayers of the priest and devotee, Nor the vestal's futile vow. Singer, we ask what we cannot learn From our wise men and our schools; Will our offered slain from our gods obtain But the old reward of fools? Will our man-made gods be like their kind? If we bow to a clod of clay enshrined Will we pray our prayers in vain?
THE SONG OF THE OLDEN TIME Powder and shot now fight our fights And we meet our foes no more, As face to face our fathers fought In the brave old days of yore; To the thirteen inch and the needle gun, To the she-cat four-point-three We look for help when the war-dogs yelp And the foe comes o'er the sea! Oho! for the days of the olden time, When a fight was a fight of men! When lance broke lance and arm met arm— There were no cowards then; Sing ho! for the fight of the olden time, When the muscles swelled in strain, As the steel found rest in a brave man's breast And the axe in a brave man's brain! The lance-point broke on the armor's steel, And the pike crushed helmet through, And the blood of the vanquished, warm and red, Stained the victor's war-steed, too! A fight was a fight in the olden time— Sing ho, for the days bygone!— And a strong right arm was the luckiest charm, When the foe came marching on! Oho! for the days of the olden time, When a fight was a fight of men! When lance broke lance and arm met arm— There were no cowards then! Sing ho! for the fight of the olden time, When the muscles swelled in strain, As the steel found rest in a brave man's breast And the axe in a brave man's brain! THE SPANISH MAIN Between the tangle of the palms, There gleaming, like a star-strewn plain, All smiling, lies the sea of calms, And calls to us to fare amain; And calls us, as with smile and gem, She called that bold, upstanding brood, Whose bones, when she had done with them, Upon her shores she strewed. Between the tangle of the palms, By day the gleam is on the swell, And drifting zephyrs, bearing balms, Her tales of joy and riches tell, And when the winds of night are free Long, glimmering ripples wander by As if the stars where in the sea, Instead of in the sky. And they went forth in ships of war Girt up in all foolhardiness, To take their toll from out her store, Beguiled and snared by her caress; And we go forth in cargo ships To wrest her treasures bloodlessly, And buy the nectar from her lips, Our fairy goddess, she! Where once their galleons blundered by Our cargo ships are on their way, And where their galleons rotting lie, Our cargo ships are wrecked today. For ever, 'till the world is done, And all good merchantmen go down, And dies the wind, as pales the sun, Her smile will mask her frown. THE TRANSPORT GEN'RAL FERGUSON[2] The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she left the Golden Gate, With a thousand rookies sweatin' in her hold; An' the sergeants drove an' drilled them, an' the sun it nearly killed them,— Till they learned to do whatever they were told. The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she lay at Honolu', An' the rookies went ashore an' roughed the town, So the sergeants they corralled them, and with butt and barrel quelled them,— An' they limped aboard an' set to fryin' brown. The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she steamed to-ward the south, And the rookies sweated morning, noon and night; 'Till the lookout sighted land, and they cheered each grain o' sand,— For their blood was boilin' over for a fight. The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she tied up at the dock, An' each rookie lugged his gun an' kit ashore, An' a train it come and took 'em where the tropic sun could cook 'em,— An' the sergeants they could talk to them of war. The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she had her bottom scraped, For the first part of her labor it was done, An' the rookies chased the Tagals and the Tagals they escaped,— An' the rookies set and sweated in the sun. The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she loafed around awhile, An' the rookies they was soldier boys by now, For it don't take long to teach 'em—where the Tagal lead can reach 'em— All about the which and why and when and how. The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she headed home again, With a thousand heavy coffins in her hold; They were soldered up and stenciled, they were numbered and blue penciled,— And the rookies lay inside 'em stiff and cold. The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she reached the Golden Gate, An' the derrick dumped her cargo on the shore; In a pyramid they piled it—and her manifest they filed it, In a pigeon-hole with half a hundred more. The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she travels up and down, A-haulin' rookies to and from the war; Outward-bound they sweat in Kharki; homeward bound they come in lead And they wonder what they've got to do it for. The transport Gen'ral Ferguson, she's owned by Uncle Sam, An' maybe Uncle Sam could tell 'em why, But he don't—and so he takes 'em out to fight, and sweat, and swear, An' brings them home for plantin' when they die.
A WAR SONG The wounded bird to its blasted nest, (Sing ho! for the joys of war!) When the sun of its life veers o'er to the West, (Sing ho! for the war, for the war!) The wounded fox to its cave in the hill, And the blood-dyed wolf to the snow-waste chill, And the mangled elk to the wild-wood rill, (Sing ho! for the price of war!) The nest-queen harks to her master's hurts, (Sing ho! for the wounds of war!) And the she-fox busies with woodland worts, (Sing ho! for the end of war!) The she-wolf staunches the warm red flood, And the doe is besmeared with the spurting blood, For 'tis ever the weak that must help the strong, Though they have no part in the triumph song, And their glory is brief as their work is long— (Sing ho! for the saints of war!) FAITH The Gawd that guided Moses Acrost the desert sand, The Gawd that unter Joner Put out a helping hand, The Gawd that saved these famous men From death on land an' sea, Can spare a minute now an' then To take a peep at you an' me. The Gawd of Ol' Man Adam An' Father Abraham, Of Joshua an' Isaiah, Of lion an' of lamb, Of kings, an' queens, an' potentates, An' chaps of pedigree, Wont put a bar acrost the Gate When Gabr'el toots fer you an' me. The Gawd that made the ocean An' painted up the sky, The Gawd that sets us livin' An' takes us when we die, Is just the same to ev'ry man, Of high or low degree, An' no one's better treated than Poor little you and little me. THE BALLAD OF SHIPS IN HARBOR Clatter of shears and derrick, Rattle of box and bale, The ships of the earth are at their docks, Back from the world-round trail— Back from the wild waste northward, Back from the wind and the lea, Back from the ports of East and West, Back from the under sea. Here is a bark from Rio, Back—and away she steals! Here, from her trip, is a clipper ship That showed the sea her heels— South to the Gallapagos, Down, due south, to the Horn, And up, by the Windward Passage way, On the breath of the balm-wind borne. There, standing down the channel, With a smoke wake o'er her rail, Is a ship that goes to Zanzibar Along the world-round trail, 'Ere seven suns have kissed her She may pound on Quoddy Head— A surf-tossed speck of melting wreck, Deep-freighted with her dead. And see that gaunt Norwegian, Greasy, grimy and black— She sails today for Yeddo Bay; Who knows but she comes not back? And there is a low decked Briton, And yonder a white-winged Dane— Oh, a song for the ships that put to sea And come not back again! Clatter of shears and derrick, Rattle of box and bale, The ships of the earth are home today, Tomorrow they shall sail; Cleared for the dawn and the sunset, Cleared for the wind and the lea; World-round and back, by the olden track— Playthings of the sea. THE ORF'CER BOY “He was a gran' bhoy!”—Mulvaney. Now 'e aren't got no whiskers An' 'e's only five foot 'igh, (All the same 'e is a' orf'cer hof the Queen!) Oh, 'is voice is like a loidy's An' 'e's so polite an' shy! (All the same 'e serves 'Er Majesty the Queen!) It is only 'bout a year ago 'e left 'is mother's knee, It is only 'bout a month ago 'e come acrost the sea, It is only 'bout a week that 'e 'as been aleadin' me. (That's the way 'e serves 'Er Majesty the Queen!) 'E is such a little chappie, Bein' only five foot 'igh, That you'd wonder how 'is likes could serve the Queen; You would think that when 'e 'eard the guns 'E'd just set down an' cry— A-forgettin' ev'rythink about the Queen; But by all that's good an' holy, you'd be extraord'ny wrong, 'Cos 'e doesn't like no singin' 'arf as good 's the Gatlin's song, An' 'e fights as though 'e'd been a-fightin' twenty times as long As any other man that serves the Queen! If you'd seen him when we got to where The Modder's deep an' wet, You'd a-knowed 'e was a' orf'cer hof the Queen! There's a dozen of the enemy That ain't forgot 'im yet— For 'e run 'is sword clean through 'em for the Queen! Oh, 'e aren't much on whiskers an' 'e aren't much on 'eight, An' a year or two ago 'e was a-learnin' for to write, But you bet your soldier's shillin' 'e's the devil in a fight— An' 'ed die to serve 'Er Majesty the Queen! THE FILIPINO MAIDEN Her father we've chased in the jungle, And her brother is full of our lead; Her uncles and cousins In yellow half-dozens We've tried to induce to be dead; And while we have shot at their shadows, They've done the same favor for us— But, by George, she's so sweet That we'd rather be beat Than to have her mixed up in the fuss. Oh! isn't her blush like the roses? And aren't her eyes like the stars? And whenever she smiles Don't you think you are miles From the rattle and roar of the wars? Would you take the three stars of a general If she'd say “Leave the stars and take me?” Oh! we've stolen sweet kisses from thousands of misses, But hers are the sweetest that be. Her name may be Ahlo or Nina, Or Zanez or Lalamaloo; She may smoke the cigars Of the chino bazars, And prefer black maduros to you; She may speak a wild six-cornered lingo, And say that your Spanish is queer, But you'll never mind this When she gives you a kiss And calls you her “zolshier poy dear.” Oh! isn't her blush like the roses? And aren't her eyes like the stars? And whenever she smiles Don't you think you are miles From the rattle and roar of the wars? Would you take the three stars of a general If she'd say “Leave the stars and take me?” Oh! I've stolen sweet kisses from thousands of misses, But her's are the sweetest for me! THE VIOLET As in the first pale flush of coming dawn We see a promise of the glorious sun, So in the violet's misty blue is drawn A shadowy likeness of the days to be, The days of cloudless skies and poesie, When Winter's done. The small gunboats captured from the Spaniards and facetiously called “tin-clads” by the men of the land forces, are of great value in the offensive operations against the insurgents along the coast.—[Manilla Dispatch] Their draft is a foot and a half, And a knot and a half is their speed, Their bows are as blunt as the stern of a punt And their boilers are wonders of greed; Their rudders are always on strike, Their displacement is thirty-two tons, They are armored with tin—to the dishpan they're kin— But their Maxims are A number ones, (Ask Aggie!) Their Maxims are murderous guns! When from out the towns and villages, and out the jungle, too, We have chased the Filipinos on the run, Toward the river swamps they foot it—towards the swamps we can't go through— And we're doubtful if we've lost the fight or won; Then when all are safe in hiding in the slimy mud and reeds, From the river 'cross the swamp we hear a sound; It's the sputter and the rattle of the automatic feeds On the tin-protected cruisers—how they pound— (Sweet sound!) They that save us being losers—Rah! the tin-protected cruisers! Hear their rattling Maxims pound, pound, pound! When the guns have done their work, and the Tagals come our way, (I admit they much prefer us to the guns,) Why, we finish up what's left—ten in every dozen lay Dead as Noah, in the swampy pools and runs; Then the Maxims stop their rattle and we know that midst the reeds, Half a hundred Filipinos on the ground Are a-looking at the sky, with a glassy, sightless eye, And the other half—or most of them—are drowned. 'Twas the tin-protected cruisers—How they pound! (Sweet sound!) They that saved us being losers—Rah! the tin-protected cruisers! How their rattling Maxims pound, pound, pound! Their draft is a foot and a half And a knot and a half is their speed, Their bows are as blunt as the stern of a punt, And their engines are wonders, indeed. Their rudders are always on strike, Their bunkers hold two or three tons, They are armored with tin—to the meat-can they're kin— 'But their Maxims are A number ones, (Ask Aggie!) Their Maxims are murderous guns; (Go ask him!) Their Maxims are Death's younger sons.
SEPTEMBER A dash of scarlet in the dark'ning green, A minor echo in the night-wind's wail, And faint and low, the swirling boughs between, The last, sad carol of the nightingale. ARABESQUE (An English Version of an old Turkish Lyric.) The tinkling sound of the camel's bell Comes softly across the sand, And the nightingale by the garden well Still warbles his saraband, But the night goes by and the dawn-winds blow From the glimmering East and the Hills of Snow, And I wait, sweetheart, I wait alone, For a smile from thee, my own! Awake! e'er the gong of the muezzin Peals forth for another day; E'er its loveless, barren toil begin But a smile from you I pray! But a smile from your soul-enslaving eyes,— As brightly dark as the midnight skies,— But a smile, I pray! Awake! sweetheart, Awake! my own, my own!
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