English

The man I am to blow the bloody gaff
If I were given platforms? The riff-raff
May be handed all the trumpets that you will.
Not so the golden-tongued. The window-sill
Is all the pulpit they can hope to get,
Of a slum-garret, sung by Mistinguette,
Too high up to be heard, too poor to attract
Anyone to their so-called " scurrilous" tract.
What wind an honest mind advances? Look
No wind of sickle and hammer, of bell and book,
No wind of any party, or blowing out
Of any mountain hemming us about

(cloaked, masked, booted, and with gauntlets of astrakan)

ENEMY INTERLUDE

SHOUTS

Am I too dangerous, that no man can let
This " wild beast" out, but keep it as a pet?
Must I on charity be so sustained,
And never be unwittingly unchained?
Must I be given nothing , lest I take
Too much from the world's trop-plein ? Fake after fake,
Encouraged, must usurp the place is mine?
And yet had I demanded a gold mine,
Or aimed to be dictator of the West,

Sperm of the Earth! Better unmentioned be!
I had a close call from the percussion of the sea.
Castor and Pollux fought for me throughout
The far campaigns, under my eagles. Drought
Lifted me bodily and thirst connived
With scurvy — many a good man has unlived,
In conjunction with nephritis. It's been bad
From first to last! Excuse me if I'm sad.
Going one better, I thrust out my hand
Beckoned Chimaera. Not the man to understand
Am I, this lamb, and feline dragonette.
(Excuse me if I harp upon this pet.)

Come on my curly party. I'll be frank!
Why should I mount the bridge where Amos stank
And suffered? A pox on the vice of beds.
Give me a sunflower and I'll chop their heads.
(That's where the chicken got the chopper, lad.
Upon his curly sunflower discus pat.)
Now look you beagles when the bugles blow
And the waves splash, with harriers below
Seek shelter in the bowels of the ship,
And hunt the Snark for the remainder of the trip
There's safety in numbers. Never forget when aft
To clamour for Spratt's Biscuits and a raft.

I once was lifted on a bitter moon,
And tossed into the ranges around noon.
Looking about me I caught sight of two
Sad rustics, who within these pastures grew.
I counted them, and found that they were twain.
Men stopped them and then parked them in the rain.
Believe it or not, I was sorry for those men,
Indeed I was: I loathed their regimen.
I went up to them. " Brothers," I said, " I'm here
Like you napoo?" I inspired them with some fear.
Seeing that, I raised my hat. I left them alone.
As I withdrew I heard a double groan,

You can see from this the sort of man I am.
The tenderfoot sea-trooper gets his ham
Sliced, and I am against it all the time.
I have no words with sudden-death to rhyme.
Against shikar, and against Bela Kun,
Against all deeds beneath that bloody moon.
I am the apostle of an ancient peace,
Even spurn the provocation of my fleas.
I am the man that holds his hand. I am
The quixote-fingered mild-horned coptic ram.
With every gentle thing I would consort —
Even gentlemen (if not so prone to sport).

" Not the machete!" cried the young marine.
" Not with the sword!" I echoed. But its sheen
Lights up our underworld. The comets of pistols
Flash in our underworld. Fokkers and Bristols
Egg-dropping. The bomb-shit from their arses
Leaves its red trail among the fungus-masses.
" Not the machete!" screamed the youthful sailor.
" No. Bullets now!" I answered like a saviour:
" I heard he was with you boy, so I blew over."
And Death was there indeed, bailiff and drover.
I beat it up-town. Death was there as well.

I'm not the man that lifts the broad black hat.
I'm not the man's a preux , clicheed for chat.
I'm not the man that's sensitive to sex.
I'm not the fair Novello of the Waacs.
I'm not at breaking wind behind a hand
Too good. I'm not when hot the man that fanned
His cheek with a mouchoir. I'm not that kind.
I'm not a sot, but water leaves me blind,
I'm not too careful with a drop of Scotch,
I'm not particular about a blotch
I'm not alert to spy out a blackhead,
I'm not the man that minds a dirty bed.

I'm no He-man you know, I'm not a He.
I'm not a chesty fellow who says Gee !
I'm not a chesty fellow that says Gee !
I'm not you know a guy that lives on pep.
You know I've never hunted ovibos,
Nor caribou. I'd make a rotten boss
For any " outfit" Oh you know I'm not
Clever with Winchester or cooking-pot.
A Tempyo statuette perhaps, the Monk Ganjin,
Perhaps a patina laid very thin,
An affair of Han or T'ang, lacquered Mitsuda,
Or the brackets of a japanese pagoda —
Those things are in my line. I am very sure

SCENE 3. — The beech ridge. Frequent firing. The Indian war-whoop. Bugles sounding the advance .

Enter LIEUT. FITZGIBBON and COL. THOMAS CLARKE.

Fitzgibbon . The Mohawks have done well; and I am glad
To have your help, sir, too. What is your strength?

Clarke . But twenty, sir, all told.

Fitzgibbon . And I but thirty. Too few to fight such force
In open field. But Boerstler's lost his head:
Deluded by our calls, your fierce attack,