The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Dyak Chief and other verses, by Erwin Clarkson Garrett.

Pay-day’s done and I’ve had my little fun—
I’ve had my monthly row—
And they put me in “the mill” and they told me, “Peace be still,”
And—I am on the Water-wagon now.

Oh I’m on the Water-wagon and the time is surely draggin’
And I’m thirsty as I can be;
And I’m nursing of an eye that I got for being fly,
And I’m bunking back o’ bars exclusively.

Now wouldn’t it upset you—now wouldn’t it afret you
If they jugged you ’cause you got a little tight,
And a zig-zag course you laid when doing Dress Parade,
And you really thought Guide Right was Column Right.

Oh I’m on the Water-wagon but the trial is surely laggin’
And I’m dryer than the Arizona dust,
And my throat is full o’ hay and I’m choppin’ wood all day
‘Cause the Sergeant of the Guard, he says I must.

The Jug is rank and slummy and I’m sitting like a dummy
Looking over at the barracks where I hear the mess-tins clang:
And the fool I am comes o’er me, as I chant the same old story,
The Ballad of the Guard-house—until I go and hang:—

“Oh I’m on the Water-wagon, you’ll never see me saggin’,
I am glued and tied and fastened to the seat ...”
And I hear the fellers snicker where the two lone candles flicker,
And I shut-up like a soldier—with the Ballad incomplete.

ARMY OF PACIFICATION

Cuba 1907

I’ve hiked a trail where the last marks fail
And the vine-choked jungles yawn,
I’ve doubled-out on a dirty scout
Two hours before the dawn,
I’ve done my drill when the palms hung still
And the rations nearly gone.

I’ve soldier’d in Pinar del Rio—
In ’Frisco and Aparri—
I’ve lifted their lights through the tropic nights
O’er the breast of a golden sea,
But this is surely the craziest puzzle
That ever has puzzled me.

It’s this. I’m here in Cuba
Where the royal palms swing high,
And the White Man’s plantations of all o’ the Nations
Are scattered ahither and nigh
And the native galoot who must revolute
Though no one can tell you just why.

And when I go mapping the mountain and vale
Or a practice-march happens my way,
Each planter I meet is lovely and sweet
And setteth them up right away,
“And won’t I come in and how’ve I been?”
And—“How long do I think the troops stay?”

They never besprinkled my bosom
When I soldier’d over home,
Nor clasped me in glee when I came from the sea
Where the Seal Rock breakers comb,
Or stamped on a strike and scattered them wide
Like the scud of the back-set foam.

When I saved ’em their stinking Islands
They cursed me for being rough:
(They wouldn’t dare to have soldier’d there
But they called me brutal and tough.
I had done their work and the land was theirs,
Which I reckon was nearly enough).

They never enthuse over khaki or “blues”
Anywhere else I’ve been.
They never go wild and bless the child
And say “Oh Willie come in.”
Though on my soul, I’m damned if I see
Just where is the Cardinal Sin.

I’m only a buck o’ the rank and file
As stupid as I can be,
So this is the craziest puzzle
That ever has puzzled me.
(I’m perfectly dry but I must bat an eye,
For you think that I cannot see.)

SOLITARY

We’re walking our post like a little tin soldier,
Backward and forward we go,
By the Solitary’s cell, which assuredly is hell—
It’s five foot square you know.

The boy was all right but he would get tight
When pay-day came around;
And the non-com he hated was thereupon slated
To measure 5-10 on the ground.

Oh yes, we’ve been in the calaboose,
We’ve done our turn in the jug;
’Cause the fellow we lick must go raise a kick—
The dirty, cowardly mug.

His heart was all right and his arm was all right,
But it’s fearful what drink will do:
And the corporal he hit with the butt of a gun
And nigh put the corporal through.

It’s way against orders, it’s awful, I know,
They’d jug me myself—what’s more—
But I must slip the beggar a chew and a smoke
Just under the jamb of the door.

He’s bound to get Ten and a Bob for sure
Abreaking stone on the Isle,
So they fastened ’im fair in a five foot square
Till the day that they give ’im a trial.

Oh the Corporal o’ the Guard is a wakeful man—
My duty is written plain,
But the Solitary there in his cramped and lonely lair,
It’s enough to drive a man insane.

He’s time to repent for the money that he spent
And the temper that cursed him too,
When he’s breaking rock all day by the shores o’ ’Frisco Bay
Where he sees the happy homeward-bounds come through.

Shall we risk it—shall we risk it—heart o’ mine?
Oh damn the Corporal of the Guard.
While we slip “the makings” under to the Solitary’s wonder,
And the whispered thanks come back—“God bless you, pard.”

THE SULTAN COMES TO TOWN

A Philippine Reminiscence of 1900

The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—
Do tell!
The Sultan of Jolo has come to town—
The Sultan of Jolo of great renown—
And he’s dressed like a general and walks like a clown
As well.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—
My word!
The Sultan of Jolo’s a mighty chief—
(Don’t call ’im a grafter or chicken-thief,
For you’ll surely come to your grief,
If heard).

The Sultan of Jolo’s such a stride,
And style!
The Sultan of Jolo’s such a stride,
And his skin’s the color of rhino hide,
And he cheweth betel-nut beside:
(Oh vile!)

The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot—
You bet.
The Sultan of Jolo’s a swell galoot,
So we line the scorching streets and salute,
(“Presenting Arms” to the royal boot),
And sweat.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king—
I say
The Sultan of Jolo’s a full-fledged king
As down the regiment’s front they swing,
He and his Escort—wing and wing:
Hurray!

The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight,
In truth.
The Sultan of Jolo feels his weight
As he marches by in regal state
With Major Sour and all The Great,
Forsooth.

The Sultan proudly treads the earth
With “cuz.”
The Sultan proudly treads the earth
O’ershadowed by the Major’s girth,
But he knows just what the Major’s worth:
He does.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—
(Don’t quiz).
The Sultan of Jolo’s a haughty bun—
An honest, virtuous gentleman—
And he’s rated high in Washington—
He is.

The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird—
Whoopee!
The Sultan of Jolo’s a splendid bird,
But we in our ignorance pledge our word
His asinine plumage is absurd
To see.

The Sultan and Major Sour are
Such chums:
The Sultan and Major Sour are
So wrapped in love exceeding par,
That war shall never war-time mar—
—what comes.

(The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right—
Yo ho!
The Sultan of Jolo guesseth right,
As sure as daytime follows night,
That Major Sour wouldn’t fight:
Lord—no!)

The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise—
(And weeds).
The Sultan of Jolo is pretty wise,
In spite of innocent, bovine eyes,
And the soothing tongue o’ the Eastern skies
And creeds.

The Sultan of Jolo passeth by—
Oh Lor’!
The Sultan of Jolo passeth by,
But we in the ranks can’t wink an eye,
Though we think we know the Reasons Why,
And more.

The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat—
(Have a care!)
The Sultan of Jolo walketh flat,
But Nature’s surely the cause of that;
And he’s salaried high—and sleek and fat—
So there!

The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee—
Why not?
The Sultan of Jolo laughs in glee
As his wages come across the sea
From those who hate polygamy—
God wot!

Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt—
He is.
Oh the Sultan of Jolo’s gold and gilt,
His chest and his sleeves and his good sword hilt,
And he knows the lines on which are built—
His biz.

PHILIPPINE RANKERS

Clear down the thin-thatched barrack-room
The varying voices rise—
The shrill New England teacher’s—
(The wisest of the wise)—
And the Cowboy cleaning cartridges
And telling fearful lies.

The Bowery Boy is fast asleep
Performing Bunk-fatigue,
The Kid who simply can’t keep still
Is pounding through a jig,
And a plain darn fool just sits and sings
And sneaks another swig.

A bouncing bargain-counter clerk
Dilates to Private Brown,
The lordly top-notch swell he is
When he is back in town,
And the scion of an ancient name
Just yawns and hides a frown.

The mountain-riding Parson talks
T’ his Y. M. C. A. band,
And mine Professor’s turning Keats
With hard and grimy hand,
And Johnny’s reading football news
When baseball fills the land.

And some they pull together—
And some won’t gee at all—
And some are looking for a fight
And riding for a fall—
And some, they ran from prison bars;
And some, just heard The Call.

And some are simply “rotters”—
And some the Country’s best:
And some are from the cultured East—
And some the sculptured West:
And some they never heard of Burke—
And some they sport a crest.

(“The Backbone of the Army”—
“The Chosen of the Lord”—
The Faithful of the Fathers—
The Wielders of the Sword—
The hired of the helpless—
The bruisers and the bored.)

The east-sides of the cities
Are aye foregathered here;
The best sides of the cities
Are come from far and near,
To mix their books and Bibles
With oaths and rotten beer.
. . . . . . . . . .
Clear down the mud-browed, blood-plowed ranks
The thin, tanned faces lift;
The long, lean line that hears the whine
Of the bamboo’s silken sift,
And the sudden rush and the chug and the hush
Where the careless bullets drift.

The Parson’s up and shooting
And cursing like a fool;
The Bowery Boy is bleeding fast
In a red and ragged pool;
And mine Professor gags the wound—
(Which he didn’t learn in school).
. . . . . . . . . .
Nor creed nor sign nor order—
Nor clan nor clique nor class:
Never a mark to brand him
As he chokes in the paddy grass:
Only the tide of Bunker Hill,
That ebbs, but may not pass.

DOBIE ITCH

Tell about the fever
And all y’ tropic ills,
Tell about the cholera camp
Over ’mong the hills;
Tell about the small-pox
Where the bamboos switch,
But close y’ face and let me tell
About the Dobie Itch.

It isn’t erysipelas—
It isn’t nettle-rash;
It isn’t got from eating pork,
Or drinking native trash.
You smear your toes with ointment,
And think you’re getting well,
And then the damn thing comes again
And simply raises hell.

You’ve hiked all day in sun and rain
Through hills and paddy mire,
Abaft the slippery googoos
Who shoot—and then retire:
And now you’ve taken off your shoes
And settled for a rest,
When suddenly your feet they start
To itch like all possessed.

(Better take your socks off
And then see how it goes....
“Ouch! m’ bloody stockin’s
Stickin’ to m’ toes.”)

Scratching, scratching, scratching,
Burning scab and sore,
(“Stop, you fool, you’ll poison ’em!”
Hear your bunkie roar).
Never mind the poison—
Ease the maddening pain,
Till your poor old tired feet
Start to bleed again.

THE SERVICE ARMS

As the Juggernaut slow rolls
Ringing red with reeking tolls,
Crushing out its Hindu souls
In Vishnu’s name:
As the unrelenting tide
Sweeps the weary wreckage wide,
Bidding all men stand aside
Or rue the game:

Meeting front and flank and rear,
Charge on charge with cheer on cheer,
Where the senseless corpses leer
Against the sun:
Sure as fate and faith and sign
I o’erwhelm them—they are mine;
And I pause where weeps the wine
Of battle won.

As the slumbering craters wake,
And the neighboring foot hills shake,
As in shotted flame they break
Athwart the sky:
As the swollen streams of Spring
Meet their river wing and wing,
Till it sweeps a monstrous thing
Where cities die:

With a cold sardonic smile,
At a range of half a mile,
I—I lop them off in style
By six and eights:
As they come—their Country’s best—
Like a roaring, seething crest,
And I knock them Galley West
Where Glory Waits.

As the tidal wave in spate
Batters down the great flood gate
Where the huddled children wait
Behind the doors:
As the eagle in its flight
Sweeps the plain to left and right,
Strewing carnage, wreck and blight
And homeward soars:

As the raging, wild typhoon,
’Neath a white and callous moon,
Lifts the listless low lagoon
Into the sea:
In my tyranny and power
I have swept them where they cower,
I have turned the battle-hour
To the cry of Victory!

PART THREE

OTHER VERSES

SHAH JEHAN

BUILDER OF THE TAJ MAHAL.

They have carried my couch to the window
Up over the river high,
That a Great Mogul may have his wish
Ere he lay him down to die.

And the wish was ever this, and is,
Ere the last least shadows flee,
To gaze at the end o’er the river’s bend
On the shrine that I raised for thee.

And the plans I wrought from the plans they brought,
And I watched it slowly rise,
A vision of snow forever aglow
In the blue of the northern skies.

For I built it of purest marble,
That all the World might see
The depth of thy matchless beauty
And the light that ye were to me.

The silver Jumna broadens—
The day is growing dark,
And only the peacock’s calling
Comes over the rose-rimmed park.

And soon thy sunset marble
Will glow as the amethyst,
And moonlit skies shall make thee rise
A vision of pearly mist.

A vision of light and wonder
For the hordes in the covered wains,
From the snow-peaked north where the tides burst forth
To the Ghauts and the Rajput plains.

From the sapphire lakes in the Kashmir hills,
Whence crystal rivers rise,
To the jungles where the tiger’s lair
Lies bare to the Deccan skies.

And the proud Mahratta chieftains
And the Afghan lords shall see
The tender gleam of thy living dream,
Through all Eternity.

The black is bending lower—
Ah wife—the day-star nears—
And I see you come with calling arms
As ye came in the yester-years.

And the joy is mine that ne’er was mine
By Palace and Peacock Throne—
By marble and gold where the World grows cold
In the seed that It has sown.

More bright than the Rajputana stars
Thine eyes shone out to me—
More gay thy laugh than the rainbow chaff
That lifts from the Southern Sea.

More fair thy hair than any silk
In Delhi’s proud bazaars—
More true thy heart than the tulwar’s start—
Blood-wet in a hundred wars.

More red thy lips than the Flaming Trees
That brighten the Punjab plains—
More soft thy tread than the winds that spread
The last of the summer rains.

No blush of the dawning heavens—
No rose by the garden wall,
May ever seek to match thy cheek—
Oh fairest rose of all.

Above the bending river
The midday sun is gone,
But the glow of thy tomb dispels the gloom
Where doubting shadows yawn.

And the glow of thy tomb shall break the gloom
Through the march of the marching years,
Where, builded and bound from the dome to the ground
It was wrought of a monarch’s tears.

The silver Jumna broadens
Like a moonlit summer sea,
But bank and bower and town and tower
Have bidden farewell to me:

And only the tall white minarets,
And the matchless dome shine through—
The silver Jumna broadens and—
It bears me—love—to you.

THE OMNIPOTENT

The Lord looked down on the nether Earth
He had made so fair and green,
Fertile valleys and snow-capped hills
And the oceans that lie between.

The Lord looked down on Man and Maid,
Through the birth of the crystal air:
And the Lord leaned back in His well-earned rest—
And He knew that the sight was fair.

The eons crept and the eons swept
And His children multiplied,
And ever they lived in simple faith,
And in simple faith they died.

They blessed the earth that gave them birth—
They wept to the midnight star—
And they stood in awe where the tides off-shore
Rose leaping across the bar.

They blessed the earth that gave them birth—
But passed all time and tide,
They blessed their Lord-Creator—
Nor knew Him mystified.

They came and went—the little men—
The men of a primal breed—
And the Lord He gathered them as they lived,
Each in his simple creed.

And the Lord He gathered them as they came—
Ere the Earth had time to cool
And the horde of Cain had clouted the brain
’Neath the lash of a monstrous school.

The Lord looked down on the nether Earth
He had made so fair and green—
Fertile valleys and snow-capped hills
And the oceans that lie between.

And He saw the strife of the thousand sects—
And ever anew they came—
Torture and farce and infamy
Committed in His name.

Figure and form and fetich—
Councils of hate and greed—
Prophet on prophet warring,
Each to his separate need.

Symbol and sign and surplice
And ostentatious prayer,
And the hollow mock of the chanceled dark
Flung back through the raftered air.
. . . . . . . . . .
And the Lord He gazèd wistfully
Through the track of a falling star;
And He turned His sight from the homes of men,
Where the ranting cabals are.

THE OUTBOUND TRAIL

The Outbound Trail—The Outbound Trail—
We hear it calling still:
Coralline bight where the waves churn white—
Ocean and plain and hill:
Jungle and palm—where the starlit calm
The Wanderer’s loves fulfil.

Where the bleak, black blizzards blinding sweep
Across the crumpled floe,
And the Living Light makes white the night
Above the boundless snow,
And the sentinel penguins watch the waste
Where the whale and the walrus go:

Where the phosphor fires flash and flare
Along the bellowing bow,
And the soft salt breeze of the Southern Seas
Is sifting across the prow,
And the glittering Cross in the blue-black sky,
The Watcher of Then and Now:

We’ll lift again the lineless plain
Where the deep-cut rivers run—
And the pallid peaks as the eagle seeks
His crag when the day is done:
And the rose-red glaciers glance and gleam
In the glow of the setting sun.

We’ll go once more to a farther shore—
We’ll track the outbound trail;
Harbor and hill where the World stands still—
Where the strange-rigged fishers sail—
And only the tune of the tasseled fronds,
Like the moan of a distant gale.

We’ll tramp anew the jungle through
Where ferned Pitcairnias rise,
And the softly fanned Tjemaras stand
Green lace against the skies,
And the last red ray of the tropic day
Flickers and flares and dies.

Across the full-swung, shifting seas
There comes a beck’ing gleam,
Strong as the iron hand of Fate—
Sweet as a lover’s dream.
What can bind us—what can keep us—
Who shall tell us nay?
When the Outbound Trail is calling us—
Is calling us away.

THE FOOL

In the first gray dawn of history
A Paleolithic man
Observed an irate mammoth—
Observed how his neighbors ran:
And he sat on a naked boulder
Where the plains stretched out to the sun,
And jowl in hand he frowned and planned
As none before had done.

Next day his neighbors passed him,
And still he sat and thought,
And the next day and the next day,
But never a deed was wrought.
Till the fifth sun saw him flaking
Some flint where the rocks fall free—
And the sixth sun saw him shaping
A shaft from a fallen tree.

Enak and Oonak and Anak
And their children and kith and kin,
They paused where they watched him working,
And they smiled and they raised the chin,
And they tapped their foreheads knowingly—
As you and I have done—
But he—he had never a moment
To mark their mocking fun.

And Enak passed on to bury
His brother the mammoth slew.
And Oonak, to stay his starving,
With his fingers grubbed anew.
And Anak, he thought of his tender spouse
An ichthyosaurus ate—
Because in seeking the nearest tree
She had reached it a trifle late.
. . . . . . . . . .
Around the Council fire,
More beast and ape than man,
The hairy hosts assembled,
And their talk to the crazed one ran.
And they said, “It is best that we kill him
Ere he strangle us in the night,
Or brings on our head the curse of the dead
When the thundering heavens light.

“It is best that we rid our caverns
Of neighbors such as these—
It is best—” but the Council shuddered
At the rustle of parting leaves.
Out of the primal forest
Straight to their midst he strode—
Weathered and gaunt—but they gave no taunt—
As he flung to the ground his load.

They eyed them with suspicion—
The long smooth shafts and lean:
They felt of the thong-bound flint barbs—
They saw that the work was clean.
Like children with a plaything,
When first it is understood,
They leapt to their feet and hurled them—
And they knew that the act was good.

They pictured the mighty mammoth
As the hurtling spear shafts sank,
They pictured the unsuspecting game
Down by the river’s bank;
They pictured their safe-defended homes—
They pictured the fallen foe....
And the Fool they led to the highest seat,
Where the Council fires glow.