"We've fought with many men acrost the seas,

And some of 'em was brave, an' some was not."

(So Mister Kipling says. His 'ealth, boys, please!

'E doesn't give us Tommies Tommy-rot.)

We didn't think you over-full of pluck,

When you scuttled from our baynicks like wild 'orses;

But you're mendin', an' 'ere's wishing of you luck!

Wich you're proving an addition to our forces.

So 'ere's to you, though 'tis true that at El Teb you cut and ran;

You're improvin' from a scuttler to a first-class fighting man;

You can 'old your own at present when the bullets hiss and buzz,

And in time you may be equal to a round with Fuzzy-Wuz!

You've been lammed and licked sheer out of go an' grit,

From the times of Pharaoh down to the Khe-dive;

Till you 'ardly feel yerself one bloomin' bit,

And I almost wonder you are left alive.

But we've got you out of a good deal of that,

Sir Evelyn and the rest of us. You foller;

And you'll fight yer weight in (Soudanese) wild cat

One day, nor let the Fuzzies knock you oller.

Then 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah, and the missis and the kid!

When you stand a Dervish devil-rush, and do as you are bid,

You'll just make a Tommy Atkins of a quiet Coptic sort;

And I shouldn't wonder then, mate, if the Fuzzies see some sport.

Some would like us lads to clear out! Wot say you?

We don't tumble to the Parties and their fakes;

But I guess we don't mean scuttle. If we do,

We shall make the bloomingest o' black mistakes;

With the 'owling Dervishes you've stood a brush,

With a baynick you can cross a shovel-spear;

But leave yer to the French, and Fuzzy's rush?

That won't be a 'ealthy game for many a year.

So 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah! May you cut and run no more,

Though the 'acking, 'owling, 'ayrick-'eaded niggers rush and roar,

We back you, 'elp you, train you, and to make the bargain fair,

We won't leave you—yet—to Fuz-Wuz—him as broke a British Square.

You ain't no "thin red" 'eroes, no, not yet,

But a patient, docile, plucky, "thin brown line."

May be useful in its way, my boy, you bet!

All good fighters may shake fists, you know—'ere's mine!

You're a daisy, you're a dasher, you're a dab!

I'll fight with you, or join you on a spree

Let the skulkers and the scuttlers stow their gab,

Tommy Atkins drinks your 'ealth with three times three!

So 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah! 'E who funked the 'ot Soudan,

And the furious Fuzzy-Wuzzies, grows a first-class fighting-man:

An' 'ere's to you, my fine Fellah, coffee 'ide and inky hair

May yet shoulder stand to shoulder with me in a British Square!

Yes, life is hard. Our fellows judge us coldly;

We mostly dwell in fog, and dance in fetters;

But sweeter far to face oblivion boldly,

Than front posterity through a Life and Letters.

That Memory's the Mother of the Muses,

We're told. Alas! it must have been the Furies!

Mnemosyne her privilege abuses,—

Nothing from her distorting glass secure is.

Life is a Sphinx: folk cannot solve her riddles,

So they've recourse to spiteful taradiddles,

Which they dub "Reminiscences." Kind fate,

From, the fool's Memory preserve the Great!

While Fairyland and Fairy tales

'Neath flaunting pageants fall,

And over Pantomime prevails

The Muse of Music Hall.

Still echoes, wafted through the din,

A lilt of one old tune—

Of Columbine and Harlequin,

Of Clown and Pantaloon.

Their faded frolics, tarnished show

Are shadows faint and rude

Of mimes who centuries ago

Joked, caramboled and wooed,

Of masques Venetian, Florentine,

Of moyen-age renown—

Of Harlequin and Columbine,

Of Pantaloon and Clown.

Not horseplay rough, the Saraband

They danced in vanished years,

But Love and Satire hand-in-hand,

And laughter linked with tears,

And Youth equipped his dove to win,

And Age, who grudged the boon;—

Sweet Columbine, bold Harlequin,

Cross Clown and Pantaloon.

Our Children-Critics now who deign

To greet this honoured jest,

Acclaiming, "Here we are again!"

With patronising zest,

They mark no soft Italian moon

Which once was wont to shine

On Harlequin and Pantaloon,

And Clown and Columbine!

But, spangled pair of lovers true,

And, whitened schemers twain,

The scholar hears in each of you

A note of that quatrain;

The dim Renaissance seems to spin

Around your satin shoon,

Fair Columbine, feat Harlequin,

Sly Clown and Pantaloon!