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Once there was The People-Terror gave it birth;
Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth.
Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, O ye slain!
Once there was The People-it shall never be again!


EXCELLENT herbs had our fathers of old-
Excellent herbs to ease their pain-
Alexanders and Marigold,

Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane.
Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue,

(Almost singing themselves they run) Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-youCowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun.

Anything green that grew out of the mould
Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old.

Wonderful tales had our fathers of old

Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars-
The Sun was Lord of the Marigold,

Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars.
Pat as a sum in division it goes-

(Every herb had a planet bespoke)— Who but Venus should govern the Rose? Who but Jupiter own the Oak?

Simply and gravely the facts are told
In the wonderful books of our fathers of old.

Wonderful little, when all is said,
Wonderful little our fathers knew.

Half their remedies cured you dead—
Most of their teaching was quite untrue-

"Look at the stars when a patient is ill,

(Dirt has nothing to do with disease,)
Bleed and blister as much as you will,
Blister and bleed him as oft as you please."
Whence enormous and manifold
Errors were made by our fathers of old.

Yet when the sickness was sore in the land,
And neither planets nor herbs assuaged,
They took their lives in their lancet-hand

And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged! Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door(Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled,) Excellent courage our fathers bore

Excellent heart had our fathers of old.

None too learned, but nobly bold
Into the fight went our fathers of old.

If it be certain, as Galen says

And sage Hippocrates holds as much— "That those afflicted by doubts and dismays

Are mightily helped by a dead man's touch," Then, be good to us, stars above!

Then, be good to us, herbs below!
We are afflicted by what we can prove,
We are distracted by what we know—
So-ah, so!

from your

Down from your heaven or up
Send us the hearts of our fathers of old!


UR Fathers in a wondrous age,
Ere yet the Earth was small,
Ensured to us an heritage,
And doubted not at all


That we, the children of their heart,
Which then did beat so high,
In later time should play like part
For our posterity.

A thousand years they steadfast built,
To 'vantage us and ours,

The Walls that were a world's despair,
The sea-constraining Towers:

Yet in their midmost pride they knew,
And unto Kings made known,

Not all from these their strength they drew,
Their faith from brass or stone.

Youth's passion, manhood's fierce intent, With age's judgment wise,

They spent, and counted not they spent,
At daily sacrifice.

Not lambs alone nor purchased doves
Or tithe of trader's gold-

Their lives most dear, their dearer loves,
They offered up of old.

Refraining e'en from lawful things,
They bowed the neck to bear
The unadorned yoke that brings
Stark toil and sternest care.
Wherefore through them is Freedom sure;
Wherefore through them we stand,
From all but sloth and pride secure,
In a delightsome land.

Then, fretful, murmur not they gave
So great a charge to keep,

Nor dream that awestruck Time shall save
Their labour while we sleep.

Dear-bought and clear, a thousand year,
Our fathers' title runs.
Make we likewise their sacrifice,
Defrauding not our sons.



THEY killed a child to please the Gods
In earth's young penitence,

And I have bled in that Babe's stead
Because of innocence.

I bear the sins of sinful men

That have no sin of my own,
They drive me forth to Heaven's wrath
Unpastured and alone.

I am the meat of sacrifice,

The ransom of man's guilt,
For they give my life to the altar-knife
Wherever shrine is built.

The Goat.

Between the waving tufts of jungle-grass,
Up from the river as the twilight falls,
Across the dust-beclouded plain they pass
On to the village walls.

Great is the sword and mighty is the
But over all the labouring ploughman's blade-
For on its oxen and its husbandmen
An Empire's strength is laid.

1 By John Lockwood Kipling.

The Oxen.

The torn boughs trailing o'er the tusks aslant,
The saplings reeling in the path he trod,
Declare his might-our lord the Elephant,
Chief of the ways of God.

The black bulk heaving where the oxen pant, The bowed head toiling where the guns careen, Declare our might-our slave the Elephant And servant of the Queen.

The Elephant.

Dark children of the mere and marsh,
Wallow and waste and lea,
Outcaste they wait at the village gate
With folk of low degree.

Their pasture is in no man's land,
Their food the cattle's scorn,
Their rest is mire and their desire
The thicket and the thorn.

But woe to those that break their sleep,
And woe to those that dare

To rouse the herd-bull from his keep,
The wild boar from his lair!

Pigs and Buffaloes.

The beasts are very wise,
Their mouths are clean of lies,
They talk one to the other,
Bullock to bullock's brother
Resting after their labours,
Each in stall with his neighbours.
But man with goad and whip,
Breaks up their fellowship,

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