Once there was The People-Terror gave it birth; "OUR FATHERS OF OLD" EXCELLENT herbs had our fathers of old- Alexanders and Marigold, Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane. (Almost singing themselves they run) Anything green that grew out of the mould Wonderful tales had our fathers of old Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars— 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, Errors were made by our fathers of old. Yet when the sickness was sore in the land, 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. If it be certain, as Galen says— And sage Hippocrates holds as much- Then, be good to us, herbs below! Down from your heaven or up from your mould, OUR THE HERITAGE UR Fathers in a wondrous age, Ensured to us an heritage, And doubted not at all That we, the children of their heart, In later time should play like part A thousand years they steadfast built, The Walls that were a world's despair, Yet in their midmost pride they knew, Not all from these their strength they drew, 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, Refraining e'en from lawful things, Stark toil and sternest care. 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, Make we likewise their sacrifice, CHAPTER HEADINGS BEAST AND MAN IN INDIA1 THEY killed a child to please the Gods And I have bled in that Babe's stead I bear the sins of sinful men They drive me forth to Heaven's wrath I am the meat of sacrifice, The ransom of man's guilt, For they give my life to the altar-knife The Goat. Between the waving tufts of jungle-grass, Great is the sword and mighty is the pen, 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 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, To rouse the herd-bull from his keep, The wild boar from his lair! Pigs and Buffaloes. The beasts are very wise, |