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1896
IN extended observation of the ways and works of man, | |
| From the Four-mile Radius roughly to the Plains of Hindustan: | |
| I have drunk with mixed assemblies, seen the racial ruction rise, | |
| And the men of half Creation damning half Creation’s eyes. | |
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| I have watched them in their tantrums, all that pentecostal crew, | 5 |
| French, Italian, Arab, Spaniard, Dutch and Greek, and Russ and Jew, | |
| Celt and savage, buff and ochre, cream and yellow, mauve and white; | |
| But it never really mattered till the English grew polite; | |
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| Till the men with polished toppers, till the men in long frockcoats, | |
| Till the men who do not duel, till the men who war with votes, | 10 |
| Till the breed that take their pleasures as Saint Lawrence took his grid, | |
| Began to “beg your pardon” and—the knowing croupier hid. | |
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| Then the bandsmen with their fiddles, and the girls that bring the beer, | |
| Felt the psychologic moment, left the lit casino clear; | |
| But the uninstructed alien, from the Teuton to the Gaul, | 15 |
| Was entrapped, once more, my country, by that suave, deceptive drawl. * * * * * | |
| As it was in ancient Suez or ’neath wilder, milder skies, | |
| I “observe with apprehension” when the racial ructions rise; | |
| And with keener apprehension, if I read the times aright, | |
| Hear the old casino order: “Watch your man, but be polite. | 20 |
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| “Keep your temper. Never answer (that was why they spat and swore). | |
| Don’t hit first, but move together (there’s no hurry) to the door. | |
| Back to back, and facing outward while the linguist tells ’em how— | |
| ‘Nous sommes allong ah notre batteau, nous ne voulong pas un row.’” | |
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| So the hard, pent rage ate inward, till some idiot went too far … | 25 |
| “Let ’em have it!” and they had it, and the same was merry war. | |
| Fist, umbrella, cane, decanter, lamp and beer-mug, chair and boot— | |
| Till behind the fleeing legions rose the long, hoarse yell for loot. | |
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| Then the oil-cloth with its numbers, like a banner fluttered free; | |
| Then the grand piano cantered, on three castors, down the quay; | 30 |
| White, and breathing through their nostrils, silent, systematic, swift— | |
| They removed, effaced, abolished all that man could heave or lift. | |
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| Oh, my country, bless the training that from cot to castle runs— | |
| The pitfall of the stranger but the bulwark of thy sons— | |
| Measured speech and ordered action, sluggish soul and unperturbed, | 35 |
| Till we wake our Island-Devil—nowise cool for being curbed! | |
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| When the heir of all the ages “has the honour to remain,” | |
| When he will not hear an insult, though men make it ne’er so plain, | |
| When his lips are schooled to meekness, when his back is bowed to blows— | |
| Well the keen aas-vogels know it—well the waiting jackal knows. | 40 |
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| Build on the flanks of Etna where the sullen smoke-puffs float— | |
| Or bathe in tropic waters where the lean fin dogs the boat— | |
| Cock the gun that is not loaded, cook the frozen dynamite— | |
| But oh, beware my Country, when my Country grows polite! | |
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