Orange peel
THE COLONEL stopped, and glared around,
Then, pointing sternly to the ground,
‘What does this mean?’ demanded he,
‘A piece of orange peel I see!’
The Major called the Captain then,
And said, ‘By Gad! Your fault again!
Now what the blazes do you mean
By letting all this filth be seen?’
The Captain sniffed, but took the snub,
Then, calling to the junior Sub.,
Observed, ‘Look here, what’s all this mess?
It’s fit for pigs, sir, nothing less!’
The junior Sub. blushed crimson red,
Then, to the Sergeant-major, said,
‘I’m quite fed up, and all that rot!
I mean to say a pigsty! What?’
The Sergeant-major, filled with rage,
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poem by John Milton Hayes
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You know what I mean
I’VE noticed this happen, when everything is black,
When I’m down below zero and cannot get back,
When I feel like a sort of a National Debt,
That will go on for ages and never be met,
When my will is all bagged at the knees and dead beat,
It is then, don’t you know, that., I’m certain to meet
With some prodigal lifeless dejected old bean,
Who is worse off than I you know what I mean.
Someone or other who’s entered the race,
With a sense of intention but can’t stay the pace,
He tells all his troubles and heaven knows what,
Talks about Fate and all that sort of rot,
And it makes all my own little troubles look small,
Till I find I’ve no cause to be worried at all,
And it doesn’t seem cricket to grouse when I’ve seen,
That he’s worse off than I you know what I mean.
No matter how hard one may fall down the hill,
There’s always a somebody lower down still,
And it makes you feel well, it seems mean to repeat,
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poem by John Milton Hayes
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The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God
There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.
He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.
He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.
He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.
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poem by John Milton Hayes
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Merchandise
MERCHANDISE! Merchandise! Tortoiseshell, spices,
Carpets and Indigo sent o’er the highseas;
Mothero’Pearl from the Solomon Isles
Brought by a brigantine ten thousand miles.
Rubber from Zanzibar, tea from NangPo,
Copra from Haiti, and wine from Bordeaux;
Ships, with topgallants and royals unfurled,
Are bringing in freights from the ends of the world
Crazy old windjammers, manned by Malays,
With ratridden bulkheads and creaking old stays,
Reeking of bilge and of paint and of pitch
That’s how these oceangirt islands grew rich:
And tramps, heavy laden, and liners untold
Will lease a new life to a nation grown old.
Merchandise! Merchandise! England was made
By her Men and her Ships and her OVERSEAS TRADE.
Widen your harbours, your docks and your quays,
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poem by John Milton Hayes
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My old football
YOU can keep your antique silver and your statuettes of bronze,
Your curios and tapestries so fine,
But of all your treasures rare there is nothing to compare
With this patched up, wornout football pal o’ mine.
Just a patchedup wornout football, yet how it clings!
I live again my happier days in thoughts that football brings.
It’s got a mouth, it’s got a tongue,
And oft when we’re alone I fancy that it speaks
To me of golden youth that’s flown.
It calls to mind our meeting,
’Twas a present from the Dad.
I kicked it yet I worshipped it,
How strange a priest it had!
And yet it jumped with pleasure
When I punched it might and main:
And when it had the dumps
It got blown up and punched again.
It’s lived its life;
It’s played the game;
Its had its rise and fall,
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poem by John Milton Hayes
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The Dream Ring of the Desert
THE MERCHANT Abu Khan shunned the customs of his race,
And sought the cultured wisdom of the West.
His daughter fair Leola had the desert’s supple grace,
With an English education of the best.
The suitors for her hand were as grains of desert sand
But the merchant bade the Arab swarm begone:
And he swore a mighty oath, she should only make troth
With an Englishman an Englishman or none!
The chieftain Ben Kamir, tho’ rejected, stayed to plead,
But Abu Khan replied, ‘Thy suit is vain.
I cast aside my kinsmen and I scorn the prophet’s creed;
So get thee to thy tents, across the plain.’
‘Enough,’ the Chief replied, ‘Thine eyes are blind with pride,
But Allah hears my prayers and guides my star,
With patience I shall wait till I am called by Fate,
And then I shall return to Akabar.’
The right man came at last in the month of Ramadhan,
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poem by John Milton Hayes
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The Whitest Man I Know
HE’S acruisin’ in a pearler with a dirty nigger crew,
Abuyin’ pearls and copra for a stingy Spanish Jew,
And his face is tann’d like leather ’neath a blazin’ tropic Sun,
And he’s workin’ out a penance for the things he hasn’t done.
Round the Solomons he runs, tradin’ beads and castoff guns,
Buyin’ pearls from grinnin’ niggers, loadin copra by the ton;
And he’ll bargain and he’ll smile, but he’s thinkin’ all the while
Of the penance that he’s workin’ out for sins he hasn’t done.
We’d been round the Horn together, and I’d come to know his worth;
The greatest friend I’d ever had, the whitest man on earth.
He’d pull’d me out of many a scrape, he’d risk’d his life for me,
And side by side, for many a year, we’d rough’d it on the sea;
But a woman came between us; she was beautiful as Venus,
And she set her cap at him until she hook’d him unawares:
And I sailed off on my own
Leavin’ him and her alone:
Sign’d aboard a tramp for ’Frisco, leavin’ them in Bu’nos Ayres.
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poem by John Milton Hayes
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