THE SONG OF THE BANJO

You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile --
You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp --
You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile,
And play it in an Equatorial swamp.
_I_ travel with the cooking-pots and pails --
_I'm_ sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the pork --
And when the dusty column checks and tails,
You should hear me spur the rear-guard to a walk!
With my "_Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!_"
[Oh, it's any tune that comes into my head!]
So I keep 'em moving forward till they drop;
So I play 'em up to water and to bed.

In the silence of the camp before the fight,
When it's good to make your will and say your prayer,
You can hear my _strumpty-tumpty_ overnight
Explaining ten to one was always fair.
I'm the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,
Of the Patently Impossible and Vain --
And when the Thing that Couldn't has occurred,
Give me time to change my leg and go again.
With my "_Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump!_"
In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled
There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus,
I -- the war-drum of the White Man round the world!

By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,
Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own, --
'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,
In the silence of the herder's hut alone --
In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,
Hear me babble what the weakest won't confess --
I am Memory and Torment -- I am Town!
I am all that ever went with evening dress!
With my "_Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!_"
[So the lights -- the London Lights -- grow near and plain!]
So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh,
Till I bring my broken rankers home again.

In desire of many marvels over sea,
Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,
I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay
Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.
He is blooded to the open and the sky,
He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,
He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,
Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.
With my "_Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!_"
[O the green that thunders aft along the deck!]
Are you sick o' towns and men? You must sign and sail again,
For it's "Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!"

Through the gorge