A Ballad (In the manner of Rudyard Kipling)
(In the manner of R-dy-rd K-pl-ng)
As I was walkin' the jungle round, a-klllin' of tigers an' time,
I seed a kind of an author man, a writin' a rousin' rhyme;
'E was writin' a mile a minute an' more, an' I sez to 'im: "Oo are you?"
Sez 'e, "I'm a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!"
An' 'is poem began at Ipsahan an' ended In Kalamazoo;
It 'ad army in it, an' navy in it, an' jungle sprinkled through—
For 'e was a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!
An' after I met him all over the world, a doin' of things a host;
'E 'ad one foot planted in Burmah, an' one on the Gloucester coast;
'E's 'alf a sailor and 'alf a whaler, 'e's captain, cook and crew.
But most a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!
'E's often Scot an' 'e's often not, but 'is work is never through,
For 'e laughs at blame, an' 'e writes for fame, an' a bit of revenue—
Bein' a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!
'E'll take you up to the Arctic zone, 'e'll take you down to the Nile,
'E'll give you a barrack ballad in the Tommy Atkins style,
Or 'e'll sing you a Deepsea Chantey as the bloomin' bo'suns do—
For 'e's a poet—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor, too!
An' there isn't no room for others, an' there's nothin' left to do;
'E 'as sailed the main from the 'Orn to Spain, 'e 'as trampled the jungle through,
An' written up all there is to write—soldier an' sailor, too!
There are manners an' manners of writin', but 'is is the proper way,
An' it ain't so hard to be a bard if you 'll imitate Rudyard K.;
But sea an' shore an' peace an' war, an' everything else in view—
'E 'as gobbled the lot!—'er majesty's poet—soldier an sailor, too.
'E's not content with 'is Indian 'ome, 'e's looking for regions new,
In another year 'e 'll 'ave swept 'em clear, an' what 'll the rest of us do?
'E's crowdin' us out!—'er majesty's poet—soldier an' sailor too!