me, does he pass beyond the limits of poetic phases and fashions, and attain the goal of desire. Other poems have their obvious advantages over 'Mandalay,' but no other, unless I am much mistaken, can challenge criticism on all its points and challenge it with such success as this. I have given no sample of his powerful impressionist doggerel. 'Fuzzy-Wuzzy' and 'Screw-Guns,' 'Gunga Din' and 'Oonts,' 'Snarley-Yow' and 'The Young British Soldier,' are in everybody's mouth. Let me give part of a poem where, for once, his song is instinct with the lyral cry, with the note of 'the tears of things,' the eternal voice of human regret:
'By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
''Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green.
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat, jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
