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. 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! KITCHENER’S SCHOOL [Page 113] _Being a translation of the song that was made by a Mohammedan schoolmaster of Bengal Infantry (some time on service at Suakim) when he heard that the Sirdar was taking money from the English to build a Madrissa for Hubshees--or a college for the Sudanese, 1898._ Oh Hubshee, carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast! This is the message of Kitchener who did not break you in jest. It was permitted to him to fulfil the long-appointed years; Reaching the end ordained of old over your dead Emirs. He stamped only before your walls, and the Tomb ye knew was dust: He gathered up under his armpits all the swords of your trust: He set a guard on your granaries, securing the weak from the strong: He said:--‘Go work the waterwheels that were abolished so long.’ He said:--‘Go safely, being abased. I have accomplished my vow.’ That was the mercy of Kitchener. Cometh his madness now! He does not desire as ye desire, nor devise as ye devise: He is preparing a second host--an army to make you wise. Not at the mouth of his clean-lipped guns shall ye learn his name again, But letter by letter, from Kaf to Kaf, at the mouth of his chosen men. He has gone back to his own city, not seeking presents or bribes, But openly asking the English for money to buy you Hakims and scribes. Knowing that ye are forfeit by battle and have no right to live, He begs for money to bring you learning--and all the English give. It is their treasure--it is their pleasure--thus are their hearts inclined: For Allah created the English mad--the maddest of all mankind! They do not consider the Meaning of Things; they consult not creed nor clan. Behold, they clap the slave on the back, and behold, he ariseth a man! They terribly carpet the earth with dead, and before their cannon cool, They walk unarmed by twos and threes to call the living to school. How is this reason (which is their reason) to judge a scholar’s worth, By casting a ball at three straight sticks and defending the same with a fourth? But this they do (which is doubtless a spell) and other matters more strange, Until, by the operation of years, the hearts of their scholars change: