A Consecration

A Consecration


Not of the princes and prelates with periwigged charioteers
Riding triumphantly laureled to lap the fat of the years, -
Rather the scorned - the rejected - the men hemmed in with the

The men of the tattered battalion which fights till it dies,
Dazed with the dust of the battle, the din and the cries.
The men with the broken heads and the blood running into their

Not the bemedaled Commander, beloved of the throne,
Riding cock-horse to parade when the bugles are blown,
But the lads who carried the koppie and cannot be known.
Not the ruler for me, but the ranker, the tramp of the road,
The slave with the sack on his shoulders pricked on with the
The man with too weighty a burden, too weary a load.

The sailor, the stoker of steamers, the man with the clout,
The chantyman bent at the halliards I putting a tune to
The drowsy man at the wheel and the tired look-out

Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth,
The portly presence of potentates goodly in girth; -
Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and the scum of the

Theirs be the music, the color, the glory, the gold;
Mine be a handful of ashes, a mouthful of mold.
Of the maimed, of the halt and the blind in the rain and
the cold -
Of these shall my songs be fashioned, my tales be told.