Poem - Charles E.W. Bean

Abdul

By Charles E.W. Bean

We’ve drunk the boys who rushed the hills,

The men who stormed the beach,

The sappers and the A.S.C.,

We’ve had a toast for each;

But, before the bowl is cool,

There’s one chap I’d like to mention,

He’s a fellow called Abdul.

We haven’t seen him much of late –

Unless it be his hat,

Bobbing down behind a loophole…

And we hear him wheezing there at nights,

Patrolling through the dark,

With his signals – hoots and chirrups –

Like an early morning lark.

We’ve heard the twigs a-crackling,

As we crouched upon our knees,

And his big, black shape went smashing,

Like a rhino, through the trees.

We’ve seen him flung in, rank on rank,

Across the morning sky;

And we’ve had some pretty shooting,

And – he knows the way to die.

Yes, we’ve seen him dying there in front –

Our own boys died there, too –

With his poor dark eyes a-rolling,

Staring at the hopeless blue;

With his poor maimed arms a-stretching

To the God we both can name…

And it fairly tore our hearts out,

But it’s in the beastly game.

So though your name be black as ink

For murder and rapine,

Carried out in happy concert

With your Christians from the Rhine,

We will judge you, Mr. Abdul,

By the test by which we can –

That with all your breath, in life, in death,

You’ve played the gentleman.