The Soldier may forget his sword
       The Sailorman the sea,
     The Mason may forget the Word
       And the Priest his litany: 
     The maid may forget both jewel and gem,
       And the bride her wedding-dress—­
     But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem
       Ere we forget the Press!

     Who once hath stood through the loaded hour
       Ere, roaring like the gale,
     The Harrild and the Hoe devour
       Their league-long paper bale,
     And has lit his pipe in the morning calm
       That follows the midnight stress—­
     He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art
       We call the daily Press.

     Who once hath dealt in the widest game
       That all of a man can play,
     No later love, no larger fame
       Will lure him long away. 
     As the war-horse smelleth the battle afar,
       The entered Soul, no less,
     He saith:  ‘Ha!  Ha!’ where the trumpets are
       And the thunders of the Press.

     Canst thou number the days that we fulfil,
       Or the Times that we bring forth? 
     Canst thou send the lightnings to do thy will,
       And cause them reign on earth? 
     Hast thou given a peacock goodly wings
       To please his foolishness? 
     Sit down at the heart of men and things,
       Companion of the Press!

     The Pope may launch his Interdict,
       The Union its decree,
     But the bubble is blown and the bubble is pricked
       By Us and such as We. 
     Remember the battle and stand aside
       While Thrones and Powers confess
     That King over all the children of pride
       Is the Press—­the Press—­the Press!

In The Presence

(1912)

‘So the matter,’ the Regimental Chaplain concluded, ’was correct; in every way correct.  I am well pleased with Rutton Singh and Attar Singh.  They have gathered the fruit of their lives.’

He folded his arms and sat down on the verandah.  The hot day had ended, and there was a pleasant smell of cooking along the regimental lines, where half-clad men went back and forth with leaf platters and water-goglets.  The Subadar-Major, in extreme undress, sat on a chair, as befitted his rank; the Havildar-Major, his nephew, leaning respectfully against the wall.  The Regiment was at home and at ease in its own quarters in its own district which takes its name from the great Muhammadan saint Mian Mir, revered by Jehangir and beloved by Guru Har Gobind, sixth of the great Sikh Gurus.

‘Quite correct,’ the Regimental Chaplain repeated.

No Sikh contradicts his Regimental Chaplain who expounds to him the Holy Book of the Grunth Sahib and who knows the lives and legends of all the Gurus.

The Subadar-Major bowed his grey head.  The Havildar-Major coughed respectfully to attract attention and to ask leave to speak.  Though he was the Subadar-Major’s nephew, and though his father held twice as much land as his uncle, he knew his place in the scheme of things.  The Subadar-Major shifted one hand with an iron bracelet on the wrist.