Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.

Half-ballad of Waterval

(Non-commissioned Officers in Charge of Prisoners)

WHEN by the labour of my ’ands

I’ve ’elped to pack a transport tight

With prisoners for foreign lands,

I ain’t transported with delight.

I know it’s only just an’ right,

But yet it somehow sickens me,

For I ’ave learned at Waterval

The meanin’ of captivity.

Be’ind the pegged barb-wire strands,

Beneath the tall electric light,

We used to walk in bare-’ead bands,

Explainin’ ’ow we lost our fight;

An’ that is what they’ll do to-night

Upon the steamer out at sea,

If I ’ave learned at Waterval

The meanin’ of captivity.

They’ll never know the shame that brands—

Black shame no livin’ down makes white—

The mockin’ from the sentry-stands,

The women’s laugh, the gaoler’s spite.

We are too bloomin’-much polite,

But that is ’ow I’d ’ave us be …

Since I ’ave learned at Waterval

The meanin’ of captivity.

They’ll get those draggin’ days all right,

Spent as a foreigner commands,

An’ ’orrors of the locked-up night,

With ’Ell’s own thinkin’ on their ’ands.

I’d give the gold o’ twenty Rands

(If it was mine) to set ’em free

For I ’ave learned at Waterval

The meanin’ of captivity!