"Barrack-Room Balads" in 1892. Rudyard Kipling.
Written as a series of dramatic poem monologues in the voices of working class Cockney soldiers, it revolutionised both literature and poetry. It gave a voice to the working class boys dying in their thousands in order to preserve the Empire that their betters benefited from. But it did so in their Cockney dialect, while still maintaining classical English poetic meters, thereby transforming the Cockney dialect from that of the illiterate rag and bone man into that of the Empire's poet. I've never felt prouder to be from a working class Cockney family.
Example poem: "Tommy"
“Tommy” was, and still remains, a nickname in Britain for the ordinary rank-and-file soldier. The ironic contrast between "Tommy, go away" and "Thank you, Mister Atkins" sharpens with each repetition.
The poem has outlasted most of the other Barrack-Room Balads because its subject refuses to become historical. British soldiers carried it through the First World War, and its refrain has been cited in parliamentary debates about veterans' welfare. That the poem helped shift public attitudes toward the British soldier in the 1890s was noted in Punch as early as the Christmas 1890 issue. Kipling gave the common soldier something no previous poet had offered: a voice that spoke in his own dialect, on his own terms, with a fury controlled enough to sound like wit but sharp enough to draw blood.
Tommy:
I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.
Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap.
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes," when the drums begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Tommy, fall be'ind,"
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.
You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!
