Kipling

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

This selection by Peter Washington first published in
Everyman’s Library, 2007
Copyright © 2007 by Everyman’s Library

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York. Published in the United Kingdom by Everyman’s Library, Northburgh House, 10 Northburgh Street, London EC1V 0AT. Distributed by Random House (UK) Ltd.

US website: www.randomhouse.com/everymans

eBook ISBN: 978-0-307-80445-7
Hardcover ISBN: 978-0-307-26711-5

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

v3.1

Cover

Title Page

‘When ’omer smote ’is bloomin’ lyre’

General Summary

The Undertaker’s Horse

Arithmetic on the Frontier

When Earth’s Last Picture is Painted

The Law of the Jungle

Road-Song of the Bandar-Log

The White Man’s Burden

A School Song

The Two-Sided Man

Bridge-Guard in the Karoo

Harp Song of the Dane Women

Song of the Wise Children

The Rabbi’s Song

A Charm

Cold Iron

The Way Through the Woods

‘Cities and Thrones and Powers’

If –

‘Our fathers of old’

The Female of the Species

The Roman Centurion’s Song

Dane-Geld

The Glory of the Garden

‘For all we have and are’

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

‘WHEN ’OMER SMOTE ’IS BLOOMIN’ LYRE’

When ’omer smote ’is bloomin’ lyre,

He’d ’eard men sing by land an’ sea;

An’ what he thought ’e might require,

’E went an’ took – the same as me.

The market-girls an’ fishermen,

The shepherds an’ the sailors, too,

They ’eard old songs turn up again,

But kep’ it quiet – same as you!

They knew ’e stole; ’e knew they knowed.

They didn’t tell, nor make a fuss,

But winked at ’Omer down the road,

An’ ’e winked back – the same as us!

GENERAL SUMMARY

We are very slightly changed

From the semi-apes who ranged

India’s prehistoric clay;

He that drew the longest bow

Ran his brother down, you know,

As we run men down to-day.

‘Dowb’, the first of all his race,

Met the Mammoth face to face

On the lake or in the cave:

Stole the steadiest canoe,

Ate the quarry others slew,

Died – and took the finest grave.

When they scratched the reindeer-bone,

Some one made the sketch his own,

Filched it from the artist – then,

Even in those early days,

Won a simple Viceroy’s praise

Through the toil of other men.

Ere they hewed the Sphinx’s visage

Favouritism governed kissage,

Even as it does in this age.

Who shall doubt the ‘secret hid’

Under Cheops’ pyramid

Was that the contractor did

Cheops out of several millions?

Or that Joseph’s sudden rise

To Comptroller of Supplies

Was a fraud of monstrous size

On King Pharaoh’s swart Civilians?

Thus, the artless songs I sing

Do not deal with anything

New or never said before.

As it was in the beginning

Is to-day official sinning,

And shall be for evermore.

THE UNDERTAKER’S HORSE

‘To-tschin-shu is condemned to death. How can he drink tea with the Executioner?’ – Japanese Proverb

The eldest son bestrides him,

And the pretty daughter rides him,

And I meet him oft o’ mornings on the Course;

And there kindles in my bosom

An emotion chill and gruesome

As I canter past the Undertaker’s Horse.

Neither shies he nor is restive,

But a hideously suggestive

Trot, professional and placid, he affects;

And the cadence of his hoof-beats

To my mind the grim reproof beats: –

‘Mend your pace, my friend. I’m coming –

Who’s the next?’

Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen,

I have watched the strongest go – men

Of pith and might and muscle – at your heels,

Down the plaintain-bordered highway,

(Heaven send it ne’er be my way!)

In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.

Answer, sombre beast and dreary,

Where is Brown, the young, the cheery?

Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force?

You were at that last dread dak

We must cover at a walk,

Bring them back to me, O Undertaker’s Horse!

With your mane unhogged and flowing,

And your curious way of going,

And that businesslike black crimping of your tail,

E’en with Beauty on your back, Sir,

Pacing as a lady’s hack, Sir,

What wonder when I meet you I turn pale?

It may be you wait your time, Beast,

Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast –

Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the glass –

Follow after with the others,

Where some dusky heathen smothers

Us with marigolds in lieu of English grass.

Or, perchance, in years to follow,

I shall watch your plump sides hollow,

See Carnifex (gone lame) became a corse –

See old age at last o’erpower you,

And the Station Pack devour you,

I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker’s Horse!

But to insult, jibe, and quest, I’ve

Still the hideously suggestive

Trot that hammers out the grim and warning text,

And I hear it hard behind me

In what place soe’er I find me: –

‘ ’Sure to catch you soon or later. Who’s the next?’

THE STORY OF URIAH

‘Now there were two men in one city;

the one rich, and the other poor.’

Jack Barrett went to Quetta

Because they told him to.

He left his wife at Simla

On three-fourths his monthly screw.

Jack Barrett died at Quetta

Ere the next month’s pay he drew.

Jack Barrett went to Quetta.

He didn’t understand

The reason of his transfer

From the pleasant mountain-land.

The reason was September,

And it killed him out of hand.

Jack Barrett went to Quetta

And there gave up the ghost,

Attempting two men’s duty

In that very healthy post;

And Mrs Barrett mourned for him

Five lively months at most.

Jack Barrett’s bones at Quetta

Enjoy profound repose;

But I shouldn’t be astonished

If now his spirit knows

The reason for his transfer

From the Himalayan snows.

And, when the Last Great Bugle Call

Adown the Hurnai throbs,

And the last grim joke is entered

In the big black Book of Jobs,

And Quetta graveyards give again

Their victims to the air,

I shouldn’t like to be the man

Who sent Jack Barrett there.

PUBLIC WASTE

Walpole talks of ‘a man and his price’.

List to a ditty queer –

The sale of a Deputy-Acting-Vice-

Resident-Engineer,

Bought like a bullock, hoof and hide

By the Little Tin Gods on the Mountain Side.

By the Laws of the Family Circle ’tis written in letters

of brass

That only a Colonel from Chatham can manage the

Railways of State,

Because of the gold on his breeks, and the subjects

wherein he must pass;

Because in all matters that deal not with Railways his

knowledge is great.

Now Exeter Battleby Tring had laboured from

boyhood to eld

On the Lines of the East and the West, eke of the

North and South;

Many lines had he built and surveyed – important the

posts which he held;

And the Lords of the Iron Horse were dumb when he

opened his mouth.

Black as the raven his garb, and his heresies jettier still –

Hinting that Railways required lifetimes of study and

knowledge –

Never clanked sword by his side – Vauban he knew

not nor drill –

Nor was his name on the list of the men who had

passed through the ‘College’.

Wherefore the Little Tin Gods harried their little

tin souls,

Seeing he came not from Chatham, jingled no spurs at

his heels,

Knowing that, nevertheless, was he first on the

Government rolls

For the billet of ‘Railway Instructor to little Tin Gods

on Wheels’.

Letters not seldom they wrote him, ‘having the

honour to state’,

It would be better for all men if he were laid on

the shelf.

Much would accrue to his bank-book, an he consented

to wait

Until the Little Tin Gods built him a berth for himself,

‘Special, well paid, and exempt from the Law of the

Fifty and Five,

Even to Ninety and Nine’ – these were the terms of

the pact:

Thus did the Little Tin Gods (long may Their

Highness thrive!)

Silence his mouth with rupees, keeping their

Circle intact;

Appointing a Colonel from Chatham who managed

the Bhamo State Line

(The one which was one mile and one furlong –

a guaranteed twenty-inch gauge),

So Exeter Battleby Tring consented his claims

to resign,

And died, on four thousand a month, in the ninetieth

year of his age!

THE LOVERS’ LITANY

Eyes of grey – a sodden quay,

Driving rain and falling tears,

As the steamer wears to sea

In a parting storm of cheers.

Sing, for Faith and Hope are high –

None so true as you and I –

Sing the Lovers’ Litany: –

‘Love like ours can never die!’

Eyes of black – a throbbing keel,

Milky foam to left and right;

Whispered converse near the wheel

In the brilliant tropic night.

Cross that rules the southern Sky!

Stars that sweep, and wheel and fly

Hear the Lovers’ Litany: –

‘Love like ours can never die!’

Eyes of brown – a dusty plain

Split and parched with heat of June.

Flying hoof and tightened rein,

Hearts that beat the old old tune.

Side by side the horses fly,

Frame we now the old reply

Of the Lovers’ Litany: –

‘Love like ours can never die!’

Eyes of blue – the Simla Hills

Silvered with the moonlight hoar;

Pleading of the waltz that thrills,

Dies and echoes round Benmore.

‘Mabel’, ‘Officers’, ‘Good-bye’,

Glamour, wine and witchery –

On my soul’s sincerity,

‘Love like ours can never die!’

Maidens, of your charity,

Pity my most luckless state.

Four times Cupid’s debtor I –

Bankrupt in quadruplicate.

Yet, despite this evil case,

An a maiden showed me grace,

Four-and-forty times would I

Sing the Lovers’ Litany: –

‘Love like ours can never die!’

CHRISTMAS IN INDIA

Dim dawn behind the tamarisks – the sky is

saffron-yellow –

As the women in the village grind the corn,

And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling to

his fellow

That the Day, the staring Eastern Day, is born.

O the white dust on the highway! O the stenches

in the byway!

O the clammy fog that hovers over earth!

And at Home they’re making merry ’neath the white

and scarlet berry –

What part have India’s exiles in their mirth?

Full day behind the tamarisks – the sky is blue

and staring –

As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,

And they bear One o’er the field-path, who is past all

hope or caring,

To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.

Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a

brother lowly –

Call on Rama – he may hear, perhaps, your voice!

With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal

to other altars,

And to-day we bid ‘good Christian men rejoice!’

High noon behind the tamarisks – the sun is hot

above us –

As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.

They will drink our healths at dinner – those who tell

us how they love us,

And forget us till another year be gone!

O the toil that knows no breaking! O the

Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!

O the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!

Youth was cheap – wherefore we sold it. Gold

was good – we hoped to hold it.

And to-day we know the fulness of our gain!

Grey dusk behind the tamarisks – the parrots fly

together –

As the Sun is sinking slowly over Home;

And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a

lifelong tether

That drags us back howe’er so far we roam.

Hard her service, poor her payment – she in

ancient, tattered raiment –

India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.

If a year of life be lent her, if her temple’s shrine

we enter,

The door is shut – we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks – the owls begin

their chorus –

As the conches from the temple scream and bray,

With the fruitless years behind us and the hopeless

years before us,

Let us honour, O my brothers, Christmas Day!

Call a truce, then, to our labours – let us feast

with friends and neighbours,

And be merry as the custom of our caste;

For, if ‘faint and forced the laughter’, and if

sadness follow after,

We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

THE BETROTHED

‘You must choose between me and your cigar’ –

Breach of Promise Case, circa 1885

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,

For things are running crossways, and Maggie and

I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas – we fought o’er a

good cheroot,

And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box – let me consider a space;

In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on

Maggie’s face.

Maggie is pretty to look at – Maggie’s a loving lass,

But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of

loves must pass.

There’s peace in a Laranaga, there’s calm in a

Henry Clay;

But the best cigar in an hour is finished and

thrown away –

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe

and brown –

But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o’ the talk

o’ the town!

Maggie, my wife at fifty – grey and dour and old –

With never another Maggie to purchase for love

or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the

Days that Are,

And Love’s torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a

dead cigar –

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in

your pocket –

With never a new one to light tho’ it’s charred and

black to the socket!

Open the old cigar-box – let me consider a while.

Here is a mild Manilla – there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion – bondage bought with

a ring,

Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent – comforters true

and tried,

And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,

Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my

eyelids close,

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,

With only a Suttee’s passion – to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent

and dead,

Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish

Main,

When they hear that my harem is empty will send me

my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their

mouths withal,

So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the

showers fall.

I will scent ’em with best vanilla, with tea will

I temper their hides,

And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read

the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my

choice between

The wee little whimpering Love and the great god

Nick o’ Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a

twelvemonth clear,

But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of

seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the

cheery light

Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure

and Work and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and

I must prove,

But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o’-the-

Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me

bogged in the mire?

Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the

fitful fire?

Open the old cigar-box – let me consider anew –

Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should

abandon you?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;

And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is

a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba – I hold to my first-sworn vows.

If Maggie will have no rival, I’ll have no Maggie

for Spouse!

THE WINNERS

What is the moral? Who rides may read.

When the night is thick and the tracks are blind

A friend at a pinch is a friend indeed,

But a fool to wait for the laggard behind.

Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,

He travels the fastest who travels alone.

White hands cling to the tightened rein,

Slipping the spur from the booted heel,

Tenderest voices cry ‘Turn again!’

Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel.

High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone –

He travels the fastest who travels alone.

One may fall but he falls by himself –

Falls by himself with himself to blame.

One may attain and to him is pelf –

Loot of the city in Gold or Fame.

Plunder of earth shall be all his own

Who travels the fastest and travels alone.

Wherefore the more ye be holpen and stayed –

Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil,

Sing the heretical song I have made –

His be the labour and yours be the spoil.

Win by his aid and the aid disown –

He travels the fastest who travels alone!

DANNY DEEVER

‘What are the bugles blowin’ for?’ said Files-on-Parade.

‘To turn you out, to turn you out,’ the Colour-

Sergeant said.

‘What makes you look so white, so white?’ said

Files-on-Parade.

‘I’m dreadin’ what I’ve got to watch,’ the Colour-

Sergeant said.

For they’re hangin’ Danny Deever, you can hear the

Dead March play,

The regiment’s in ‘ollow square – they’re hangin’

him to-day;

They’ve taken of his buttons off an’ cut his

stripes away,

An’ they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’.

‘What makes the rear-rank breathe so ’ard?’

said Files-on-Parade.

‘It’s bitter cold, it’s bitter cold,’ the Colour-Sergeant

said.

‘What makes that front-rank man fall down?’

said Files-on-Parade.

‘A touch o’ sun, a touch o’ sun,’ the Colour-Sergeant

said.

They are hangin’ Danny Deever, they are marchin’

of ’im round,

They ’ave ‘alted Danny Deever by ’is coffin

on the ground;

An’ ’e’ll swing in ‘arf a minute for a sneakin’

shootin’ hound –

O they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!

‘ ’Is cot was right-’and cot to mine,’ said Files-on-

Parade.

‘ ’E’s sleepin’ out an’ far to-night,’ the Colour-Sergeant

said.

‘I’ve drunk ’is beer a score o’ times,’ said Files-on-

Parade.

‘ ’E’s drinkin’ bitter beer alone,’ the Colour-Sergeant

said.

They are hangin’ Danny Deever, you must mark

’Im to ’is place,

For ’e shot a comrade sleepin’ – you must look

’Im in the face;

Nine ‘undred of ’is county an’ the regiment’s

disgrace,

While they’re hangin’ Danny Deever in the

mornin’.

‘What’s that so black agin the sun?’ said Files-on-

Parade.

‘It’s Danny fightin’ ‘ard for life,’ the Colour-Sergeant

said.

‘What’s that that whimpers over ’ead?’ said Files-on-

Parade.

‘It’s Danny’s soul that’s passin’ now,’ the Colour-

Sergeant said.

For they’re done with Danny Deever, you can ’ear

the quickstep play,

The regiment’s in column, an’ they’re marchin’

us away;

Ho! the young recruits are shakin’, an’ they’ll want

their beer to-day,

After hangin’ Danny Deever in the mornin’!

SHILLIN’ A DAY

My name is O’Kelly, I’ve heard the Revelly

From Birr to Bareilly, from Leeds to Lahore,

Hong-Kong and Peshawur,

Lucknow and Etawah,

And fifty-five more all endin’ in ‘pore’.

Black death and his quickness, the depth and the

thickness

Of sorrow and sickness I’ve known on my way,

But I’m old and I’m nervis,

I’m cast from the Service,

And all I deserve is a shillin’ a day.

(Chorus) Shillin’ a day

Bloomin’ good pay –

Lucky to touch it, a shillin’ a day!

Oh, it drives me half crazy to think of the days I

Went slap for the Ghazi, my sword at my side,

When we rode Hell-for-leather

Both squadrons together,

That didn’t care whether we lived or we died.

But it’s no use despairin’, my wife must go charin’

An’ me commissairin’, the pay-bills to better,

So if me you be’old

In the wet and the cold,

By the Grand Metropold, won’t you give me a letter?

(Full chorus) Give ’Im a letter –

Can’t do no better,

Late Troop-Sergeant-Major an’–runs with a letter!

Think what ’e’s been,

Think what ’e’s seen.

Think of his pension an’

GAWD SAVE THE QUEEN!

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!

THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR

’ave you ’eard o’ the Widow at Windsor

With a hairy gold crown on ’Er head?

She ’as ships on the foam – she ’as millions at ’ome,

An’ she pays us poor beggars in red.

(Ow, poor beggars in red!)

There’s ’Er nick on the cavalry ‘orses,

There’s ’Er mark on the medical stores –

An’ ’Er troopers you’ll find with a fair wind be’ind

That takes us to various wars.

(Poor beggars! – barbarious wars!)

Then ’Ere’s to the Widow at Windsor,

An’ ’Ere’s to the stores an’ the guns,

The men an’ the ‘orses what makes up the forces

O’ Missis Victorier’s sons.

(Poor beggars! Victorier’s sons!)

Walk wide o’ the Widow at Windsor,

For ‘alf o’ Creation she owns:

We ’ave bought ’Er the same with the sword an’ the flame,

An’ we’ve salted it down with our bones

(Poor beggars! – it’s blue with our bones!)

Hands off o’ the sons o’ the Widow,

Hands off o’ the goods in ’Er shop,

For the Kings must come down an’ the Emperors frown

When the Widow at Windsor says ‘Stop!’

(Poor beggars! – we’re sent to say ‘Stop!’)

Then ’Ere’s to the Lodge o’ the Widow,

From the Pole to the Tropics it runs –

To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an’

the file,

An’ open in form with the guns.

(Poor beggars! – it’s always they guns!)

We ’ave ’eard o’ the Widow at Windsor,

It’s safest to let ’Er alone:

For ’Er sentries we stand by the sea an’ the land

Wherever the bugles are blown.

(Poor beggars! – an’ don’t we get blown!)

Take ‘old o’ the Wings o’ the Mornin’,

An’ flop round the earth till you’re dead;

But you won’t get away from the tune that they play

To the bloomin’ old rag over’ead.

(Poor beggars! – it’s ’ot over’ead!)

Then ’Ere’s to the Sons o’ the Widow,

Wherever, ‘owever they roam.

’Ere’s all they desire, an’ if they require

A speedy return to their ’ome.

(Poor beggars! – they’ll never see ’ome!)

GENTLEMEN-RANKERS

To the legion of the lost ones, to the cohort of the

damned,

To my brethren in their sorrow overseas,

Sings a gentleman of England cleanly bred, machinely

crammed,

And a trooper of the Empress, if you please.

Yea, a trooper of the forces who has run his own

six horses,

And faith he went the pace and went it blind,

And the world was more than kin while he held the

ready tin,

But to-day the Sergeant’s something less than kind.

We’re poor little lambs who’ve lost our way,

Baa! Baa! Baa!

We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray,

Baa – aa – aa!

Gentlemen rankers out on the spree,

Damned from here to Eternity,

God ha’ mercy on such as we,

Baa! Yah! Bah!

Oh, it’s sweet to sweat through stables, sweet to empty

kitchen slops,

And it’s sweet to hear the tales the troopers tell,

To dance with blowzy housemaids at the regimental hops

And thrash the cad who says you waltz too well.

Yes, it makes you cock-a-hoop to be ‘Rider’ to your troop,

And branded with a blasted worsted spur,

When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being

cleanly

Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you ‘Sir’.

If the home we never write to, and the oaths we

never keep,

And all we know most distant and most dear,

Across the snoring barrack-room return to break

our sleep,

Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?

When the drunken comrade mutters and the great

guard-lantern gutters

And the horror of our fall is written plain,

Every secret, self-revealing on the aching

whitewashed ceiling,

Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?

We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to

Love and Truth,

We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,

And the measure of our torment is the measure of

our youth.

God help us, for we knew the worst too young!

Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that

brought the sentence,

Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,

And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf

enfolds us

And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.

We’re poor little lambs who’ve lost our way,

Baa! Baa! Baa!

We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray,

Baa – aa – aa!

Gentlemen rankers out on the spree,

Damned from here to Eternity,

God ha’ mercy on such as we,

Baa! Yah! Bah!

GUNGA DIN

You may talk o’ gin and beer

When you’re quartered safe out ’Ere,

An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;

But when it comes to slaughter

You will do your work on water,

An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’Im that’s got it.

Now in Injia’s sunny clime,

Where I used to spend my time

A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,

Of all them blackfaced crew

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

He was ‘Din! Din! Din!

‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!

‘Hi’ Slippy hitherao!

‘Water, get it! Panee lao,

‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’

The uniform ’e wore

Was nothin’ much before,

An’ rather less than ‘arf o’ that be’ind,

For a piece o’ twisty rag

An’ a goatskin water-bag

Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.

When the sweatin’ troop-train lay

In a sidin’ through the day,

Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows

crawl,

We shouted ‘Harry By!’

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!

‘You ’eathin, where the mischief ’ave you been?

‘You put some juldee in it

‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute

‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’

’E would dot an’ carry one

Till the longest day was done;

An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin’ nut,

’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.

With ’is mussick on ’is back,

’E would skip with our attack,

An’ watch us till the bugles made ‘Retire’,

An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide

’E was white, clear white, inside

When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’

With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.

When the cartridges ran out,

You could hear the front-ranks shout,

‘Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!’

I shan’t forgit the night

When I dropped be’ind the fight

With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‘a’ been.

I was chokin’ mad with thirst,

An’ the man that spied me first

Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.

’E lifted up my ’ead,

An’ he plugged me where I bled,

An’ ’e guv me ‘arf-a-pint o’ water green.

It was crawlin’ and it stunk,

But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,

I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was ‘Din! Din! Din!

‘ ’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;

‘ ’E’s chawin’ up the ground,

‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:

‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’

’E carried me away

To where a dooli lay

An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.

’E put me safe inside,

An’ just before ’e died,

‘I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.

So I’ll meet ’Im later on

At the place where ’e is gone –

Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.

’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals

Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,

An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!

Yes, Din! Din! Din!

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,

By the livin’ Gawd that made you,

You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

MANDALAY

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ eastward to

the sea,

There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she

thinks o’ me;

For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells

they say:

‘Come you back you British soldier; come you back to

Mandalay!’

Come you back to Mandalay,

Where the old Flotilla lay:

Can’t you ’ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon

to Mandalay?

On the road to Mandalay,

Where the flyin’-fishes play,

An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China

‘crost the Bay!

’Er petticoat was yaller an’ ’Er little cap was green,

An’ ’Er name was Supi-yaw-lat – jes’ the same as

Theebaw’s Queen,

An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white

cheroot,

An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ’eathen idol’s foot;

Bloomin’ idol made o’ mud –

Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd –

Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ’Er

where she stud!

On the road to Mandalay …

When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was

droppin’ slow,

She’d git ’Er little banjo an’ she’d sing ‘Kulla-lo-lo!’

With ’Er arm upon my shoulder an’ ’Er cheek agin

my cheek

We useter watch the steamers an’ the hathis pilin’ teak.

Elephints a-pilin’ teak

In the sludgy, squidgy creek,

Where the silence ‘ung that ’eavy you was ‘arf afraid

to speak!

On the road to Mandalay …

But that’s all shove be’ind me – long ago an’ fur away,

An’ there ain’t no ‘busses runnin’ from the Bank to

Mandalay;

An’ I’m learnin’ ’ere in London what the ten-year

soldier tells:

‘If you’ve ’eard the East a-callin’, you won’t never ’eed

naught else.’

No! you won’t ’eed nothin’ else

But them spicy garlic smells,

An’ the sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly

temple-bells;

On the road to Mandalay …

I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gritty pavin’-stones,

An’ the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in

my bones;

Tho’ I walks with fifty ‘ousemaids outer Chelsea to

the Strand,

An’ they talks a lot o’ lovin’, but wot do they understand?

Beefy face an’ grubby ‘and –

Law! wot do they understand?

I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!

On the road to Mandalay …

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is

like the worst,

Where there ain’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man

can raise a thirst;

For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that

I would be –

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea,

On the road to Mandalay,

Where the old Flotilla lay,

With our sick beneath the awnings when we went

to Mandalay!

O the road to Mandalay,

Where the flyin’-fishes play,

An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China

‘crost the Bay!

THE ENGLISH FLAG

Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing the Union Jack,

remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but

ultimately when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts,

and seemed to see significance in the incident.

Daily Papers

Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering

to and fro –

And what should they know of England who only

England know? –

The poor little street-bred people that vapour and

fume and brag,

They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at

the English Flag!

Must we borrow a clout from the Boer – to plaster

anew with dirt?

An Irish liar’s bandage, or an English coward’s shirt?

We may not speak of England; her Flag’s to sell

or share.

What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World,

declare!

The North Wind blew: – ‘From Bergen my steel-shod

vanguards go:

‘I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe.

‘By the great North Lights above me I work the will

of God,

‘And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills

with cod.

‘I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors

with flame,

‘Because to force my ramparts your nutshell

navies came.

‘I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down

with my blast.

‘And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere

the spirit passed.

‘The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long

Arctic night,

‘The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the

Northern Light:

‘What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs

to dare,

‘Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it

is there!’

The South Wind sighed: – ‘From the Virgins my

mid-sea course was ta’en

‘Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main,

‘Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the

long-backed breakers croon

‘Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.

‘Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys,

‘I waked the palms to laughter – I tossed the scud in

the breeze.

‘Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone,

‘But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag

was flown.

‘I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for

a wisp on the Horn;

‘I have chased it north to the Lizard – ribboned and

rolled and torn;

‘I have spread its fold o’er the dying, adrift in a

hopeless sea;

‘I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave

set free.

‘My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross,

‘Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the

Southern Cross.

‘Where is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs

to dare,

‘Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!’

The East Wind roared: – ‘From the Kuriles, the Bitter

Seas, I come,

‘And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the

English home.

‘Look – look well to your shipping! By the breath of

my mad typhoon

‘I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your

best at Kowloon!

‘The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before,

‘I raped your richest roadstead – I plundered Singapore!

‘I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake

she rose;

‘And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the

startled crows.

‘Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake,

‘But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for

England’s sake –

‘Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid –

‘Because on the bones of the English the English Flag

is stayed.

‘The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass

knows,

‘The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless

snows.

‘What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun

to dare,

‘Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it

is there!’

The West Wind called: – ‘In squadrons the thoughtless

galleons fly

‘That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred

people die.

‘They make my might their porter, they make my

house their path,

‘Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm

them all in my wrath.

‘I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from

the hole.

‘They bellow one to the other, the frightened

ship-bells toll;

‘For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with

my breath,

‘And they see strange bows above them and the two go

locked to death.

‘But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by

dark or day,

‘I heave them whole to the conger or rip their

plates away,

‘First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky,

‘Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.

‘The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it – the frozen dews

have kissed –

‘The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist.

‘What is the flag of England? Ye have but my breath

to dare,

‘Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it

is there!’

ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER

A great and glorious thing it is

To learn, for seven years or so,

The Lord knows what of that and this,

Ere reckoned fit to face the foe –

The flying bullet down the Pass,

That whistles clear: ‘All flesh is grass.’

Three hundred pounds per annum spent

On making brain and body meeter

For all the murderous intent

Comprised in ‘villainous saltpetre’!

And after? – Ask the Yusufzaies

What comes of all our ’ologies.

A scrimmage in a Border Station –

A canter down some dark defile –

Two thousand pounds of education

Drops to a ten-rupee jezail –

The Crammer’s boast, the Squadron’s pride

Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

No proposition Euclid wrote

No formulae the text-books know,

Will turn the bullet from your coat,

Or ward the tulwar’s downward blow.

Strike hard who cares – shoot straight who can –

The odds are on the cheaper man.

One sword-knot stolen from the camp

Will pay for all the school expenses

Of any Kurrum Valley scamp

Who knows no word of moods and tenses,

But, being blessed with perfect sight,

Picks off our messmates left and right.

With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem.

The troopships bring us one by one,

At vast expense of time and steam,

To slay Afridis where they run.

The ‘captives of our bow and spear’

Are cheap, alas! as we are dear.

‘WILFUL-MISSING’

There is a world outside the one you know,

To which for curiousness ’ell can’t compare –

It is the place where ‘wilful-missings’ go,

As we can testify, for we are there.

You may ’ave read a bullet laid us low,

That we was gathered in ‘with reverent care’

And buried proper. But it was not so,

As we can testify, for we are there!

They can’t be certain – faces alter so

After the old aasvogel’s ‘ad ’is share.

The uniform’s the mark by which they go –

And – ain’t it odd? – the one we best can spare.

We might ’ave seen our chance to cut the show –

Name, number, record, an’ begin elsewhere –

Leavin’ some not too late-lamented foe

One funeral – private – British-for ’is share.

We may ’ave took it yonder in the Low

Bush-veldt that sends men stragglin’ unaware

Among the Kaffirs, till their columns go,

An’ they are left past call or count or care.

We might ’ave been your lovers long ago,

’Usbands or children – comfort or despair.

Our death (an’ burial) settles all we owe,

An’ why we done it is our own affair.

Marry again, and we will not say no,

Nor come to bastardise the kids you bear.

Wait on in ’ope – you’ve all your life below

Before you’ll ever ’ear us on the stair.

There is no need to give our reasons, though

Gawd knows we all ’ad reasons which were fair;

But other people might not judge ’em so,

And now it doesn’t matter what they were.

What man can size or weigh another’s woe?

There are some things too bitter ’ard to bear.

Suffice it we ’ave finished – Domino!

As we can testify, for we are there,

In the side-world where ‘wilful-missings’ go.

GIFFEN’S DEBT

Imprimis he was ‘broke’. Thereafter left

His Regiment and, later, took to drink;

Then, having lost the balance of his friends,

‘Went Fantee’ joined the people of the land,

Turned three parts Mussulman and one Hindu,

And lived among the Gauri villagers,

Who gave him shelter and a wife or twain,

And boasted that a thorough, full-blood sahib

Had come among them. Thus he spent his time,

Deeply indebted to the village shroff

(Who never asked for payment), always drunk,

Unclean, abominable, out-at-heels;

Forgetting that he was an Englishman.

You know they dammed the Gauri with a dam,

And all the good contractors scamped their work

And all the bad material at hand

Was used to dam the Gauri – which was cheap,

And, therefore, proper. Then the Gauri burst,

And several hundred thousand cubic tons

Of water dropped into the valley, flop,

And drowned some five-and-twenty villagers,

And did a lakh or two of detriment

To crops and cattle. When the flood went down

We found him dead, beneath an old dead horse

Full six miles down the valley. So we said

He was a victim to the Demon Drink,

And moralised upon him for a week,

And then forgot him. Which was natural.

But, in the valley of the Gauri, men

Beneath the shadow of the big new dam,

Relate a foolish legend of the flood,

Accounting for the little loss of life

(Only those five-and-twenty villagers)

In this wise: – On the evening of the flood,

They heard the groaning of the rotten dam,

And voices of the Mountain Devils. Then

An incarnation of the local God,

Mounted upon a monster-neighing horse,

And flourishing a flail-like whip, came down,

Breathing ambrosia, to the villages,

And fell upon the simple villagers

With yells beyond the power of mortal throat,

And blows beyond the power of mortal hand,

And smote them with his flail-like whip, and drove

Them clamorous with terror up the hill.

And scattered, with the monster-neighing steed,

Their crazy cottages about their ears,

And generally cleared those villages.

Then came the water, and the local God,

Breathing ambrosia, flourishing his whip,

And mounted on his monster-neighing steed,

Went down the valley with the flying trees

And residue of homesteads, while they watched

Safe on the mountain-side these wondrous things,

And knew that they were much beloved of Heaven.

Wherefore, and when the dam was newly built,

They raised a temple to the local God,

And burnt all manner of unsavoury things

Upon his altar, and created priests,

And blew into a conch and banged a bell,

And told the story of the Gauri flood

With circumstance and much embroidery

So he, the whiskified Objectionable,

Unclean, abominable, out-at-heels,

Became the Tutelary Deity

Of all the Gauri valley villages …

And may in time become a Solar Myth.

DIVIDED DESTINIES

It was an artless Bandar and he danced upon a pine,

And much I wondered how he lived, and where the

beast might dine,

And many other things, till, o’er my morning smoke,

I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamt that

Bandar spoke.

He said: – ‘O man of many clothes! Sad crawler on

the Hills!

‘Observe, I know not Ranken’s shop, nor Ranken’s

monthly bills!

‘I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you

call dress;

‘Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks

at Mess.

‘I steal the bunnia’s grain at morn, at noon and

eventide

‘(For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountain-side.

‘I follow no man’s carriage, and no, never in my life

‘Have I flirted at Peliti’s with another Bandar’s wife.

‘O man of futile fopperies – unnecessary wraps;

‘I own no ponies in the hills, I drive no tall-wheeled

traps.

‘I buy me not twelve-button gloves, “short-sixes” eke,

or rings,

‘Nor do I waste at Hamilton’s my wealth on

“pretty things”.

‘I quarrel with my wife at home, we never fight

abroad;

‘But Mrs B. has grasped the fact I am her only lord.

‘I never heard of fever – dumps nor debts depress

my soul;

‘And I pity and despise you!’ Here he pouched my

breakfast-roll.

His hide was very mangy and his face was very red,

And ever and anon he scratched with energy his head.

His manners were not always nice, but how my

spirit cried

To be an artless Bandar loose upon the mountain-side!

So I answered: ‘Gentle Bandar, an inscrutable Decree

‘Makes thee a gleesome fleasome Thou, and me a

wretched Me.

‘Go! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid

the pine;

‘Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot

with thine.’

CELLS

I’ve a head like a concertina: I’ve a tongue like a

button-stick:

I’ve a mouth like an old potato, and I’m more than a

little sick,

But I’ve had my fun o’ the Corp’ral’s Guard: I’ve made

the cinders fly,

And I’m here in the Clink for a thundering drink and

blacking the Corporal’s eye.

With a second-hand overcoat under my head,

And a beautiful view of the yard,

O it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.

For ‘drunk and resisting the Guard!’

Mad drunk and resisting the Guard –

’Strewth, but I socked it them hard!

So it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.

For ‘drunk and resisting the Guard’.

I started o’ canteen porter, I finished o’ canteen beer,

But a dose o’ gin that a mate slipped in, it was that

that brought me here.

’Twas that and an extry double Guard that rubbed my

nose in the dirt –

But I fell away with the Corp’ral’s stock and the best

of the Corp’ral’s shirt.

I left my cap in a public-house, my boots in the

public road,

And Lord knows where – and I don’t care – my belt

and my tunic goed.

They’ll stop my pay, they’ll cut away the stripes I used

to wear,

But I left my mark on the Corp’ral’s face, and I think

he’ll keep it there!

My wife she cries on the barrack-gate, my kid in the

barrack-yard.

It ain’t that I mind the Ord’ly-room – it’s that that cuts

so hard.

I’ll take my oath before them both that I will sure

abstain,

But as soon as I’m in with a mate and gin, I know

I’ll do it again!

With a second-hand overcoat under my head,

And a beautiful view of the yard,

Yes, it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.

For ‘drunk and resisting the Guard!’

Mad drunk and resisting the Guard –

Strewth, but I socked it them hard!

So it’s pack-drill for me and a fortnight’s C.B.

For ‘drunk and resisting the Guard’.

THE EXILES’ LINE

Now the New Year reviving old desires,

The restless soul to open sea aspires,

Where the Blue Peter flickers from the fore,

And the grimed stoker feeds the engine-fires.

Coupons, alas, depart with all their rows,

And last year’s sea-met love’s where Grindlay knows;

But still the wild wind wakes off Gardafui,

And hearts turn eastward with the P. & O.’s.

Twelve knots an hour, be they more or less –

Oh, slothful mother of much idleness,

Whom neither rivals spur nor contracts speed!

Nay, bear us gently! Wherefore need we press?

The Tragedy of all our East is laid

On those white decks beneath the awning shade –

Birth, absence, longing, laughter, love and tears,

And death unmaking ere the land is made.

And midnight madnesses of souls distraught

Whom the cool seas call through the open port,

So that the table lacks one place next morn,

And for one forenoon men forgo their sport.

The shadow of the rigging to and fro

Sways, shifts, and flickers on the spar-deck’s snow,

And like a giant trampling in his chains,

The screw-blades gasp and thunder deep below;

And, leagued to watch one flying-fish’s wings,

Heaven stoops to sea, and sea to Heaven clings;

While, bent upon the ending of his toil,

The hot sun strides, regarding not these things:

For the same wave that meets our stem in spray

Bore Smith of Asia eastward yesterday,

And Delhi Jones and Brown of Midnapore

To-morrow follow on the self-same way.

Linked in the chain of Empire one by one,

Flushed with long leave, or tanned with many a sun,

The Exiles’ Line brings out the exiles’ line,

And slips them homeward when their work is done.

Yea, heedless of the shuttle through the loom,

The flying keels fulfil the web of doom.

Sorrow or shouting – what is that to them?

Make out the cheque that pays for cabin-room!

And how so many score of times ye flit

With wife and babe and caravan of kit,

Not all thy travels past shall lower one fare,

Not all thy tears abate one pound of it.

And how so high thine earth-born dignity,

Honour and state, go sink it in the sea,

Till that great one, upon the quarter-deck,

Brow-bound with gold, shall give thee leave to be.

Indeed, indeed from that same line we swear

Off for all time, and mean it when we swear;

And then, and then we meet the Quartered Flag,

And, surely for the last time, pay the fare.

And Green of Kensington, estrayed to view

In three short months the world he never knew,

Stares with blind eyes upon the Quartered Flag

And sees no more than yellow, red and blue.

But we, the gipsies of the East, but we –

Waifs of the land and wastrels of the sea –

Come nearer home beneath the Quartered Flag

Than ever home shall come to such as we.

The camp is struck, the bungalow decays,

Dead friends and houses desert mark our ways,

Till sickness send us down to Prince’s Dock

To meet the changeless use of many days.

Bound in the wheel of Empire, one by one,

The chain-gangs of the East from sire to son,

The Exiles’ Line takes out the exiles’ line

And ships them homeward when their work is done.

How runs the old indictment? ‘Dear and slow’,

So much and twice so much. We gird, but go.

For all the soul of our sad East is there,

Beneath the house-flag of the P. & O.

WHEN EARTH’S LAST PICTURE IS PAINTED

When Earth’s last picture is painted and the tubes are

twisted and dried,

When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest

critic has died,

We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it – lie down for

an aeon or two,

Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to

work anew.

And those that were good shall be happy: they shall sit

in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes

of comets’ hair.

They shall find real saints to draw from – Magdalene,

Peter, and Paul;

They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be

tired at all!

And only The Master shall praise us, and only The

Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall

work for fame,

But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his

separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of

Things as They are!

THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE

Now this is the Law of the Jungle – as old and as true as

the sky;

And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf

that shall break it must die.

As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth

forward and back –

For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength

of the Wolf is the Pack.

Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but

never too deep;

And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not

the day is for sleep.

The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy

whiskers are grown,

Remember the Wolf is a hunter – go forth and get

food of thine own.

Keep peace with the Lords of the Jungle – the Tiger,

the Panther, the Bear;

And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the

Boar in his lair.

When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither

will go from the trail,

Lie down till the leaders have spoken – it may be fair

words shall prevail.

When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight

him alone and afar,

Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be

diminished by war.

The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has

made him his home,

Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the

Council may come.

The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has

digged it too plain,

The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall

change it again.

If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the

woods with your bay,

Lest ye frighten the deer from the crops, and the

brothers go empty away.

Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your

cubs as they need, and ye can;

But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never

kill Man!

If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in

thy pride;

Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him

the head and the hide.

The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must

eat where it lies;

And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or

he dies.

The kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may

do what he will,

But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat

of that Kill.

Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling.

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Kipling Poems Read Online

CONTENTS

‘WHEN ’OMER SMOTE ’IS BLOOMIN’ LYRE’

GENERAL SUMMARY

THE UNDERTAKER’S HORSE

THE STORY OF URIAH

PUBLIC WASTE

THE LOVERS’ LITANY

CHRISTMAS IN INDIA

THE BETROTHED

THE WINNERS

DANNY DEEVER

SHILLIN’ A DAY

TOMMY

THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR

GENTLEMEN-RANKERS

GUNGA DIN

MANDALAY

THE ENGLISH FLAG

ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER

‘WILFUL-MISSING’

GIFFEN’S DEBT

DIVIDED DESTINIES

CELLS

THE EXILES’ LINE

WHEN EARTH’S LAST PICTURE IS PAINTED

THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE

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