Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated), page 788
A biscuit-toss below,
We met the silent shallop
That frighted whalers know;
For, down a cruel ice-lane,
That opened as he sped,
We saw dead Hendrick Hudson
Steer, North by West, his dead.
So dealt God’s waters with us
Beneath the roaring skies,
So walked His signs and marvels
All naked to our eyes:
But we were heading homeward
With trade to lose or make —
Good Lord, they slipped behind us
In the tailing of our wake!
Let go, let go the anchors;
Now shamed at heart are we
To bring so poor a cargo home
That had for gift the sea!
Let go the great bow-anchor —
Ah, fools were we and blind —
The worst we stored with utter toil,
The best we left behind!
Coastwise — cross-seas — round the world and back again,
Whither flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down:
Plain-sail — storm-sail — lay your board and tack again —
And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!
Merrow Down.
Just So Stories
There runs a road by Merrow Down —
A grassy track to-day it is —
An hour out Guildford town,
Above the river Wey it is.
Here, when they heard the hors-bells ring,
The ancient Britons dressed and rode
To which the dark Phoenicians bring
Their goods along the Western Road.
Yes, here, or hereabouts, they met
To hold their racial talks and such —
To barter beads for Whitby jet,
And tin for gay shell torques and such.
But long ago before that time
(When bison used to roam on it)
Did Taffy and her Daddy climb
That Down, and had their home on it.
Then beavers built in Broadstonebrook
And made a swamp where Bramley stands;
And bears from Shere would come and look
For Taffimai where Shamley stands.
The Wey, that Taffy called Wagai,
Was more than six times bigger then;
And all the Tribe of Tegumai
They cut a noble figure then!
II
Of all the Tribe of Tegumai
Who cut that figure, none remain, —
On Merrow Down the cuckoos cry —
The silence and the sun remain.
But as the faithful years return
And hearts unwounded sing again,
Comes Taffy dancing through the fern
To lead the Surrey spring again.
Her brows are bound with bracken-fronds,
And golden elf-locks fly above;
Her eyes are bright as diamonds
And bluer than the sky above.
In moccasins and deer-skin cloak,
Unfearing, free and fair she flits,
And lights her little damp-wood smoke
To show her Daddy where she flits.
For far — oh, very far behind,
So far she cannot call to him,
Comes Tegumai alone to find
The daughter that was all to him!
Mesopotamia
1917
They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,
The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,
Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?
They shall not return to us; the strong men coldly slain
In sight of help denied from day to day:
But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,
Are they too strong and wise to put away?
Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide —
Never while the bars of sunset hold.
But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,
Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?
Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour:
When the storm is ended shall we find
How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power
By the favour and contrivance of their kind?
Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,
Even while they make a show of fear,
Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their
friends,
To conform and re-establish each career?
Their lives cannot repay us — their death could not undo —
The shame that they have laid upon our race.
But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,
Shell we leave it unabated in its place?
Mine Sweepers
1914-18
Sea Warfare
Dawn off the Foreland — the young flood making
Jumbled and short and steep —
Black in the hollows and bright where it’s breaking —
Awkward water to sweep.
“Mines reported in the fairway,
“Warn all traffic and detain.
“‘Sent up Unity, Cralibel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden
Gain.”
Noon off the Foreland — the first ebb making
Lumpy and strong in the bight.
Boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking
And the jackdaws wild with fright!
“Mines located in the fairway,
“Boats now working up the chain,
“Sweepers — Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden
Gain.”
Dusk off the Foreland — the last light going
And the traffic crowding through,
And five damned trawlers with their syreens blowing
Heading the whole review!
“Sweep completed in the fairway.
“No more mines remain.
“‘Sent back Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, and Golden
Gain.”
M. I.
Mounted Infantry of the Line
I wish my mother could see me now, with a fence-post under my arm,
And a knife and a spoon in my putties that I found on a Boer farm,
Atop of a sore-backed Argentine, with a thirst that you couldn’t by.
I used to be in the Yorkshires once
(Sussex, Lincolns, and Rifles once),
Hampshires, Glosters, and Scottish once! (ad lib.)
But now I am M. I.
That is what we are known as – that is the name you must call
If you want officers’ servants, pickets an’ ‘orseguards an’ all –
Details for burin’-parties, company-cooks or supply –
Turn out the chronic Ikonas! Roll up the – M. I.!
My ‘ands are spotty with veldt-sores, my shirt is a button an’ frill,
An’ the things I’ve used my bay’nit for would made a tinker ill!
An’ I don’t know whose dam’ column I’m in, nor where we’re trekkin’ nor why.
I’ve trekked from the Vaal to the Orange once –
From the Vaal to the greasy Pongolo once –
(Or else it was called the Zambesi once) –
For now I am M. I.!
That is what we are known as - we are the push your require
For outposts all night under freezin’, an’ rearguard all day under fire.
Anything ‘ot or unwholesome? Anything dusty or dry?
Borrow a bunch of Ikonas! Trot out the – M. I.!
Our Sergeant-Major’s a subaltern, our Captain’s a Fusilier –
Our Adjutant’s “late of Somebody’s ‘Orse,” an’ a Melbourne auctioneer;
But you couldn’t spot us at ‘arf a mile from the crackest caval-ry.
They used to talk about Lancers once,
Hussars, Dragoons, an’ Lancers once,
‘Elmets, pistols, and carbines once,
But now we are M. I.!
That is what we are known as – we are the orphans they blame
For beggin’ the loan of an ‘ead-stall an’ makin’ a mount to the same.
‘Can’t even look at their ‘orslines but someone goes bellerin’ “Hi!
“‘Ere comes a burglin’ Ikona! Footsack you – M. I.!”
We are trekkin’ our twenty miles a day an’ bein’ loved by the Dutch,
But we don’t hold on by the mane nor more, nor lose our stirrups – much;
An’ we scout with a senior man in charge where the ‘oly white flags fly.
We used to think they were friendly once,
Didn’t take any precautions once
(Once, my ducky, an’ only once!)
But now we are M. I.!
That is what we are known as – we are the beggars that got
Three days “to learn equitation,” an’ six month o’ blumin’ well trot!
Cow-guns, an’ cattle, an’ convoys – an’ Mister De Wet on the fly –
We are the rolling Ikonas! We are the M. I.!
The new fat regiments come from home, imaginin’ vain V.C.’s
(The same as your talky-fighty men which are often Number Threes),
But our words o’ command are “Scatter” an’ “Close” an’ “Let you wounded lie.”
We used to rescue ‘em noble once, -
Givin’ the range as we raised ‘em once –
Gettin ‘em killed as we saved ‘em once –
But now we are M. I.!
That is what we are known as – we are the lanterns you view
After a fight round the kopjes, lookin’ the men that we knew;
Whistlin’ an’ callin’ together, ‘altin’ to catch the reply: -
“‘Elp me! O ‘elp me, Ikonas! This way, the – M. I.!”
I wish my mother could see me now, a-gathering news in my own,
When I ride like a General up to the scrub and ride back like Tod Sloan,
Remarkable close to my ‘orse’s neck to let the shots go by.
We used to fancy it risky once
(Called it a reconnaissance once),
Under the charge of the orf’cer once,
But now we are M. I.!
That is what we are known as – that is the song you must say
When you want men to be Mausered at one and a penny a day;
We are no five-bob Colonials – we are the ‘ome-made supply,
Ask for the London Ikonas! Ring up the – M.I.!
I wish myself could talk to myself as I left ‘im a year ago;
I could tell ‘im a lot that would save ‘im a lot on the things that ‘e ought to know!
When I think o’ that ignorant barrack-bird, it almost makes me cry.
I used to belong in an Army once
(Gawd! what a rum little Army once),
Red little, dead little Army once!
But now I am M. I.!
This is what we are known as – we are the men that have been
Over a year at the business, smelt it an’ felt it an’ seen.
We ‘ave got ‘old of the needful – you will be told by and by;
Wait till you’ve ‘eard Ikonas, spoke to the old M.I.!
Mount – march Ikonas! Stand to your ‘orses again!
Mop off the frost on the saddles, mop up the miles on the plain.
Out go the stars in the dawnin’, up goes our dust to the sky,
Walk – trot, Ikonas! Trek jou, the old M. I.!
The Miracles
I sent a message to my dear —
A thousand leagues and more to Her —
The dumb sea-levels thrilled to hear,
And Lost Atlantis bore to Her.
Behind my message hard I came,
And nigh had found a grave for me;
But that I launched of steel and flame
Did war against the wave for me.
Uprose the deep, by gale on gale,
To bid me change my mind again —
He broke his teeth along my rail,
And, roaring, swung behind again.
I stayed the sun at noon to tell
My way across the waste of it;
I read the storm before it fell
And made the better haste of it.
Afar, I hailed the land at night —
The towers I built had heard of me —
And, ere my rocket reached its height,
Had flashed my Love the word of me.
Earth sold her chosen men of strength
(They lived and strove and died for me)
To drive my road a nation’s length,
And toss the miles aside for me.
I snatched their toil to serve my needs —
Too slow their fleetest flew for me —
I tired twenty smoking steeds,
And bade them bait a new for me.
I sent the lightnings forth to see
Where hour by hour She waited me.
Among ten million one was She,
And surely all men hated me!
Dawn ran to meet me at my goal —
Ah, day no tongue shall tell again!
And little folk of little soul
Rose up to buy and sell again!
The Moon of Other Days
Beneath the deep veranda’s shade,
When bats begin to fly,
I sit me down and watch — alas! —
Another evening die.
Blood-red behind the sere ferash
She rises through the haze.
Sainted Diana! can that be
The Moon of Other Days?
Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith,
Sweet Saint of Kensington!
Say, was it ever thus at Home
The Moon of August shone,
When arm in arm we wandered long
Through Putney’s evening haze,
And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath
The moon of Other Days?
But Wandle’s stream is Sutlej now,
And Putney’s evening haze
The dust that half a hundered kine
Before my window raise.
Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist
The seething city looms,
In place of Putney’s golden gorse
The sickly babul blooms.
Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust,
And bid the pie-dog yell,
Draw from the drain its typhoid-term,
From each bazaar its smell;
Yea, suck the fever from the tank
And sap my strength therewith:
Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face
To little Kitty Smith!
The Moral
Author Unknown
— The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1936)
You mustn’t groom an Arab with a file.
You hadn’t ought to tension-spring a mule.
You couldn’t push a brumby fifty mile
And drop him in a boiler-shed to cool.
I’ll sling you through six counties in a day.
I’ll hike you up a grade of one in ten.
I am Duty, Law and Order under way,
I’m the Mentor of banana-fingered men!
I will make you I know your left hand from your right.
I will teach you not to drink about your biz.
I’m the only temperance advocate in sight!
I am all the Education Act there is!
Morning Song in the Jungle
“Letting in the Jungle” — The Second Jungle Book
One moment past our bodies cast
No shadow on the plain;
Now clear and black they stride our track,
And we run home again.
In morning-hush, each rock and bush
Stands hard, and high, and raw:
Then give the Call: “Good rest to all
That keep the Jungle Law!”
Now horn and pelt our peoples melt
In covert to abide;
Now, crouched and still, to cave and hill
Our Jungle Barons glide.
Now, stark and plain, Man’s oxen strain,
That draw the new-yoked plough;
Now, stripped and dread, the dawn is red
Above the lit talao.
Ho! Get to lair! The sun’s aflare
Behind the breathing grass:
And creaking through the young bamboo
The warning whispers pass.
By day made strange, the woods we range
With blinking eyes we scan;
While down the skies the wild duck cries:
“The Day — the Day to Man!”
The dew is dried that drenched our hide,
Or washed about our way;
And where we drank, the puddled bank
Is crisping into clay.
The traitor Dark gives up each mark
Of stretched or hooded claw:
Then hear the Call: “Good rest to all
That keep the Jungle Law!”
The Mother-Lodge
There was Rundle, Station Master,
An’ Beazeley of the Rail,
An’ ‘Ackman, Commissariat,
An’ Donkin’ o’ the Jail;
An’ Blake, Conductor-Sargent,
Our Master twice was ‘e,
With ‘im that kept the Europe-shop,
Old Framjee Eduljee.
Outside — “Sergeant! Sir! Salute! Salaam!”
Inside — “Brother”, an’ it doesn’t do no ‘arm.
We met upon the Level an’ we parted on the Square,
