Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1022 page)

Look you, our foreshore stretches far through sea-gate, dyke and groin –
Made land all, that our fathers made, where the flats and the fairway join.
They forced the sea a sea-league back. They died, and their work stood fast.
We were born to peace in the lee of the dykes, but the time of our peace is past.

Far off, the full tide clambers and slips, mouthing and resting all,
Nipping the flanks of the water-gates, baying along the wall;
Turning the shingle, returning the shingle, changing the set of the sand…
We are too far from the beach, men say, to know how the outwarks stand.

So we come down, uneasy, to look; uneasily pacing the beach.
These are the dykes our fathers made: we have never known a breach.
Time and again has the gale blown by and we were not afraid;
Now we come only to look at the dykes – at the dykes our fathers made.

O’er the marsh where the homesteads cower apart the harried sunlight flies,
Shifts and considers, wanes and recovers, scatters and sickness and dies –
An evil ember bedded in ash – a spark blown west by wind …
We are surrendered to night and the sea – the gale and the tide behind!

At the bridge of the lower saltings the cattle gather and blare,
Roused by the feet of running men, dazed by the lantern-glare.
Unbar and let them away for their lives – the levels drown as they stand,
Where the flood-wash forces the sluices aback and the ditches deliver inland.

Ninefold deep to the top of the dykes the galloping breakers stride,
And their overcarried spray is a sea – a sea of the landward side.
Coming, like stallions they paw with their hooves, going they snatch with their teeth,
Till the bents and the furze and the sand are dragged out, and the old-time hurdles are beneath.

Bid men gather fuel for fire, the tar, the oil and tow –
Flame we shall need, not smoke, in the dark if the riddled sea-banks go.
Bid the ringers watch in the tower (who know how the dawn shall prove?)
Each with his rope between his feet and the trembling bells above.

Now we can only wait till the day, wait and apportion our shame.
These are the dykes our fathers left, but we would not look to the same.
Time and again were we warned of the dykes, time and again we delayed.
Now, it may fall, we have slain our sons, as our fathers we have betrayed.

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Walking along the wreck of the dykes, watching the works of the sea!
These were the dykes our fathers made to our great profit and ease.
But the peace is gone and the profit is gone, with the old sure days withdrawn …
That our own houses show as strange when we come back in the dawn

The ‘eathen

The ‘eathen in ‘is blindness bows down to wood an’ stone;
‘E don’t obey no orders unless they is ‘is own;
‘E keeps ‘is side-arms awful: ‘e leaves ‘em all about,
An’ then comes up the Regiment an’ pokes the ‘eathen out.

 
All along o’ dirtiness, all along o’ mess,
  All along o’ doin’ things rather-more-or-less,
  All along of abby-nay, kul, an’ hazar-ho,
  Mind you keep your rifle an’ yourself jus’ so!

The young recruit is ‘aughty — ‘e draf’s from Gawd knows where;
They bid ‘im show ‘is stockin’s an’ lay ‘is mattress square;
‘E calls it bloomin’ nonsense — ‘e doesn’t know, no more —
An’ then up comes ‘is Company an’kicks’im round the floor!

The young recruit is ‘ammered — ‘e takes it very hard;
‘E ‘angs ‘is ‘ead an’ mutters — ‘e sulks about the yard;
‘E talks o’ “cruel tyrants” which ‘e’ll swing for by-an’-by,
An’ the others ‘ears an’ mocks ‘im, an’ the boy goes orf to cry.

The young recruit is silly — ‘e thinks o’ suicide.
‘E’s lost ‘is gutter-devil; ‘e ‘asn’t got ‘is pride;
But day by day they kicks ‘im, which ‘elps ‘im on a bit,
Till ‘e finds ‘isself one mornin’ with a full an’ proper kit.

 
Gettin’ clear o’ dirtiness, gettin’ done with mess,
  Gettin’ shut o’ doin’ things rather-more-or-less;
  Not so fond of abby-nay, kul, nor hazar-ho,
  Learns to keep  ‘is ripe an “isself jus’so!

The young recruit is ‘appy — ‘e throws a chest to suit;
You see ‘im grow mustaches; you ‘ear ‘im slap’ is boot.
‘E learns to drop the “bloodies” from every word ‘e slings,
An ‘e shows an ‘ealthy brisket when ‘e strips for bars an’ rings.

The cruel-tyrant-sergeants they watch ‘im ‘arf a year;
They watch ‘im with ‘is comrades, they watch ‘im with ‘is beer;
They watch ‘im with the women at the regimental dance,
And the cruel-tyrant-sergeants send ‘is name along for “Lance.”

An’ now ‘e’s ‘arf o’ nothin’, an’ all a private yet,
‘Is room they up an’ rags ‘im to see what they will get.
They rags ‘im low an’ cunnin’, each dirty trick they can,
But ‘e learns to sweat ‘is temper an ‘e learns to sweat ‘is man.

An’, last, a Colour-Sergeant, as such to be obeyed,
‘E schools ‘is men at cricket, ‘e tells ‘em on parade,
They sees ‘im quick an ‘andy, uncommon set an’ smart,
An’ so ‘e talks to orficers which ‘ave the Core at ‘eart.

‘E learns to do ‘is watchin’ without it showin’ plain;
‘E learns to save a dummy, an’ shove ‘im straight again;
‘E learns to check a ranker that’s buyin’ leave to shirk;
An ‘e learns to make men like ‘im so they’ll learn to like their work.

An’ when it comes to marchin’ he’ll see their socks are right,
An’ when it comes: to action ‘e shows ‘em how to sight.
‘E knows their ways of thinkin’ and just what’s in their mind;
‘E knows when they are takin’ on an’ when they’ve fell be’ind.

‘E knows each talkin’ corp’ral that leads a squad astray;
‘E feels ‘is innards ‘eavin’, ‘is bowels givin’ way;
‘E sees the blue-white faces all tryin ‘ard to grin,
An ‘e stands an’ waits an’ suffers till it’s time to cap’em in.

An’ now the hugly bullets come peckin’ through the dust,
An’ no one wants to face ‘em, but every beggar must;
So, like a man in irons, which isn’t glad to go,
They moves ‘em off by companies uncommon stiff an’ slow.

Of all ‘is five years’ schoolin’ they don’t remember much
Excep’ the not retreatin’, the step an’ keepin’ touch.
It looks like teachin’ wasted when they duck an’ spread an ‘op —
But if ‘e ‘adn’t learned ‘em they’d be all about the shop.

An’ now it’s “‘Oo goes backward?” an’ now it’s “‘Oo comes on?”
And now it’s “Get the doolies,” an’ now the Captain’s gone;
An’ now it’s bloody murder, but all the while they ‘ear
‘Is voice, the same as barrick-drill, a-shepherdin’ the rear.

‘E’s just as sick as they are, ‘is ‘eart is like to split,
But ‘e works ‘em, works ‘em, works ‘em till he feels them take the bit;
The rest is ‘oldin’ steady till the watchful bugles play,
An ‘e lifts ‘em, lifts ‘em, lifts ‘em through the charge that wins the day!

 
The ‘eathen in ‘is blindness bows down to wood an’ stone —
  ‘E don’t obey no orders unless they is ‘is own.
  The ‘eathen in ‘is blindness must end where ‘e began
  But the backbone of the Army is the Non-commissioned Man!

  Keep away from dirtiness — keep away from mess,
  Don’t get into doin’ things rather-more-or-less!
  Let’s ha’ done with abby-nay, kul, and hazar-ho;
  Mind you keep your rifle an’ yourself jus’ so!

Eddi’s Service

(A.D. 687)
Eddi, priest of St. Wilfrid
  In his chapel at Manhood End,
Ordered a midnight service
  For such as cared to attend.

But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,
  And the night was stormy as well.
Nobody came to service,
  Though Eddi rang the bell.

“‘Wicked weather for walking,”
  Said Eddi of Manhood End.
“But I must go on with the service
  For such as care to attend.”

The altar-lamps were lighted, —
  An old marsh-donkey came,
Bold as a guest invited,
  And stared at the guttering flame.

The storm beat on at the windows,
  The water splashed on the floor,
And a wet, yoke-weary bullock
  Pushed in through the open door.

“How do I know what is greatest,
  How do I know what is least?
That is My Father’s business,”
  Said Eddi, Wilfrid’s priest.

“But — three are gathered together —
  Listen to me and attend.
I bring good news, my brethren!”
  Said Eddi of Manhood End.

And he told the Ox of a Manger
  And a Stall in Bethlehem,
And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider,
  That rode to Jerusalem.

They steamed and dripped in the chancel,
  They listened and never stirred,
While, just as though they were Bishops,
  Eddi preached them The World,

Till the gale blew off on the marshes
  And the windows showed the day,
And the Ox and the Ass together
  Wheeled and clattered away.

And when the Saxons mocked him,
  Said Eddi of Manhood End,
“I dare not shut His chapel
  On such as care to attend.”

Edgehill Fight

Civil Wars, 1642
Naked and grey the Cotswolds stand
  Beneath the autumn sun,
And the stubble-fields on either hand
  Where Stour and Avon run.
There is no change in the patient land
  That has bred us every one.

She should have passed in cloud and fire
  And saved us from this sin
Of war — red war — ’twixt child and sire,
  Household and kith and kin,
In the heart of a sleepy Midland shire.
  With the harvest scarcely in.

But there is no change as we meet at last
  On the brow-head or the plain,
And the raw astonished ranks stand fast
  To slay or to be slain
By the men they knew in the kindly past
  That shall never come again —

By the men they met at dance or chase,
  In the tavern or the hall,
At the j ustice-bench and the market-place,
  At the cudgel-play or brawl —
Of their own blood and speech and race,
  Comrades or neighbours all!

More bitter than death this day must prove
  Whichever way it go,
For the brothers of the maids we love
  Make ready to lay low
Their sisters sweethearts, as we move
  Against our dearest foe.

Thank Heaven! At last the trumpets peal
  Before our strength gives way.
For King or for the Commonweal —
  No matter which they say,
The first dry rattle of new-drawn steel
  Changes the world to-day!

The Egg-Shell

Enlarged from “Traffics and Discoveries”

The  wind took off with the sunset —
The fog came up with the tide,
When the Witch of the North took an Egg-shell
With a little Blue Devil inside.
“Sink,” she said, “or swim,” she said,
“It’s all you will bet from me.
And that is the finish of him!” she said
And the Egg-shell went to sea.

The wind fell dead with the midnight —
The fog shut down like a sheet,
When the Witch of the North heard the Egg-shell
Feeling by hand for a fleet.
“Get!” she said, “or you’re gone,” she said.,
But the little Blue Devil said “No!
“The sights are just coming on,” he said,
And he let the Whitehead go.

The wind got up with the morning —
The fog blew off with the rain,
When the Witch of the North saw the Egg-shell
And the little Blue Devil again.
“Did you swim?” she said. “Did you sink:” she said,
And the little Blue Devil replied:
“For myself I swam, but I think,” he said,
“There’s somebody sinking outside.”

En-Dor

“Behold there is a woman that hath a familiar spirit at En-dor.”  I Samuel,
 xxviii.    7.

  The road to En-dor is easy to tread
    For Mother or yearning Wife.
  There, it is sure, we shall meet our Dead
   As they were even in life.
 Earth has not dreamed of the blessing in store
 For desolate hearts on the road to En-dor.

 Whispers shall comfort us out of the dark —
   Hands — ah God! — that we knew!
 Visions .and voices — look and hark! —
   Shall prove that the tale is true,
An that those who have passed to the further shore
May’ be hailed — at a price — on the road to En-dor.

But they are so deep in their new eclipse
  Nothing they say can reach,
Unless it be uttered by alien lips
  And I framed in a stranger’s speech.
The son must send word to the mother that bore,
‘Through an hireling’s mouth.   ‘Tis the rule of En-dor.