Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1034 page)

Oil I drew from the well,
  And Franklin’s spark from its blue;
Time and Distance fell,
  And Man went forth anew.

On the prairie and in the street
  So long as my chariots roll
I bind wings to Adam’s feet,
  And, presently, to his soul!

The Irish Guards

1918

We’re not so old in the Army List, But we’re not so young at our trade, For we had the honour at Fontenoy Of meeting the Guards’Brigade. ‘Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare, And Lee that led us then, And after a hundred and seventy years We’re fighting for France again!
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting, Head to the storm as they faced if before ! For where there are Irish there’s bound to be fighting, And when there’s no fighting, it’s Ireland no more! Ireland no more!
The fashion’s all for khaki now, But once through France we went Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth, The English-left at Ghent. They’re fighting on our side to-day But, before they changed their clothes, The half of Europe knew our fame, As all of Ireland knows!
Old Days! The wild geese are flying, Head to the sform as they faced it before! For where there are Irish there’s memory undying, And when we forget, it is Ireland no more! Ireland no more!
From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt, From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge, The ancient days come back no more Than water under the bridge. But the bridge it stands and the water runs As red as yesterday, And the Irish move to the sound of the guns Like salmon to the sea.
Old Days! The wild geese are ranging, Head to the storm as they faced it before! For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging, And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more! Ireland no more!
We’re not so old in the Army List, But we’re not so new in the ring, For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe When Louis was our King. But Douglas Haig’s our Marshal now And we’re King George’s men, And after one hundred and seventy years We’re fighting for France again!
Ah, France! And did we stand by you, When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards? Ah, France! And will we deny you In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords? Old Days! The wild geese are flighing, Head to the storm as they faced it before! For where there are Irish there’s loving and fighting And when we stop either, it’s Ireland no more! Ireland no more!

The Islanders

1902
NO DOUBT
but ye are the People-your throne is above the King’s.
Whoso speaks in your presence must say acceptable things:
Bowing the head in worship, bending the knee in fear-
Bringing the word well smoothen-such as a King should hear.

Fenced by your careful fathers, ringed by your leaden seas,
Long did ye wake in quiet and long lie down at ease;
Till Ye said of Strife, “What is it?” of the Sword, “It is far from our ken”;
Till ye made a sport of your shrunken hosts and a toy of your armed men.
Ye stopped your ears to the warning-ye would neither look nor heed-
Ye set your leisure before their toil and your lusts above their need.
Because of your witless learning and your beasts of warren and chase,
Ye grudged your sons to their service and your fields for their camping-place.
Ye forced them glean in the highways the straw for the bricks they brought;
Ye forced them follow in byways the craft that ye never taught.
Ye hampered and hindered and crippled; ye thrust out of sight and away
Those that would serve you for honour and those that served you for pay.
Then were the judgments loosened; then was your shame revealed,
At the hands of a little people, few but apt in the field.
Yet ye were saved by a remnant (and your land’s long-suffering star),
When your strong men cheered in their millions while your
         striplings went to the war.
Sons of the sheltered city-unmade, unhandled, unmeet-
Ye pushed them raw to the battle as ye picked them raw from the street.
And what did ye look they should compass? Warcraft learned in a breath,
Knowledge unto occasion at the first far view of Death?
So? And ye train your horses and the dogs ye feed and prize?
How are the beasts more worthy than the souls, your sacrifice?
But ye said, “Their valour shall show them”; but ye said, “The end is close.”
And ye sent them comfits and pictures to help them harry your foes:
And ye vaunted your fathomless power, and ye flaunted your iron pride,
Ere ye fawned on the Younger Nations for the men who could shoot and ride!
Then ye returned to your trinkets; then ye contented your souls
With the flannelled fools at the wicket or the muddied oafs at the goals.
Given to strong delusion, wholly believing a lie,
Ye saw that the land lay fenceless, and ye let the months go by
Waiting some easy wonder, hoping some saving sign-
Idle -openly idle-in the lee of the forespent Line.
Idle -except for your boasting-and what is your boasting worth
If ye grudge a year of service to the lordliest life on earth?
Ancient, effortless, ordered, cycle on cycle set,
Life so long untroubled, that ye who inherit forget
It was not made with the mountains, it is not one with the deep.
Men, not gods, devised it. Men, not gods, must keep.
Men, not children, servants, or kinsfolk called from afar,
But each man born in the Island broke to the matter of war.
Soberly and by custom taken and trained for the same,
Each man born in the Island entered at youth to the game-
As it were almost cricket, not to be mastered in haste,
But after trial and labour, by temperance, living chaste.
As it were almost cricket-as it were even your play,
Weighed and pondered and worshipped, and practised day and day.
So ye shall bide sure-guarded when the restless lightnings wake
In the womb of the blotting war-cloud, and the pallid nations quake.
So, at the haggard trumpets, instant your soul shall leap
Forthright, accoutred, accepting-alert from the wells of sleep.
So, at the threat ye shall summon-so at the need ye shall send
Men, not children or servants, tempered and taught to the end;
Cleansed of servile panic, slow to dread or despise,
Humble because of knowledge, mighty by sacrifice. . . .
But ye say, “It will mar our comfort.” Ye say, “It will minish our trade.”
Do ye wait for the spattered shrapnel ere ye learn how a gun is laid?
For the low, red glare to southward when the raided coast- towns burn?
(Light ye shall have on that lesson, but little time to learn.)
Will ye pitch some white pavilion, and lustily even the odds,
With nets and hoops and mallets, with rackets and bats and rods
Will the rabbit war with your foemen-the red deer horn them for hire?
Your kept cock-pheasant keep you?-he is master of many a shire,
Arid, aloof, incurious, unthinking, unthanking, gelt,
Will ye loose your schools to flout them till their brow-beat columns melt?
Will ye pray them or preach them, or print them, or ballot them back from your shore?
Will your workmen issue a mandate to bid them strike no more?
Will ye rise and dethrone your rulers? (Because ye were idle both?
Pride by Insolence chastened? Indolence purged by Sloth?)
No doubt but ye are the People; who shall make you afraid?
Also your gods are many; no doubt but your gods shall aid.
Idols of greasy altars built for the body’s ease;
Proud little brazen Baals and talking fetishes;
Teraphs of sept and party and wise wood-pavement gods-
These shall come down to the battle and snatch you from under the rods?
From the gusty, flickering gun-roll with viewless salvoes rent,
And the pitted hail of the bullets that tell not whence they were sent.
When ye are ringed as with iron, when ye are scourged as with whips,
When the meat is yet in your belly, and the boast is yet on your lips;
When ye go forth at morning and the noon beholds you broke,
Ere ye lie down at even, your remnant, under the yoke?

No doubt but ye are the People-absolute, strong, and wise;
Whatever your heart has desired ye have not withheld from your eyes.
On your own heads, in your own hands, the sin and the caving lies!

The Jacket

Through the Plagues of Egyp’ we was chasin’ Arabi,
 Gettin’ down an’ shovin’ in the sun;
An’ you might ‘ave called us dirty, an’ you might ha’ called us dry,
 An’ you might ‘ave ‘eard us talkin’ at the gun.
But the Captain ‘ad ‘is jacket, an’ the jacket it was new —
 (‘Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
An’ the wettin’ of the jacket is the proper thing to do,
 Nor we didn’t keep ‘im waiting very long.

One day they gave us orders for to shell a sand redoubt,
 Loadin’ down the axle-arms with case;
But the Captain knew ‘is dooty, an’ he took the crackers out
 An’ he put some proper liquor in its place.
An’ the Captain saw the shrapnel, which is six-an’-thirty clear.
 (‘Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
“Will you draw the weight,” sez ‘e, “or will you draw the beer?”
 An’ we didn’t keep ‘im waitin’ very long.
 
For the Captain, etc.

Then we trotted gentle, not to break the bloomin’ glass,
 Though the Arabites ‘ad all their ranges marked;
But we dursn’t ‘ardly gallop, for the most was bottled Bass,
 An’ we’d dreamed of it since we was disembarked,
So we fired economic with the shells we ‘ad in ‘and,
 (‘Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
But the beggars under cover ‘ad the impidence to stand,
 An’ we couldn’t keep ‘em waitin’ very long.
 
And the Captain, etc.

So we finished ‘arf the liquor (an’ the Captain took champagne),
 An’ the Arabites was shootin’ all the while;
An’ we left our wounded ‘appy with the empties on the plain,
 An’ we used the bloomin’ guns for projec
tile
!
We limbered up an’ galloped — there were nothin’ else to do —
 (‘Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
An’ the Battery came a-boundin’ like a boundin’ kangaroo,
 But they didn’t watch us comin’ very long.
 
As the Captain, etc.

We was goin’ most extended — we was drivin’ very fine,
 An’ the Arabites were loosin’ ‘igh an’ wide,
Till the Captain took the glacis with a rattlin’ “right incline,”
 An’ we dropped upon their ‘eads the other side.
Then we give ‘em quarter — such as ‘adn’t up and cut,
 (‘Orse Gunners, listen to my song!)
An’ the Captain stood a limberful of fizzy somethin’ Brutt,
 But we didn’t leave it fizzing very long.
 
For the Captain, etc.

We might ha’ been court-martialled, but it all come out all right
 When they signalled us to join the main command.
There was every round expended, there was every gunner tight,
 An’ the Captain waved a corkscrew in ‘is ‘and.
 
But the Captain ‘ad ‘is jacket, etc.

James I

1603-25

The child of Mary Queen of Scots,
  A shifty mother’s shiftless son,
Bred up among intrigues and plots,
  Learned in all things, wise in none.
Ungainly, babbling, wasteful, weak,
  Shrewd, clever, cowardly, pedantic,
The sight of steel would blanch his cheek,
  The smell of baccy drive him frantic.
He was the author of his line —
  He wrote that witches should be burnt;
He wrote that monarchs were divine,
  And left a son who — proved they weren’t!

Jane’s Marriage

“The Janeites”
Jane went to Paradise:
  That was only fair.
Good Sir Walter followed her,
  And armed her up the stair.
Henry and Tobias,
  And Miguel of Spain,
Stood with Shakespeare at the top
  To welcome Jane —

Then the Three Archangels
  Offered out of hand
Anything in Heaven’s gift
  That she might command.
Azrael’s eyes upon her,
  Raphael’s wings above,
Michael’s sword against her heart,
  Jane said: “Love.”

Instantly the under-
  Standing Seraphim
Laid their fingers on their lips
  And went to look for him.
Stole across the Zodiac,
     Harnessed Charles’s Wain,
  And whispered round the Nebulae
     “Who loved Jane?”

In a private limbo
  Where none had thought to look,
Sat a Hampshire gentleman
  Reading of a book.
It was called
Persuasion
  And it told the plain
Story of the love between
  Him and Jane.

He heard the question,
  Circle Heaven through —
Closed the book and answered:
  “I did — and do!”
Quietly but speedily
  (As Captain Wentworth moved)
Entered into Paradise
  The man Jane loved!

Jane lies in Winchester, blessed be her shade!
Praise the Lord for making her, and her for all she made.
And while the stones of Winchester — or Milson Street — remain,
Glory, Love, and Honour unto England’s Jane!

The Jester

There are three degrees of bliss
At the foot of Allah’s Throne,
And the highest place is his
Who saves a brother’s soul
At peril of his own.
There is the Power made known!

There are three degrees of bliss
In Gardens of Paradise,
And the second place is his
Who saves his brother’s soul
By exellent advice.
For there the Glory lies!

There the are three degrees of bliss
And three abodes of the Blest,
And the lowest place is his
Who has saved a soul by jest
And  a brother’s soul in sport...
But there do the Angels resort!