Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1047 page)

That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin’ swell.
thou knowest all my heart an’ mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell — -
Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell!
Yet was Thy Hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy Care — -
Fra’ Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o’ despair,
But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer!...
We wared na run that sea by night but lay an’ held our fire,
An’ I was drowsin’ on the hatch — -sick — -sick wi’ doubt an’ tire:
“Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin’ o’ desire!”
Ye mind that word? Clear as gongs — -again, an’ once again,
When rippin’ down through coral-trash ran out our moorin’-chain:
An’, by Thy Grace, I had the light to see my duty plain.
Light on the engine-room — -no more — -bright as our carbons burn.
I’ve lost it since a thousand times, but never past return!

Obsairve! Per annum we’ll have here two thousand souls aboard — -
Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord,
But — -average fifteen hunder souls safe-born fra’ port to port — -
I am o’ service to my kind. Ye wadna blame the thought?
Maybe they steam from Grace to Wrath — -to sin by folly led — -
It isna mine to judge their path — -their lives are on my head.
Mine at the last — -when all is done it all comes back to me,
The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon the sea.
We’ll tak’ one stretch — -three weeks an odd by ony road ye steer — -
Fra’ Cape Town east to Wellington — -ye need an engineer.
Fail there — -ye’ve time to weld your shaft — -ay, eat it, ere ye’re spoke;
Or make Kergueen under sail — -three jiggers burned wi’ smoke!
An’ home again — -the Rio run: it’s no child’s play to go
Steamin’ to bell for fourteen days o’ snow an’ floe an’ blow.
The beergs like kelpies oversde that girn an’ turn an’ shift
Whaur, grindin’ like the Mills o’ God, goes by the big South drift.
(Hail, Snow and Ice that praise the Lord. I’ve met them at their work,
An wished we had anither route or they another kirk.)
Yon’s strain, hard strain, o’ head an’ hand, for though Thy Power brings
All skill to naught, Ye’ll underatand a man must think o’ things.
Then, at the last, we’ll get to port an’ hoist their baggage clear — -
The passengers, wi’ gloves an’ canes — -an’ this is what I’ll hear:
“Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage. The tender’s comin’ now.”
While I go testin’ follower-bolts an’ watch the skipper bow.
They’ve words for every one but me — -shake hands wi’ half the crew,
Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew.
An’ yet I like the wark for all we’ve dam’ few pickin’s here — -
No pension, an’ the most we’ll earn’s four hunder pound a year.
Better myself abroad? Maybe. I’d sooner starve than sail
Wi’ such as call a snifter-rod ross.... French for nightingale.
Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I cannot afford
To lie like stewards wi’ patty-pans. I’m older than the Board.
A bonus on the coal I save? Ou ay, the Scots are close,
But when I grudge the strength Ye gave I’ll grudge their food to those.
(There’s bricks that I might recommend — -an’ clink the firebars cruel.
No! Welsh — -Wangarti at the worst — -an’ damn all patent fuel!)
Inventions? Ye must stay in port to mak’ a patent pay.
My Deeferential Valve-Gear taught me how that business lay.
I blame no chaps wi’ clearer heads for aught they make or sell.
I found that I could not invent an’ look to these as well.
So, wrestled wi’ Apollyon — -Nah! — -fretted like a bairn — -
But burned the workin’-plans last run, wi’ all I hoped to earn.
Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an’ what that meant to me — -
E’en tak’ it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee....
Below there! Oiler! What’s your wark? Ye find it runnin’ hard?
Ye needn’t swill the cup wi’ oil — -this isn’t the Cunard!
Ye thought? Ye are not paid to think. Go, sweat that off again!
Tck! Tck! It’s deeficult to sweer nor tak’ The Name in vain!
Men, ay an’ women, call me stern. Wi’ these to oversee,
Ye’ll note I’ve little time to burn on social repartee.
The bairns see what their elders miss; they’ll hunt me to an’ fro,
Till for the sake of — -well, a kiss — -I tak’ ‘em down below.
That minds me of our Viscount loon — -Sir Kenneth’s kin — -the chap
Wi’ Russia leather tennis-shoon an’ spar-decked yachtin’-cap.
I showed him round last week, o’er all — -an’ at the last says he:
“Mister McAndrew, Don’t you think steam spoils romance at sea?”
Damned ijjit! I’d been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws,
Manholin’, on my back — -the cranks three inches off my nose.
Romance! Those first-class passengers they like it very well,
Printed an’ bound in little books; but why don’t poets tell?
I’m sick of all their quirks an’ turns — -the loves an’ doves they dream — -
Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o’ Steam!
To match wi’ Scotia’s noblest speech yon orchestra sublime
Whaurto — -uplifted like the Just — -the tail-rods mark the time.
The crank-throws give the double-bass, the feed-pump sobs an’ heaves,
An’ now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves:
Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides,
Till — -hear that note? — -the rod’s return whings glimmerin’ through the guides.
They’re all awa’! True beat, full power, the clangin’ chorus goes
Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin’ dynamos.
Interdependence absolute, forseen, ordained, decreed,
To work, Ye’ll note, at ony tilt an’ every rate o’ speed.
Fra’ Skylight-lift to furnace-bars, backed, bolted, braced an’ stayed.
An’ singin’ like the Mornin’ Stars for joy that they are made;
While, out o’ touch o’ vanity, the sweatin’ thrust-block says:
“Not unto us the praise, or man — -not unto us the praise!”
Now, a’ together, hear them lift their lesson — -theirs an’ mine:
“Law, Orrder, Duty an’ Restraint, Obedience, Discipline!”
Mill, forge an’ try-pit taught them that when roarin’ they arose,
An’ whiles I wonder if a soul was gied them wi’ the blows.
Oh for a man to weld it then, in one trip-hammer strain,
Till even first-class passengers could tell the meanin’ plain!
But no one cares except mysel’ that serve an’ understand
My seven thousand horse-power here. Eh Lord! They’re grand — -they’re grand!
Uplift am I? When first in store the new-made beasties stood,
Were Ye cast down that breathed the Word declarin’ all things good?
Not so! O’ that warld-liftin’ joy no after-fall could vex,
Ye’ve left a glimmer still to cheer the Man — -the Arrtifex!
That holds, in spite o’ knock and scale, o’ friction, waste an’ slip,
An’ by that light — -now, mark my word — -we’ll build the Perfect Ship.
I’ll never last to judge her lines, or take her curve — -not I.
But I ha’ lived an’ I ha’ worked. Be thanks to Thee, Most High!
An’ I ha’ done what I ha’ done — -judge Thou if ill or well — -
Always Thy grace preventin’ me....
Losh! Yon’s the “Stand-by” bell.
Pilot so soon? His flare it is. The mornin’-watch is set.
Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin’, I’m no Pelagian yet.
Now, I’ll tak’ on....
‘Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought
What your good leddy costs in coal?... I’ll burn ‘em down to port.

Memories

1930
“The eradication of memories of the Great War. -SOCIALIST GOVERNMENT ORGAN
The Socialist Government speaks:
THOUGH all the Dead were all forgot
        And razed were every tomb,
The Worm-the Worm that dieth not
        Compels Us to our doom.
Though all which once was England stands
        Subservient to Our will,
The Dead of whom we washed Our hands,
        They have observance still.

We laid no finger to Their load.
        We multiplied Their woes.
We used Their dearly-opened road
         To traffic with Their foes:
And yet to Them men turn their eyes,
         To Them are vows renewed
Of Faith, Obedience, Sacrifice,
         Honour and Fortitude!

Which things must perish. But Our hour
        Comes not by staves or swords
So much as, subtly, through the power
        Of small corroding words.
No need to make the plot more plain
         By any open thrust;
But-see Their memory is slain
          Long ere Their bones are dust!

Wisely, but yearly, filch some wreath-
        Lay some proud rite aside-
And daily tarnish with Our breath
        The ends for which They died.
Distract, deride, decry, confuse-
        (Or-if it serves Us-pray!)
So presently We break the use
        And meaning of Their day!

The Men That Fought at Minden

A Song of Instruction

The men that fought at Minden, they was rookies in their time —
 So was them that fought at Waterloo!
All the ‘ole command, yuss, from Minden to Maiwand,
 They was once dam’ sweeps like you!

Then do not be discouraged, ‘Eaven is your ‘elper,
 We’ll learn you not to forget;
An’ you mustn’t swear an’ curse, or you’ll only catch it worse,
 For we’ll make you soldiers yet!

The men that fought at Minden, they ‘ad stocks beneath their chins,
 Six inch ‘igh an’ more;
But fatigue it was their pride, and they
would
not be denied
 To clean the cook-’ouse floor.

The men that fought at Minden, they had anarchistic bombs
 Served to ‘em by name of ‘and-grenades;
But they got it in the eye (same as you will by-an’-by)
 When they clubbed their field-parades.

The men that fought at Minden, they ‘ad buttons up an’ down,
 Two-an’-twenty dozen of ‘em told;
But they didn’t grouse an’ shirk at an hour’s extry work,
 They kept ‘em bright as gold.

The men that fought at Minden, they was armed with musketoons,
 Also, they was drilled by ‘alberdiers;
I don’t know what they were, but the sergeants took good care
 They washed be’ind their ears.

The men that fought at Minden, they ‘ad ever cash in ‘and
 Which they did not bank nor save,
But spent it gay an’ free on their betters — such as me —
 For the good advice I gave.

The men that fought at Minden, they was civil — yuss, they was —
 Never didn’t talk o’ rights an’ wrongs,
But they got it with the toe (same as you will get it — so!) —
 For interrupting songs.

The men that fought at Minden, they was several other things
 Which I don’t remember clear;
But
that’s
the reason why, now the six-year men are dry,
 The rooks will stand the beer!

Then do not be discouraged, ‘Eaven is your ‘elper,
 We’ll learn you not to forget;
An’ you mustn’t swear an’ curse, or you’ll only catch it worse,
 For we’ll make you soldiers yet!

Soldiers yet, if you’ve got it in you —
 All for the sake of the Core;
Soldiers yet, if we ‘ave to skin you —
 Run an’ get the beer, Johnny Raw — Johnny Raw!
 Ho! run an’ get the beer, Johnny Raw!

The Merchantmen

1893
         King Solomon drew merchantmen,
           Because of his desire
         For peacocks, apes, and ivory,
           From Tarshish unto Tyre,
         With cedars out of Lebanon
           Which Hiram rafted down;
         But we be only sailormen
           That use in London town.

Coastwise — cross-seas — round the world and back again —
  Where the flaw shall head us or the full Trade suits —
Plain-sail — storm-sail — lay your board and tack again —
  And that’s the way we’ll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!

         We bring no store of ingots,
           Of spice or precious stones,
         But what we have we gathered
           With sweat and aching bones:
         In flame beneath the Tropics,
           In frost upon the floe,
         And jeopardy of every wind
           That does between them go.

         And some we got by purchase,
           And some we had by trade,
         And some we found by courtesy
           Of pike and carronade —
         At midnight, ‘mid-sea meetings,
           For charity to keep,
         And light the rolling homeward-bound
            That rowed a foot too deep!

         By sport of bitter weather
           We’re walty, strained, and scarred
         From the kentledge on the kelson
           To the slings upon the yard.
         Six oceans had their will of us
           To carry all away —
         Our galley’s in the Baltic,
           And our boom’s in Mossel Bay.

         We’ve floundered off the Texel,
           Awash with sodden deals,
         We’ve slipped from Valparaiso
           With the Norther at our heels:
         We’ve ratched beyond the Crossets
           That tusk the Southern Pole,
         And dipped our gunnels under
           To the dread Agulhas roll.

         Beyond all outer charting
           We sailed where none have sailed,
         And saw the land-lights burning
           On islands none have hailed;
         Our hair stood up for wonder,
           But, when the night was done,
         There danced the deep to windward
           Blue-empty ‘neath the sun!