Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1065 page)

Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,
That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings,
By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,
Be sure, be sure, we’re going to do some splendid things!

What of the hunting, hunter bold?
     Brother, the watch was long and cold.
What of the quarry ye went to kill?
     Brother, he crops in the jungle still.
Where is the power that made your pride?
     Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side.
Where is the haste that ye hurry by?
     Brother, I go to my lair — to die.

The Roman Centurion’s Song

Roman Occupation of Britain, A.D. 300
Legate, I had the news last night — my cohort ordered home
By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome.
I’ve marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below:
Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go!

I’ve served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall,
I have none other home than this, nor any life at all.
Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near
That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here.

Here where men say my name was made, here where my work
    was done;
Here where my dearest dead are laid — my wife — my wife and
    son;
Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service,
    love,
Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove?

For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields surffice.
What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern
      skies,
Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August
   haze —
The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June’s long-lighted
   days?                     

You’ll follow widening Rhodanus till vine an olive lean
Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean
To Arelate’s triple gate; but let me linger on,
Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon!

You’ll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending
   pines
Where, blue as any peacock’s neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines.
You’ll go where laurel crowns are won, but — will you e’er forget
The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet?

Let me work here for Britain’s sake — at any task you will —
A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill.
Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep,
Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep.

Legate, I come to you in tears — My cohort ordered home!
I’ve served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome?
Here is my heart, my soul, my mind — the only life I know.
I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go!

Romulus and Remus

Canadian

Oh, little did the Wolf-Child care —
  When first he planned his home,
What City should arise and bear
  The weight and state of Rome.

A shiftless, westward-wandering tramp,
  Checked by the Tiber flood,
He reared a wall around his camp
  Of uninspired mud.

But when his brother leaped the Wall
  And mocked its height and make,
He guessed the future of it all
  And slew him for its sake.

Swift was the blow — swift as the thought
  Which showed him in that hour
How unbelief may bring to naught
  The early steps of Power.

Foreseeing Time’s imperilled hopes
  Of Glory, Grace, and Love —
All singers, Caesars, artists, Popes —
  Would fail if Remus throve,

He sent his brother to the Gods,
  And, when the fit was o’er,
Went on collecting turves and clods
  To build the Wall once more!

Route Marchin’

We’re marchin’ on relief over Injia’s sunny plains,
A little front o’ Christmas-time an’ just be’ind the Rains;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you’ve ‘eard the bugle blowed,
There’s a regiment a-comin’ down the Grand Trunk Road;
    With its best foot first
    And the road a-sliding past,
    An’ every bloomin’ campin’-ground exactly like the last;
    While the Big Drum says,
    With ‘is “
rowdy-dowdy-dow!
” —
    “
Kiko kissywarsti
don’t you
hamsher argy jow?
”*

* Why don’t you get on?

Oh, there’s them Injian temples to admire when you see,
There’s the peacock round the corner an’ the monkey up the tree,
An’ there’s that rummy silver grass a-wavin’ in the wind,
An’ the old Grand Trunk a-trailin’ like a rifle-sling be’ind.
    While it’s best foot first, . . .

At half-past five’s Revelly, an’ our tents they down must come,
Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick ‘em up at ‘ome.
But it’s over in a minute, an’ at six the column starts,
While the women and the kiddies sit an’ shiver in the carts.
    An’ it’s best foot first, . . .

Oh, then it’s open order, an’ we lights our pipes an’ sings,
An’ we talks about our rations an’ a lot of other things,
An’ we thinks o’ friends in England, an’ we wonders what they’re at,
An’ ‘ow they would admire for to hear us sling the
bat
.*
    An’ it’s best foot first, . . .

* Language. Thomas’s first and firmest conviction is that he is a profound Orientalist and a fluent speaker of Hindustani. As a matter of fact, he depends largely on the sign-language.

It’s none so bad o’ Sunday, when you’re lyin’ at your ease,
To watch the kites a-wheelin’ round them feather-’eaded trees,
For although there ain’t no women, yet there ain’t no barrick-yards,
So the orficers goes shootin’ an’ the men they plays at cards.
    Till it’s best foot first, . . .

So ‘ark an’ ‘eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin’ sore,
There’s worser things than marchin’ from Umballa to Cawnpore;
An’ if your ‘eels are blistered an’ they feels to ‘urt like ‘ell,
You drop some tallow in your socks an’ that will make ‘em well.
    For it’s best foot first, . . .

We’re marchin’ on relief over Injia’s coral strand,
Eight ‘undred fightin’ Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you’ve ‘eard the bugle blowed,
There’s a regiment a-comin’ down the Grand Trunk Road;
    With its best foot first
    And the road a-sliding past,
    An’ every bloomin’ campin’-ground exactly like the last;
    While the Big Drum says,
    With ‘is “
rowdy-dowdy-dow!
” —
    “
Kiko kissywarsti
don’t you
amsher argy jow?
”

The Rowers

1899
(
When Germany proposed that England should help her in a naval demonstration to collect debts from Venezuela.)
The banked oars fell an hundred strong,
  And backed and threshed and ground,
But bitter was the rowers’ song
  As they brought the war-boat round.

They had no heart for the rally and roar
  That makes the whale-bath smoke —
When the great blades cleave and hold and leave
   As one on the racing stroke.

They sang: — What reckoning do you keep,
  And steer by what star,
If we come unscathed from the Southern deep
  To be wrecked on a Baltic bar?

“Last night you swore our voyage was done,
   But seaward still we go.
And you tell us now of a secret vow
  You have made with an open foe!       

“That we must lie off a lightless coast
    And houl and back and veer
 At the will of the breed that have wrought us most
    For a year and a year and a year!

“There was never a shame in Christendie
    They laid not to our door —
And you say we must take the winter sea
  And sail with them once more?

“Look South!  The gale is scarce o’erpast
   That stripped and laid us down,
When we stood forth but they stood fast
  And prayed to see us drown.

“Our dead they mocked are scarcely cold,
   Our wounds are bleeding yet —
And you tell us now that our strength is sold
  To help them press for a debt!

“‘Neath all the flags of all mankind
  That use upon the seas,
Was there no other fleet to find
  That you strike bands with these?

“Of evil times that men can choose
  On evil fate to fall,
 What brooding Judgment let you loose
   To pick the worst of all?

“In sight of peace — from the Narrow Seas
    O’er half the world to run —
With a cheated crew, to league anew
    With the Goth and the shameless Hun!”

The Runes of Weland’s Sword

1906
“Old Men at Pevensey” — Puck of Pook’s Hill
A smith makes me
To betray my Man
In my first fight.

To gather Gold
At the world’s end
I am sent.

The Gold I gather
Comes into England
Out of deep Water.

Like a shining Fish
Then it descends
Into deep Water.

It is not given
For goods or gear,
But for The Thing.

The Gold I gather
A King covets
For an ill use

The Gold I gather
Is drawn up
Out of deep Water.

Like a shining Fish
Then it descends
Into deep Water.

It is not given
For goods or gear,
But for The Thing.

The Run of the Downs

The Weald is good, the Downs are best — -
I’ll give you the run of ‘em, East to West.
Beachy Head and Winddoor Hill,
They were once and they are still.
Firle  Mount Caburn and Mount Harry
Go back as far as sums ‘1l carry.
Ditchling Beacon and Chanctonbury Ring
They have looked on many a thing,
And what those two have missed between ‘em
I reckon Truleigh Hill has seen ‘em.           ,
Highden, Bignor and Duncton Down
Knew Old England before the Crown.
Linch Down, Treyford and Sunwood
Knew Old England before the Flood;
And when you end on the Hampshire side —
Butser’s old as Time and Tide.
The Downs are sheep, the Weald is corn,
You be glad you are Sussex born!

The Rupaiyat of Omar Kal’vin

[Allowing for the difference ‘twixt prose and rhymed exaggeration, this ought to reproduce the sense of what Sir A — told the nation sometime ago, when the Government struck from our incomes two per cent.]

Now the New Year, reviving last Year’s Debt,
The Thoughtful Fisher casteth wide his Net;
  So I with begging Dish and ready Tongue
Assail all Men for all that I can get.

Imports indeed are gone with all their Dues —
Lo! Salt a Lever that I dare not use,
  Nor may I ask the Tillers in Bengal —
Surely my Kith and Kin will not refuse!

Pay — and I promise by the Dust of Spring,
Retrenchment.  If my promises can bring
  Comfort, Ye have Them now a thousandfold —
By Allah! I will promise
Anything!

Indeed, indeed, Retrenchment oft before
I sore — but did I mean it when I swore?
  And then, and then, We wandered to the Hills,
And so the Little Less became Much More.

Whether a Boileaugunge or Babylon,
I know not how the wretched Thing is done,
  The Items of Receipt grow surely small;
The Items of Expense mount one by one.

I cannot help it. What have I to do
With One and Five, or Four, or Three, or Two?
  Let Scribes spit Blood and Sulphur as they please,
Or Statesmen call me foolish — Heed not you.

Behold, I promise — Anything You will.
Behold, I greet you with an empty Till —
  Ah! Fellow-Sinners, of your Charity
Seek not the Reason of the Dearth, but fill.

For if I sinned and fell, where lies the Gain
Of Knowledge? Would it ease you of your Pain
  To know the tangled Threads of Revenue,
I ravel deeper in a hopeless Skein?

“Who hath not Prudence” — what was it I said,
Of Her who paints her Eyes and tires Her Head,
  And gibes and mocks and People in the Street,
And fawns upon them for Her thriftless Bread?

Accursed is She of Eve’s daughters — She
Hath cast off Prudence, and Her End shall be
  Destruction . . . Brethren, of your Bounty
Some portion of your daily Bread to
Me.

Russia To The Pacifists

                            1918