Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1070 page)

We’re most of us liars, we’re ‘arf of us thieves, an’ the rest are as rank as can be,
But once in a while we can finish in style (which I ‘ope it won’t ‘appen to me).
But it makes you think better o’ you an’ your friends, an’ the work you may ‘ave to do,
When you think o’ the sinkin’
Victorier
’s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!
Now there isn’t no room for to say ye don’t know — they ‘ave proved it plain and true —
That whether it’s Widow, or whether it’s ship, Victorier’s work is to do,
An’ they done it, the Jollies — ‘Er Majesty’s Jollies — soldier an’ sailor too!

Soldier, Soldier

“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Why don’t you march with my true love?”
“We’re fresh from off the ship an’ ‘e’s maybe give the slip,
An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”
New love!  True love!
Best go look for a new love,
The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,
An’ you’d best go look for a new love.

“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
What did you see o’ my true love?”
“I seed ‘im serve the Queen in a suit o’ rifle-green,
An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Did ye see no more o’ my true love?”
“I seed ‘im runnin’ by when the shots begun to fly —
But you’d best go look for a new love.”

“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Did aught take ‘arm to my true love?”
“I couldn’t see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white —
An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
I’ll up an’ tend to my true love!”
“‘E’s lying on the dead with a bullet through ‘is ‘ead,
An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
I’ll down an’ die with my true love!”
“The pit we dug’ll ‘ide ‘im an’ the twenty men beside ‘im —
An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
Do you bring no sign from my true love?”
“I bring a lock of ‘air that ‘e allus used to wear,
An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

“Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
O then I know it’s true I’ve lost my true love!”
“An’ I tell you truth again — when you’ve lost the feel o’ pain
You’d best take me for your true love.”
True love!  New love!
Best take ‘im for a new love,
The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,
An’ you’d best take ‘im for your true love.

A Song at Cock-Crow

1918
“Ille autem iterum negavit.”
The first time that Peter denied his Lord
  He shrank from the cudgel, the scourge and the cord,
But followed far off to see what they would do,
  Till the cock crew — till the cock crew —
After Gethsemane, till the cock crew!

The first time that Peter denied his Lord
  ‘Twas only a maid in the palace who heard,
As he sat by the fire and warmed himself through.
  Then the cock crew!   Then the cock crew!
(“Though also art one of them.”)   Then the cock crew!

The first time that Peter denied his Lord
  He had neither the Throne, nor the Keys nor the Sword —
A poor silly fisherman, what could he do,
  When the cock crew — when the cock crew —
But weep for his wickedness when the cock crew?
       .         .         .         .         .         .

The next time that Peter denied his Lord
  He was Fisher of Men, as foretold by the Word,
With the Crown on his brow and the Cross on his shoe,
  When the cock crew — when the cock crew —
In Flanders and Picardy when the cock crew!

The next time that Peter denied his Lord
  ‘Twas Mary the Mother in Heaven Who heard,
She grieved for the maidens and wives that they slew
  When the cock crew — when the cock crew —
At Tirmonde and Aerschott when the cock crew!

The next time that Peter denied his Lord
The Babe in the Manger awakened and stirred,
And He stretched out His arms for the playmates
  He knew —
When the cock crew — when the cock crew —
But the waters had covered them when the cock crew!

The next time that Peter denied his Lord
  ‘Twas Earth in her agony waited his word,
But he sat by the fire and naught would he do,
  Though the cock crew — though the cock crew —
Over all Christendom, though the cock crew!

The last time that Peter denied his Lord,
  The Father took from him the Keys and the Sword,
And the Mother and Babe brake his Kingdom in two,
  When the cock crew — when the cock crew —
(Because of his wickedness) when the cock crew!

A Song in the Desert

P. L. OB. JAN. 1927
FRIEND, thou beholdest the lightning? Who has the charge of it-
To decree which rock-ridge shall receive-shall be chosen for targe of it?
Which crown among palms shall go down, by the thunderbolt broken;
While the floods drown the sere wadis where no bud is token?

First for my eyes, above all, he made show of his treasure.
First in his ear, before all, I made sure of my measure.
If it were good-what acclaim! None other so moved me.
If it were faulty-shame? While he mocked me he loved me.

Friend, thou hast seen in Rida’ar, the low moon descending,
One silent, swart, swift-striding camel, oceanward wending?
Browbound and jawbound the rider, his shadow in front of him,
Ceaselessly eating the distances? That was the wont of him.

Whether the cliff-walled defiles, the ambush prepared for him;
Whether the wave-crested dunes-a single sword bared for him-
Whether cold danger fore-weighed, or quick peril that took him
Alone, out of comfort or aid, no breath of it shook him.

Whether he feasted or fasted, sweated or shivered,
There was no proof of the matter-no sign was delivered.
Whatever this dust or that heat, or those fools that he laboured with,
He forgot and forbore no observance towards any he neighboured with.

Friend, thou hast known at Rida’ar, when the Council was bidden,
One face among faces that leaped to the light and were hidden?
One voice among night-wasting voices of boasting and shouting?
And that face and that voice abide with thee? His beyond doubting!

Never again in Rida’ar, my watch-fire burning,
That he might see from afar, shall I wait his returning;
Or the roar of his beast as she knelt and he leaped to unlade her
Two-handedly tossing me jewels. He was no trader!

Gems and wrought gold, never sold-brought for me to behold them;
Tales of far magic unrolled-to me only he told them,
With the light, easy laugh of dismissal ‘twixt story and story-
As a man brushes sand from his hand, or the great dismiss glory.

Never again in Rida’ar! My ways are made black to me!
Whether I sing or am silent, he shall not come back to me!
There is no measure for trial, nor treasure for bringing.
Allah divides the Companions. (Yet he said-yet he said: — ”Cease
           not from singing.”)

A Song In Storm

1914-18
   Be well assured that on our side
       The abiding oceans fight,
   Though headlong wind and heaping tide
       Make us their sport to-night.
   By force of weather, not of war,
       In jeopardy we steer.
   Then welcome Fate’s discourtesy
      Whereby it shall appear
          How in all time of our distress,
          And our deliverance too,
          The game is more than the player of the game,
          And the ship is more than the crew!

   Out of the mist into the mirk
       The glimmering combers roll.
   Almost these mindless waters work
       As though they had a soul —
   Almost as though they leagued to whelm
       Our flag beneath their green:
   Then welcome Fate’s discourtesy
       Whereby it shall be seen, etc.

   Be well assured, though wave and wind
        Have mightier blows in store,
   That we who keep the watch assigned
        Must stand to it the more;
   And as our streaming bows rebuke
        Each billow’s baulked career,
   Sing, welcome Fate’s discourtesy
        Whereby it is made clear, etc.

   No matter though our decks be swept
        And mast and timber crack —
   We can make good all loss except
        The loss of turning back.
    So, ‘twixt these Devils and our deep
        Let courteous trumpets sound,
   To welcome Fate’s discourtesy
        Whereby it will be found, etc.

   Be well assured, though in our power
        Is nothing left to give
   But chance and place to meet the hour,
        And leave to strive to live.
   Till these dissolve our Order holds,
        Our Service binds us here.
   Then welcome Fate’s discourtesy
        Whereby it is made clear
            How in all time of our distress,
            As in our triumph too,
            The game is more than the player of the game
            And the ship is more than the crew!

The Song of the Banjo

You couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile —
    You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp
You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile,
    And play it in an Equatorial swamp.
I
travel with the cooking-pots and pails —
    I’m sandwiched ‘tween the coffee and the pork —
And when the dusty column checks and tails,
    You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk!

          With my
“Pilly-willy-wirky-wirky-popp!”
              [Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!]
          So I keep ‘em moving forward till they drop;
              So I play ‘em up to water and to bed.

In the silence of the camp before the fight,
    When it’s good to make your will and say your prayer,
You can hear my
strumpty-tumpty
overnight,
    Explaining ten to one was always fair.
I’m the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,
    Of the Patently Impossible and Vain
And when the Thing that Couldn’t has occurred,
    Give me time to change my leg and go again.

          With my
“Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tump!”
              In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled.
          There was never voice before us till I fed our lonely chorus,
              I the war-drum of the White Man round the world!

By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,
    Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own, —
‘Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,
    In the silence of the herder’s hut alone —
In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,
    Hear me babble what the weakest won’t confess —
I am Memory and Torment — I am Town!
     I am all that ever went with evening dress!

          With my
“Tunka-tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!”
              [So the lights —  the London Lights grow near and plain!]
          So I rowel’em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh
              Till I bring my broken rankers home again.

In desire of many marvels over sea,
    Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,
I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay
    Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.
He is blooded to the open and the sky,
     He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,
He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,
    Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.

         With my
“Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!”
             (Oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck!]
         Are you sick o’ towns and men? You must sign and sail again,
             For it’s “Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!”

Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear —
    Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel —
Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer; —
    Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:
Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,
    Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,
Hear me lead my reckless children from below
    Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine!

         With my
“Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!”
             [Oh, the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]
         And we ride the iron stallions down to drink,
             Through the canons to the waters of the West!

And the tunes that mean so much to you alone —
    Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose —
Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan —
    I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;
With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun —
     And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,
And the merry play that drops you, when you’re done.
     To the thoughs that burn like irons if you think.