Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1080 page)

Tommy

I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ‘e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
    O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
    But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,
    The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
    O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ‘adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
    For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
    But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,
    The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
    O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
    Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ‘ow’s yer soul?”
    But it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll,
    The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
    O it’s “Thin red line of ‘eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

We aren’t no thin red ‘eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;
    While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind”,
    But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind,
    There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
    O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
    For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
    But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
    An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
    An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool — you bet that Tommy sees!

The Tour

Byron
 — The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)

Thirteen as twelve my Murray always took —
  He was a publisher. The new Police
Have neater ways of bringing men to book,
  So Juan found himself before J.P.’s
Accused of storming  through that placed nook
  At practically any pace you please.
The Dogberry, and the Waterbury, made
It fifty mile — five pounds. And Juan paid!

The Trade

1914-18
Sea Warfare

     They bear, in place of classic names,
       Letters and numbers on their skin.
     They play their grisly blindfold games
       In little boxes made of tin.
       Sometimes they stalk the Zeppelin,
     Sometimes they learn where mines are laid,
       Or where the Baltic ice is thin.
     That is the custom of “The Trade.”

     Few prize-courts sit upon their claims.
       They seldom tow their targets in.
     They follow certain secret aims
       Down under, Far from strife or din.
       When they are ready to begin
     No flag is flown, no fuss is made
       More than the shearing of a pin.
     That is the custom of “The Trade.”

     The Scout’s quadruple funnel flames
       A mark from Sweden to the Swin,
     The Cruiser’s thund’rous screw proclaims
       Her comings out and goings in:
       But only whiffs of paraffin
     Or creamy rings that fizz and fade
       Show where the one-eyed Death has been
     That is the custom of “The Trade.”

     Their feats, their fortunes and their fames
       Are hidden from their nearest kin;
     No eager public backs or blames,
       No journal prints the yarn they spin
       (The Censor would not let it in! )
     When they return from run or raid.
       Unheard they work, unseen they win.
     That is the custom of “The Trade.”

A Translation

       
Horace, BK. V., Ode 3
        “Regulus” — A Diversity of Creatures

There are whose study is of smells,
  And to attentive schools rehearse
How something mixed with something else
  Makes something worse.

Some cultivate in broths impure
  The clients of our body — these,
Increasing without Venus, cure,
  Or cause, disease.

Others the heated wheel extol,
  And all its offspring, whose concern
Is how to make it farthest roll
  And fastest turn.

Me, much incurious if the hour
  Present, or to be paid for, brings
Me to Brundusium by the power
  Of wheels or wings;

Me, in whose breast no flame hath burned
  Life-long, save that by Pindar lit,
Such lore leaves cold. I am not turned
  Aside to it

More than when, sunk in thought profound
  Of what the unaltering Gods require,
My steward (friend but slave) brings round
  Logs for my fire.

A Tree Song

            (A. D. 1200)

Of all the trees that grow so fair,
  Old England to adorn,
Greater are none beneath the Sun,
 Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.
Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs,
  (All of a Midsummer morn!)
Surely we sing no little thing,
 In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oak of the Clay lived many a day,
  Or ever AEneas began.
Ash of the Loam was a lady at home,
  When Brut was an outlaw man.
Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town
 (From which was London born);
Witness hereby the ancientry
  Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Yew that is old in churchyard-mould,
  He breedeth a mighty bow.
Alder for shoes do wise men choose,
  And beech for cups also.
But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,
  And your shoes are clean outworn,
Back ye must speed for all that ye need,
  To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth
  Till every gust be laid,
To drop a limb on the head of him
  That anyway trusts her shade:
But whether a lad be sober or sad,
  Or mellow with ale from the horn,
He will take no wrong when he lieth along
  ‘Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight,
  Or he would call it a sin;
But — we have been out in the woods all night,
  A-conjuring Summer in!
And we bring you news by word of mouth-
  Good news for cattle and corn —
Now is the Sun come up from the South,
  With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs
  (All of a Midsummer morn):
England shall bide ti11 Judgment Tide,
  By  Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Troopin’

(Our Army in the East)
Troopin’, troopin’, troopin’ to the sea:
‘Ere’s September come again — the six-year men are free.
O leave the dead be’ind us, for they cannot come away
To where the ship’s a-coalin’ up that takes us ‘ome to-day.
   We’re goin’ ‘ome, we’re goin’ ‘ome,
    Our ship is at the shore,
   An’ you must pack your ‘aversack,
    For we won’t come back no more.
   Ho, don’t you grieve for me,
    My lovely Mary-Ann,
   For I’ll marry you yit on a fourp’ny bit
    As a time-expired man.

The
Malabar
’s in ‘arbour with the ~Jumner~ at ‘er tail,
An’ the time-expired’s waitin’ of ‘is orders for to sail.
Ho! the weary waitin’ when on Khyber ‘ills we lay,
But the time-expired’s waitin’ of ‘is orders ‘ome to-day.

They’ll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an’ wet an’ rain,
All wearin’ Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain;
They’ll kill us of pneumonia — for that’s their little way —
But damn the chills and fever, men, we’re goin’ ‘ome to-day!

Troopin’, troopin’, winter’s round again!
See the new draf’s pourin’ in for the old campaign;
Ho, you poor recruities, but you’ve got to earn your pay —
What’s the last from Lunnon, lads?  We’re goin’ there to-day.

Troopin’, troopin’, give another cheer —
‘Ere’s to English women an’ a quart of English beer.
The Colonel an’ the regiment an’ all who’ve got to stay,
Gawd’s mercy strike ‘em gentle — Whoop! we’re goin’ ‘ome to-day.
    We’re goin’ ‘ome, we’re goin’ ‘ome,
     Our ship is at the shore,
    An’ you must pack your ‘aversack,
     For we won’t come back no more.
    Ho, don’t you grieve for me,
     My lovely Mary-Ann,
    For I’ll marry you yit on a fourp’ny bit
     As a time-expired man.

The Truce of the Bear

1898
Yearly, with tent and rifle, our careless white men go
By the Pass called Muttianee, to shoot in the vale below.
Yearly by Muttianee he follows our white men in —
Matun, the old blind beggar, bandaged from brow to chin.

Eyeless, noseless, and lipless — toothless, broken of speech,
Seeking a dole at the doorway he mumbles his tale to each;
Over and over the story, ending as he began:
“Make ye no truce with Adam-zad — the Bear that walks like a Man!

“There was a flint in my musket — pricked and primed was the pan,
When I went hunting Adam-zad — the Bear that stands like a Man.
I looked my last on the timber, I looked my last on the snow,
When I went hunting Adam-zad fifty summers ago!

“I knew his times and his seasons, as he knew mine, that fed
By night in the ripened maizefield and robbed my house of bread.
I knew his strength and cunning, as he knew mine, that crept
At dawn to the crowded goat-pens and plundered while I slept.

“Up from his stony playground — down from his well-digged lair —
Out on the naked ridges ran Adam-zad the Bear —
Groaning, grunting, and roaring, heavy with stolen meals,
Two long marches to northward, and I was at his heels!

“Two long marches to northward, at the fall of the second night,
I came on mine enemy Adam-zad all panting from his flight.
There was a charge in the musket — pricked and primed was the pan —
My  finger crooked on the trigger — when he reared up like a man.

“Horrible, hairy, human, with paws like hands in prayer,
Making his supplication rose Adam-zad the Bear!
I looked at the swaying shoulders, at the paunch’s swag and swing,
And my heart was touched with pity for the monstrous, pleading thing.

“Touched witth pity and wonder, I did not fire then . . .
I have looked no more on women — I have walked no more with men.
Nearer he tottered and nearer, with paws like hands that pray —
From brow to jaw that steel-shod paw, it ripped my face away!

“Sudden, silent, and savage, searing as flame the blow —
Faceless I fell before his feet, fifty summers ago.
I heard him grunt and chuckle — I heard him pass to his den.
He left me blind to the darkened years and the little mercy of men.

“Now ye go down in the morning with guns of the newer style,
That load (I have felt) in the middle and range (I have heard) a mile?
Luck to the white man’s rifle, that shoots so fast and true,
But — pay, and I lift my bandage and show what the Bear can do!”

(Flesh like slag in the furnace, knobbed and withered and grey —
Matun, the old blind beggar, he gives good worth for his pay.)
“Rouse him at noon in the bushes, follow and press him hard —
Not for his ragings and roarings flinch ye from Adam-zad.

“But (pay, and I put back the bandage)
this
is the time to fear,
When he stands up like a tired man, tottering near and near;
When he stands up as pleading, in wavering, man-brute guise,
When he veils the hate and cunning of his little, swinish eyes;

“When he shows as seeking quarter, with paws like hands in prayer
That
is the time of peril — the time of the Truce of the Bear!”

Eyeless, noseless, and lipless, asking a dole at the door,
Matun, the old blind beggar, he tells it o’er and o’er;
Fumbling and feeling the rifles, warming his hands at the flame,
Hearing our careless white men talk of the morrow’s game;

Over and over the story, ending as he began: —
“There is no trnce with Adam-zad, the Bear that looks like a Man!”