Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1084 page)

Then the Indian Government winked a wicked wink,
Said to Chunder Mookerjee: “Stick to pen and ink.
They are safer implements, but, if you insist,
We will let you carry arms wheresoe’er you list.”

Hurree Chunder Mookerjee sought the gunsmith and
Bought the tubes of Lancaster, Ballard, Dean, and Bland,
Bought a shiny bowie-knife, bought a town-made sword,
Jingled like a carriage-horse when he went abroad.

But
the Indian Government, always keen to please,
Also gave permission to horrid men like these —
Yar Mahommed Yusufzai, down to kill or steal,
Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer, Tantia the Bhil;

Killar Khan the Marri chief, Jowar Singh the Sikh,
Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat, Abdul Huq Rafiq —
He was a Wahabi; last, little Boh Hla-oo
Took advantage of the Act — took a Snider too.

They were unenlightened men, Ballard knew them not.
They procured their swords and guns chiefly on the spot;
And the lore of centuries, plus a hundred fights,
Made them slow to disregard one another’s rights.

With a unanimity dear to patriot hearts
All those hairy gentlemen out of foreign parts
Said: “The good old days are back — let us go to war!”
Swaggered down the Grand Trunk Road into Bow Bazaar,

Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat found a hide-bound flail;
Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer oiled his Tonk jezail;
Yar Mahommed Yusufzai spat and grinned with glee
As he ground the butcher-knife of the Khyberee.

Jowar Singh the Sikh procured sabre, quoit, and mace,
Abdul Huq, Wahabi, jerked his dagger from its place,
While amid the jungle-grass danced and grinned and jabbered
Little Boh Hla-oo and cleared his dah-blade from the scabbard.

What became of Mookerjee? Smoothly, who can say?
Yar Mahommed only grins in a nasty way,
Jowar Singh is reticent, Chimbu Singh is mute.
But the belts of all of them simply bulge with loot.

What became of Ballard’s guns? Afghans black and grubby
Sell them for their silver weight to the men of Pubbi;
And the shiny bowie-knife and the town-made sword are
Hanging in a Marri camp just across the Border.

What became of Mookerjee? Ask Mahommed Yar
Prodding Siva’s sacred bull down the Bow Bazaar.
Speak to placid Nubbee Baksh — question land and sea —
Ask the Indian Congressmen — only don’t ask me!

White Horses

1897
Where run your colts at pasture?
  Where hide your mares to breed?
‘Mid bergs about the Ice-cap
  Or wove Sargasso weed;
By chartless reef and channel,
  Or crafty coastwise bars,
But most the ocean-meadows
  All purple to the stars!

Who holds the rein upon you?
  The latest gale let free.
What meat is in your mangers?
  The glut of all the sea.
‘Twixt tide and tide’s returning
  Great store of newly dead, —
The bones of those that faced us,
  And the hearts of those that fled.
Afar, off-shore and single,
  Some stallion, rearing swift,
Neighs hungry for new fodder,
  And calls us to the drift:
Then down the cloven ridges —
  A million hooves unshod —
Break forth the mad White Horses
  To seek their meat from God!

Girth-deep in hissing water
  Our furious vanguard strains —
Through mist of mighty tramplings
  Roll up the fore-blown manes —
A hundred leagues to leeward,
  Ere yet the deep is stirred,
The groaning rollers carry
  The coming of the herd!

Whose hand may grip your nostrils —
  Your forelock who may hold?
E’en they that use the broads with us —
  The riders bred and bold,
That spy upon our matings,
  That rope us where we run —
They know the strong White Horses
  From father unto son.

We breathe about their cradles,
  We race their babes ashore,
We snuff against their thresholds,
  We nuzzle at their door;
By day with stamping squadrons,
  By night in whinnying droves,
Creep up the wise White Horses,
  To call them from their loves.

And come they for your calling?
  No wit of man may save.
They hear the loosed White Horses
  Above their fathers’ grave;
And, kin of those we crippled,
  And, sons of those we slew,
Spur down the wild white riders
  To school the herds anew.

What service have ye paid them,
  Oh jealous steeds and strong?
Save we that throw their weaklings,
  Is none dare work them wrong;
While thick around the homestead
  Our snow-backed leaders graze —
A guard behind their plunder,
  And a veil before their ways.

With march and countermarchings —
  With weight of wheeling hosts —
Stray mob or bands embattled —
  We ring the chosen coasts:
And, careless of our clamour
  That bids the stranger fly,
At peace with our pickets
  The wild white riders lie.

  .  .  .  .

Trust ye that curdled hollows —
  Trust ye the neighing wind —
Trust ye the moaning groundswell —
  Our herds are close behind!
To bray your foeman’s armies —
  To chill and snap his sword —
Trust ye the wild White Horses,
  The Horses of the Lord!

The White Man’s Burden

1899
THE UNITED STATES AND THE PHILIPPINE ISLANDS
Take up the White man’s burden —
  Send forth the best ye breed —
Go bind your sons to exile
  To serve your captives’ need;
To wait in heavy harness
  On fluttered folk and wild —
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
  Half devil and half child.

Take up the White Man’s burden —
  In patience to abide,
To veil the threat of terror
  And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
  An hundred times mad plain.
To seek another’s profit,
  And work another’s gain.

Take up the White Man’s burden —
  The savage wars of peace —
Fill full the mouth of Famine
  And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
  The end for others sought,
Watch Sloth and heathen Folly
  Bring all your hope to nought.

Take up the White Man’s burden —
  No tawdry rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper —
  The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
  The roads ye shall not tread,
Go make them with your living,
  And mark them with your dead!

Take up the White man’s burden —
  And reap his old reward:
The blame of those ye better,
  The hate of those ye guard —
The cry of hosts ye humour
  (Ah, slowly!) toward the light: —
“Why brought ye us from bondage,
  “Our loved Egyptian night?”

Take up the White Man’s burden —
  Ye dare not stoop to less —
Nor call too loud on freedom
  To cloak your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
  By all ye leave or do,
The silent, sullen peoples
  Shall weigh your Gods and you.

Take up the White Man’s burden —
  Have done with childish days —
The lightly proffered laurel,
  The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
  Through all the thankless years,
Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom,
  The judgment of your peers!

The Widow’s Party

“Where have you been this while away,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?”
‘Long with the rest on a picnic lay,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
They called us out of the barrack-yard
To Gawd knows where from Gosport Hard,
And you can’t refuse when you get the card,
    And the Widow gives the party.
       (
Bugle
:  Ta — rara — ra-ra-rara!)

“What did you get to eat and drink,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?”
Standing water as thick as ink,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
A bit o’ beef that were three year stored,
A bit o’ mutton as tough as a board,
And a fowl we killed with a sergeant’s sword,
    When the Widow give the party.

“What did you do for knives and forks,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?”
We carries ‘em with us wherever we walks,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
And some was sliced and some was halved,
And some was crimped and some was carved,
And some was gutted and some was starved,
    When the Widow give the party.

“What ha’ you done with half your mess,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?”
They couldn’t do more and they wouldn’t do less,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
They ate their whack and they drank their fill,
And I think the rations has made them ill,
For half my comp’ny’s lying still
    Where the Widow give the party.

“How did you get away — away,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?”
On the broad o’ my back at the end o’ the day,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
I comed away like a bleedin’ toff,
For I got four niggers to carry me off,
As I lay in the bight of a canvas trough,
    When the Widow give the party.

“What was the end of all the show,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?”
Ask my Colonel, for
I
don’t know,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
We broke a King and we built a road —
A court-house stands where the reg’ment goed.
And the river’s clean where the raw blood flowed
    When the Widow give the party.
       (
Bugle
:  Ta — rara — ra-ra-rara!)

The Widow at Windsor

‘Ave you ‘eard o’ the Widow at Windsor
 With a hairy gold crown on ‘er ‘ead?
She ‘as ships on the foam — she ‘as millions at ‘ome,
 An’ she pays us poor beggars in red.
    (Ow, poor beggars in red!)
There’s ‘er nick on the cavalry ‘orses,
 There’s ‘er mark on the medical stores —
An’ ‘er troopers you’ll find with a fair wind be’ind
 That takes us to various wars.
    (Poor beggars! — barbarious wars!)
       Then ‘ere’s to the Widow at Windsor,
        An’ ‘ere’s to the stores an’ the guns,
       The men an’ the ‘orses what makes up the forces
        O’ Missis Victorier’s sons.
       (Poor beggars! Victorier’s sons!)

Walk wide o’ the Widow at Windsor,
 For ‘alf o’ Creation she owns:
We ‘ave bought ‘er the same with the sword an’ the flame,
 An’ we’ve salted it down with our bones.
    (Poor beggars! — it’s blue with our bones!)
Hands off o’ the sons o’ the Widow,
 Hands off o’ the goods in ‘er shop,
For the Kings must come down an’ the Emperors frown
 When the Widow at Windsor says “Stop”!
    (Poor beggars! — we’re sent to say “Stop”!)
       Then ‘ere’s to the Lodge o’ the Widow,
        From the Pole to the Tropics it runs —
       To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an’ the file,
        An’ open in form with the guns.
       (Poor beggars! — it’s always they guns!)

We ‘ave ‘eard o’ the Widow at Windsor,
 It’s safest to let ‘er alone:
For ‘er sentries we stand by the sea an’ the land
 Wherever the bugles are blown.
    (Poor beggars! — an’ don’t we get blown!)
Take ‘old o’ the Wings o’ the Mornin’,
 An’ flop round the earth till you’re dead;
But you won’t get away from the tune that they play
 To the bloomin’ old rag over’ead.
    (Poor beggars! — it’s ‘ot over’ead!)
       Then ‘ere’s to the sons o’ the Widow,
        Wherever, ‘owever they roam.
       ‘Ere’s all they desire, an’ if they require
        A speedy return to their ‘ome.
       (Poor beggars! — they’ll never see ‘ome!)

Wilful Missing

                          
(Deserters)
        There is a world outside the one you know,
              To which for curiousness ‘Ell can’t compare —
         It is the place where “wilful-missings” go,
            As we can testify, for we are there.

        You may ‘ave read a bullet laid us low,
           That we was gathered in “with reverent care”
         And buried proper.   But it was not so,
           As we can testify — for we are there!

They can’t be certain — faces alter so
  After the old aasvogel ‘ad ‘is share.
The uniform’s the mark by which they go —
  And — ain’t it odd? — the one we best can spare.

We might ‘ave seen our chance to cut the show —
  Name, number, record, an ‘begin elsewhere —
Leaven’’ some not too late-lamented foe
  One funeral-private-British-for ‘is share.

We may ‘ave took it yonder in the Low
  Bush-veldt that sends men stragglin’ ‘unaware
Among the Kaffirs, till their columns go,
  An ‘they are left past call or count or care.

We might ‘ave been your lovers long ago,
  ‘Usbands or children — comfort or despair.
Our death (an’ burial) settles all we owe,
  An’ why we done it is our own affair.

Marry again, and we will not say no,
  Nor come to barstardise the kids you bear.
Wait on in ‘ope — you’ve all your life below
  Before you’ll ever ‘ear us on the stair.