Rudyard Kipling: Selected Poems

  An’ frequent broke a barrick-rule,

  An’ stood beside an’ watched myself

  Be’avin’ like a bloomin’ fool.

  I paid my price for findin’ out,

  Nor never grutched the price I paid,

  35

  But sat in Clink without my boots,

  Admirin’ ’ow the world was made.

  Be’old a cloud upon the beam,

  An’ ’umped above the sea appears

  Old Aden, like a barrick-stove

  40

  That no one’s lit for years an’ years.

  I passed by that when I began,

  An’ I go ’ome the road I came,

  A time-expired soldier-man

  With six years’ service to ’is name.

  45

  My girl she said, ‘Oh, stay with me!’

  My mother ’eld me to ’er breast.

  They’ve never written none, an’ so

  They must ’ave gone with all the rest –

  With all the rest which I ’ave seen

  50

  An’ found an’ known an’ met along.

  I cannot say the things I feel,

  And so I sing my evenin’ song:

  For to admire an’ for to see,

  For to be’ old this world so wide –

  55

  It never done no good to me,

  But I can’t drop it if I tried!

  The Law of the Jungle

  Now this is the Law of the Jungle – as old and as true as the sky;

  And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.

  As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back –

  For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

  5

  Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep;

  And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep.

  The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,

  Remember the Wolf is a hunter – go forth and get food of thine own.

  Keep peace with the Lords of the Jungle – the Tiger, the Panther, the Bear;

  10

  And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair.

  When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail,

  Lie down till the leaders have spoken – it may be fair words shall prevail.

  When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar,

  Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war.

  15

  The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home,

  Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come.

  The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain,

  The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again.

  If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay,

  20

  Lest ye frighten the deer from the crops, and the brothers go empty away.

  Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can;

  But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man!

  If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride;

  Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide.

  25

  The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies;

  And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies.

  The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will,

  But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill.

  Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim

  30

  Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same.

  Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim

  One haunch of each kill for her litter; and none may deny her the same.

  Cave-Right is the right of the Father – to hunt by himself for his own:

  He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone.

  35

  Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw,

  In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of the Head Wolf is Law.

  Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they;

  But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is – Obey!

  The Three-Decker

  1894

  ‘The three-volume novel is extinct.’

  Full thirty foot she towered from waterline to rail.

  It took a watch to steer her, and a week to shorten sail;

  But, ’spite all modern notions, I’ve found her first and best –

  The only certain packet for the Islands of the Blest.

  5

  Fair held the breeze behind us – ’twas warm with lovers’ prayers.

  We’d stolen wills for ballast and a crew of missing heirs.

  They shipped as Able Bastards till the Wicked Nurse confessed,

  And they worked the old three-decker to the Islands of the Blest.

  By ways no gaze could follow, a course unspoiled of Cook,

  10

  Per Fancy, fleetest in man, our titled berths we took,

  With maids of matchless beauty and parentage unguessed,

  And a Church of England parson for the Islands of the Blest.

  We asked no social questions – we pumped no hidden shame –

  We never talked obstetrics when the Little Stranger came:

  15

  We left the Lord in Heaven, we left the fiends in Hell.

  We weren’t exactly Yussufs, but – Zuleika didn’t tell.

  No moral doubt assailed us, so when the port we neared,

  The villain had his flogging at the gangway, and we cheered.

  ’Twas fiddle in the foc’sle – ’twas garlands on the mast,

  20

  For every one got married, and I went ashore at last.

  I left ’em all in couples a-kissing on the decks.

  I left the lovers loving and the parents signing cheques.

  In endless English comfort, by county-folk caressed,

  I left the old three-decker at the Islands of the Blest! …

  25

  That route is barred to steamers: you’ll never lift again

  Our purple-painted headlands or the lordly keeps of Spain.

  They’re just beyond your skyline, however far you cruise

  In a ram-you-damn-you liner with a brace of bucking screws.

  Swing round your aching searchlight – ’twill show no haven’s peace.

  30

  Ay, blow your shrieking sirens at the deaf, grey-bearded seas!

  Boom out the dripping oil-bags to skin the deep’s unrest –

  And you aren’t one knot the nearer to the Islands of the Blest!

  But when you’re threshing, crippled, with broken bridge and rail,

  At a drogue of dead convictions to hold you head to gale,

  35

  Calm as the Flying Dutchman, from truck to taffrail dressed,

  You’ll see the old three-decker for the Islands of the Blest.

  You’ll see her tiering canvas in sheeted silver spread;

  You’ll hear the long-drawn thunder ’neath her leaping figurehead;

  While far, so far above you, her tall poop-lanterns shine

  40

  Unvexed by wind or weather like the candles round a shrine.

  Hull down – hull down and under – she dwindles to a speck,

  With noise of pleasant music and dancing on her deck.

  All’s well – all’s well aboard her
– she’s left you far behind,

  With a scent of old-world roses through the fog that ties you blind.

  45

  Her crew are babes or madmen? Her port is all to make?

  You’re manned by Truth and Science, and you steam for steaming’s sake?

  Well, tinker up your engines – you know your business best –

  She’s taking tired people to the Islands of the Blest!

  ‘Back to the Army Again’

  I’m ’ere in a ticky ulster an’ a broken billycock ’at,

  A-laying on to the Sergeant I don’t know a gun from a bat;

  My shirt’s doin’ duty for jacket, my sock’s stickin’ out o’ my boots,

  An’ I’m learnin’ the damned old goose-step along o’ the new recruits!

  5

  Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

  Back to the Army again.

  Don’t look so ’ard, for I ’aven’t no card,

  I’m back to the Army again!

  I done my six years’ service. ’Er Majesty sez: ‘Good day –

  10

  You’ll please to come when you’re rung for, an’ ’ere’s your ole back-pay;

  An’ fourpence a day for baccy – an’ bloomin’ gen’rous, too;

  An’ now you can make your fortune – the same as your orf’cers do.’

  Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

  Back to the Army again.

  15

  ’Ow did I learn to do right-about-turn?

  I’m back to the Army again!

  A man o’ four-an’-twenty that ’asn’t learned of a trade –

  Beside ‘Reserve’ agin’ him – ’e’d better be never made.

  I tried my luck for a quarter, an’ that was enough for me,

  20

  An’ I thought of ’Er Majesty’s barricks, an’ I thought I’d go an’ see.

  Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

  Back to the Army again.

  ’Tisn’t my fault if I dress when I ’alt –

  I’m back to the Army again!

  25

  The Sergeant arst no questions, but ’e winked the other eye,

  ’E sez to me, ‘’Shun!’ an’ I shunted, the same as in days gone by;

  For ’e saw the set o’ my shoulders, an’ I couldn’t ’elp ’oldin’ straight

  When me an’ the other rookies come under the barrick-gate.

  Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

  30

  Back to the Army again.

  ’Oo would ha’ thought I could carry an’ port?

  I’m back to the Army again!

  I took my bath, an’ I wallered – for, Gawd, I needed it so!

  I smelt the smell o’ the barricks, I ’eard the bugles go.

  35

  I ’eard the feet on the gravel – the feet o’ the men what drill –

  An’ I sez to my flutterin’ ‘eart-strings, I sez to ’em, ‘Peace, be still!’

  Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

  Back to the Army again.

  ’Oo said I knew when the troopship was due?

  40

  I’m back to the Army again!

  I carried my slops to the tailor; I sez to ’im, ‘None o’ your lip!

  You tight ’em over the shoulders, an’ loose ’em over the ’ip,

  For the set o’ the tunic’s ’orrid.’ An’ ’e sez to me, ‘Strike me dead,

  But I thought you was used to the business!’ an’ so ’e done what I said.

  45

  Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

  Back to the Army again.

  Rather too free with my fancies? Wot – me?

  I’m back to the Army again!

  Next week I’ll ’ave ’em fitted; I’ll buy me a swagger-cane;

  50

  They’ll let me free o’ the barricks to walk on the Hoe again,

  In the name o’ William Parsons, that used to be Edward Clay,

  An’ – any pore beggar that wants it can draw my fourpence a day!

  Back to the Army again, Sergeant,

  Back to the Army again.

  55

  Out o’ the cold an’ the rain, Sergeant,

  Out o’ the cold an’ the rain.

  ’Oo’s there?

  A man that’s too good to be lost you,

  A man that is ’andled an’ made –

  60

  A man that will pay what ’e cost you

  In learnin’ the others their trade – parade!

  You’re droppin’ the pick o’ the Army

  Because you don’t ’elp ’em remain,

  But drives ’em to cheat to get out o’ the street

  65

  An’ back to the Army again!

  Road-Song of the Bandar-Log

  Here we go in a flung festoon,

  Half-way up to the jealous moon!

  Don’t you envy our pranceful bands?

  Don’t you wish you had extra hands?

  5

  Wouldn’t you like if your tails were – so –

  Curved in the shape of a Cupid’s bow?

  Now you’re angry, but – never mind,

  Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

  Here we sit in a branchy row,

  10

  Thinking of beautiful things we know;

  Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,

  All complete, in a minute or two –

  Something noble and grand and good,

  Won by merely wishing we could.

  15

  Now we’re going to – never mind,

  Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

  All the talk we ever have heard

  Uttered by bat or beast or bird –

  Hide or fin or scale or feather –

  20

  Jabber it quickly and all together!

  Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!

  Now we are talking just like men.

  Let’s pretend we are … Never mind!

  Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

  25

  This is the way of the Monkey-kind!

  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!

  McAndrew’s Hymn

  Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,

  An’, taught by time, I tak’ it so – exceptin’ always Steam.

  From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God –

  Predestination in the stride o’ yon connectin’-rod.

  5

  John Calvin might ha’ forged the same – enormous, certain, slow –

  Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame – my ‘Institutio.’

  I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please;

  I’ll stand the middle watch up here – alone wi’ God an’ these

  My engines, after ninety days o’ race an’ rack an’ strain

  10

  Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin’ home again.

  Slam-bang too much – they knock a wee – the crosshead-gibs are loose,

  But thirty thousand mile o’ sea has gied them fair excuse…

  Fine, clear an’ dark – a full-draught breeze, wi’ Ushant out o’ sight,