Kipling: Poems

  of that Kill.

  Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of

  his Pack he may claim

  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.

  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!

  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?

  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,

  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.

  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 –

  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!

  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!

  THE MARRIED MAN

  The bachelor ’e fights for one

  As joyful as can be;

  But the married man don’t call it fun,

  Because he fights for three –

  For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It

  (An’ Two an’ One makes Three)

  ’E wants to finish ’is little bit,

  An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea!

  The bachelor pokes up ’is ’ead

  To see if you are gone;

  But the married man lies down instead,

  An’ waits till the sights come on,

  For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ a hit

  (Direct or ricochee)

  ’E wants to finish ’is little bit,

  An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea.

  The bachelor will miss you clear

  To fight another day;

  But the married man, ’e says ‘No fear!’

  ’e wants you out of the way

  Of ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It

  (An’ ’is road to ’is farm or the sea),

  ’E wants to finish ’is little bit,

  An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea.

  The bachelor ’e fights ’is fight

  An’ stretches out an’ snores;

  But the married man sits up all night –

  For ’e don’t like out-o’-doors.

  ’E’ll strain an’ listen an’ peer

  An’ give the first alarm –

  For the sake o’ the breathin’ ’e’s used to ’ear,

  An’ the ’ead on the thick of ’is arm.

  The bachelor may risk ’is ’ide

  To ’elp you when you’re downed;

  But the married man will wait beside

  Till the ambulance comes round.

  ’E’ll take your ’ome address

  An’ all you’ve time to say,

  Or if ’e sees there’s ’ope, ’e’ll press

  Your art’ry ’alf the day –

  – For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It

  (An’ One from Three leaves Two),

  For ’e knows you wanted to finish your bit,

  An’ ’e knows ’oo’s wantin’ you.

  Yes, ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It

  (Our ’oly One in Three),

  We’re all of us anxious to finish our bit,

  An’ we want to get ’ome to our tea!

  Yes, It an’ ’Er an’ ’Im,

  Which often makes me think

  The married man must sink or swim

  An’ – ’e can’t afford to sink!

  Oh, ’Im an’ It and ’Er

  Since Adam an’ Eve began!

  So I’d rather fight with the bacheler

  An’ be nursed by the married man!

  ‘FOR TO ADMIRE’

  The Injian Ocean sets an’ smiles

  So sof’, so bright, so bloomin’ blue;

  There aren’t a wave for miles an’ miles

  Excep’ the jiggle from the screw.

  The ship is swep’, the day is done,

  The bugle’s gone for smoke and play;

  An’ black ag’in in the settin’ sun

  The Lascar sings, ‘Hum deckty hai!’

  For to admire an’ for to see,

  For to be’old this world so wide –

  It never done no good to me,

  But I can’t drop it if I tried!

  I see the sergeants pitchin’ quoits,

  I ’ear the women laugh an’ talk,

  I spy upon the quarter-deck

  The orficers an’ lydies walk.

  I thinks about the things that was,

  An’ leans an’ looks acrost the sea,

  Till, spite of all the crowded ship,

  There’s no one lef’ alive but me.

  The things that was which I ’ave seen,

  In barrick, camp, an’ action too,

  I tells them over by myself,

  An’ sometimes wonders if they’re true;

  For they was odd – most awful odd –

  But all the same, now they are o’er,

  There must be ’eaps o’ plenty such,

  An’ if I wait I’ll see some more.

  Oh, I ’ave come upon the books,

  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,

  Not never grutched the price I paid,

  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

  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.

  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

  An’ found an’ known an’ met along.

  I cannot say the things I feel,

  An’ so I sing my evenin’ song:

  For to admire an’ for to
see,

  For to be’old this world so wide –

  It never done no good to me,

  But I can’t drop it if I tried!

  BUDDHA AT KAMAKURA

  ‘And there is a Japanese idol at Kamakura.’

  Oh ye who tread the Narrow Way

  By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day,

  Be gentle when the ‘heathen’ pray

  To Buddha at Kamakura!

  To Him the Way, the Law, Apart

  Whom Maya held beneath her heart,

  Ananda’s Lord, the Bodhisat,

  The Buddha of Kamakura.

  For though He neither burns nor sees,

  Nor hears ye thank your Deities,

  Ye have not sinned with such as these,

  His children at Kamakura,

  Yet spare us still the Western joke

  When joss-sticks turn to scented smoke

  The little sins of little folk

  That worship at Kamakura –

  The grey-robed, gay-sashed butterflies

  That flit beneath the Master’s eyes –

  He is beyond the Mysteries

  But loves them at Kamakura.

  And whoso will, from Pride released,

  Contemning neither creed nor priest,

  May feel the Soul of all the East

  About him at Kamakura.

  Yea, every tale Ananda heard,

  Of birth as fish or beast or bird,

  While yet in lives the Master stirred,

  The warm wind brings Kamakura.

  Till drowsy eyelids seem to see

  A-flower ’neath her golden htee

  The Shwe-Dagon flare easterly

  From Burma to Kamakura.

  And down the loaded air there comes

  The thunder of Thibetan drums,

  And droned – ‘Om mane padme hum’s’

  A world’s-width from Kamakura.

  Yet Brahmans rule Benares still,

  Buddh-Gaya’s ruins pit the hill,

  And beef-fed zealots threaten ill

  To Buddha and Kamakura.

  A tourist-show, a legend told,

  A rusting bulk of bronze and gold,

  So much, and scarce so much, ye hold

  The meaning of Kamakura?

  But when the morning prayer is prayed,

  Think, ere ye pass to strife and trade,

  Is God in human image made

  No nearer than Kamakura?

  From THE JUNGLE BOOK

  The stream is shrunk – the pool is dry,

  And we be comrades, thou and I;

  With fevered jowl and dusty flank

  Each jostling each along the bank;

  And, by one drouthy fear made still,

  Forgoing thought of quest or kill.

  Now ’neath his dam the fawn may see

  The lean Pack-wolf as cowed as he,

  And the tall buck, unflinching, note

  The fangs that tore his father’s throat.

  The pools are shrunk – the streams are dry,

  And we be playmates, thou and I,

  Till yonder cloud – Good Hunting! – loose

  The rain that breaks our Water Truce.

  How Fear Came.

  THE KING

  ‘Farewell, romance!’ the Cave-men said;

  ‘With bone well carved He went away.

  ‘Flint arms the ignoble arrowhead,

  ‘And jasper tips the spear to-day.

  ‘Changed are the Gods of Hunt and Dance,

  ‘And He with these. Farewell, Romance!’

  ‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Lake-folk sighed;

  ‘We lift the weight of flatling years;

  ‘The caverns of the mountain-side

  ‘Hold Him who scorns our hutted piers.

  ‘Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell.

  ‘Guard ye His rest. Romance, Farewell!’

  ‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Soldier spoke;

  ‘By sleight of sword we may not win,

  ‘But scuffle ‘mid uncleanly smoke

  ‘Of arquebus and culverin.

  ‘Honour is lost, and none may tell

  ‘Who paid good blows. Romance, farewell!’

  ‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Traders cried;

  ‘Our keels ha’ lain with every sea.

  ‘The dull-returning wind and tide

  ‘Heave up the wharf where we would be;

  ‘The known and noted breezes swell

  ‘Our trudging sails. Romance, farewell!’

  ‘Goodbye, Romance!’ the Skipper said;

  ‘He vanished with the coal we burn.

  ‘Our dial marks full-steam ahead,

  ‘Our speed is timed to half a turn.

  ‘Sure as the ferried barge we ply

  ‘ ’Twixt port and port. Romance, goodbye!’

  ‘Romance!’ the season-tickets mourn,

  ‘He never ran to catch His train,

  ‘But passed with coach and guard and horn –

  ‘And left the local – late again!’

  Confound Romance! … And all unseen

  Romance brought up the nine-fifteen.

  His hand was on the lever laid,

  His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks,

  His whistle waked the snowbound grade,

  His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks;

  By dock and deep and mine and mill

  The Boy-god reckless laboured still!

  Robed, crowned and throned, He wove His spell,

  Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke curled,

  With unconsidered miracle,

  Hedged in a backward-gazing world:

  Then taught His chosen bard to say:

  ‘Our King was with us – yesterday!’

  THE LADIES

  I’ve taken my fun where I found it;

  I’ve rogued an’ I’ve ranged in my time;

  I’ve ‘ad my pickin’ o’ sweethearts,

  An’ four o’ the lot was prime.

  One was an ’arf-caste widow,

  One was a woman at Prome,

  One was the wife of a jemadar-sais,

  An’ one is a girl at ’ome.

  Now I aren’t no ‘and with the ladies,

  For, taken’ ’em all along,

  You never can say till you’ve tried ’em,

  An’ then you are like to be wrong.

  There’s times when you’ll think that you mightn’t,

  There’s times when you’ll know that you might;

  But the things you will learn from the Yellow an’ Brown,

  They’ll ’elp you a lot with the White!

  I was a young un at ’Oogli,

  Shy as a girl to begin;

  Aggie de Castrer she made me,

  An’ Aggie was clever as sin;

  Older then me, but my first un –

  More like a mother she were –

  Showed me the way to promotion an’ pay,

  An’ I learned about women from ’Er!

  Then I was ordered to Burma,

  Actin’ in charge o’ Bazar,

  An’ I got me a tiddy live ’eathen

  Through buyin’ supplies off ’Er pa.

  Funny an’ yellow an’ faithful –

  Doll in a teacup she were –

  But we lived on the square, like a true-married pair,

  An’ I learned about women from ’er!

  Then we was shifted to Neemuch

  (Or I might ha’ been keepin’ ’er now),

  An’ I took with a shiny she-devil,

  The wife of a nigger at Mhow;

  Taught me the gipsy-folks’ bolee;

  Kind o’ volcano she were,

  For she knifed me one night ’cause I wished she

  was white,

  And I learned about women from ’er!

  Then I come ’ome in the trooper,

  ‘Long of a kid o’ sixteen –

  Girl from a convent at Meerut,

  The straightest I ever ’ave se
en.

  Love at first sight was ’er trouble,

  She didn’t know what it were;

  An’ I wouldn’t do such, ’cause I liked ’er too much,

  But – I learned about women from ’er!

  I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it,

  An’ now I must pay for my fun,

  For the more you ’ave known o’ the others

  The less will you settle to one;

  An’ the end of it’s sittin’ and thinkin’,

  An’ dreamin’ Hell-fires to see;

  So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not),

  An’ learn about women from me!

  What did the Colonel’s Lady think?

  Nobody ever knew.

  Somebody asked the Sergeant’s Wife,

  An’ she told ’em trae!

  When you get to a man in the case,

  They’re like as a row of pins –

  For the Colonel’s Lady an’ Judy O’Grady

  Are sisters under their skins!

  RECESSIONAL

  God of our fathers, known of old,

  Lord of our far-flung battle-line,

  Beneath whose awful Hand we hold

  Dominion over palm and pine –

  Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

  Lest we forget – lest we forget!

  The tumult and the shouting dies;

  The captains and the kings depart:

  Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

  An humble and a contrite heart.

  Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

  Lest we forget – lest we forget!

  Far-called, our navies melt away;

  On dune and headland sinks the fire:

  Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

  Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

  Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,

  Lest we forget – lest we forget!

  If, drunk with sight of power, we loose,

  Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,

  Such boastings as the Gentiles use,