Kipling: Poems, Page 3
Rudyard Kipling
When you envy, O how keenly, one poor Tommy being
cleanly
Who blacks your boots and sometimes calls you ‘Sir’.
If the home we never write to, and the oaths we
never keep,
And all we know most distant and most dear,
Across the snoring barrack-room return to break
our sleep,
Can you blame us if we soak ourselves in beer?
When the drunken comrade mutters and the great
guard-lantern gutters
And the horror of our fall is written plain,
Every secret, self-revealing on the aching
whitewashed ceiling,
Do you wonder that we drug ourselves from pain?
We have done with Hope and Honour, we are lost to
Love and Truth,
We are dropping down the ladder rung by rung,
And the measure of our torment is the measure of
our youth.
God help us, for we knew the worst too young!
Our shame is clean repentance for the crime that
brought the sentence,
Our pride it is to know no spur of pride,
And the Curse of Reuben holds us till an alien turf
enfolds us
And we die, and none can tell Them where we died.
We’re poor little lambs who’ve lost our way,
Baa! Baa! Baa!
We’re little black sheep who’ve gone astray,
Baa – aa – aa!
Gentlemen rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to Eternity,
God ha’ mercy on such as we,
Baa! Yah! Bah!
GUNGA DIN
You may talk o’ gin and beer
When you’re quartered safe out ’Ere,
An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’Im that’s got it.
Now in Injia’s sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
‘Hi’ Slippy hitherao!
‘Water, get it! Panee lao,
‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’
The uniform ’e wore
Was nothin’ much before,
An’ rather less than ‘arf o’ that be’ind,
For a piece o’ twisty rag
An’ a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.
When the sweatin’ troop-train lay
In a sidin’ through the day,
Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows
crawl,
We shouted ‘Harry By!’
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘You ’eathin, where the mischief ’ave you been?
‘You put some juldee in it
‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute
‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’
’E would dot an’ carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.
With ’is mussick on ’is back,
’E would skip with our attack,
An’ watch us till the bugles made ‘Retire’,
An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide
’E was white, clear white, inside
When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’
With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-ranks shout,
‘Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!’
I shan’t forgit the night
When I dropped be’ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should ‘a’ been.
I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
An’ the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
’E lifted up my ’ead,
An’ he plugged me where I bled,
An’ ’e guv me ‘arf-a-pint o’ water green.
It was crawlin’ and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was ‘Din! Din! Din!
‘ ’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;
‘ ’E’s chawin’ up the ground,
‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:
‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’
’E carried me away
To where a dooli lay
An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
’E put me safe inside,
An’ just before ’e died,
‘I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.
So I’ll meet ’Im later on
At the place where ’e is gone –
Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.
’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,
By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!
MANDALAY
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ eastward to
the sea,
There’s a Burma girl a-settin’, and I know she
thinks o’ me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells
they say:
‘Come you back you British soldier; come you back to
Mandalay!’
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can’t you ’ear their paddles chunkin’ from Rangoon
to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China
‘crost the Bay!
’Er petticoat was yaller an’ ’Er little cap was green,
An’ ’Er name was Supi-yaw-lat – jes’ the same as
Theebaw’s Queen,
An’ I seed her first a-smokin’ of a whackin’ white
cheroot,
An’ a-wastin’ Christian kisses on an ’eathen idol’s foot;
Bloomin’ idol made o’ mud –
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd –
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed ’Er
where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay …
When the mist was on the rice-fields an’ the sun was
droppin’ slow,
She’d git ’Er little banjo an’ she’d sing ‘Kulla-lo-lo!’
With ’Er arm upon my shoulder an’ ’Er cheek agin
my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an’ the hathis pilin’ teak.
Elephints a-pilin’ teak
In the sludgy, squidgy creek,
Where the silence ‘ung that ’eavy you was ‘arf afraid
to speak!
On the road to Mandalay …
But that’s all shove be’ind me – long ago an’ fur away,
An’ there
ain’t no ‘busses runnin’ from the Bank to
Mandalay;
An’ I’m learnin’ ’ere in London what the ten-year
soldier tells:
‘If you’ve ’eard the East a-callin’, you won’t never ’eed
naught else.’
No! you won’t ’eed nothin’ else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An’ the sunshine an’ the palm-trees an’ the tinkly
temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay …
I am sick o’ wastin’ leather on these gritty pavin’-stones,
An’ the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in
my bones;
Tho’ I walks with fifty ‘ousemaids outer Chelsea to
the Strand,
An’ they talks a lot o’ lovin’, but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an’ grubby ‘and –
Law! wot do they understand?
I’ve a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay …
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is
like the worst,
Where there ain’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man
can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that
I would be –
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea,
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went
to Mandalay!
O the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder outer China
‘crost the Bay!
THE ENGLISH FLAG
Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing the Union Jack,
remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but
ultimately when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts,
and seemed to see significance in the incident.
Daily Papers
Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering
to and fro –
And what should they know of England who only
England know? –
The poor little street-bred people that vapour and
fume and brag,
They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at
the English Flag!
Must we borrow a clout from the Boer – to plaster
anew with dirt?
An Irish liar’s bandage, or an English coward’s shirt?
We may not speak of England; her Flag’s to sell
or share.
What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World,
declare!
The North Wind blew: – ‘From Bergen my steel-shod
vanguards go:
‘I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe.
‘By the great North Lights above me I work the will
of God,
‘And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills
with cod.
‘I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors
with flame,
‘Because to force my ramparts your nutshell
navies came.
‘I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down
with my blast.
‘And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere
the spirit passed.
‘The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long
Arctic night,
‘The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the
Northern Light:
‘What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs
to dare,
‘Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it
is there!’
The South Wind sighed: – ‘From the Virgins my
mid-sea course was ta’en
‘Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main,
‘Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the
long-backed breakers croon
‘Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.
‘Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys,
‘I waked the palms to laughter – I tossed the scud in
the breeze.
‘Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone,
‘But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag
was flown.
‘I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for
a wisp on the Horn;
‘I have chased it north to the Lizard – ribboned and
rolled and torn;
‘I have spread its fold o’er the dying, adrift in a
hopeless sea;
‘I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave
set free.
‘My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross,
‘Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the
Southern Cross.
‘Where is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs
to dare,
‘Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!’
The East Wind roared: – ‘From the Kuriles, the Bitter
Seas, I come,
‘And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the
English home.
‘Look – look well to your shipping! By the breath of
my mad typhoon
‘I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your
best at Kowloon!
‘The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before,
‘I raped your richest roadstead – I plundered Singapore!
‘I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake
she rose;
‘And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the
startled crows.
‘Never the lotos closes, never the wild-fowl wake,
‘But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for
England’s sake –
‘Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid –
‘Because on the bones of the English the English Flag
is stayed.
‘The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass
knows,
‘The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless
snows.
‘What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun
to dare,
‘Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it
is there!’
The West Wind called: – ‘In squadrons the thoughtless
galleons fly
‘That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred
people die.
‘They make my might their porter, they make my
house their path,
‘Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm
them all in my wrath.
‘I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from
the hole.
‘They bellow one to the other, the frightened
ship-bells toll;
‘For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with
my breath,
‘And they see strange bows above them and the two go
locked to death.
‘But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by
dark or day,
‘I heave them whole to the conger or rip their
plates away,
‘First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky,
‘Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.
‘The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it – the frozen dews
have kissed –
‘The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist.
‘What is the flag of England? Ye have but my breath
to dare,
‘Ye have but my w
aves to conquer. Go forth, for it
is there!’
ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER
A great and glorious thing it is
To learn, for seven years or so,
The Lord knows what of that and this,
Ere reckoned fit to face the foe –
The flying bullet down the Pass,
That whistles clear: ‘All flesh is grass.’
Three hundred pounds per annum spent
On making brain and body meeter
For all the murderous intent
Comprised in ‘villainous saltpetre’!
And after? – Ask the Yusufzaies
What comes of all our ’ologies.
A scrimmage in a Border Station –
A canter down some dark defile –
Two thousand pounds of education
Drops to a ten-rupee jezail –
The Crammer’s boast, the Squadron’s pride
Shot like a rabbit in a ride!
No proposition Euclid wrote
No formulae the text-books know,
Will turn the bullet from your coat,
Or ward the tulwar’s downward blow.
Strike hard who cares – shoot straight who can –
The odds are on the cheaper man.
One sword-knot stolen from the camp
Will pay for all the school expenses
Of any Kurrum Valley scamp
Who knows no word of moods and tenses,
But, being blessed with perfect sight,
Picks off our messmates left and right.
With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem.
The troopships bring us one by one,
At vast expense of time and steam,
To slay Afridis where they run.
The ‘captives of our bow and spear’
Are cheap, alas! as we are dear.
‘WILFUL-MISSING’
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
