Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated)

by Rudyard Kipling

  (For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)

  Now come I to whistle them the ending of the fight.

  (Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)

  Word they gave me overhead of quarry newly slain.

  Word I gave them underfoot of buck upon the plain.

  Here’s an end of every trail – they shall not speak again!

  They that cried the hunting-cry – they that followed fast –

  (For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)

  They that bade the sambhur wheel, or pinned him as he passed –

  (Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)

  They that lagged beside the scent – they that ran before –

  They that shunned the level horn – they that over-bore –

  Here’s an end of every trail – they shall not follow more.

  These were my companions. Pity ‘twas they died!

  (For Chil! Look you, for Chil!)

  Now come I to comfort them that knew them on their pride.

  (Chil! Vanguards of Chil!)

  Tattered flank and sunken eye, open mouth and red,

  Locked and lank and lone they lie, the dead upon the dead.

  Here’s an end of every trail – and here my hosts are fed!

  Cholera Camp

  We’ve got the cholerer in camp — it’s worse than forty fights;

  We’re dyin’ in the wilderness the same as Isrulites.

  It’s before us, an’ be’ind us, an’ we cannot get away,

  An’ the doctor’s just reported we’ve ten more to-day!

  Oh, strike your camp an’ go, the Bugle’s callin’,

  The Rains are fallin’ —

  The dead are bushed an’ stoned to keep ‘em safe below.

  The Band’s a-doin’ all she knows to cheer us;

  The Chaplain’s gone and prayed to Gawd to ‘ear us —

  To ‘ear us —

  O Lord, for it’s a-killin’ of us so!

  Since August, when it started, it’s been stickin’ to our tail,

  Though they’ve ‘ad us out by marches an’ they’ve ‘ad us back by rail;

  But it runs as fast as troop trains, and we cannot get away;

  An’ the sick-list to the Colonel makes ten more to-day.

  There ain’t no fun in women nor there ain’t no bite to drink;

  It’s much too wet for shootin’; we can only march and think;

  An’ at evenin’, down the nullahs, we can ‘ear the jackals say,

  “Get up, you rotten beggars, you’ve ten more to-day!”

  ‘Twould make a monkey cough to see our way o’ doin’ things —

  Lieutenants takin’ companies an’ captains takin’ wings,

  An’ Lances actin’ Sergeants — eight file to obey —

  For we’ve lots o’ quick promotion on ten deaths a day!

  Our Colonel’s white an’ twitterly — ‘e gets no sleep nor food,

  But mucks about in ‘orspital where nothing does no good.

  ‘E sends us ‘eaps o’ comforts, all bought from ‘is pay —

  But there aren’t much comfort ‘andy on ten deaths a day.

  Our Chaplain’s got a banjo, an’ a skinny mule ‘e rides,

  An’ the stuff ‘e says an’ sings us, Lord, it makes us split our sides!

  With ‘is black coat-tails a-bobbin’ to Ta-ra-ra Boom-der-ay!

  ‘E’s the proper kind o’ padre for ten deaths a day.

  An’ Father Victor ‘elps ‘im with our Roman Catholicks —

  He knows an ‘eap of Irish songs an’ rummy conjurin’ tricks;

  An’ the two they works together when it comes to play or pray;

  So we keep the ball a-rollin’ on ten deaths a day.

  We’ve got the cholerer in camp — we’ve got it ‘ot an’ sweet.

  It ain’t no Christmas dinner, but it’s ‘elped an’ we must eat.

  We’ve gone beyond the funkin’, ‘cause we’ve found it doesn’t pay,

  An’ we’re rockin’ round the Districk on ten deaths a day!

  Then strike your camp an’ go, the Rains are fallin’,

  The Bugle’s callin’!

  The dead are bushed an’ stoned to keep ‘em safe below!

  An’ them that do not like it they can lump it,

  An’ them that cannot stand it they can jump it;

  We’ve got to die somewhere — some way — some’ow —

  We might as well begin to do it now!

  Then, Number One, let down the tent-pole slow,

  Knock out the pegs an’ ‘old the corners — so!

  Fold in the flies, furl up the ropes, an’ stow!

  Oh, strike — oh, strike your camp an’ go!

  (Gawd ‘elp us!)

  Christmas in India

  Dim dawn behind the tamerisks — the sky is saffron-yellow —

  As the women in the village grind the corn,

  And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow

  That the Day, the staring Easter Day, is born.

  O the white dust on the highway! O the stenches in the byway!

  O the clammy fog that hovers over earth!

  And at Home they’re making merry ‘neath the white and scarlet berry —

  What part have India’s exiles in their mirth?

  Full day begind the tamarisks — the sky is blue and staring —

  As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,

  And they bear One o’er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,

  To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.

  Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly —

  Call on Rama — he may hear, perhaps, your voice!

  With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,

  And to-day we bid “good Christian men rejoice!”

  High noon behind the tamarisks — the sun is hot above us —

  As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.

  They will drink our healths at dinner — those who tell us how they love us,

  And forget us till another year be gone!

  Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!

  Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!

  Youth was cheap — wherefore we sold it.

  Gold was good — we hoped to hold it,

  And to-day we know the fulness of our gain!

  Grey dusk behind the tamarisks — the parrots fly together —

  As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;

  And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.

  That drags us back howe’er so far we roam.

  Hard her service, poor her payment — she in ancient, tattered raiment —

  India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.

  If a year of life be lent her, if her temple’s shrine we enter,

  The door is shut — we may not look behind.

  Black night behind the tamarisks — the owls begin their chorus —

  As the conches from the temple scream and bray.

  With the fruitless years behind us and the hopeless years before us,

  Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!

  Call a truce, then, to our labours — let us feast with friends and neighbours,

  And be merry as the custom of our caste;

  For, if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if sadness follow after,

  We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

  Cities and Thrones and Powers

  Cities and Thrones and Powers

  Stand in Time’s eye,

  Almost as long as flowers,

  Which daily die:

  But, as new buds put forth

  To glad new men,

  Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth

  The Cities rise again.

  This season’s Daffodil,

  She never hears

  What change, what chance, what chill,

  Cut down last year’s;

/>   But with bold countenance,

  And knowledge small,

  Esteems her seven days’ continuance,

  To be perpetual.

  So Time that is o’er-kind

  To all that be,

  Ordains us e’en as blind,

  As bold as she:

  That in our very death,

  And burial sure,

  Shadow to shadow, well persuaded, saith,

  “See how our works endure!”

  The City of Brass

  1909

  “Here was a people whom after their works

  thou shalt see wept over for their lost dominion:

  and in this palace is the last information

  respecting lords collected in the dust.” –

  The Arabian Nights.

  In a land that the sand overlays – the ways to her gates are untrod –

  A multitude ended their days whose gates were made splendid by God,

  Till they grew drunk and were smitten with madness and went to their fall,

  And of these is a story written: but Allah Alone knoweth all!

  When the wine stirred in their heart their bosoms dilated.

  They rose to suppose themselves kings over all things created –

  To decree a new earth at a birth without labour or sorrow –

  To declare: “We prepare it to-day and inherit to-morrow.”

  They chose themselves prophets and priests of minute understanding,

  Men swift to see done, and outrun, their extremest commanding –

  Of the tribe which describe with a jibe the perversions of Justice –

  Panders avowed to the crowd whatsoever its lust is.

  Swiftly these pulled down the walls that their fathers had made them –

  The impregnable ramparts of old, they razed and relaid them

  As playgrounds of pleasure and leisure, with limitless entries,

  And havens of rest for the wastrels where once walked the sentries;

  And because there was need of more pay for the shouters and marchers,

  They disbanded in face of their foemen their yeomen and archers.

  They replied to their well-wishers’ fears – to their enemies laughter,

  Saying: “Peace! We have fashioned a God Which shall save us hereafter.

  We ascribe all dominion to man in his factions conferring,

  And have given to numbers the Name of the Wisdom unerring.”

  They said: “Who has hate in his soul? Who has envied his neighbour?

  Let him arise and control both that man and his labour.”

  They said: “Who is eaten by sloth? Whose unthrift has destroyed him?

  He shall levy a tribute from all because none have employed him.”

  They said: “Who hath toiled, who hath striven, and gathered possession?

  Let him be spoiled. He hath given full proof of transgression.”

  They said: “Who is irked by the Law? Though we may not remove it.

  If he lend us his aid in this raid, we will set him above it!

  So the robber did judgment again upon such as displeased him,

  The slayer, too, boasted his slain, and the judges released him.

  As for their kinsmen far off, on the skirts of the nation,

  They harried all earth to make sure none escaped reprobation.

  They awakened unrest for a jest in their newly-won borders,

  And jeered at the blood of their brethren betrayed by their orders.

  They instructed the ruled to rebel, their rulers to aid them;

  And, since such as obeyed them not fell, their Viceroys obeyed them.

  When the riotous set them at naught they said: “Praise the upheaval!

  For the show and the world and the thought of Dominion is evil!”

  They unwound and flung from them with rage, as a rag that defied them,

  The imperial gains of the age which their forefathers piled them.

  They ran panting in haste to lay waste and embitter for ever

  The wellsprings of Wisdom and Strengths which are Faith and Endeavour.

  They nosed out and digged up and dragged forth and exposed to derision

  All doctrine of purpose and worth and restraint and prevision:

  And it ceased, and God granted them all things for which they had striven,

  And the heart of a beast in the place of a man’s heart was given. . . .

  . . . . . . . .

  When they were fullest of wine and most flagrant in error,

  Out of the sea rose a sign – out of Heaven a terror.

  Then they saw, then they heard, then they knew – for none troubled to hide it,

  A host had prepared their destruction, but still they denied it.

  They denied what they dared not abide if it came to the trail;

  But the Sward that was forged while they lied did not heed their denial.

  It drove home, and no time was allowed to the crowd that was driven.

  The preposterous-minded were cowed – they thought time would be given.

  There was no need of a steed nor a lance to pursue them;

  It was decreed their own deed, and not a chance, should undo them.

  The tares they had laughingly sown were ripe to the reaping.

  The trust they had leagued to disown was removed from their keeping.

  The eaters of other men’s bread, the exempted from hardship,

  The excusers of impotence fled, abdicating their wardship,

  For the hate they had taught through the State brought the State no defender,

  And it passed from the roll of the Nations in headlong surrender!

  The City of Sleep

  (“The Brushwood Boy” — The Day’s Work)

  Over the edge of the purple down,

  Where the single lamplight gleams,

  Know ye the road to the Merciful Town

  That is hard by the Sea of Dreams —

  Where the poor may lay their wrongs away,

  And the sick may forget to weep?

  But we — pity us! Oh, pity us!

  We wakeful; ah, pity us! —

  We must go back with Policeman Day —

  Back from the City of Sleep!

  Weary they turn from the scroll and crown,

  Fetter and prayer and plough —

  They that go up to the Merciful Town,

  For her gates are closing now.

  It is their right in the Baths of Night

  Body and soul to steep,

  But we — pity us! ah, pity us!

  We wakeful; ah, pity us! —

  We must go back with Policeman Day —

  Back from the City of Sleep!

  Over the edge of the purple down,

  Ere the tender dreams begin,

  Look — we may look — at the Merciful Town,

  But we may not enter in!

  Outcasts all, from her guarded wall

  Back to our watch we creep:

  We — pity us! ah, pity us!

  We wakeful; ah, pity us! —

  We that go back with Policeman Day —

  Back from the City of Sleep!

  Cleared

  (In Memory of a Commission)

  Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,

  Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt!

  From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, oh, listen to my song,

  The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong.

  Their noble names were mentioned — oh, the burning black disgrace! —

  By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case;

  They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it,

  And “coruscating innocence” the learned Judges gave it.

  Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon’s knife,

  The “honourable gentlemen” deplored the loss of life!

  Bear witness of those chanting choirs that bur
ke and shirk and snigger,

  No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger!

  Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies,

  Like phœnixes from Phœnix Park (and what lay there) they rise!

  Go shout it to the emerald seas — give word to Erin now,

  Her honourable gentlemen are cleared — and this is how: —

  They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price,

  They only helped the murderer with counsel’s best advice,

  But — sure it keeps their honour white — the learned Court believes

  They never give a piece of plate to murderers and thieves.

  They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman’s hide,

  They never marked a man for death — what fault of theirs he died? —

  They only said “intimidate,” and talked and went away —

  By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they!

  Their sin it was that fed the fire — small blame to them that heard —

  The boys get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word —

  They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too,

  The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew!

  They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail,

  They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clan-na-Gael.

  If black is black or white is white, in black and white it’s down,

  They’re only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.

  “Cleared”, honourable gentlemen! Be thankful it’s no more: —

  The widow’s curse is on your house, the dead are at your door.

  On you the shame of open shame; on you from North to South

  The hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth.

  “Less black than we were painted”? — Faith, no word of black was said;