The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red.
It’s sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff,
And by the Judge’s well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off.
Hold up those hands of innocence — go, scare your sheep together,
The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether;
And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen,
Tell them it’s tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again!
“The charge is old”? — As old as Cain — as fresh as yesterday;
Old as the Ten Commandments — have ye talked those laws away?
If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball,
You spoke the words that sped the shot — the curse be on you all!
“Our friends believe”? — Of course they do — as sheltered women may;
But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay?
They! — If their own front door is shut,
they’ll swear the whole world’s warm;
What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm?
The secret half a county keeps, the whisper in the lane,
The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane,
The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees,
And shows the boys have heard your talk — what do they know of these?
But you — you know — ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead,
Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred,
The mangled stallion’s scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer’s low.
Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know!
My soul! I’d sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight,
Pure crime I’d done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate,
Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered,
While one of those “not provens” proved me cleared as you are cleared.
Cleared — you that “lost” the League accounts — go, guard our honour still,
Go, help to make our country’s laws that broke God’s law at will —
One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal “strike again”;
The other on your dress-shirt-front to show your heart is clane.
If black is black or white is white, in black and white it’s down,
You’re only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.
If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: —
We are not ruled by murderers, but only — by their friends.
The Clerks and the Bells
Oxford in 1920
THE merry clerks of Oxenford they stretch themselves at ease
Unhelmeted on unbleached sward beneath unshrivelled trees.
For the leaves, the leaves, are on the bough, the bark is on the
bole,
And East and West men’s housen stand all even-roofed and
whole ...
(Men’s housen doored and glazed and floored and whole at every
turn!)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:-”Time it is to learn!”
The merry clerks of Oxenford they read and they are told
Of famous men who drew the sword in furious fights of old.
They heark and mark it faithfully, but never clerk will write
What vision rides ‘twixt book and eye from any nearer fight.
(Whose supplication rends the soul? Whose night-long cries
repeat?)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:-”Time it is to eat!”
The merry clerks of Oxenford they set them down anon
At tables fair with silver-ware and naperies thereon,
Free to refuse or dainty choose what dish shall seem them good
For they have done with single meats, and waters streaked blood ...
(That three days’ fast is overpast when all those guns said “Nay”!)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:-”Time it is to play!”
The merry clerks of Oxenford they hasten one by one
Or band in companies abroad to ride, or row, or run
By waters level with fair meads all goldenly bespread,
Where flash June’s clashing dragon-flies-but no man bows his head,
(Though bullet-wise June’s dragon-flies deride the fearless air!}
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:-”Time it is for pray!”
The pious clerks of Oxenford they kneel at twilight-tide
For to receive and well believe the Word of Him Who died.
And, though no present wings of Death hawk hungry round
that place,
Their brows are bent upon their hands that none may see their face-
(Who set aside the world and died? What life shall please Him best?)
And so the Bells of Oxenford ring:-”Time it is to rest!”
The merry clerks of Oxenford lie under bolt and bar
Lest they should rake the midnight clouds or chase a sliding star.
In fear of fine and dread rebuke, they round their full-night sleep,
And leave that world which once they took for older men to keep.
(Who walks by dreams what ghostly wood in search of play-
mate slain?)
Until the Bells of Oxenford ring in the light again.
Unburdened breeze, unstricken trees, and all God’s works re-
stored-
In this way live the merry clerks,-the clerks of Oxenford!
The Coastwise Lights
Our brows are bound with spindrift and the weed is on our knees;
Our loins are battered ‘neath us by the swinging, smoking seas.
From reef and rock and skerry — over headland, ness, and voe —
The Coastwise Lights of England watch the ships of England go!
Through the endless summer evenings, on the lineless, level floors;
Through the yelling Channel tempest when the siren hoots and roars —
By day the dipping house-flag and by night the rocket’s trail —
As the sheep that graze behind us so we know them where they hail.
We bridge across the dark and bid the helmsman have a care,
The flash that wheeling inland wakes his sleeping wife to prayer;
From our vexed eyries, head to gale, we bind in burning chains
The lover from the sea-rim drawn — his love in English lanes.
We greet the clippers wing-and-wing that race the Southern wool;
We warn the crawling cargo-tanks of Bremen, Leith, and Hull;
To each and all our equal lamp at peril of the sea —
The white wall-sided war-ships or the whalers of Dundee!
Come up, come in from Eastward, from the guardports of the Morn!
Beat up, beat in from Southerly, O gipsies of the Horn!
Swift shuttles of an Empire’s loom that weave us, main to main,
The Coastwise Lights of England give you welcome back again!
Go, get you gone up-Channel with the sea-crust on your plates;
Go, get you into London with the burden of your freights!
Haste, for they talk of Empire there, and say, if any seek,
The Lights of England sent you and by silence shall ye speak!
A Code of Morals
Lest you should think this story true
I merely mention I
Evolved it lately. ‘Tis a most
Unmitigated misstatement.
Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order,
And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,
To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught
His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught.
And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;
/>
So Cupid and Apollo linked , per heliograph, the pair.
At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise —
At e’en, the dying sunset bore her husband’s homilies.
He warned her ‘gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold,
As much as ‘gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;
But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)
That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.
‘Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way,
When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.
They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt —
So stopped to take the message down — and this is whay they learnt —
“Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot” twice. The General swore.
“Was ever General Officer addressed as ‘dear’ before?
“‘My Love,’ i’ faith! ‘My Duck,’ Gadzooks! ‘My darling popsy-wop!’
“Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountain top?”
The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the gilded Staff were still,
As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill;
For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband’s warning ran: —
“Don’t dance or ride with General Bangs — a most immoral man.”
[At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise —
But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.]
With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife
Some interesting details of the General’s private life.
The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still,
And red and ever redder grew the General’s shaven gill.
And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not): —
“I think we’ve tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!”
All honour unto Bangs, for ne’er did Jones thereafter know
By word or act official who read off that helio.
But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan
They know the worthy General as “that most immoral man.”
The Coiner
Circa 1611
To be sung by the unlearned to the tune of
“King John and the Abbot of Canterbury,” and
by the learned to “Tempest-a-brewing.”
“A NAVAL MUTINY”
From “Limits and Renewals” (1932)
Against the Bermudas we foundered, whereby
This Master, that Swabber, yon Bo’sun, and I
(Our pinnace and crew being drowned in the main)
Must beg for our bread through old England again.
For a bite and a sup, and a bed of clean straw,
We’ll tell you such marvels as man never saw,
On a Magical Island which no one did spy
Save this Master, that Swabber, yon Bo’sun, and I.
Seven months among Mermaids and Devils and Sprites,
And Voices that howl in the cedars o’nights,
With further enchantments we underwent there.
Good Sirs, ‘tis a tale to draw guts from a bear!
‘Twixt Dover and Southwark it paid us our way,
Where we found some poor players were labouring a play;
And, willing to search what such business might be,
We entered the yard, both to hear and to see.
One hailed us for seamen and courteous-ly
Did guide us apart to a tavern near by
Where we told him our tale (as to many of late),
And he gave us good cheer, so we gave him good weight.
Mulled sack and strong waters on bellies well lined
With beef and black pudding do strengthen the mind;
And seeing him greedy for marvels, at last
From plain salted truth to flat leasing we passed.
But he, when on midnight our reckoning he paid,
Says, “Never match coins with a Coiner by trade,
Or he’ll turn your lead pieces to metal as rare
As shall fill him this globe, and leave something to spare....”
We slept where they laid us, and when we awoke
Was a crown or five shillings in every man’s poke.
We bit them and rang them, and, finding them good,
We drank to that Coiner as honest men should!
For a cup and a crust, and a truss, etc.
Cold Iron
Gold is for the mistress — silver for the maid —
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.”
“Good!” said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
“But Iron — Cold Iron — is master of them all.”
So he made rebellion ‘gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
“Nay!” said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
“But Iron — Cold Iron — shall be master of you all!”
Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid ‘em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron — Cold Iron — was master of it all!
Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
“What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?”
“Nay!” said the Baron, “mock not at my fall,
For Iron — Cold Iron — is master of men all.”
“Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown —
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.”
“As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron — Cold Iron — must be master of men all!”
Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
“Here is Bread and here is Wine — sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary’s Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron — Cold Iron — can be master of men all!”
He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread.
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
“See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron — Cold Iron — to be master of men all.”
“Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason — I redeem thy fall —
For Iron — Cold Iron — must be master of men all!”
“Crowns are for the valiant — sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!”
“Nay!” said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
“But Iron — Cold Iron — is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!”
Columns
(Mobile Columns of the Boer War)
Out o’ the wilderness, dusty an’ dry
(Time, an’ ‘igh time to be trekkin’ again!)
Oo is it ‘eads to the Detail Supply?
A section, a pompom, an’ six ‘undred men.
‘Ere comes the clerk with ‘is lantern an’ keys
(Time, an ‘igh time to be trekkin ‘again!)
“ Surplus of everything — draw what you please
“For the section, the pompom, an’ six ‘undred men.”
“What are our orders an’ where do we lay?”
(Time, an ‘igh time to be trekkin’ again!)
“You came after dark — you will leave before day,
“You section, you pompom, you six’ undred men!”
Down the tin street, ‘alf awake an ‘unfed,
‘Ark to ‘em blessin’ the Gen’ral in bed!
Now by the church an’ the outspan they wind —
/> Over the ridge an’ it’s all lef’ be’ind
For the section, etc.
Soon they will camp as the dawn’s growin’ grey,
Roll up for coffee an’ sleep while they may —
The section , etc.
Read their ‘ome letters, their papers an’ such,
For they’ll move after dark to astonish the Dutch
With a section, etc.
‘Untin’ for shade as the long hours pass —
Blankets on rifles or burrows in grass,
Lies the section, etc.
Dossin’ or beatin’ a shirt in the sun,
Watching chameleons or cleanin’ a gun,
Waits the section, etc.
With nothin’ but stillness as far as you please,
An’ the silly mirage stringin’ islands an’ seas
Round the section, etc.
So they strips off their hide an’ they grills in their bones,
Till the shadows crawl out from beneath the pore stones
Toward the section, etc.
An’ the Mauser-bird stops an’ the jackals begin
A the ‘orse-guard comes up and the Gunners ‘ook in
As a ‘int the pompom an’ six ‘undred men . . . .
Off through the dark with the stars to rely on — -
(Alpha Centauri an’ somethin’ Orion)
Moves the section, etc.
Same bloomin’ ‘ole which the ant-bear ‘as broke,
Same bloomin’ stumble an’ same bloomin’ joke
Down the section, etc.
Same “which is right?” where the cart-tracks divide,
Same “give it up” from the same clever guide
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 761