God took care to hide that country till He judged His people ready,
Then He chose me for His Whisper, and I’ve found it, and it’s yours!
Yes, your “Never-never country” — yes, your “edge of cultivation”
And “no sense in going further” — till I crossed the range to see.
God forgive me! No, I didn’t. It’s God’s present to our nation.
Anybody might have found it, but — His Whisper came to Me!
The Fabulists
1914-18
“The Vortex” — A Diversity of Creatures
When all the world would keep a matter hid,
Since Truth is seldom Friend to any crowd,
Men write in fable, as old Aesop did,
Jesting at that which none will name aloud.
And this they needs must do, or it will fall
Unless they please they are not heard at all.
When desperate Folly daily laboureth
To work confusion upon all we have,
When diligent Sloth demandeth Freedom’s death,
And banded Fear commandeth Honour’s grave —
Even in that certain hour before the fall,
Unless men please they are not heard at all.
Needs must all please, yet some not all for need,
Needs must all toil, yet some not all for gain,
But that men taking pleasure may take heed.
Whom present toil shall snatch from later pain.
Thus some have toiled, but their reward was small
Since, though they pleased, they were not heard at all.
This was the lock that lay upon our lips,
This was the yoke that we have undergone,
Denying us all pleasant fellowships
As in our time and generation.
Our pleasures unpursued age past recall,
And for our pains — we are not heard at all.
What man hears aught except the groaning guns?
What man heeds aught save what each instant brings?
When each man’s life all imaged life outruns,
What man shall pleasure in imaginings?
So it hath fallen, as it was bound to fall,
We are not, nor we were not, heard at all.
The Fairies’ Siege
I have been given my charge to keep —
Well have I kept the same!
Playing with strife for the most of my life,
But this is a different game.
I’11 not fight against swords unseen,
Or spears that I cannot view —
Hand him the keys of the place on your knees —
‘Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!
Ask him his terms and accept them at once.
Quick, ere we anger him, go!
Never before have I flinched from the guns,
But this is a different show.
I’11 not fight with the Herald of God
(I know what his Master can do!)
Open the gate, he must enter in state,
‘Tis the Dreamer whose dreams come true!
I’d not give way for an Emperor,
I’d hold my road for a King —
To the Triple Crown I would not bow down —
But this is a different thing.
I’11 not fight with the Powers of Air,
Sentry, pass him through!
Drawbridge let fall, ‘tis the Lord of us all,
The Dreamer whose dreams come true!
The Fall of Jock Gillespie
This fell when dinner-time was done —
‘Twixt the first an’ the second rub —
That oor mon Jock cam’ hame again
To his rooms ahint the Club.
An’ syne he laughed, an’ syne he sang,
An’ syne we thocht him fou,
An’ syne he trumped his partner’s trick,
An’ garred his partner rue.
Then up and spake an elder mon,
That held the Spade its Ace —
God save the lad! Whence comes the licht
“That wimples on his face?”
An’ Jock he sniggered, an’ Jock he smiled,
An’ ower the card-brim wunk: —
“I’m a’ too fresh fra’ the stirrup-peg,
“May be that I am drunk.”
“There’s whusky brewed in Galashils
“An’ L. L. L. forbye;
“But never liquor lit the lowe
“That keeks fra’ oot your eye.
“There’s a third o’ hair on your dress-coat breast,
“Aboon the heart a wee?”
“Oh! that is fra’ the lang-haired Skye
“That slobbers ower me.”
“Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin’ beasts,
“An’ terrier dogs are fair,
“But never yet was terrier born,
“Wi’ ell-lang gowden hair!
“There’s a smirch o’ pouther on your breast,
“Below the left lappel?”
“Oh! that is fra’ my auld cigar,
“Whenas the stump-end fell.”
“Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse,
“For ye are short o’ cash,
“An’ best Havanas couldna leave
“Sae white an’ pure an ash.
“This nicht ye stopped a story braid,
“An’ stopped it wi’ a curse.
“Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel’ —
“An’ capped it wi’ a worse!
“Oh! we’re no fou! Oh! we’re no fou!
“But plainly we can ken
“Ye’re fallin’, fallin’ fra the band
“O’ cantie single men!”
An’ it fell when siris-shaws were sere,
An’ the nichts were lang and mirk,
In braw new breeks, wi’ a gowden ring,
Oor Jocke gaed to the Kirk!
Farewell and adieu...
1914-18
Farewell and adieu to you, Harwich Ladies,
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies ashore!
For we’ve received orders to work to the eastward
Where we hope in a short time to strafe ‘em some more.
We’ll duck and we’ll dive like little tin turtles,
We’ll duck and we’ll dive underneath the North Seas,
Until we strike something that doesn’t expect us.
From here to Cuxhaven it’s go as you please!
The first thing we did was to dock in a minefield,
Which isn’t a place where repairs should be done;
And there we lay doggo in twelve-fathom water
With tri-nitro-toluol hogging our run.
The next thing we did, we rose under a Zeppelin,
With his shiny big belly half blocking the sky.
But what in the — Heavens can you do with six-pounders?
So we fired what we had and we bade him good-bye.
Farewell and adieu, etc.
The Fringes of the Fleet
.
Fastness
Tennison
— The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)
This is the end whereto men toiled
Before thy coachman guessed his fate, —
How thou shouldst leave thy, ‘scutcheoned gate
On that new wheel which is the oiled —
To see the England Shakespeare saw
(Oh, Earth, ‘tis long since Shallow died!
Yet by yon farrowed sow may hide
Some blue deep minion of the Law) —
To range from Ashby-de-la-Zouch
By Lyonnesse to Locksley Hall,
Or haply, nearer home, appal
Thy father’s sister’s staid barouche.
The Feet Of the Young Men
1897
Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose –
Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain;
&
nbsp; Now the Young Men’s hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues,
Now the Red Gods make their medicine again! Who hath seen the beaver busied? Who hath watched the black-tail mating?
Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry?
Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting,
Or the sea-trout’s jumping-crazy for the fly?
He must go — go — go away from here!
On the other side the world he’s overdue.
‘Send your road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o’er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
So for one the wet sail arching through the rainbow round the bow,
And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust;
And for one the lakeside lilies where the bull-moose waits the cow,
And for one the mule-train coughing in the dust.
Who hath smelt wood-smoke at twilight? Who hath heard the birch-log burning?
Who is quick to read the noises of the night?
Let him follow with the others, for the Young Men’s feet are turning
Too the camps of proved desire and known delight!
Let him go — go, etc. I
Do you know the blackened timber — do you know that racing stream ‘
With the raw, right-angled log-jam at the end; And the bar of sun-warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream To the click of shod canoe-poles round the bend? It is there that we are going with our rods and reels and traces, To a silent, smoky Indian that we know — To a couch of new-pulled hemlock, with the starlight on our faces, For the Red Gods call us out and we must go! They must go — go, etc. II Do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep and short, Where the bluff, lee-boarded fishing-luggers ride? Do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of your port On a coast you’ve lost the chart of overside? It is there that I am going, with an extra hand to bale her — Just one able ‘long-shore loafer that I know. He can take his chance of drowning, while I sail and sail and sail her, For the Red Gods call me out and I must go! He must go — go, etc. III Do you know the pile-built village where the sago-dealers trade — Do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo? Do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid-scented glade When the blazoned, bird-winged butterflies flap through? It is there that I am going with my camphor, net, and boxes, To a gentle, yellow pirate that I know — To my little wailing lemurs, to my palms and flying-foxes, For the Red Gods call me out and I must go! He must go — go, etc. IV Do you know the world’s white roof-tree — do you know that windy rift Where the baffling mountain-eddies chop and change? Do you know the long day’s patience, belly-down on frozen drift, While the head of heads is feeding out of range? It is there that I am going, where the boulders and the snow lie, With a trusty, nimble tracker that I know. I have sworn an oath, to keep it on the Horns of Ovis Poli, And the Red Gods call me out and I must go! He must go — go, etc. How the Four-way Lodge is opened — now the Smokes of Council rise — Pleasant smokes, ere yet ‘twixt trail and trail they choose — Now the girths and ropes are tested: now they pack their last supplies: Now our Young Men go to dance before the Trues! Who shall meet them at those altars — who shall light them to that shrine? Velvet-footed, who shall guide them to their goal? Unto each the voice and vision: unto each his spoor and sign — Lonely mountain in the Northland, misty sweat-bath ‘neath the Line — And to each a man that knows his naked soul! White or yellow, black or copper, he is waiting, as a lover, Smoke of funnel, dust of hooves, or beat of train — Where the high grass hides the horseman or the glaring flats discover — Where the steamer hails the landing, or the surf-boat brings the rover — Where the rails run out in sand-rift... Quick! ah, heave the camp-kit over, For the Red Gods make their medicine again! And we go — go — go away from here! On the other side the world we’re overdue! ‘Send the road is clear before you when the old Spring-fret comes o’er you, And the Red Gods call for you!
The Female of the Species
1911
When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
‘Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other’s tale —
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.
Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise, —
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.
Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger — - Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue — to the scandal of The Sex!
But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.
She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity — must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions — not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.
She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.
She is wedded to convictions — in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies! —
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.
Unprovoked and awful charges — even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons — even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish — like the Jesuit with the squaw!
So it cames that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice — which no woman understands.
And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern — shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.
The Fires
(Prelude to collected Verse)
Men make them fires on the hearth
Each under his roof-tree,
And the
Four Winds that rule the earth
They blow the smoke to me.
Across the high hills and the sea
And all the changeful skies,
The Four Winds blow the smoke to me
Till the tears are in my eyes.
Until the tears are in my eyes
And my heart is wellnigh broke
For thinking on old memories
That gather in the smoke.
With every shift of every wind
The homesick memories come,
From every quarter of mankind
Where I have made me a home.
Four times a fire against the cold
And a roof against the rain —
Sorrow fourfold and joy fourfold
The Four Winds bring again!
How can I answer which is best
Of all the fires that burn?
I have been too often host or guest
At every fire in turn.
How can I turn from any fire,
On any man’s hearthstone?
I know the wonder and desire
That went to build my own!
How can I doubt man’s joy or woe
Where’er his house-fires shine.
Since all that man must undergo
Will visit me at mine?
Oh, you Four Winds that blow so strong
And know that his is true,
Stoop for a little and carry my song
To all the men I knew!
Where there are fires against the cold,
Or roofs against the rain —
With love fourfold and joy fourfold,
Take them my songs again!
The First Chantey
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 768