Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessed — they know the Angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessed, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet — they hear the World — they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and — the Lord He lays it on Martha’s Sons!
South Africa
1903
Lived a woman wonderful,
(May the Lord amend her!)
Neither simple, kind, nor true,
But her Pagan beauty drew
Christian gentlemen a few
Hotly to attend her.
Christian gentlemen a few
From Berwick unto Dover;
For she was South Africa,
Ana she was South Africa,
She was Our South Africa,
Africa all over!
Half her land was dead with drouth,
Half was red with battle;
She was fenced with fire and sword
Plague on pestilence outpoured,
Locusts on the greening sward
And murrain on the cattle!
True, ah true, and overtrue.
That is why we love her!
For she is South Africa,
And she is South Africa,
She is Our South Africa,
Africa all over!
Bitter hard her lovers toild,
Scandalous their paymen, —
Food forgot on trains derailed;
Cattle — dung where fuel failed;
Water where the mules had staled;
And sackcloth for their raiment!
So she filled their mouths with dust
And their bones with fever;
Greeted them with cruel lies;
Treated them despiteful-wise;
Meted them calamities
Till they vowed to leave her!
They took ship and they took sail,
Raging, from her borders —
In a little, none the less,
They forgat their sore duresse;
They forgave her waywardness
And returned for orders!
They esteemed her favour more
Than a Throne’s foundation.
For the glory of her face
Bade farewell to breed and race —
Yea, and made their burial-place
Altar of a Nation!
Wherefore, being bought by blood,
And by blood restored
To the arms that nearly lost,
She, because of all she cost,
Stands, a very woman, most
Perfect and adored!
On your feet, and let them know
This is why we love her!
For she is South Africa,
She is Our South Africa,
Is Our Own South Africa,
Africa all over!
The Spies’ March
1913
(“The outbreak is in full swing and our death-rate would sicken Napoleon. . . . Dr. M — died last week, and C — on Monday, but some more medicines are coming. . . . We don’t seem to be able to check it at all. . . . Villages panicking badly. . . . In some places not a living soul. . . . But at any rate the experience gained may come in useful, so I am keeping my notes written up to date in case of accidents. . . . Death is queer chap to live with for steady company.” — Extract from a private letter from Manchuria.)
There are not leaders to lead us to honour, and yet without leaders we sally,
Each man reporting for duty alone, out of sight, out of reach, of his fellow.
There are no bugles to call the battalions, and yet without bugle we rally
From the ends of the earth to the ends of the earth, to follow the Standard of Yellow!
Fall in! O fall in! O fall in!
Not where the squadrons mass,
Not where the bayonets shine,
Not where the big shell shout as they pass
Over the firing-line;
Not where the wounded are,
Not where the nations die,
Killed in the cleanly game of war —
That is no place for a spy!
O Princes, Thrones and Powers, your work is less than ours —
Here is no place for a spy!
Trained to another use,
We march with colours furled,
Only concerned when Death breaks loose
On a front of half a world.
Only for General Death
The Yellow Flag may fly,
While we take post beneath —
That is the place for a spy.
Where Plague has spread his pinions
Over Nations and Dominions —
Then will be work for a spy!
The dropping shots begin,
The single funerals pass,
Our skirmishers run in,
The corpses dot the grass!
The howling towns stampede,
The tainted hamlets die.
Now it is war indeed —
Now there is room for a spy!
O Peoples, Kings and Lands,
We are waiting your commands —
What is the work for a spy?
(Drums) — Fear is upon us, spy!
“Go where his pickets hide —
Unmask the shape they take,
Whether a gnat from the waterside,
Or a stinging fly in the brake,
Or filth of the crowded street,
Or a sick rat limping by,
Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat —
That is the work of a spy!
(Drums) — Death is upon us, spy!
“What does he next prepare?
Whence will he move to attack? —
By water, earth or air? —
How can we head him back?
Shall we starve him out if we burn
Or bury his food-supply?
Slip through his lines and learn —
That is work for a spy!
(Drums) — Get to your business, spy!
“Does he feint or strike in force?
Will he charge or ambuscade?
What is it checks his course?
Is he beaten or only delayed?
How long will the lull endure?
Is he retreating? Why?
Crawl to his camp and make sure —
That is the work for a spy!
(Drums) — Fetch us our answer, spy!
“Ride with him girth to girth
Wherever the Pale Horse wheels
Wait on his councils, ear to earth,
And say what the dust reveals.
For the smoke of our torment rolls
Where the burning thousands lie;
What do we care for men’s bodies or souls?
Bring us deliverance, spy!”
Stellenbosch
Composite Columns
The General ‘eard the firin’ on the flank,
An’ ‘e sent a mounted man to bring ‘im back
The silly, pushin’ person’s name an’ rank
‘Oo’d dared to answer Brother Boer’s attack:
For there might ‘ave been a serious engagement,
An’ ‘e might ‘ave wasted ‘alf a dozen men;
So ‘e ordered ‘im to stop ‘is operations round the kopjes,
An’ ‘e told ‘im off before the Staff at ten!
And it all goes into laundry,
But it never comes out in the wash,
‘Ow we’re sugared about by the old men
(‘Eavy-sterned amateur old men!)
That ‘amper an’ ‘inder an’ scold men
For fear o’ Stellenbosch!
/> The General ‘ad “produced a great effect,”
The General ‘ad the country cleared – almost;
And the Boers ‘ad us bloomin’ well on toast!
For we might ‘ave crossed the drift before the twilight,
Instead o’ sitting down an’ takin’ root;
But we was not allowed, so the Boojers scooped the crowd,
To the last survivin’ bandolier an’ boot.
The General saw the farm’ouse in ‘is rear,
With its stoep so nicely shaded from the sun;
Sez ‘e, “I’ll pith my tabernacle ‘ere,”
An’ ‘e kept us muckin’ round till ‘e ‘ad done.
For ‘e might ‘ave caught the confluent pneumonia
>From sleepin’ in his gaiters in a dew;
So ‘e took a book an’ dozed while the other columns closed,
And De Wet’s commando out an’ trickled through!
The General saw the mountain-range ahead,
With their ‘elios showin’ saucy on the ‘eight,
So ‘e ‘eld us to the level ground instead,
An’ telegraphed the Boojers wouldn’t fight.
For ‘e might ‘ave gone an’ sprayed ‘em with a pompom,
Or ‘e might ‘ave slung a squadron out to see –
But ‘e wasn’t takin’ chances in them ‘igh an’ ‘ostile kranzes –
He was markin’ time to earn a K.C.B.
The General got ‘is decorations thick
(The men that backed ‘is lies could not complain),
The Staff ‘ad D.S.O.’s till we was sick,
An’ the soldier – ‘ad the work to do again!
For ‘e might ‘ave known the District was an ‘otbed,
Instead of ‘andin’ over, upside-down,
To a man ‘oo ‘ad to fight ‘alf a year to put it right,
While the General sat an’ slandered ‘im in town!
An’ it all went into the laundry,
But it never came out in the wash.
We were sugared about by the old men
(Panicky, perishin’ old men)
That ‘amper an’ ‘inder an’ scold men
For fear o’ Stellenbosch!
A St. Helena Lullaby
“A Priest in Spite of Himself”
“How far is St. Helena from a little child at play!”
What makes you want to wander there with all the world
between.
Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he’ll run away.
(No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!)
“How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris street?”
I haven’t time to answer now — the men are falling fast.
The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat.
(If you take the first step, you will take the last!)
“How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz?”
You couldn’t hear me if I told — so loud the cannons roar.
But not so far for people who are living by their wits.
(“Gay go up” means “Gay go down” the wide world o’er!)
“How far is St. Helena from the Emperor of France.”
I cannot see — I cannot tell — the Crowns they dazzle so.
The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to
dance.
(After open whether you may look for snow!)
“How far is St. Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar?”
A longish way — longish way — with ten more to run.
It’s South across the water underneath a falling star.
(What you cannot finish you must leave undone!)
“How fair is St. Helena from the Beresina ice?”
An ill way — a chill way — the ice begins to crack.
But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice.
(When you can’t go forward you must e’en come back!)
“How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo?”
A near way — a clear way — the ship will take you soon.
A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do.
(Morning never tries you till the afternoon!)
“How far from St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven’s Grace?”
That no one knows — that no one knows — and no one ever will.
But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face,
And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!
The Storm Cone
1932
This is the midnight-let no star
Delude us-dawn is very far.
This is the tempest long foretold-
Slow to make head but sure to hold
Stand by! The lull ‘twixt blast and blast
Signals the storm is near, not past;
And worse than present jeopardy
May our forlorn to-morrow be.
If we have cleared the expectant reef,
Let no man look for his relief.
Only the darkness hides the shape
Of further peril to escape.
It is decreed that we abide
The weight of gale against the tide
And those huge waves the outer main
Sends in to set us back again.
They fall and whelm. We strain to hear
The pulses of her labouring gear,
Till the deep throb beneath us proves,
After each shudder and check, she moves!
She moves, with all save purpose lost,
To make her offing from the coast;
But, till she fetches open sea,
Let no man deem that he is free!
The Story of Ung
Once, on a glittering ice-field, ages and ages ago,
Ung, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow.
Fashioned the form of a tribesman — gaily he whistled and sung,
Working the snow with his fingers. Read ye the Story of Ung!
Pleased was his tribe with that image — came in their hundreds to scan —
Handled it, smelt it, and grunted: “Verily, this is a man!
Thus do we carry our lances — thus is a war-belt slung.
Lo! it is even as we are. Glory and honour to Ung!”
Later he pictured an aurochs — later he pictured a bear —
Pictured the sabre-tooth tiger dragging a man to his lair —
Pictured the mountainous mammoth, hairy, abhorrent, alone —
Out of the love that he bore them, scribing them clearly on bone.
Swift came the tribe to behold them, peering and pushing and still —
Men of the berg-battered beaches, men of the boulder-hatched hill —
Hunters and fishers and trappers, presently whispering low:
“Yea, they are like — and it may be — But how does the Picture-man know?”
“Ung — hath he slept with the Aurochs — watched where the Mastodon roam?
Spoke on the ice with the Bow-head — followed the Sabre-tooth home?
Nay! These are toys of his fancy! If he have cheated us so,
How is there truth in his image — the man that he fashioned of snow?”
Wroth was that maker of pictures — hotly he answered the call:
“Hunters and fishers and trappers, children and fools are ye all!
Look at the beasts when ye hunt them!” Swift from the tumult he broke,
Ran to the cave of his father and told him the shame that they spoke.
And the father of Ung gave answer, that was old and wise in the craft,
Maker of pictures aforetime, he leaned on his lance and laughed:
“If they could see as thou seest they would do what thou hast done,
And each man would make him a picture, and — what would become of my son?
“There would be no pelts of the reindeer, flung down at thy cave for a gift,
Nor dole of the oily timber that comes on the Baltic d
rift;
No store of well-drilled needles, nor ouches of amber pale;
No new-cut tongues of the bison, nor meat of the stranded whale.
“Thou hast not toiled at the fishing when the sodden trammels freeze,
Nor worked the war-boats outward through the rush of the rock-staked seas,
Yet they bring thee fish and plunder — full meal and an easy bed —
And all for the sake of thy pictures.” And Ung held down his head.
“Thou hast not stood to the Aurochs when the red snow reeks of the fight;
Men have no time at the houghing to count his curls aright.
And the heart of the hairy Mammoth, thou sayest, they do not see,
Yet they save it whole from the beaches and broil the best for thee.
“And now do they press to thy pictures, with opened mouth and eye,
And a little gift in the doorway, and the praise no gift can buy:
But — sure they have doubted thy pictures, and that is a grievous stain —
Son that can see so clearly, return them their gifts again!”
And Ung looked down at his deerskins — their broad shell-tasselled bands —
And Ung drew downward his mitten and looked at his naked hands;
And he gloved himself and departed, and he heard his father, behind:
“Son that can see so clearly, rejoice that thy tribe is blind!”
Straight on the glittering ice-field, by the caves of the lost Dordogne,
Ung, a maker of pictures, fell to his scribing on bone
Even to mammoth editions. Gaily he whistled and sung,
Blessing his tribe for their blindness. Heed ye the Story of Ung!
The Story of Uriah
“Now there were two men in one city; the one rich, and the other poor.”
Jack Barrett went to Quetta
Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) Page 810