Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1010 page)

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas — we fought o’er a good cheroot,
And
I
knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box — let me consider a space;
In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie’s face.

Maggie is pretty to look at — Maggie’s a loving lass,
But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.

There’s peace in a Larranaga, there’s calm in a Henry Clay;
But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away —

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown —
But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o’ the talk o’ the town!

Maggie, my wife at fifty — grey and dour and old —
With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are,
And Love’s torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar —

The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket —
With never a new one to light tho’ it’s charred and black to the socket!

Open the old cigar-box — let me consider a while.
Here is a mild Manila — there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion — bondage bought with a ring,
Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent — comforters true and tried,
And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes,
Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close,

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,
With only a
Suttee’
s passion — to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,
Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,
When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,
So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will scent ‘em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,
And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between
The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o’ Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,
But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light
Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,
But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o’-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire?
Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?

Open the old cigar-box — let me consider anew —
Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon
you?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;
And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba — I hold to my first-sworn vows.
If Maggie will have no rival, I’ll have no Maggie for Spouse!

Big Steamers

1914-18
“Oh, where are you going to, all you Big Steamers,
   With England’s own coal, up and down the salt seas?”
“We are going to fetch you your bread and your butter,
   Your beef, pork, and mutton, eggs, apples, and cheese.”

“And where will you fetch it from, all you Big Steamers,
   And where shall I write you when you are away?
“We fetch it from Melbourne, Quebec, and Vancouver —
   Address us at Hobart,  Hong-Kong, and Bombay.”

“But if anything happened to  all you  Big  Steamers,
   And suppose  you were  wrecked  up  and  down  the  salt sea?”
“Then you’d have no coffee or bacon for breakfast,
   And you’d have no muffins or toast for your tea.”

“Then I’ll pray for fine weather for all you Big Steamers,
   For little blue billows and breezes so soft.”
“Oh, billows and breezes don’t bother Big Steamers,
   For we’re iron below and steel-rigging aloft.”

“Then I’ll build a new lighthouse for all you Big Steamers,
   With plenty wise pilots to pilot you through.”
“Oh, the Channel’s as bright as a ball-room already,
   And pilots are thicker than pilchards at Looe.”

“Then what can I do for you, all you Big Steamers,
   Oh, what can I do for your comfort and good?”
“Send out your big  warships to watch your big waters,
   That no one may stop us from bringing you food.

“For the bread that you eat and the biscuits you nibble,
   The sweets that you suck and the joints that you carve,
They are brought to you daily by all us Big Steamers —
   And if one hinders our coming you’ll starve!”

Bill ‘Awkins

“‘As anybody seen Bill ‘Awkins?”
    “Now ‘ow in the devil would I know?”
“‘E’s taken my girl out walkin’,
    An’ I’ve got to tell ‘im so —
        Gawd — bless — ‘im!
    I’ve got to tell ‘im so.”

“D’yer know what ‘e’s like, Bill ‘Awkins?”
    “Now what in the devil would I care?”
“‘E’s the livin’, breathin’ image of an organ-grinder’s monkey,
    With a pound of grease in ‘is ‘air —
        Gawd — bless — ‘im!
    An’ a pound o’ grease in ‘is ‘air.”

“An’ s’pose you met Bill ‘Awkins,
    Now what in the devil ‘ud ye do?”
“I’d open ‘is cheek to ‘is chin-strap buckle,
    An’ bung up ‘is both eyes, too —
        Gawd — bless — ‘im!
    An bung up ‘is both eyes, too!”

“Look ‘ere, where ‘e comes, Bill ‘Awkins!
    Now, what in the devil will you say?”
“It isn’t fit an’ proper to be fightin’ on a Sunday,
    So I’ll pass ‘im the time o’ day —
        Gawd — bless — ‘im!
    I’ll pass ‘im the time o’ day!”

“Birds of Prey” March

March!  The mud is cakin’ good about our trousies.
 Front! — eyes front, an’ watch the Colour-casin’s drip.
Front!  The faces of the women in the ‘ouses
 Ain’t the kind o’ things to take aboard the ship.

Cheer!  An’ we’ll never march to victory.
Cheer!  An’ we’ll never live to ‘ear the cannon roar!
    The Large Birds o’ Prey
    They will carry us away,
An’ you’ll never see your soldiers any more!

Wheel!  Oh, keep your touch; we’re goin’ round a corner.
 Time! — mark time, an’ let the men be’ind us close.
Lord! the transport’s full, an’ ‘alf our lot not on ‘er —
 Cheer, O cheer!  We’re going off where no one knows.

March!  The Devil’s none so black as ‘e is painted!
 Cheer!  We’ll ‘ave some fun before we’re put away.
‘Alt, an’ ‘and ‘er out — a woman’s gone and fainted!
 Cheer!  Get on! — Gawd ‘elp the married men to-day!

Hoi!  Come up, you ‘ungry beggars, to yer sorrow.
 (‘Ear them say they want their tea, an’ want it quick!)
You won’t have no mind for slingers, not to-morrow —
 No; you’ll put the ‘tween-decks stove out, bein’ sick!

‘Alt!  The married kit ‘as all to go before us!
 ‘Course it’s blocked the bloomin’ gangway up again!
Cheer, O cheer the ‘Orse Guards watchin’ tender o’er us,
 Keepin’ us since eight this mornin’ in the rain!

Stuck in ‘eavy marchin’-order, sopped and wringin’ —
 Sick, before our time to watch ‘er ‘eave an’ fall,
‘Ere’s your ‘appy ‘ome at last, an’ stop your singin’.
 ‘Alt!  Fall in along the troop-deck!  Silence all!

Cheer!  For we’ll never live to see no bloomin’ victory!
Cheer!  An’ we’ll never live to ‘ear the cannon roar!  (One cheer more!)
    The jackal an’ the kite
    ‘Ave an ‘ealthy appetite,
An’ you’ll never see your soldiers any more!  (‘Ip!  Urroar!)
    The eagle an’ the crow
    They are waitin’ ever so,
An’ you’ll never see your soldiers any more!  (‘Ip!  Urroar!)
    Yes, the Large Birds o’ Prey
    They will carry us away,
An’ you’ll never see your soldiers any more!

The Birthright

“The Propagation of Knowledge”
From “Debits and Credits” (1919-1923)
The miracle of our land’s speech — so known
And long received, none marvel when ‘tis shown!

We have such wealth as Rome at her most pride
Had not or (having) scattered not so wide;
Nor with such arrant prodigality,
Beneath her any pagan’s foot let lie...
Lo! Diamond that cost some half their days
To find and t’other half to bring to blaze:
Rubies of every heat, wherethrough we scan
The fiercer and more fiery heart of man:
Emerald that with the uplifted billow vies,
And Sapphires evening remembered skies:
Pearl perfect, as immortal tears must show,
Bred, in deep waters, of a piercing woe;
And tender Turkis, so with charms y-writ,
Of woven gold, Time dares not bite on it.
Thereafter, in all manners worked and set,
Jade, coral, amber, crystal ivories, jet, —
Showing no more than various fancies, yet
Each a Life’s token or Love’s amulet
Which things, through timeless arrogance of use,
We neither guard nor garner, but abuse;
So that our scholars — nay, our children-fling
In sport or jest treasure to arm a King;
And the gross crowd, at feast or market, hold
Traffic perforce with dust of gems and gold!

Blue Roses

The Light that Failed

    Roses red and roses white
    Plucked I for my love’s delight.
    She would none of all my posies —
    Bade me gather her blue roses.

    Half the world I wandered through,
    Seeking where such flowers grew.
    Half the world unto my quest
    Answered me with laugh and jest.

    Home I came at wintertide,
    But my silly love had died
    Seeking with her latest breath
    Roses from the arms of Death.

    It may be beyond the grave
    She shall find what she would have.
    Mine was but an idle quest —
    Roses white and red are best!

Bobs

                  
(Field  Marshal Lord  Roberts of Kandahar)
There’s a little red-faced man,
           Which is Bobs,
Rides the talliest ‘orse ‘e can —
           
Our
Bobs.
 If it bucks or kicks or rears,
‘E can sit for twenty years
With a smile round both ‘is ears —
            Can’t yer, Bobs?

 Then ‘ere’s to Bobs Bahadur — little Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
 ‘E’s our pukka Kandaharder —
            Fightin’ Bobs, Bobs, Bobs!
‘E’s the Dook of
Aggy Chel;
‘E’s the man that done us well,
 An’ we’ll follow ‘im to ‘ell —
           Won’t we, Bobs?

 If a limber’s slipped a trace,
           ‘Ook on Bobs.
 If a marker’s lost ‘is place,
            Dress by Bobs.
For ‘e’s eyes all up ‘is coat,
An’a a bugle in ‘is throat,
An’you will not play the goat
           Under Bobs.

‘E’s a little down on drink
            Chaplain Bobs;
But it keeps us outer Clink —
             Don’t it, Bobs?
So we will not complain
Tho’ ‘e’s water on the brain,
If ‘e leads us straight again —
               Blue-light Bobs.

If you stood ‘im on ‘is head,
              Father Bobs,
You could spill a quart ot lead
              Outer Bobs.
‘E’s been at it thirty years,
An-amassin’ soveneers
In the way o’ slugs an’ spears —
               Ain’t yer Bobs?

What ‘e does not knowv o’war,
             Gen’ral Bobs,
You cun arst the shop next door —
              Can’t they, Bobs?
Oh, ‘e’s little but he’s wise;
‘E’s terror for’ is size:,
An’
— ‘e — does — not — advertize —
             Do yer, Bobs?

Now they ‘ve made a blooimin ‘Lord
             Ou ter Bobs,
Which was but ‘is fair reward —
             Wheren’t it, Bobs?:
So ell wear a coronet
W’here ‘is ‘elmet used to set;
But we know you won’t forget —
             Will yer, Bobs?