Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1053 page)

When, with the gale at her heel, the ship lies down and recovers –
Rolling through forty degrees, combing the stars with her tops,
What says the man at the wheel, holding her strait as she hovers
On the summits of wind-screening seas; studying her as she drops?

Behind him the blasts without check from the Pole to the Tropic, pursue him,
Heaving up, heaping high, slamming home, the surges he must not regard:
Beneath him the crazy wet deck, and all Ocean on end to undo him:
Above him one desperate sail, thrice-reefed but still buckling the yard!

Under his hand fleet the spokes and return, to be held or set free again;
And she bows and makes shift to obey their behest, till the master-wave comes
And her gunnel goes under in thunder and smokes, and she chokes in the trough of the sea again –
Ere she can lift and make way to its crest; and he, as he nurses her, hums! . . .

These have so utterly mastered their work that they work without thinking;
Holding three-fifths of their brain in reserve for whatever betide.
So, when catastrophe threatens, of colic, collision or sinking,
They shunt the full gear into train, and take that small thing in their stride.

The Nursing Sister

Maternity Hospital
The Naulahka
Our sister sayeth such and such,
And we must bow to her behests.
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.

A field untilled, a web unwove,
A flower withheld from sun or bee,
An alien in the Courts of Love,
And — teacher unto such as we!

We love her, but we laugh the while,
We laugh, but sobs are mixed with laughter;
Our sister hath no time to smile,
She knows not what must follow after.

Wind of the South, arise and blow,
From beds of spice thy locks shake free;
Breathe on her heart that she may know,
Breathe on her eyes that she may see!

Alas! we vex her with our mirth,
And maze her with most tender scorn,
Who stands beside the Gates of Birth,
Herself a child — a child unborn!

Our sister sayeth such and such,
And we must bow to her behest’s.
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.

The Old Men

1902
This is our lot if we live so long and labour unto the end –
Then we outlive the impatient years and the much too patient friend:
And because we know we have breath in our mouth and think we have thoughts enough in our head,
We shall assume that we are alive, whereas we are really dead.

We shall not acknowledge that old stars fade or stronger planets arise
(That the sere bush buds or the desert blooms or the ancient well-head dries),
Or any new compass wherewith new men adventure ‘neath new skies.

We shall lift up the ropes that constrained our youth, to bind on our children’s hands;
We shall call to the waters below the bridges to return and to replenish our lands;
We shall harness (Death’s own pale horses) and scholarly plough the sands.

We shall lie down in the eye of the sun for lack of a light on our way –
We shall rise up when the day is done and chirrup, “Behold, it is day!”
We shall abide till the battle is won ere we amble into the fray.

We shall peck out and discuss and dissect, and evert and extrude to our mind,
The flaccid tissues of long-dead issues offensive to God and mankind –
(Precisely like vultures over an ox that the army left behind).

We shall make walk preposterous ghosts of the glories we once created –
Immodestly smearing from muddled palettes amazing pigments mismated –
And our friend will weep when we ask them with boasts if our natural force be abated.

The Lamp of our Youth will be utterly out, but we shall subsist on the smell of it;
And whatever we do, we shall fold our hands and suck our gums and think well of it.
Yes, we shall be perfectly pleased with our work, and that is the Perfectest Hell of it!

This is our lot if we live so long and listen to those who love us –
That we are shunned by the people about and shamed by the Powers above us.
Wherefore be free of your harness betimes; but, being free be assured,
That he who hath not endured to the death, from his birth he hath never endured!

The Old Issue

October 9, 1899
(Outbreak of Boer War)
Here is nothing new nor aught unproven,” say the Trumpets,
 “Many feet have worn it and the road is old indeed.
“It is the King — the King we schooled aforetime! “
 (Trumpets in the marshes-in the eyot at Runnymede!)

“Here is neither haste, nor hate, nor anger,” peal the Trumpets,
  “Pardon for his penitence or pity for his fall.
“It is the King!” — inexorable Trumpets —
 (Trumpets round the scaffold af the dawning by Whitehall!)

 .         .         .         .         .         .         .

“He hath veiled the Crown And hid the Scepter,” warn (he Trum pets,
  “He hath changed the fashion of the lies that cloak his will.
“Hard die the Kings — ah hard — dooms hard!” declare the Trumpets,
 Trumpets at the gang-plank where the brawling troop-decks fill!

Ancient and Unteachable, abide — abide the Trumpets!
  Once again the Trumpets, for the shuddering ground-swell brings
Clamour over ocean of the harsh, pursuing Trumpets —
  Trumpets of the Vanguard that have sworn no truce with Kings!          

All we have of freedom, all we use or know —
This our fathers bought for us long and long ago.

Ancient Right unnoticed as the breath we draw —
Leave to live by no man’s leave, underneath the Law.

Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing
Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the king.

Till our fathers ‘stablished,, after bloody years,
How our King is one with us, first among his peers.

So they bought us freedom-not at little cost —
Wherefore must we watch the King, lest our gain be lost.

Over all things certain, this is sure indeed,
Suffer not the old King: for we know the breed.

Give no ear to bondsmen bidding us endure.
Whining “He is weak and far”; crying “Time will cure.”

(Time himself is witness, till the battle joins,
Deeper strikes the rottenness in the people’s loins.)

Give no heed to bondsmen masking war with peace.
Suffer not the old King here or overseas.

They that beg us barter — wait his yielding mood —
Pledge  the  years  we  hold  in  trust-pawn  our  brother’s blood —

Howso’ great their clamour, whatsoe’er their claim,
Suffer not the old King under any name!

Here is naught unproven — here is naught to learn.
It is written what shall  fall if  the King return.

He shall mark our goings, question whence we came,
Set his guards about us, as in Freedom’s name.

He shall take a tribute, toll of all our ware;
He shall change our gold for arms — arms we may not bear.

He shall break his Judges if they cross his word;
He shall rule above the Law calling on the Lord.

He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring
Watchers ‘neath our window, lest we mock the King —

Hate and all division; hosts of hurrying spies;
Money poured in secret, carrion breeding flies.

Strangers of his counsel, hirelings of his pay,
These shall deal our Justice: sell-deny-delay.

We shall drink dishonour, we shall eat abuse
For the Land we look to — for the Tongue we use.

We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet,
While his hired captains jeer us in the street.

Cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun,
Far beyond his borders shall his teachings run.

Sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled,
Laying on a new land evil of the old —

Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain —
All our fathers died to loose he shall bind again.

Here is nought at venture, random nor untrue
Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew.

Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid:
Step for step and word for word — so the old Kings did!

Step by step, and word by word: who is ruled may read.
Suffer not the old Kings:  for we know the breed —

All the right they promise — all the wrong they bring.
Stewards of the Judgment, suffer not this King !

Old Mother Laidinwool

Enlarged from “Old Song”

Old Mother Laidinwool had nigh twelve months been dead.
She heard the hops was doing well, an’ so popped up her head
For  said  she:  “The  lads  I’ve picked  with  when  I  was young and fair,
They’re bound to be  at hopping and  I’m bound to meet ‘em  there! “

               
Let me up and go
                Back to the work I know, Lord!
                Back to the work I know, Lord!
                For it is dark where I lie down, My Lord!
                An’ it’s dark where I lie down!

Old Mother Laidinwool, she give her bones a shake,
An’ trotted down the churchyard-path as fast as she could make.
She met the Parson walking, but she says to him, says she: —
“Oh, don’t let no one trouble for a poor old ghost like me!”

‘Twas all a warm September an’ the hops had flourished grand.
She saw the folks get into ‘em with stockin’s on their hands —
An’ none of ‘em was foreigners but all which she had known,
And old Mother Laidinwool she blessed ‘em every one.

She saw her daughters picking an’ their children them-beside,
An’ she mowed among the babies an’ she stilled ‘em when they cried.
She saw their clothes was bought, not begged, an’ they was clean an’ fat,
An’ old Mother Laidinwool she thanked the Lord for that.

Old Mother Laidinwool she waited on all day
Until it come too dark to see an’ people went away —
Until it was too dark to see an’ lights began to show,
An’ old Mother Laidinwool she hadn’t where to go.

Old Mother Laidinwool she give her bones a shake
An ‘trotted back to churchyard-mould as fast as she could make.
She  went  where  she  was  bidden  to  an’  there  laid  down  her ghost,  .  .  .
An’ the Lord have mercy on you in the Day you need it most!

            
Let me in again,
             Out of the wet an’ rain, Lord!
             Out of the wet an’ rain, Lord!
             For it’s best as You shall say, My Lord!
             An’ it’s best as You shall say!

An Old Song

So long as ‘neath the Kalka hills
  The tonga-horn shall ring,
So long as down the Solon dip
  The hard-held ponies swing,
So long as Tara Devi sees
  The lights of Simla town,
So long as Pleasure calls us up,
  Or Duty drivese us down,
   
If you love me as I love you
    What pair so happy as we two?

So long as Aces take the King,
  Or backers take the bet,
So long as debt leads men to wed,
  Or marriage leads to debt,
So long as little luncheons, Love,
  And scandal hold their vogue,
While there is sport at Annandale
  Or whisky at Jutogh,
   
If you love me as I love you
    What knife can cut our love in two?

So long as down the rocking floor
  The raving polka spins,
So long as Kitchen Lancers spur
  The maddened violins,
So long as through the whirling smoke
  We hear the oft-told tale —
“Twelve hundred in the Lotteries,”
  And
Whatshername
for sale?
   
If you love me as I love you
    We’ll play the game and win it too.

So long as Lust or Lucre tempt
  Straight riders from the course,
So long as with each drink we pour
  Black brewage of Remorse,
So long as those unloaded guns
  We keep beside the bed,
Blow off, by obvious accident,
  The lucky owner’s head,
   
If you love me as I love you
    What can Life kill of Death undo?