Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1005 page)

“Now violate Liberty, time being bad,
To mail V.P.P. (rupees hundred)  Please add

“Whatever Your Honour can pass.  Price of Blood
Much cheap at one hundred, and children want food;

“So trusting Your Honour will somewhat retain
True love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train,

“And show awful kindness to satisfy me,
        I am,
            Graceful Master,
                          Your
                            H. MUKERJI.”

     .    .    .    .    .

As the rabbit is drawn to the rattlesnake’s power,
As the smoker’s eye fills at the opium hour,

As a horse reaches up to the manger above,
As the waiting ear yearns for the whisper of love,

From the arms of the Bride, iron-visaged and slow,
The Captain bent down to the Head of the Boh.

And e’en as he looked on the Thing where It lay
‘Twixt the winking new spoons and the napkins’ array,

The freed mind fled back to the long-ago days —
The hand-to-hand scuffle — the smoke and the blaze —

The forced march at night and the quick rush at dawn —
The banjo at twilight, the burial ere morn —

The stench of the marshes — the raw, piercing smell
When the overhand stabbing-cut silenced the yell —

The oaths of his Irish that surged when they stood
Where the black crosses hung o’er the Kuttamow flood.

As a derelict ship drifts away with the tide
The Captain went out on the Past from his Bride,

Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year,
When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer.

As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water,
In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter,

And men who had fought with O’Neil for the life
Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife.

For she who had held him so long could not hold him —
Though a four-month Eternity should have controlled him —

But watched the twin Terror — the head turned to head —
The scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red —

The spirit that changed from her knowing and flew to
Some grim hidden Past she had never a clue to.

But It knew as It grinned, for he touched it unfearing,
And muttered aloud, “So you kept that jade earring!”

Then nodded, and kindly, as friend nods to friend,
“Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end.”

     .    .    .    .    .

The visions departed, and Shame followed Passion: —
“He took what I said in this horrible fashion,

“
I’ll
write to Harendra!”  With language unsainted
The Captain came back to the Bride. . .who had fainted.

     .    .    .    .    .

And this is a fiction?  No.  Go to Simoorie
And look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri,

A pert little, Irish-eyed Kathleen Mavournin —
She’s always about on the Mall of a mornin’ —

And you’ll see, if her right shoulder-strap is displaced,
This: 
Gules
upon
argent
, a Boh’s Head,
erased!

The Ballad of the “Bolivar”

Seven men from all the world back to Docks again,
Rolling down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain:
Give the girls another drink ‘fore we sign away —
We that took the BOLIVAR out across the Bay!

We put out from Sunderland loaded down with rails;
 We put back to Sunderland ‘cause our cargo shifted;
We put out from Sunderland — met the winter gales —
 Seven days and seven nights to The Start we drifted.
    Racketing her rivets loose, smoke-stack white as snow,
    All the coals adrift adeck, half the rails below,
    Leaking like a lobster-pot, steering like a dray —
    Out we took the
Bolivar
, out across the Bay!

One by one the Lights came up, winked and let us by;
 Mile by mile we waddled on, coal and fo’c’sle short;
Met a blow that laid us down, heard a bulkhead fly;
 Left the Wolf behind us with a two-foot list to port.
    Trailing like a wounded duck, working out her soul;
    Clanging like a smithy-shop after every roll;
    Just a funnel and a mast lurching through the spray —
    So we threshed the
Bolivar
out across the Bay!

‘Felt her hog and felt her sag, betted when she’d break;
 Wondered every time she raced if she’d stand the shock;
Heard the seas like drunken men pounding at her strake;
 Hoped the Lord ‘ud keep His thumb on the plummer-block.
    Banged against the iron decks, bilges choked with coal;
    Flayed and frozen foot and hand, sick of heart and soul;
    ‘Last we prayed she’d buck herself into judgment Day —
    Hi! we cursed the
Bolivar
knocking round the Bay!

O her nose flung up to sky, groaning to be still —
 Up and down and back we went, never time for breath;
Then the money paid at Lloyds’ caught her by the heel,
 And the stars ran round and round dancin’ at our death!
    Aching for an hour’s sleep, dozing off between;
    ‘Heard the rotten rivets draw when she took it green;
    ‘Watched the compass chase its tail like a cat at play —
    That was on the
Bolivar
, south across the Bay!

Once we saw between the squalls, lyin’ head to swell —
 Mad with work and weariness, wishin’ they was we —
Some damned Liner’s lights go by like a grand hotel;
 Cheered her from the
Bolivar
swampin’ in the sea.
    Then a greybeard cleared us out, then the skipper laughed;
    “Boys, the wheel has gone to Hell — rig the winches aft!
    Yoke the kicking rudder-head — get her under way!”
    So we steered her, pully-haul, out across the Bay!

Just a pack o’ rotten plates puttied up with tar,
In we came, an’ time enough, ‘cross Bilbao Bar.
    Overloaded, undermanned, meant to founder, we
    Euchred God Almighty’s storm, bluffed the Eternal Sea!

Seven men from all the world back to town again,
Rollin’ down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain:
Seven men from out of Hell.  Ain’t the owners gay,
‘Cause we took the “Bolivar” safe across the Bay?

A Ballade of Burial

(“Saint Praxed’s ever was the Church for peace”)

If down here I chance to die,
  Solemnly I beg you take
All that is left of “I”
  To the Hills for old sake’s sake,
Pack me very thoroughly
  In the ice that used to slake
Pegs I drank when I was dry —
  This observe for old sake’s sake.

To the railway station hie,
  There a single ticket take
For Umballa — goods-train — I
  Shall not mind delay or shake.
I shall rest contentedly
  Spite of clamour coolies make;
Thus in state and dignity
  Send me up for old sake’s sake.

Next the sleepy Babu wake,
  Book a Kalka van “for four.”
Few, I think, will care to make
  Journeys with me any more
As they used to do of yore.
  I shall need a “special” brake —
‘Thing I never took before —
  Get me one for old sake’s sake.

After that — arrangements make.
  No hotel will take me in,
And a bullock’s back would break
  ‘Neath the teak and leaden skin
Tonga-ropes are frail and thin,
  Or, did I a back-seat take,
In a tonga I might spin, —
  Do your best for old sake’s sake.

After that — your work is done.
  Recollect a Padre must
Mourn the dear departed one —
  Throw the ashes and the dust.
Don’t go down at once. I trust
  You will find excuse to “snake
Three days’ casual on the bust.”
  Get your fun for old sake’s sake.

I could never stand the Plains.
  Think of blazing June and May
Think of those September rains
  Yearly till the Judgment Day!
I should never rest in peace,
  I should sweat and lie awake.
Rail me then, on my decease,
  To the Hills for old sake’s sake.

The Ballad of the Cars

Wardour Street Border Ballad
 — The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)
“Now this is the price of a stirrup-cup,”
  The kneeling doctor said.
And syne he bade them take him up,
  For he saw that the man was dead.

They took him up, and they laid him down
   ( And, oh, he did not stir ),
And they had him into the nearest town
  To wait the Coroner.

They drew the dead-cloth over the face,
  They closed the doors upon,
And the cars that were parked in the market-place
  Made talk of it anon.

Then up and spake a Daimler wide,
  That carries the slatted tank: —
“‘Tis we must purge the country-side
  And no man will us thank.

“For while they pray at Holy Kirk
 The souls should turn from sin,
We cock our bonnets to the work,
 And gather the drunken in. —

“And if we spare them for the nonce, —
  Or their comrades jack them free, —
They learn more under our dumb-irons
  Than they learned at time mother’s knee.”

Then up and spake an Armstrong bold,
  And Siddeley, was his name: —
“I saw a man lie stark and cold
  By Grantham as I came.

“There was a blind turn by a brook,
   A guard-rail and a fail:
But the drunken loon that overtook
   He got no hurt at all!

“I ha’ trodden the wet road and the dry —
   But and the shady lane;                ‘
And  why the  guiltless  soul  should die,
   Good reason find I nane.”

Then up and spake the Babe Austin —
   Had barely room for two —
“‘Tis time and place that make the sin,
   And not the deed they do.

“For when a man drives with his dear,
  I ha’ seen it come to pass
That an arm too close or a lip too near
   Has killed  both  lad  and  lass.

“There was a car at eventide
  And a sidelings kiss to steal —
The God knows how the couple died,
  But I mind the inquest weel.

“I have trodden the black tar and the heath —
  But and the cobble-stone;
And why the young go to their death,
  Good reason find I none.”

Then spake a Morris from Oxenford,
  (‘Was keen to a Cowley Friar ): —
“How shall we judge the ways of the Lord
That are but steel and fire?

“Between the oil-pits under earth
  And the levin-spark from the skies,
We but adventure and go forth
  As our man shall devise:

“And if he have drunken a hoop too deep,
  No kinship can us move
To draw him home in his market-sleep
  Or spare his waiting love.

“There is never a lane in all England
  Where a mellow man can go,
But he must look on either hand
  And back and front also.

“But he must busk him every tide,
  At prick of horn, to leap
Either to hide in ditch beside
  Or in the bankes steep.

“And whether he walk in drink or muse,
  Or for his love be bound,
We have no wit to mark and chuse,
  But needs must slay or wound.”

  .       .       .       .       .       .       .

They drew the dead-cloth from its face.
  The Crowner looked thereon;
And the cars that were parked in the market-place
  Went all their ways anon.

The Ballad of the “Clampherdown”

It was our war-ship
Clampherdown
 Would sweep the Channel clean,
Wherefore she kept her hatches close
When the merry Channel chops arose,
 To save the bleached marine.

She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton
 And a great stern-gun beside.
They dipped their noses deep in the sea,
They racked their stays and stanchions free
 In the wash of the wind-whipped tide.

It was our war-ship
Clampherdown
,
 Fell in with a cruiser light
That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun
And a pair of heels wherewith to run
 From the grip of a close-fought fight.

She opened fire at seven miles —
 As ye shoot at a bobbing cork —
And once she fired and twice she fired,
Till the bow-gun dropped like a lily tired
 That lolls upon the stalk.