Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1017 page)

Circa 1611
To be sung by the unlearned to the tune of
“King John and the Abbot of Canterbury,” and
by the learned to “Tempest-a-brewing.”
“A NAVAL MUTINY”
From “Limits and Renewals” (1932)
Against the Bermudas we foundered, whereby
This Master, that Swabber, yon Bo’sun, and I
(Our pinnace and crew being drowned in the main)
Must beg for our bread through old England again.

For a bite and a sup, and a bed of clean straw,
We’ll tell you such marvels as man never saw,
On a Magical Island which no one did spy
Save this Master, that Swabber, yon Bo’sun, and I.

Seven months among Mermaids and Devils and Sprites,
And Voices that howl in the cedars o’nights,
With further enchantments we underwent there.
Good Sirs, ‘tis a tale to draw guts from a bear!

‘Twixt Dover and Southwark it paid us our way,
Where we found some poor players were labouring a play;
And, willing to search what such business might be,
We entered the yard, both to hear and to see.

One hailed us for seamen and courteous-ly
Did guide us apart to a tavern near by
Where we told him our tale (as to many of late),
And he gave us good cheer, so we gave him good weight.

Mulled sack and strong waters on bellies well lined
With beef and black pudding do strengthen the mind;
And seeing him greedy for marvels, at last
From plain salted truth to flat leasing we passed.

But he, when on midnight our reckoning he paid,
Says, “Never match coins with a Coiner by trade,
Or he’ll turn your lead pieces to metal as rare
As shall fill him this globe, and leave something  to spare....”

We slept where they laid us, and when we awoke
Was a crown or five shillings in every man’s poke.
We bit them and rang them, and, finding them good,
We drank to that Coiner as honest men should!

For a cup and a crust, and a truss, etc.

Cold Iron

Gold is for the mistress — silver for the maid —
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade.”
“Good!” said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
“But Iron — Cold Iron — is master of them all.”

So he made rebellion ‘gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
“Nay!” said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
“But Iron — Cold Iron — shall be master of you all!”

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid ‘em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron — Cold Iron — was master of it all!

Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
“What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?”
“Nay!” said the Baron, “mock not at my fall,
For Iron — Cold Iron — is master of men all.”

“Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown —
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown.”
“As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,
For Iron — Cold Iron — must be master of men all!”

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)
“Here is Bread and here is Wine — sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary’s Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron — Cold Iron — can be master of men all!”

He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread.
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
“See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron — Cold Iron — to be master of men all.”

“Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason — I redeem thy fall —
For Iron — Cold Iron — must be master of men all!”

“Crowns are for the valiant — sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!”

“Nay!” said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
“But Iron — Cold Iron — is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!”

Columns

  
(Mobile Columns of the Boer War)
Out o’ the wilderness, dusty an’ dry
   
(Time, an’ ‘igh time to be trekkin’ again!)
Oo is it ‘eads to the Detail Supply?
 
A section, a pompom, an’ six ‘undred men.

‘Ere comes the clerk with ‘is lantern an’ keys
  
(Time, an ‘igh time to be trekkin ‘again!)
“ Surplus of everything — draw what you please
 
“For the section, the pompom, an’ six ‘undred men.”

“What are our orders an’  where do we lay?”
 
(Time, an ‘igh time to be trekkin’ again!)
“You came after dark — you will leave before day,
 
 “You section, you pompom, you six’ undred men!”

Down the tin street, ‘alf awake an ‘unfed,
‘Ark to ‘em blessin’ the Gen’ral in bed!

Now by the church an’ the outspan they wind —
Over the ridge an’ it’s all lef’ be’ind
 
For the section, etc.

Soon they will camp as the dawn’s growin’ grey,
Roll up for coffee an’ sleep while they may —
  
The section , etc.

Read their ‘ome letters, their papers an’ such,
For they’ll move after dark to astonish the Dutch
 
With a section, etc.

‘Untin’ for shade as the long hours pass —
Blankets on rifles or burrows in grass,
 
Lies the section, etc.

Dossin’ or beatin’ a shirt in the sun,
Watching chameleons or cleanin’ a gun,
  
Waits the section, etc.

With nothin’ but stillness as far as you please,
An’ the silly mirage stringin’ islands an’ seas
 
Round the section, etc.

So they strips off their hide an’ they grills in their bones,
Till the shadows crawl out from beneath the pore stones
  
Toward the section, etc.

An’ the Mauser-bird stops an’ the jackals begin
A the ‘orse-guard comes up  and the Gunners ‘ook in
  
As a ‘int the pompom an’ six ‘undred men  .   .   .   .

Off  through the dark with the stars to rely on — -
(Alpha Centauri an’ somethin’ Orion)
   
Moves the section, etc.

Same bloomin’ ‘ole which the ant-bear ‘as broke,
Same bloomin’ stumble an’ same bloomin’ joke
   
Down the section, etc.

Same “which is right?” where the cart-tracks divide,
Same “give it up” from the same clever guide
   
To the section, etc.

Same tumble-down on the same ‘idden farm,
Same white-eyed Kaffir ‘oo gives the alarm
  
Of the section, etc.

Same shootin’ wild at the end o’ the night,
Same flyin’-tackle, an’ same messy fight,
  
By the section, etc.

Same ugly ‘iccup an’ same ‘orrid squeal,
When it’s too dark to see an’ it’s too late to feel
  
In the section, etc.

(Same batch of prisoners, ‘airy an’ still,
Watchin’ their comrades bolt over the ‘ill
   
From the section, etc.)

Same chilly glare in the eye of the sun
As ‘e gets up displeasured to see what was done
   
By the section, etc.

Same splash o’ pink on the stoep or the kraal,
An’ the same quiet face which ‘as finished with all
 
In the section, the pompom, an’ six ‘undred men.

Out o’ the wilderness, dusty an’ dry
  (Time, an’ ‘igh time to be trekkin’ again!)
‘Oo is it ‘eads to the Detail Supply?
  A section, a pompom, an ‘six’ ‘undred men.

The Comforters

“The Dog Hervey” — A Diversity of Creatures

   Until thy feet have trod the Road
     Advise not wayside folk,
   Nor till thy back has borne the Load
     Break in upon the broke.

   Chase not with undesired largesse
     Of sympathy the heart
   Which, knowing her own bitterness,
     Presumes to dwell apart.

   Employ not that glad hand to raise
      The God-forgotten head
   To Heaven and all the neighbours’ gaze —
     Cover thy mouth instead.

   The quivering chin, the bitten lip,
     The cold and sweating brow,
   Later may yearn for fellowship —
     Not now, you ass, not now!

   Time, not thy ne’er so timely speech,
      Life, not thy views thereon,
   Shall furnish or deny to each
      His consolation.

   Or, if impelled to interfere,
      Exhort, uplift, advise,
   Lend not a base, betraying ear
      To all the victim’s cries.

   Only the Lord can understand,
      When those first pangs begin,
   How much is reflex action and
      How much is really sin.

   E’en from good words thyself refrain,
      And tremblingly admit
   There is no anodyne for pain
      Except the shock of it.

   So, when thine own dark hour shall fall,
      Unchallenged canst thou say:
   “I never worried
you
at all,
      For God’s sake go away!”

The Consolations of Memory

Circa 1904
Done out of Boethius by Geoffrey Chaucer
 — The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)

Blessed was our first age and morning-time. Then were no
waies tarren, ne no cars numberen, but each followed his owne
playinge-busyness to go about singly or by large interspaces,
for to leden his viage after his luste and layen under clene hedge.
Jangling there was not, nor the overtaking wheele, and all those
now cruel clarions were full-hushed and full-still. Then nobile
horses, lest they should make the chariots moveable to run by
cause of this new feare, we did not press, and were apayed by
sweete thankes of him that drave. There was not cursings ne
adventure of death blinded bankes betweene, but good-fellowship
of yoke-mates at ignorance equal, and a one pillar of dust cov-
ered all exodus.... But, see now how the blacke road hath
strippen herself of hearte and beauty where the dumbe lampe of
Tartarus winketh red, etc.

Contradictions

Longfellow
 — The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)
The drowsy carrier sways
  To the drowsy horses’ tramp.
His axles winnow the sprays
Of the hedge where the rabbit plays
  In the light of his single lamp.

He hears a roar behind,
  A howl, a hoot, and a yell,
A headlight strikes him blind
And a stench o’erpowers the wind
  Like a blast from the mouth of Hell.

He mends his swingle-bar,
  And loud his curses ring;
But a mother watching afar
Hears the hum of the doctor’s car
  Like the beat of an angel’s wing!

So, to the poet’s mood,
  Motor or carrier’s van,
Properly understood,
Are neither evil nor good —
  Ormuzd not Ahriman!

The Conundrum of the Workshops

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew —
The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the use of his sons — and that was a glorious gain
When the Devil chuckled “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks:  “It’s striking, but is it Art?”
The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest —
Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
And the Devil bubbled below the keel:  “It’s human, but is it Art?”