Poems – Page 3 – The Kipling Society

The Beginnings

  It was not part of their blood,
    It came to them very late
  With long arrears to make good,
    When the English began to hate. 

  They were not easily moved, 
    They were icy-willing to wait 
  Till every count should be proved, 
    Ere the English began to hate.  

  Their voices were even and low, 
    Their eyes were level and straight. 
  There was neither sign nor show, 
    When the English began to hate.  

  It was not preached to the crowd, 
    It was not taught by the State. 
  No man spoke it aloud, 
    When the English began to hate.  

  It was not suddenly bred, 
    It will not swiftly abate, 
  Through the chill years ahead, 
    When Time shall count from the date 
    That the English began to hate.

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Laocoon

Under the shadow of Death, 
Under the stroke of the sword,  
Gain we our daily bread. 
Exile that hath no end, 
And the heaping up of our woes,  
Are given into our hand 
As the gifts of the Gods to men.  

Lo! in a leaguered town, 
Compassed by many foes,
Weary citizens wait, 
Neither joyed nor afraid,
The unseen doom of the shot—
Only, at times, when a friend 
Falls from their side and is lost 
Out of his place on the wall,
Lift they their hands aloft, 
Crying aloud to the Gods, 
The pitiless, far-off Gods:
'Spare us this last for a space— 
Not for ourselves, indeed, 
Seeing that this is our right,
But for our children and wives!'

So, under Indian skies, 
Compassed by many ills, 
Weary workers abide, 
Neither joyed nor afraid, 
Waiting the unseen doom. 
Only, at times, when a friend 
Falls at their side and is lost
Out of his place in their life, 
Lift they their hearts aloft, 
Crying aloud: 'If a God 
Govern the ways of men,
Spare us this last for a space—
Not for ourselves, indeed, 
Seeing that this is our right,
But for our children and wives!'

Neither joyed nor afraid
Of the  snakes of circumstance,— 
The marble snakes of mishap 
That girdle our fleshly limbs,— 
We of the East abide:
But if at times our souls, 
Being broken by ills,
Blench and are sorely disturbed,—
Not for ourselves, indeed 
(Seeing that this is our right),
But for our children and wives,— 
Shall we be judged as afraid
By our complaining, O God?

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Landbound

Run down to the sea, O River, 
  Haste thee down to the sea—
To the foaming strife at the Bar 
  Where the grey breakwaters are,
And the buoys roll merrily
In the dip and heave of the sea 
  Coming over the Bar.

Bear me with thee, O River—
  On the rush of thy flood to the sea—
l am sick of this smooth, green land;
  I long for the breeze off the sand. 
Take me away with thee
To the shifting face of the sea,
  And the low, wind-bitten strand.

Bear me swiftly, O River,
  My heart is athirst for the sea,—
To the dotted herring-floats
  And the brown, tar-fragrant boats,
And the little wave-washed quay—
I am sick of hedgerow and tree,
  And the hills in their stifling coats.

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The Knight Errant

1  
Rides a light of chivalry,
Oh young Knight Errant with sparkling eye?
It is to succour a maid in woe,
That thy gallant beast is hurrying so?
2 
But the young Knight Errant spoke no word,
As he plied the whip and the charger spurred. 
The long road clattered beneath his flight,
And he and his steed passed out of sight.
3 
Yet once again did the stranger call
To the figure that fled in the evenfall,
And the young Knight Errant turned his head,
And faint and few were the words he said:—
4 
'My steed is hired by the hour,
And the clock is chiming from Northam tower.
If I reach not the sea ere the day be done,
I forfeit a shilling to H-nd-rs-n.'
5 
The stranger turned on his heel and said, 
'The days of Knighthood be surely dead, 
For never heard I of belted lord
That gained his steed with aught save sword.'
6 
Alas for the glamour of chivalry,
And things that are not as they used to be!
For the six-penny hour too quickly passes, 
And we drop to the mire from hired asses!

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The King’s Job

1 
Once on a time was a King anxious to understand
What was the wisest thing a man could do for his land.
Most of his population hurried to answer the question,
Each with a long oration, each with a new suggestion.
2 
They interrupted his meals - he wasn't safe in his bed from 'em -
They hung round his neck and heels, and at last His Majesty fled from 'em.
He put on a leper's cloak (people leave lepers alone),
Out of the window he broke, and abdicated his throne.
3 
All that rapturous day, while his Court and his ministers mourned him,
He danced on his own highway till his own Policeman warned him.
Gay and cheerful he ran (lepers don't cheer as a rule)
Till he found a philosopher-man teaching an infant-school.
4 
The windows were open wide, the King sat down on the grass,
And heard the children inside reciting "Our King is an ass."
The King popped in his head: "Some people would call this treason,
But I think you are right," he said; "Will you kindly give me your reason?"
5 
Lepers in school are as rare as kings with a leper's dress on,
But the class didn't stop or stare; it calmly went on with the lesson:
"The wisest thing, we suppose, that a man can do for his land.
Is the work that lies under his nose, with the tools that lie under his hand."
6 
The King whipped off his cloak, and stood in his crown before 'em.
He said: "My dear little folk,  Ex ore parvulorum - 
(Which is Latin for "Children know more than grown-ups would credit")
You have shown me the road to go, and I propose to tread it."
7 
Back to his Kingdom he ran, and issued a Proclamation,
"Let every living man return to his occupation!"
Then he explained to the mob who cheered in his palace and round it,
"I've been to look for a job, and Heaven be praised I've found it!"

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[Editor's Note: I feel this poem is more accessible split into the verses 
above rather than the original ‘one block’ form - if you disagree and 
are supported, I will readily defer to the original. ISB Dec2024]

Job’s Wife

Curse now thy God and die, for all is done. 
Thy bitter cup is filléd to the brim.
In all mankind there liveth not a one
That careth for thee. What art thou to him? 
There is no need for thee. The world is hard, 
And Love is not. Death only standeth by.
Faith is not known. From Hope thou art debarred 
Thou canst but choose twixt Death and Misery.
O, Life is sad and Death is sweet indeed 
To such as thou. If thou believest it,
He is a friend to help thee in thy need, 
And what is Life in that thou leavest it
As though it were a friend? Death's sleep is long 
Wilt thou not taste of Lethe and be strong?

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Jane Smith

1 
I journeyed, on a winter's day, 
   Across the lonely wold;
No bird did sing upon the spray, 
   And it was very cold.
2 
I had a coach with horses four,
   Three white (though one was black), 
And on they went the common o'er,
   Nor swiftness did they lack.
3 
A little girl ran by the side,
   And she was pinched and thin.
'Oh, please, sir, do give me a ride!
   I'm fetching mother's gin.'
4 
'Enter my coach, sweet child,' said I; 
  'For you shall ride with me,
And I will get you your supply 
  Of mother's eau-de-vie.'
5 
The publican was stern and cold, 
  And said:'Her mother's score
Is writ, as you shall soon behold, 
  Behind the bar-room door!'
6 
I blotted out the score with tears, 
  And paid the money down,
And took the maid of thirteen years 
  Back to her mother's town.
7 
And though the past with surges wild 
  Fond memories may sever,
The vision of that happy child 
  Will leave my spirit never!

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The Jam-Pot

The Jam-pot—tender thought!
  I grabbed it—so did you.
'What wonder while we fought 
  Together that it flew
In shivers?' you retort.

You should have loosed your hold 
  One moment—checked your fist.
But, as it was, too bold
  You grappled and you missed. 
More plainly—you were sold.

'Well, neither of us shared
  The dainty.' That your plea?
'Well, neither of us cared.'
  I answer. . . Let me see, 
How have your trousers fared?

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Itu and his God

Itu, who led the Oash Gul to war,
Carved a great image from the mountain-pine,
Strung beads upon its neck and smeared its cheeks 
With blood of slaughtered beasts, and called it God, 
And set it in a cavern of the Hills,
Alone, and save for him who knew the path 
Between the glacier and the sliding shale, 
Remote, unseen and unapproachable.

Between the Council and the Day of Fight, 
Between the Choosing and the Sacrifice, 
Between the full-thought Plan and that he did, 
Itu made pilgrimage across the snows
That guard the glacier and the sliding shale,
And called upon his God with mighty cries, 
And looked into the white-shell eyes for sign. 
And slew the beasts, and made the altar smoke, 
Alone and in the cavern of the Hills.

And, as the night-wind sang about the rocks, 
Or as the hill-stream thundered in the cleft, 
Or as the river groaned beneath the snows, 
So Itu read the answer of his God,
And warred against the foe or held his hand.

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The Instructor

At times when under cover I 'ave said, 
To keep my spirits up an' raise a laugh,
'Earin 'im pass so busy over-'ead -
Old Nickel-Neck, 'oo isn't on the Staff -
"There's one above is greater than us all" 

Before 'im I 'ave seen my Colonel fall,
An 'watched 'im write my Captain's epitaph,
So that a long way off it could be read -
He 'as the knack o' makin' men feel small -
Old Whistle Tip, 'oo isn't on the Staff. 

There is no sense in fleein' (I 'ave fled),
Better go on an' do the belly-crawl,
An' 'ope' 'e'll 'it some other man instead
Of you 'e seems to 'unt so speshual -
Fitzy van Spitz, 'oo isn't on the Staff. 

An' thus in mem'ry's cinematograph,
Now that the show is over, I recall
The peevish voice an' 'oary mushroom 'ead
Of  'im we owned was greater than us all,
'Oo give instruction to the quick an' the dead -
The Shudderin' Beggar - not upon the Staff!

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