Poems – Page 31 – The Kipling Society

‘On the __th instant a mixed detachment of Colonials left for Cape Town, there to rejoin
their respective homeward-bound contingents, after fifteen months’ service in the field.
They were escorted to the station by the regular troops in garrison and the bulk of Colonel __’s
column, which had just come in to refit, preparatory to further operations. The leave-taking
was of the most cordial character, the men cheering each other continuously.’
[Any Newspaper, during the South African War.]

1  
We've rode and fought and ate and drunk as rations come to hand,
Together for a year and more around this stinkin’ land:
Now you are goin’ home again, but we must see it through.
We needn’t tell we liked you well. Good-bye—good luck to you! 
2  
You ’ad no special call to come, and so you doubled out,
And learned us how to camp and cook an’ steal a horse and scout.
Whatever game we fancied most, you joyful played it too,
And rather better on the whole. Good-bye—good luck to you! 
3  
There isn’t much we ’aven’t shared, since Kruger cut and run,
The same old work the same old skoff the same old dust and sun;
The same old chance that laid us out, or winked an’ let us through;
The same old Life, the same old Death. Good-bye—good luck to you! 
4  
Our blood ’as truly mixed with yours—all down the Red Cross train.
We’ve bit the same thermometer in Bloeming-typhoidtein. 
We’ve ’ad the same old temp’rature—the same relapses too,
The same old saw-backed fever-chart. Good-bye—good luck to you! 
5  
But ’twasn’t merely this an’ that (which all the world may know),
’Twas how you talked an’ looked at things which made us like you so.
All independent, queer an’ odd, but most amazin’ new,
My word! you shook us up to rights. Good-bye—good luck to you! 
6  
Think o’ the stories round the fire, the tales along the trek—
O’ Calgary an’ Wellin’ton, an’ Sydney and Quebec;
Of mine an’ farm, an’ ranch an’ run, an’ moose an’ caribou,
An’ parrots peckin’ lambs to death! Good-bye—good luck to you! 
7  
We’ve seen your ’ome by word o’ mouth, we’ve watched your rivers shine,
We’ve ’eard your bloomin’ forests blow of eucalyp’ and pine;
Your young, gay countries north and south, we feel we own ’em too,
For they was made by rank an’ file. Good-bye—good luck to you, 
8  
We’ll never read the papers now without inquirin’ first
For word from all those friendly dorps where you was born an’ nursed.
Why, Dawson, Galle, an’ Montreal—Port Darwin—Timaru,
They’re only just across the road! Good-bye—good luck to you! 
9  
Good-bye!—So—long! Don’t lose yourselves—nor us, nor all kind friends,
But tell the girls your side the drift we’re comin’—when it ends!
Good-bye, you bloomin’ Atlasses! You’ve taught us somethin’ new:
The world’s no bigger than a kraal. Good-bye—good luck to you!

Choose another poem

The Palace

When I was a King and a Mason - a Master proven and skilled -
I cleared me ground for a Palace such as a King should build. 
I decreed and dug down to my levels. Presently under the silt 
I came on the wreck of a Palace such as a King had built.  

There was no worth in the fashion - there was no wit in the plan - 
Hither and thither, aimless, the ruined footings ran - 
Masonry, brute, mishandled, but carven on every stone: 
"After me cometh a Builder. Tell him I too have known."  

Swift to my use in my trenches, where my well-planned ground-works grew, 
I tumbled his quoins and his ashlars, and cut and reset them anew. 
Lime I milled of his marbles; burned it, slacked it, and spread; 
Taking and leaving at pleasure the gifts of the humble dead.  

Yet I despised not nor gloried; yet, as we wrenched them apart, 
I read in the razed foundations the heart of that builder’s heart. 
As he had written and pleaded, so did I understand 
The form of the dream he had followed in the face of the thing he had planned. 
      
         
                           *       *       *       *       *.      *.      *
         

When I was a King and a Mason, in the open noon of my pride, 
They sent me a Word from the Darkness. They whispered and called me aside.
They said - "The end is forbidden." They said - "Thy use is fulfilled." 
"Thy Palace shall stand as that other’s - the spoil of a King who shall build."

I called my men from my trenches, my quarries, my wharves and my sheers. 
All I had wrought I abandoned to the faith of the faithless years. 
Only I cut on the timber - only I carved on the stone:
"After me cometh a Builder. Tell him, I too have known."

Choose another poem

The Owl

1 
Men said, but here I know they lied,
The owl was of a sullen clan
Whose voice upon the lone hillside
Forboded ill to mouse and man—
A terror noiseless in the flight,
A hooknosed hoodlum of the night.
2 
But I have found another breed,
An owl of fine artistic feelings,
A connoisseur of wine & weed
Who flutters under frescoed ceilings
Nor scorns to bid the passing guest
Abide a season in his nest.
3 
I saw him on the staircase sit
And blandly wink at jibe & joke,
An arbiter twixt wit & wit,
A god enshrined in baccy smoke
While round his pedestal there beat
The clamour of his servants' feet.
4 
Some toiled in  journalistic fetters
And some in stocks—and stand up collars—
Some worked his will in Art & letters
And some their own with things called dollars.
Whate'er they ran or wrote or drew
The owl was monarch of the crew.
5 
With humour bright as Frisco air 
In speech as dry as Frisco sand,
He blithely bade me welcome there 
And stretched a claw to take my hand
Whereat I found acceptance free
Among his jovial company.
6 
A wanderer from East to West 
A vagrant under many skies,
How shall a roving rhymester best 
Requite O owl thy courtesies?
Accept in lieu of laboured stippling
A simple 'Thank you'
signed R. Kipling.

Choose another poem

The Overland Mail

In the name of the Empress of India, make way,
    O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.
The woods are astir at the close of the day—
    We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.
Let the robber retreat—let the tiger turn tail—
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail! 

With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,
    He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill—
The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,
    And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill:—
“Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,
“Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail.” 

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.
    Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.
Does the tempest cry halt? What are tempests to him?
    The Service admits not a "but" or an "if."
While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail,
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail. 

From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,
    From level to upland, from upland to crest,
From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur,
    Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.
From rail to ravine—to the peak from the vale—
Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail. 

There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road—
    A jingle of bells on the foot-path below—
There’s a scuffle above in the monkey’s abode—
    The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow.
For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail:—
“In the name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!”

Choose another poem

The Post that Fitted

The Portent

The Playmate

The Pirates in England

The Penalty

The Peace of Dives

The Parting of the Columns

The Palace

The Owl

The Overland Mail