Poems – Page 35 – The Kipling Society

The Law of the Jungle

image • John L. Kipling (1837-1911) • 002

Now this is the Law of the Jungle — as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. 
As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back —
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep;
And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep.
The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,
Remember the Wolf is a Hunter — go forth and get food of thine own.
Keep peace with the Lords of the Jungle — the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear.
And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair.
When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail,
Lie down till the leaders have spoken — it may be fair words shall prevail.
When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar,
Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war.
The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home,
Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come.
The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain,
The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again.
If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay,
Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop, and your brothers go empty away.
Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can;
But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man!
If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride;
Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide.
The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies;
And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies.
The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will;
But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill.
Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim
Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same.
Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim
One haunch of each kill for her litter, and none may deny her the same.
Cave-Right is the right of the Father — to hunt by himself for his own:
He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone.
Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw,
In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of your Head Wolf is Law.
Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they;
But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is — Obey!

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The Law of Libel

 'Perhaps the belief was true, but not the rumour.
Possibly belief and rumour were unfounded. But is it
so great a sin in a public journal to lend voice to the
people, etc? Where the absolute verity is nearly impossible
of attainment by the instituted tribunals, how much
more so by the poor journalist! He can only go upon
the rumour and the proof of rumour ought to absolve
him in court'. (Comment of a Native paper
on a recent libel-suit)

1
To the State of Kot-Kumharsen where the wild dacoits abound, 
And the Barons live in castles on the hills,
Where the tiger and the cactus in alternate streaks are found, 
And the Raja cannot meet his monthly bills,
Where the Agent Sahib Bahadur shoots the black-buck for his larder
From the tonga which he uses as machan,
Babar Bunkum Bandar Bose took his Harrilds and his Hoes, 
And proprieted the Bewaquf Tufan.
2
'Twas a paper for the masses who were nearly all Hindu, 
With a taint of touchy Thakur fighting blood;
'Twas a journal dealing largely with affairs that were not true,
And disseminating ill-considered mud.
'Twas a pukka People's issue, 'twas a four-page pica tissue 
Of turtle-headed infants' ghouls and djinns,
And aspersions sepia brown on the mullah of the town, 
And a record of the Agent's grosser sins.
3
It was read by all the Nation for a range of eighty miles,
It was studied in the only Middle School,
It exposed with crushing irony the Viceroy's many wiles 
And it always praised the King's 'enlightened rule'. 
For the silky-soft Diwan bought that Bewaquf Tufan
At a price beyond its market-value far,
And the Raja privy purse would the proper funds disburse 
When the Babu brought his nuzzer to durbar.
4
So it cursed per M.A. Standard once a week, with monthly pauses 
For Dewali, Christmas Day and Durga Pujah,
And it published paper State reform in annotated clauses, 
And it yearly found its State subvention huger;
And the public puzzle-headed read its pica double-leaded, 
And talked of Kali Yugas and nukshan
For it printed all the rumours of administrative tumours 
And corruption did the Bewaquf Tufan.
5
Yea, it cursed the shining Agent as it cursed the British Raj, 
And it pounded every Viceroy into jelly,
And it swore the Public Works had slain a porker in the Taj,
And shut the Jumma Masjid' up at Delhi;
And the yarns of want and war that it learned in the bazar
Were duly reproduced with running notes, 
But since the mild Diwan held the Bewaquf Tufan
It was death against the Barons owning votes.
6
But a noble sense of duty brought about the final smash, 
When a heavy falling-off among the readers
Led the silky sweet Diwan to haggle hotly o'er the cash, 
And suggest increased empressement in the leaders, 
For unlucky Bander Bose with a dripping pen arose
And stated (which was truth or very near)
Neither Pharphar nor Abana filled the Raja Sahib's Zenana, 
But he kidnapped wives within the British sphere.
7
'Twas the gossip of the City, it demanded cess unstinted, 
'Twas a duty half the Court had tried to fill,
It was truer than the rumour of the previous week that hinted 
At a Native–State–annexatory bill;
But that flossy–mild Diwan dropped the Bewaquf Tufan,
As we drop the pail of thrice–defiling tar,
And, since British law obtains but in British ruled domains, 
Said the Raja of the journal briefly, 'Mar!'
8
Woe is me for Habeas Corpus or a trial by jury— 
Or the lesser risk of Judge and one appeal!
There was laughter 'mong the Barons–in the Raja's heart was fury—
In the Palace yard the clink of spur and steel;
And the Harrild and the Hoe heard the howl of 'Birchee do!'   
As the lean Mahratta lances raised the thatch;
And I grieve to say that same broke in twenty points of flame 
Through the medium of a common sulphur match.
9
So they fused, with execrations, quite a hundred pounds of plant,
And they hunted for the Staff without avail,
For the Journal to the Border made a record–cutting slant 
Till his women (under torture) showed his trail.
Then that Raja's Bodyguard rode relentlessly and hard, 
And they caught him, half a mile from British ground,
And the gentle thanda pench with a double–action kench
Made him swoon and juice of chillies brought him round.
10
Then the Barons from their castles and the Raja from his throne 
Descended to elucidate the point
As to subtler forms of libel and the less obtrusive bone 
That a knee and rope and charpoy may disjoint.
'Curse not the King in bed for a bird shall tell', they said, 
'And specially avoid the use of print.'
And that unreported trial was succeeded by a phial 
Of mustard oil, a Kobiraf and lint.
11
Now the Harrild and the Hoe are lying still at Kot-Kumharsen, 
The ashes of the office thatch among,
And since the lyric stage no more can count on David Carson,
I have ventured to compose this little song.
How the law of libel runs under British flags and guns, 
Is a blot that every litho slang-sheet knows:
How that self-same law obtains in a petty King's domains 
Must be patent now to Bunkum Bander Bose.

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The Last Suttee

1 
Udai Chand lay sick to death
     In his hold by Gungra hill.
All night we heard the death-gongs ring
For the soul of the dying Rajpoot King,
All night beat up from the women’s wing
     A cry that we could not still. 
2 
All night the barons came and went,
    The lords of the outer guard:
All night the cressets glimmered pale
On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail,
Mewar headstall and Marwar mail,
    That clinked in the palace yard. 
3 
In the Golden room on the palace roof
    All night he fought for air:
And there was sobbing behind the screen,
Rustle and whisper of women unseen,
And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen
    On the death she might not share. 
4 
He passed at dawn—the death-fire leaped
     From ridge to river-head,
From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars:
And wail upon wail went up to the stars
Behind the grim zenana-bars,
    When they knew that the King was dead. 
5 
The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth
     And robe him for the pyre.
The Boondi Queen beneath us cried:
“See, now, that we die as our mothers died
“In the bridal-bed by our master’s side!
    “Out, women!—to the fire!” 
6 
We drove the great gates home apace:
     White hands were on the sill:
But ere the rush of the unseen feet
Had reached the turn to the open street,
The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat—
     We held the dovecot still. 
7 
A face looked down in the gathering day,
     And laughing spoke from the wall:
“Ohé, they mourn here: let me by—
“Azizun, the Lucknow nautch-girl, I!
“When the house is rotten, the rats must fly,
      “And I seek another thrall. 
8 
“For I ruled the King as ne’er did Queen,—
     “To-night the Queens rule me!
“Guard them safely, but let me go,
“Or ever they pay the debt they owe
“In scourge and torture!” She leaped below,
     And the grim guard watched her flee. 
9 
They knew that the King had spent his soul
     On a North-bred dancing-girl:
That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god,
And kissed the ground where her feet had trod,
And doomed to death at her drunken nod,
    And swore by her lightest curl. 
10 
We bore the King to his fathers’ place,
     Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand:
Where the gray apes swing, and the peacocks preen
On fretted pillar and jewelled screen,
And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen
     On the drift of the desert sand. 
11 
The herald read his titles forth,
    We set the logs aglow:
“Friend of the English, free from fear,
“Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer,
“Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer,
    “King of the Jungle,—go!” 
12 
All night the red flame stabbed the sky
    With wavering wind-tossed spears:
And out of a shattered temple crept
A woman who veiled her head and wept,
And called on the King—but the great King slept,
     And turned not for her tears. 
13 
Small thought had he to mark the strife—
     Cold fear with hot desire—
When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame,
And thrice she beat her breast for shame,
And thrice like a wounded dove she came
    And moaned about the fire. 
14 
One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze,
    The silent streets between,
Who had stood by the King in sport and fray,
To blade in ambush or boar at bay,
And he was a baron old and gray,
    And kin to the Boondi Queen. 
15 
He said: “O shameless, put aside
     “The veil upon thy brow!
“Who held the King and all his land
“To the wanton will of a harlot’s hand!
“Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand?
     “Stoop down, and call him now!” 
16 
Then she: “By the faith of my tarnished soul,
     “All things I did not well,
“I had hoped to clear ere the fire died,
“And lay me down by my master’s side
“To rule in Heaven his only bride,
    “While the others howl in Hell. 
17 
“But I have felt the fire’s breath,
     “And hard it is to die!
“Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord
“To sully the steel of a Thakur’s sword
“With base-born blood of a trade abhorred . . ."
    And the Thakur answered, “Ay.” 
18 
He drew and struck: the straight blade drank
    The life beneath the breast.
“I had looked for the Queen to face the flame,
“But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame—
“Sister of mine, pass, free from shame,
     “Pass with thy King to rest!” 
19 
The black log crashed above the white:
     The little flames and lean,
Red as slaughter and blue as steel,
That whistled and fluttered from head to heel,
Leaped up anew, for they found their meal
    On the heart of—the Boondi Queen!

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The Last Rhyme of True Thomas

The King has called for priest and cup,
The King has taken spur and blade
To dub True Thomas a belted knight,
And all for the sake o' the songs he made.

They have sought him high and sought him low,
They have sought him over down and lea,
They have found him by the milk-white thorn
That guards the gates o' Faerie.

'Twas bent beneath and blue above:
Their eyes were held that they might not see
The kine that grazed beneath the knowes,
Oh, they were the Queens o' Faerie!

"Now cease your song," the King he said,
"Oh, cease your song and get you dight
"To vow your vow and watch your arms,
" For I will dub you a belted knight.
5 
"For I will give you a horse o' pride,
"Wi' blazon and spur and page and squire;
"Wi' keep and tail and seizin and law,
"And land to hold at your desire."

True Thomas smiled above his harp,
And turned his face to the naked sky,
Where, blown before the wastrel wind,
The thistle-down she floated by.

"I ha' vowed my vow in another place,
"And bitter oath it was on me.
"I ha' watched my arms the lee-long night,
"Where five-score fighting men would flee.

"My lance is tipped o' the hammered flame,
"My shield is beat o' the moonlight cold;
"And I won my spurs in the Middle World,
"A thousand fathom beneath the mould.

"And what should I make wi' a horse o' pride,
"And what should I make wi' a sword so brown,
"But spill the rings o' the Gentle Folk
"And flyte my kin in the Fairy Town?
10 
"And what should I make wi' blazon and belt,
"Wi' keep and tail and seizin and fee,
"And what should I do wi' page and squire
"That am a king in my own countrie?

"For I send east and I send west,
"And I send far as my will may flee,
"By dawn and dusk and the drinking rain,
"And syne my Sendings return to me.

"They come wi' news of the groanin' earth
"They come wi' news o' the roarin' sea,
"Wi' word of Spirit and Ghost and Flesh,
"And man, that's mazed among the three."

The King he bit his nether lip,
And smote his hand upon his knee:
"By the faith o' my soul, True Thomas," he said,
"Ye waste no wit in courtesie!

"As I desire, unto my pride,
"Can I make Earls by three and three,
"To run before and ride behind
"And serve the sons o' my body."
15 
"And what care I for your row-foot earls,
"Or all the sons o' your body?
"Before they win to the Pride o' Name,
"I trow they all ask leave o' me.

"For I make Honour wi' muckle mouth,
"As I make Shame wi' mincin' feet,
"To sing wi' the priests at the market-cross,
"Or run wi' the dogs in the naked street.

"And some they give me the good red gold,
"And some they give me the white money,
"And some they give me a clout o' meal,
"For they be people of low degree.

"And the song I sing for the counted gold
"The same I sing for the white money,
"But best I sing for the clout o' meal
"That simple people given me."

The King cast down a silver groat,
A silver groat o' Scots money,
"If I come wi' a poor man's dole," he said,
"True Thomas, will ye harp to me?"
20 
"When as I harp to the children small,
"They press me close on either hand.
"And who are you," True Thomas said,
"That you should ride while they must stand?

"Light down, light down from your horse o' pride,
"I trow ye talk too loud and hie,
"And I will make you a triple word,
"And syne, if ye dare, ye shall 'noble me."

He has lighted down from his horse o' pride,
And set his back against a stone.
"Now guard you well," True Thomas said,
"Ere I rax your heart from your breast-bone!"

True Thomas played upon his harp,
The fairy harp that couldna lee,
And the first least word the proud King heard,
It harpit the salt tear out o' his e'e.

"Oh, I see the love that I lost long syne,
"I touch the hope that I may not see,
"And all that I did of hidden shame,
"Like little snakes they hiss at me.
25 
"The sun is lost at noon - at noon!
"The dread o' doom has grippit me.
"True Thomas, hide me under your cloak,
"God wot, I'm little fit to dee!"

'Twas bent beneath and blue above
'Twas open field and running flood -
Where, hot on heath and dyke and wall,
The high sun warmed the adder's brood.

"Lie down, lie down," True Thomas said
"The God shall judge when all is done
"But I will bring you a better word"
"And lift the cloud that I laid on."

True Thomas played upon his harp,
That birled and brattled to his hand,
And the next least word True Thomas made,
It garred the King take horse and brand.

"Oh, I hear the tread o' the fighting-men,
"I see the sun on splent and spear.
"I mark the arrow outen the fern
"That flies so low and sings so clear!
30 
"Advance my standards to that war,
"And bid my good knights prick and ride;
"The gled shall watch as fierce a fight
"As e'er was fought on the Border side!

'Twas bent beneath and blue above,
'Twas nodding grass and naked sky,
Where, ringing up the wastrel wind,
The eyass stooped upon the pye.

True Thomas sighed above his harp,
And turned the song on the midmost string;
And the last least word True Thomas made,
He harpit his dead youth back to the King.

"Now I am prince, and I do well
"To love my love withouten fear;
"To walk with man in fellowship,
"And breathe my horse behind the deer.

"My hounds they bay unto the death,
"The buck has couched beyond the burn,
"My love she waits at her window
"To wash my hands when I return.
35 
"For that I live am I content
"(Oh! I have seen my true love's eyes)
"To stand wi' Adam in Eden-glade,
"And run in the woods o' Paradise!

'Twas naked sky and nodding grass,
'Twas running flood and wastrel wind,
Where, checked against the open pass,
The red deer turned to wait the hind.

True Thomas laid his harp away,
And louted low at the saddle-side;
He has taken stirrup and hauden rein,
And set the King on his horse o' pride.

"Sleep ye or wake," True Thomas said,
"That sit so still, that muse so long?
"Sleep ye or wake? - till the Latter Sleep
"I trow ye'll not forget my song.

"I ha' harpit a shadow out o' the sun
"To stand before your face and cry;
"I ha' armed the earth beneath your heel,
"And over your head I ha' dusked the sky.
40 
"I ha' harpit ye up to the Throne o' God,
"I ha' harpit your midmost soul in three.
"I ha' harpit ye down to the Hinges o' Hell,
"And-ye-would-make-a Knight o' me!"

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The Last Ode

As watchers couched beneath a Bantine oak,
  Hearing the dawn-wind stir,
Know that the present strength of night is broke
  Though no dawn threaten her
Till dawn's appointed hour - so Virgil died,
  Aware of change at hand, and prophesied 

Change upon all the Eternal Gods had made
  And on the Gods alike - 
Fated as dawn but, as the dawn, delayed
  Till the just hour should strike -  

A Star new-risen above the living and dead;
  And the lost shades that were our loves restored
As lovers, and for ever. So he said;
  Having received the word... 

Maecenas waits me on the Esquiline:
  Thither to-night go I....
And shall this dawn restore us, Virgil mine
  To dawn? Beneath what sky?

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The Last Lap

How do we know, by the bank-high river,
       Where the mired and sulky oxen wait,
And it looks as though we might wait for ever,
       How do we know that the floods abate?
There is no change in the current's brawling—
       Louder and harsher the freshet scolds;
Yet we can feel she is falling, falling
       And the more she threatens the less she holds,
Down to the drift, with no word spoken,
       The wheel-chained wagons slither and slue...
Achtung! The back of the worst is broken!
       And—lash your leaders!—we're through—we're through!

How do we know, when the port-fog holds us
       Moored and helpless, a mile from the pier,
And the week-long summer smother enfolds us—
       How do we know it is going to clear?
There is no break in the blindfold weather,
       But, one and another, about the bay,
The unseen capstans clink together,
       Getting ready to up and away.
A pennon whimpers—the breeze has found us—
       A headsail jumps through the thinning haze.
The whole hull follows, till—broad around us—
       The clean-swept ocean says: "Go your ways!"

How do we know, when the long fight rages,
       On the old, stale front that we cannot shake,
And it looks as though we were locked for ages,
       How do we know they are going to break?
There is no lull in the level firing,
       Nothing has shifted except the sun.
Yet we can feel they are tiring, tiring—
       Yet we can tell they are ripe to run.
Something wavers, and, while we wonder,
       Their centre-trenches are emptying out,
And, before their useless flanks go under,
       Our guns have pounded retreat to rout!

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The Lament of the Border Cattle Thief

1 
O woe is me for the merry life
    I led beyond the Bar,
And a treble woe for my winsome wife
   That weeps at Shalimar. 
2 
They have taken away my long jezail,
   My shield and sabre fine,
And heaved me into the Central jail
   For lifting of the kine. 
3 
The steer may low within the byre,
   The Jat may tend his grain,
But there’ll be neither loot nor fire
   Till I come back again. 
4 
And God have mercy on the Jat
   When once my fetters fall,
And Heaven defend the farmer’s hut
   When I am loosed from thrall. 
5 
It’s woe to bend the stubborn back
   Above the grinching quern,
It’s woe to hear the leg-bar clack
   And jingle when I turn! 
6 
But for the sorrow and the shame,
    The brand on me and mine,
I’ll pay you back in leaping flame
   And loss of the butchered kine. 
7 
For every cow I spared before
   In charity set free,
If I may reach my hold once more
    I’ll reive an honest three. 
8 
For every time I raised the low
    That scared the dusty plain,
By sword and cord, by torch and tow
    I’ll light the land with twain! 
9 
Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai,
    Young Sahib with the yellow hair—
Lie close, lie close as Khattacks lie,
   Fat herds below Bonair! 
10 
The one I’ll shoot at twilight-tide,
   At dawn I’ll drive the other;
The black shall mourn for hoof and hide,
   The white man for his brother. 
11 
’Tis war, red war, I’ll give you then,
   War till my sinews fail;
For the wrong you have done to a chief of men,
   And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl. 
12 
And if I fall to your hand afresh
   I give you leave for the sin,
That you cram my throat with the foul pig’s flesh,
   And swing me in the skin!

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The Kingdom

Now we are come to our Kingdom,
And the State is thus and thus;
Our legions wait at the Palace gate—
Little it profits us.
Now we are come to our Kingdom! 

Now we are come to our Kingdom,
And the Crown is ours to take—
With a naked sword at the Council board,
And under the throne the snake.
Now we are come to our Kingdom! 

Now we are come to our Kingdom,
And the Realm is ours by right,
With shame and fear for our daily cheer,
And heaviness at night.
Now we are come to our Kingdom! 

Now we are come to our Kingdom,
But my love’s eyelids fall.
All that I wrought for, all that I fought for,
Delight her nothing at all.
My crown is of withered leaves,
For she sits in the dust and grieves.
Now we are come to our Kingdom!

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The King’s Task (first version)

After the sack of the City, when Rome was sunk to a name,
In the years that the Lights were darkened,  or ever St. Wilfrid came,
Low on the borders of Britain, the ancient poets sing,
Between the Cliff and the Forest there ruled a Saxon King.

Stubborn all were his people, a stark and a jealous horde—
Not to be schooled by the cudgel, scarce to be cowed by the sword;   
Blithe to turn at their pleasure, bitter to cross in their mood,
And set on the ways of their choosing as the hogs of Andred's Wood.

They made them laws in the Witan, the laws of flaying and fine—
Folkland, common, and pannage, the theft and the track of kine—
Statutes of tun and of market for the fish and the malt and the meal—
The tax on the Bramber packhorse and the tax on the Hastings keel.

Over the graves of the Druids and over the wreck of Rome,
Rudely but deeply they bedded the plinth of the days to come.
Behind the feet of the Legions and before the Northman's ire,
Rudely but greatly begat they the body of state and of shire.
Rudely but greatly they laboured, and their labour stands till now,
If we trace on our ancient headlands the twist of their eight-ox plough.

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The King’s Pilgrimage

Our King went forth on pilgrimage 	 
His prayers and vows to pay 	
To them that saved our heritage 	
And cast their own away. 
	
And there was little show of pride, 	 
Or prows of belted steel, 	
For the clean-swept oceans every side 	
Lay free to every keel.
	
And the first land he found, it was shoal and banky ground–	 
Where the broader seas begin, 	
And a pale tide grieving at the broken harbour-mouth 	
Where they worked the death-ships in. 	

And there was neither gull on the wing, 	 
Nor wave that could not tell 	
Of the bodies that were buckled in the life-buoy's ring 	
That slid from swell to swell.
	
All that they had they gave–they gave; and they shall not return, 	 
For these are those that have no grave where any heart may mourn.
	
And the next land he found, it was low and hollow ground– 	 
Where once the cities stood, 	
But the man-high thistle had been master of it all, 	
Or the bulrush by the flood.
 	
And there was neither blade of grass, 	 
Nor lone star in the sky 	
But shook to see some spirit pass 	
And took its agony.
	
And the next land he found, it was bare and hilly ground– 	 
Where once the bread-corn grew, 	
But the fields were cankered and the water was defiled, 	
And the trees were riven through. 
	
And there was neither paved highway, 	 
Nor secret path in the wood, 	
But had borne its weight of the broken clay 	
And darkened 'neath the blood.
	
Father and mother they put aside, and the nearer love also–	 
An hundred thousand men who died whose graves shall no man know.
	
And the last land he found, it was fair and level ground 	 
About a carven stone, 	
And a stark Sword brooding on the bosom of the Cross 	
Where high and low are one. 
	
And there was grass and the living trees, 	 
And the flowers of the spring, 	
And there lay gentlemen from out of all the seas 	
That ever called him King.
	
'Twixt Nieuport sands and the eastward lands where the Four Red Rivers spring,
Five hundred thousand gentlemen of those that served their King. 
	
All that they had they gave–they gave–	 
In sure and single faith. 	
There can no knowledge reach the grave 	
To make them grudge their death 	
Save only if they understood 	
That, after all was done, 	
We they redeemed denied their blood 	
And mocked the gains it won.

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