Poems – Page 52 – The Kipling Society

Mowgli’s Song

The Song of Mowgli—I, Mowgli, am singing. Let the jungle 
     listen to the things I have done.
Shere Khan said he would kill—would kill! At the gates in the 
     twilight he would kill Mowgli, the Frog!
He ate and he drank. Drink deep, Shere Khan, for when wilt 
     thou drink again? Sleep and dream of the kill.
I am alone on the grazing-grounds. Gray Brother, come to me! 
     Come to me, Lone Wolf, for there is big game afoot.
Bring up the great bull-buffaloes, the blue-skinned herd-bulls 
     with the angry eyes. Drive them to and fro as I order.
Sleepest thou still, Shere Khan? Wake, oh wake! Here come I, 
     and the bulls are behind.
Rama, the King of the Buffaloes, stamped with his foot. Waters 
     of the Waingunga, whither went Shere Khan?
He is not Ikki to dig holes, nor Mao, the Peacock, that he should 
     fly. He is not Mang, the Bat, to hang in the branches. Little 
     bamboos that creak together, tell me where he ran?
Ow! He is there. Ahoo! He is there. Under the feet of Rama lies 
     the Lame One! Up, Shere Khan! Up and kill! Here is meat; 
     break the necks of the bulls!
Hsh! He is asleep. We will not wake him, for his strength is very 
     great. The kites have come down to see it. The black ants 
     have come up to know it. There is a great assembly in his 
     honour.
Alala! I have no cloth to wrap me. The kites will see that I am 
     naked. I am ashamed to meet all these people.
Lend me thy coat, Shere Khan. Lend me thy gay striped coat that 
     I may go to the Council Rock.
By the Bull that bought me, I have made a promise–a little 
     promise. Only thy coat is lacking before I keep my word.
With the knife–with the knife that men use–with the knife of 
     the hunter, the man, I will stoop down for my gift.
Waters of the Waingunga, bear witness that Shere Khan gives 
     me his coat for the love that he bears me. Pull, Gray 
Brother! Pull, Akela! Heavy is the hide of Shere Khan.
The Man-Pack are angry. They throw stones and talk child's talk. 
     My mouth is bleeding. Let us run away.
Through the night, through the hot night, run swiftly with me, 
     my brothers. We will leave the lights of the village and 
     go to the low moon.
Waters of the Waingunga, the Man-Pack have cast me out. I did 
     them no harm, but they were afraid of me. Why?
Wolf-Pack, ye have cast me out too. The jungle is shut to me 
     and the village gates are shut. Why?
As Mang flies between the beasts and the birds, so fly I between 
     the village and the jungle. Why?
I dance on the hide of Shere Khan, but my heart is very heavy. 
     My mouth is cut and wounded with the stones from the 
     village, but my heart is very light because I have come 
     back to the jungle. Why?
These two things fight together in me as the snakes fight 
     in the spring.
The water comes out of my eyes; yet I laugh while it falls. 
     Why?
I am two Mowglis, but the hide of Shere Khan is under my feet.
All the jungle knows that I have killed Shere Khan. Look—
     look well, O Wolves!
Ahae! My heart is heavy with the things that I do not understand.

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Mother o’ Mine

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
  Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine! 
I know whose love would follow me still,
  Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine! 
If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
  Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!  
I know whose tears would come down to me, 
  Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine! 
If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
  Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

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Morning-Song in the Jungle

One moment past our bodies cast
  No shadow on the plain;
Now clear and black they stride our track,
  And we run home again.
In morning-hush, each rock and bush
  Stands hard, and high, and raw:
Then give the Call: "Good rest to all
  That keep the Jungle Law!"

Now horn and pelt our peoples melt
  In covert to abide;
Now, crouched and still, to cave and hill
  Our Jungle Barons glide.
Now, stark and plain, Man's oxen strain,
  That draw the new-yoked plough;
Now, stripped and dread, the dawn is red
  Above the lit talao.

Ho! Get to lair! The sun's aflare
   Behind the breathing grass:
And creaking through the young bamboo
  The warning whispers pass.
By day made strange, the woods we range
  With blinking eyes we scan;
While down the skies the wild duck cries:
  "The Day—the Day to Man!"

The dew is dried that drenched our hide,
  Or washed about our way;
And where we drank, the puddled bank
  Is crisping into clay.
The traitor Dark gives up each mark
  Of stretched or hooded claw:
Then hear the Call: "Good rest to all
  That keep the Jungle Law!"

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Mine Sweepers

Dawn off the Foreland–the young flood making
    Jumbled and short and steep–
Black in the hollows and bright where it's breaking–
   Awkward water to sweep.
   "Mines reported in the fairway,
   "Warn all traffic and detain.
" 'Sent up  Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, 
                                 and Golden Gain."  

 Noon off the Foreland–the first ebb making 
   Lumpy and strong in the bight.
 Boom after boom, and the golf-hut shaking 
   And the jackdaws wild with fright!
   "Mines located in the fairway,
   "Boats now working up the chain,
 "Sweepers - Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, 
                                  and Golden Gain."

Dusk off the Foreland–the last light going 
  And the traffic crowding through,
And five damned trawlers with their syreens blowing 
   Heading the whole review!
   "Sweep completed in the fairway.
   "No more mines remain.
" 'Sent back Unity, Claribel, Assyrian, Stormcock, 
                                  and Golden Gain."

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Mesopotamia

1 
They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,
  The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,
  Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?
2 
They shall not return to us; the strong men coldly slain
  In sight of help denied from day to day:
But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,
  Are they too strong and wise to put away?
3 
Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide–
   Never while the bars of sunset hold.
But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,
  Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?
4 
Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour:
  When the storm is ended shall we find
How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power
  By the favour and contrivance of their kind?
5 
Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,
  Even while they make a show of fear,      
Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their friends,
  To confirm and re-establish each career?
6             
Their lives cannot repay us–their death could not undo–
  The shame that they have laid upon our race. 
But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,
  Shall we leave it unabated in its place?

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listen to the poem

Preadmonisheth ye Ghoste of Desmarets

1 
In the Paris of the Empire, in the days of long ago,
Moves the drama they are acting, move the puppets of their show—
Those were days when life went briskly; when the stakes were hearts and brains;
And the rattle of the dicebox hid the clink of Fouché's chains—
But those days are past and done with, and you've changed the tune (I know)
From the tune we played in Paris—in the days of long ago.
2 
Ere Hausmann's streets were builded—ere the coup d'état was tried—
How we lived like Gods at Paris! How we gambled, loved and lied!
Ere we lost the Quartier Latin—when the Rue La Harpe was new;
Ere the bugles blew to battle through the wheat of Waterloo—
Ah! Life was worth the living (if you 'scaped the Headsman's blow) 
In the Paris of the Empire—in the days of long ago.
3 
I was member of the Force there—what you'd call a D. S. P. — 
Half the secrets of our Paris—Lordly Paris—passed through me.
I was plotter, lover, liar, with the best of all my friends—
I was foiled, refused, detected (so this moral drama ends)
I betrayed my love and lost her, lost the love I strove for so— 
(Hearts were true sometimes in Paris, in the days of long ago.)
4 
Now, the lights are all extinguished in the rooms I knew so well;
Never sound of Royal laughter wakes the Hall where Fouché fell—
I, a shadow scorned of shadows, linger by the gilded ball 
Of the great Hotel we guarded in the days of Cadoudal;
For we murdered ladies sometimes ('twas affaire d'état you know) 
In our Paris of the Empire, in the days of long ago.
5 
What know ye of 'plot and passion'—as we took their meaning then?
When our Goddesses were women, and our men were more than men;
When Life and Death were counters, and we staked them boldly both—
And the guillotine might follow on a lover's broken oath;
When the 'ladies from the Fauberg' broke the bank of Petiot 
At Paris of the Empire in the days of long ago.
6 
Yet I linger for a moment—mark the progress of your play;
Watch some guileless little gamin act the part of Desmarets.
But your words have lost their passion, and your speech is strange & cold–
You can neither love nor hate Sires, as we did in days of old.
Ah me for faded glories of 'Le Petit Denisot'!
Where I schemed and died at Paris, in the days of long ago.

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Mary’s Son

If you stop to find out what your wages will be
  And how they will clothe and feed you,
Willie, my son, don't you go on the Sea,
   For the Sea will never need you. 

If you ask for the reason of every command,
   And argue with people about you,
Willie, my son, don't you go on the Land,
  For the Land will do better without you. 

If you stop to consider the work you have done
   And to boast what your labour is worth, dear,
Angels may come for you, Willie, my son,
   But you’ll never be wanted on Earth, dear!

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MacDonough’s Song

Whether the State can loose and bind
  In Heaven as well as on Earth:
If it be wiser to kill mankind
  Before or after the birth—
These are matters of high concern
  Where State-kept schoolmen are;
But Holy State (we have lived to learn)
  Endeth in Holy War. 

Whether The People be led by The Lord,
  Or lured by the loudest throat:
If it be quicker to die by the sword
  Or cheaper to die by vote—
These are things we have dealt with once,
  (And they will not rise from their grave)
For Holy People, however it runs,
  Endeth in wholly Slave. 

Whatsoever, for any cause,
  Seeketh to take or give,
Power above or beyond the Laws,
  Suffer it not to live!
Holy State or Holy King—
  Or Holy People’s Will—
Have no truck with the senseless thing.
  Order the guns and kill!
    Saying—after—me:— 

Once there was The People—Terror gave it birth;
Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth.
Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, O ye slain!
Once there was The People—it shall never be again!

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M.I.

1 
I wish my mother could see me now, with a fence-post under my arm,
And a knife and a spoon in my putties that I found on a Boer farm,
Atop of a sore-backed Argentine, with a thirst that you couldn’t buy.
  I used to be in the Yorkshires once
  (Sussex, Lincolns, and Rifles once),
  Hampshires, Glosters, and Scottish once!    (ad lib.)
               But now I am M.I. 
2 
That is what we are known as—that is the name you must call
If you want officers’ servants, pickets an’ ’orseguards an’ all—
Details for buryin’-parties, company-cooks or supply—
Turn out the chronic Ikonas! Roll up the —— M.I.! 
3 
My ’ands are spotty with veldt-sores, my shirt is a button an’ frill,
An’ the things I’ve used my bay’nit for would make a tinker ill!
An’ I don’t know whose dam’ column I’m in, nor where we’re trekkin’ nor why.
  I’ve trekked from the Vaal to the Orange once—
  From the Vaal to the greasy Pongolo once—
  (Or else it was called the Zambesi once)—
               For now I am M.I. 
4 
That is what we are known as—we are the push you require
For outposts all night under freezin’, an’ rearguard all day under fire.
Anything ’ot or unwholesome? Anything dusty or dry?
Borrow a bunch of Ikonas! Trot out the —— M.I.! 
5 
Our Sergeant-Major’s a subaltern, our Captain’s a Fusilier—
Our Adjutant’s “late of Somebody’s ’Orse,” an’ a Melbourne auctioneer;
But you couldn’t spot us at ’arf a mile from the crackest caval-ry.
  They used to talk about Lancers once,
  Hussars, Dragoons, an’ Lancers once,
  ’Elmets, pistols, an’ carbines once,
               But now we are M.I.! 
6 
That is what we are known as—we are the orphans they blame
For beggin’ the loan of an ’ead-stall an’ makin’ a mount to the same.
’Can’t even look at their ’orselines but some one goes bellerin’ “Hi!
“’Ere comes a burglin’ Ikona!” Footsack you —— M.I.! 
7 
We’re trekkin’ our twenty miles a day an’ bein’ loved by the Dutch,
But we don’t hold on by the mane no more, nor lose our stirrups—much;
An’ we scout with a senior man in charge where the ’oly white flags fly.
  We used to think they were friendly once,
  Didn’t take any precautions once
  (Once, my ducky, an’ only once!)
               But now we are M.I.! 
8 
That is what we are known as—we are the beggars that got
Three days “to learn equitation,” an’ six months o’ bloomin’ well trot!
Cow-guns, an’ cattle, an’ convoys—an’ Mister De Wet on the fly—
We are the rollin’ Ikonas! We are the —— M.I. 
9 
The new fat regiments come from home, imaginin’ vain V.C.’s
(The same as your talky-fighty men which are often Number Threes),
But our words o’command are “Scatter” an’ “Close” an’ “Let your wounded lie.”
  We used to rescue ’em noble once,—
  Givin’ the range as we raised ’em once,
  Gettin’ ’em killed as we saved ’em once—
                But now we are M.I. 
10 
That is what we are known as—we are the lanterns you view
After a fight round the kopjes, lookin’ for men that we knew;
Whistlin’ an’ callin’ together, ’altin’ to catch the reply:—
“’Elp me! O ’elp me, Ikonas! This way, the —— M.I.!” 
11 
I wish my mother could see me now, a-gatherin’ news on my own,
When I ride like a General up to the scrub and ride back like Tod Sloan,
Remarkable close to my ’orse’s neck to let the shots go by.
  We used to fancy it risky once
  (Called it a reconnaissance once),
  Under the charge of an orf’cer once,
               But now we are M.I.! 
12 
That is what we are known as—that is the song you must say
When you want men to be Mausered at one and a penny a day;
We are no five-bob Colonials—we are the ’ome-made supply,
Ask for the London Ikonas! Ring up the —— M.I.! 
13 
I wish myself could talk to myself as I left ’im a year ago;
I could tell ‘im a lot that would save ’im a lot on the things that ’e ought to know!
When I think o’ that ignorant barrack-bird, it almost makes me cry.
  I used to belong in an Army once
  (Gawd! what a rum little Army once),
  Red little, dead little Army once!
               But now I am M.I.! 
14 
That is what we are known as—we are the men that have been
Over a year at the business, smelt it an’ felt it an’ seen.
We ’ave got ’old of the needful — you will be told by and by;
Wait till you’ve ’eard the Ikonas, spoke to the old M.I.! 
Mount—march, Ikonas! Stand to your ’orses again!
Mop off the frost on the saddles, mop up the miles on the plain.
Out go the stars in the dawnin’, up goes our dust to the sky,
Walk—trot, Ikonas! Trek jou the old M.I.!

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Lord Roberts

HE PASSED in the very battle-smoke 
Of the war that he had descried. 
Three hundred mile of cannon spoke 
When the Master-Gunner died. 
He passed to the very sound of the guns; 
But, before his eye grew dim, 
He had seen the faces of the sons 
Whose sires had served with him. 
He had touched their sword-hilts and greeted each 
With the old sure word of praise; 
And there was virtue in touch and speech 
As it had been in old days. 
So he dismissed them and took his rest, 
And the steadfast spirit went forth 
Between the adoring East and West 
And the tireless guns of the North. 
Clean, simple, valiant, well-beloved, 
Flawless in faith and fame, 
Whom neither ease nor honours moved 
An hair's-breadth from his aim. 
Never again the war-wise face, 
The weighed and urgent word 
That pleaded in the market-place– 
Pleaded and was not heard! 
Yet from his life a new life springs 
Through all the hosts to come, 
And Glory is the least of things 
That follow this man home.

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