Archives: Poems

(The Kipling Society presents here Kipling’s work as he
wrote it, but wishes to alert readers that the text below
contains some derogatory and/or offensive language)

              Being a translation of a song that was made by a Mohammedan Schoolmaster 
              of Bengal Infantry (some time on service at Suakim) when he heard that 
              Kitchener was taking money from the English to build a Madrissa for Hubshees 
              – or a college for the Sudanese at Khartoum.

1 
Oh, hubshee, carry your shoes in your hand, and bow your head on your breast.
This is the message of Kitchener who did not break you in jest.
It was permitted to him to fulfil the long-appointed years;
Reaching the end ordained of old over your dead Emirs.
2
He stamped only before your walls, and the Tomb ye knew was dust:
He gathered up under his armpits all the swords of your trust:
He set a guard on your granaries, securing the weak from the strong:
He said: — "Go work the waterwheels that were abolished so long."
3
He said: — "Go safely, being abased. I have accomplished my vow."
That was the mercy of Kitchener. Cometh his madness now!
He does not desire as ye desire, nor devise as ye devise:
He is preparing a second host — an army to make you wise.
4
Not at the mouth of his clean-lipped guns shall ye learn his name again,
But letter by letter, from Kaf to Kaf, at the mouths of his chosen men.
He has gone back to his own city, not seeking presents or bribes,
But openly asking the English for money to buy you Hakims and scribes.
5
Knowing that ye are forfeit by battle and have no right to live,
He begs for money to bring you learning — and all the English give.
It is their treasure — it is their pleasure — thus are their hearts inclined:
For Allah created the English mad — the maddest of all mankind!
6
They do not consider the Meaning of Things; they consult not creed nor clan.
Behold, they clap the slave on the back, and behold, he ariseth a man!
They terribly carpet the earth with dead, and before their cannon cool,
They walk unarmed by twos and threes to call the living to school.
7
How is this reason (which is their reason) to judge a scholar's worth,
By casting a ball at three straight sticks and defending the same with a fourth?
But this they do (which is doubtless a spell) and other matters more strange,
Until, by the operation of years, the hearts of their scholars change:
8
Till these make come and go great boats or engines upon the rail
(But always the English watch near by to prop them when they fail);
Till these make laws of their own choice and Judges of their own blood;
And all the mad English obey the Judges and say that that Law is good.
9
Certainly they were mad from of old; but I think one new thing,
That the magic whereby they work their magic — wherefrom their fortunes spring —
May be that they show all peoples their magic and ask no price in return.
Wherefore, since ye are bond to that magic, O Hubshee, make haste and learn!
10
Certainly also is Kitchener mad. But one sure thing I know —
If he who broke you be minded to teach you, to his Madrissa go!
Go, and carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast,
For he who did not slay you in sport, he will not teach you in jest.

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 "When the horses, standing on three feet and
touching the ground with the edge of the fourth foot,
swift in the course, were set in parade before him,
King Solomon in the evening said:—
"Verily, I have loved the love of earthly good
above the rememberance of my Lord, and I have
spent the time in viewing these horses till
the sun is hidden by the veil of night.
Bring the horses back unto me.'
And when they were brought back, he began
to cut off their legs and their necks.—Al Koran"

    The black Egyptian coursers of the sands,
    Grey stallions from the North, the beasts I love,
    Red-nostrilled, river-maned, I slew them all
    As a child smites in anger. Oh! wise King!
    And foolish past the folly of all fools.

    Not anger wholly. Hiram at the gate
    Reined in his chariot crying:—'Let them go;'
    And I, because I knew the minds of men,
    Who cannot rule my own, bade strike afresh,
    Assured the fame of such a sacrifice
    Would spread to Tyre and the isles beyond.
    My honour and not God's I sought herein—
    My honour and men's wonder. Who but I
    Dare slay a thousand horses of the best,
    As Hiram slays his score of starveling goats
    To Ashtaroth?
                             What sin was theirs who lie
    Gaunt carcasses beneath the moonlight–speed,
    Strength, and the glorious beauty of their kind?
    The thunder of the storm was in their feet;
    The lightning of the storm was in their eyes;
    The power of ten thousand men was theirs;
    And one old man, chafed at his own neglect,
    Has taken strength and beauty, speed and power.
    Yea, they fought well. My reeking spearmen ran
    Thrice from their furious onset, when we penned
    The flying hundreds in the Palace Porch,
    And I had slain the fairest steed of all-—
    The great grey stallion with the iron mane.
    I chose him for my chariot ere the dusk
    Fell and my wisdom left me. Mild was he;
    Kingly as I have been. He bowed his neck
    To the sharp point and stumbled at my feet,
    Still kingly, pleading with great liquid eyes,
    And died in silence.
                                      Then I saw my sin
    But dared not stay the slaughter. Hiram's eye
    Alight with wonder at the gate forbade;
    And some old lust of bloodshed spurred me on.
    Wherefore I loosed my spearmen, till the Porch
    Filled with the tumult of the flying steeds,
    The screams of men and horses, kicks and blows;
    The sharp, quick bubble of the stabbing-spears;
    Fall of great hoofs that splashed in pools of blood
    And the low gurgle of the dying. Last,
    Out of the press, a red horse reared himself
    Black with the sweat of horror, white with foam.
    (Accursed be my knowledge of brute speech!)
    Crying:—'What sin is ours that we die
    My brother?' Then I would have stayed the spears,
    But that none heard me till the last was slain;
    And I was left alone among the dead—
    The raw, sick smell of blood upon the air—
    And Hiram's voice across the silent court
    Crying:—'All honour to King Solomon!'
    All honour to the wisdom of the King!
    Wrath and mad lust for honour—Honour these!
    Small profit unto God the sacrifice;
    And to myself the gain of my own scorn.
    All honour to the wisdom of the King!
    The grey was beautiful above his kind,
    And Hiram's fleet has sailed, nor brings again
    Another steed as fair ... Oh! most wise King!

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With them there rode a lustie Engineere
Wel skilled to handel everich waie her geere,
Hee was soe wise ne man colde showe him naught
And out of Paris was hys learnynge brought.
Frontlings mid brazen wheeles and wandes he sat,
And on hys heade he bare an leathern hat.
Hee was soe certaine of his governance,
That, by the Road, he tooke everie chaunce.
For simple people and for lordlings eke
Hee wolde not bate a del but onlie squeeke
Behinde their backés on an horné hie
Until they crope into a piggestie.
He was more wood than bull in china-shoppe,
And yet for cowes and doggés wolde hee stop,
Not out of Marcie but for Preudence-sake—
Than hys dependaunce ever was hys brake.

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Jubal sang of the Wrath of God
    And the curse of thistle and thorn—
But Tubal got him a pointed rod,
    And scrabbled the earth for corn.
    Old—old as that early mould,
    Young as the sprouting grain—
    Yearly green is the strife between
     Jubal and Tubal Cain 

Jubal sang of the new-found sea,
    And the love that its waves divide—
But Tubal hollowed a fallen tree
    And passed to the further side.
    Black—black as the hurricane-wrack,
    Salt as the under-main—
    Bitter and cold is the hate they hold—
    Jubal and Tubal Cain! 

Jubal sang of the golden years
    When wars and wounds shall cease—
But Tubal fashioned the hand-flung spears
     And showed his neighbours peace.
    New—new as the Nine point Two,
    Older than Lamech’s slain—
    Roaring and loud is the feud avowed
    Twix’ Jubal and Tubal Cain! 

Jubal sang of the cliffs that bar
    And the peaks that none may crown—
But Tubal clambered by jut and scar
    And there he builded a town.
    High—high as the snowsheds lie,
    Low as the culverts drain—
    Wherever they be they can never agree—
    Jubal and Tubal Cain!

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1 
"Blesséd be the English and all their ways and works. 
Curséd  be the Infidels, Hereticks, and Turks!"
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I used to lie 
Was neither Candle, Bell nor Book to curse my brethren by:
2 
"But a palm-tree in full bearing, bowing down, bowing down, 
To a surf that drove unsparing at the brown, walled town–
Conches in a temple, oil-lamps in a dome–
And a low moon out of Africa said: 'This way home!'" 
3 
"Blessèd be the English and all that they profess. 
Cursèd be the Savages that prance in nakedness!"
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I used to lie 
Was neither shirt nor pantaloons to catch my brethren by:
4 
"But a well-wheel slowly creaking, going round, going round, 
By a water-channel leaking over drowned, warm ground– 
Parrots very busy in the trellised pepper-vine– 
And a high sun over Asia shouting: 'Rise and shine!'"
5 
"Blessèd be the English and everything they own. 
Cursèd be the Infidels that bow to wood and stone!" 
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I used to lie 
Was neither pew nor Gospelleer to save my brethren by:
6 
"But a desert stretched and stricken, left and right, left and right, 
Where the piled mirages thicken under white-hot light– 
A skull beneath a sand-hill and a viper coiled inside–  
And a red wind out of Libya roaring: 'Run and hide!'"
7 
"Blessèd be the English and all they make or do. 
Cursèd be the Hereticks who doubt that this is true!" 
"Amen," quo' Jobson, "but where I mean to die 
Is neither rule nor calliper to judge the matter by:
8
"But Himalaya heavenward-heading, sheer and vast, sheer and vast,
In a million summits bedding on the last world's past– 
A certain sacred mountain where the scented cedars climb,
And–the feet of my Beloved hurrying back through Time!"

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1 
Jane went to Paradise:
  That was only fair.
Good Sir Walter followed her,
  And armed her up the stair.
Henry and Tobias,
  And Miguel of Spain,
Stood with Shakespeare at the top
  To welcome Jane— 
2
Then the Three Archangels
  Offered out of hand
Anything in Heaven's gift
  That she might command.
Azrael's eyes upon her,
  Raphael's wings above,
Michael's sword against her heart,
  Jane said: "Love." 
3
Instantly the under-
  Standing Seraphim
Laid their fingers on their lips
  And went to look for him.
Stole across the Zodiac,
  Harnessed Charles's Wain,
  And whispered round the Nebulae
  "Who loved Jane?" 
4
In a private limbo
  Where none had thought to look,
Sat a Hampshire gentleman 
  Reading of a book.
It was called Persuasion 
  And it told the plain
Story of the love between
  Him and Jane. 
5
He heard the question,
  Circle Heaven through—
Closed the book and answered:
    "I did—and do!"
Quietly but speedily
  (As Captain Wentworth moved)
Entered into Paradise
  The man Jane loved! 

Jane lies in Winchester, blessed be her shade!
Praise the Lord for making her, and her for all she made.
And while the stones of Winchester—or Milsom Street—remain,
Glory, Love, and Honour unto England's Jane!

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The child of Mary Queen of Scots,
   A shifty mother’s shiftless son,
Bred up among intrigues and plots,
      Learnèd in all things, wise in none.
Ungainly, babbling, wasteful, weak,
     Shrewd, clever, cowardly, pedantic,
The sight of steel would blanch his cheek.
     The smell of baccy drive him frantic.
He was the author of his line–
      He wrote that witches should be burnt;
He wrote that monarchs were divine,
      And left a son who–proved they weren’t!

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