the tales

The Kipling Society

the poems

Archives: Poems

The Lost Legion

1 
There's a Legion that never was ’listed,
   That carries no colours or crest,
But, split in a thousand detachments,
   Is breaking the road for the rest.
Our fathers they left us their blessing—
   They taught us, and groomed us, and crammed;
But we’ve shaken the Clubs and the Messes
   To go and find out and be damned
                                 (Dear boys!),
   To go and get shot and be damned.
2 
So some of us chivy the slaver,
   And some of us cherish the black,
And some of us hunt on the Oil Coast,
   And some on—the Wallaby track:
And some of us drift to Sarawak,
   And some of us drift up The Fly,
And some share our tucker with tigers,
   And some with the gentle Masai
                               (Dear boys!),
   Take tea with the giddy Masai.
3 
We’ve painted The Islands vermilion,
   We’ve pearled on half-shares in the Bay,
We’ve shouted on seven-ounce nuggets,
   We’ve starved on a Seedeeboy’s pay;
We’ve laughed at the world as we found it—
   Its women and cities and men—
From Sayyid Burgash in a tantrum
  To the smoke-reddened eyes of Loben
                              (Dear boys!),
   We’ve a little account with Loben.
4 
The ends o’ the Earth were our portion,
   The ocean at large was our share.
There was never a skirmish to windward
   But the Leaderless Legion was there:
Yes, somehow and somewhere and always
   We were first when the trouble began,
From a lottery-row in Manila,
   To an I.D.B. race on the Pan
                            (Dear boys!),
   With the Mounted Police on the Pan.
5 
We preach in advance of the Army,
   We skirmish ahead of the Church,
With never a gunboat to help us
   When we’re scuppered and left in the lurch.
But we know as the cartridges finish,
   And we’re filed on our last little shelves,
That the Legion that never was ’listed
   Will send us as good as ourselves 
                              (Good men!),
   Five hundred as good as ourselves.
6 
Then a health (we must drink it in whispers)
   To our wholly unauthorised horde—
To the line of our dusty foreloopers,
   The Gentlemen Rovers abroad—
Yes, a health to ourselves ere we scatter,
   For the steamer won’t wait for the train,
And the Legion that never was ’listed
   Goes back into quarters again!
                              ’Regards!
   Goes back under canvas again.
                               Hurrah!
   The swag and the billy again.
                               Here’s how!
   The trail and the packhorse again.
                               Salue!
   The trek and the laager again.

Choose another poem

Song of the Galley-slaves

We pulled for you when the wind was against us and
    the sails were low. 
          Will you never let us go?  

We ate bread and onions when you took towns, or ran
    aboard quickly when you were beaten back by the foe. 
The Captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather 
    singing songs, but we were below. 
We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see 
    that we were idle, for we still swung to and fro. 
          Will you never let us go?  

The salt made the oar-handles like shark-skin; our knees 
    were cut to the bone with salt-cracks; our hair was 
    stuck to our foreheads; and our lips were cut to the 
    gums, and you whipped us because we could not row. 
          Will you never let us go?  

But, in a little time, we shall run out of the port-holes 
    as the water runs along the oar-blade, and though 
    you tell the others to row after us you will never 
    catch us till you catch the oar-thresh and tie up 
    the winds in the belly of the sail. Aho !  
          Will you never let us go?

Choose another poem

A Truthful Song

THE BRICKLAYER

I tell this tale, which is strictly true,
Just by way of convincing you
How very little, since things were made,
Things have altered in the building trade.



A year ago, come the middle of March,
We was building flats near the Marble Arch,
When a thin young man with coal-black hair
Came up to watch us working there.

Now there wasn't a trick in brick or stone
Which this young man hadn't seen or known;
Nor there wasn't a tool from trowel to maul
But this young man could use 'em all!

Then up and spoke the plumbers bold,
Which was laying the pipes for the hot and cold:
"Since you with us have made so free,
Will you kindly say what your name might be?"

The young man kindly answered them;
"It might be Lot or Methusalem,
Or it might be Moses (a man I hate)
Whereas it is Pharaoh surnamed the Great.

"Your glazing is new and your plumbing's strange,
But otherwise I perceive no change;
And in less than a month if you do as I bid
I'd learn you to build me a Pyramid!"

THE SAILOR:

I tell this tale, which is stricter true, 
Just by way of convincing you 
How very little, since things were made,
Things have altered in the shipwright's trade.



In Blackwall Basin yesterday
A China barque re-fitting lay;
When a fat old man with snow-white hair
Came up to watch us working there.

Now there wasn't a knot which the riggers knew
But the old man made it - and better too;
Nor there wasn't a sheet, or a lift, or a brace,
But the old man knew its lead and place.

Then up and spoke the caulkyers bold,
Which was packing the pump in the afterhold:
"Since you with us have made so free,
Will you kindly tell what your name might be?"

The old man kindly answered them:
"It might be Japheth, it might be Shem,
Or it might be Ham (though his skin was dark),
Whereas it is Noah, commanding the Ark.

"Your wheel is new and your pumps are strange,
But otherwise I perceive no change;
And in less than a week, if she did not ground,
I'd sail this hooker the wide world round!"

BOTH:

We tell these tales, which are strictest true,
Just by way of convincing you
How very little, since things were made,
Anything alters in any one's trade!

Choose another poem

 


			


				





	

					

				
Donec Gratus Eram
			

			
			

				
                      HE  

So long as 'twuz me alone
    An' there wasn't no other chaps,
I was praoud as a King on 'is throne—
    Happier tu, per'aps. 
                     
                     SHE  

So long as 'twuz only I
    An' there wasn't no other she 
Yeou cared for so much—surely 
    I was glad as could be.
                     
                      HE  

But now I'm in love with Jane Pritt-
    She can play the piano, she can; 
An' if dyin' 'ud 'elp 'er a bit
    I'd die laike a man.
                     
                    SHE  

Yeou'm like me. I'm in love with young Frye
    Him as lives out to Appledore Quay;
An' if dyin"ud 'elp 'im I'd die
    Twice ower for he.
                     
                      HE  

But s'posin' I threwed up Jane
    An' niver went walkin' with she—
And come back to yeou again—
    How 'ud that be?
                     
                     SHE  

Frye's sober. Yeou've allus done badly
    An' yeou shifts like cut net-floats, yeou du: 
But—I'd throw that young Frye ower gladly 
    An' low 'ee right thru!


Choose another poem


 

			


				





	

					

				
The Tale of Two Suits
			

			
			

				
1

These are the ballads, tender and meek,

Sung by a bard with his tongue in his cheek.

Sung by a poet, well a day!

Who doesn’t believe a word of his lay.

2

Rattleton Traplegh was pretty and pink;

Rattleton Traplegh was (only think!)

Sadly addicted to flirting with

Mrs. Saphira Wallabie Smith.

3

List to a legend wholly untrue!

Mrs. Saphira’s men wore blue

Coats with a chevron of crimson-lake,

Just where one feels a stomach-ache.

4

(They pulled her rickshaw in storm or shine

When she went round J—ko or went to dine.)

Was it an accident? Was it a game?

Mrs. Y. Canterby’s men wore the same!

5

Mrs. Y. Canterby wasn’t a belle—

Mrs. Y. Canterby’s age was—well

More than thirty! and Mrs. Y.C.

Was “down” like a vulture on Rattleton T.


(Needless to state what you all must guess,—

Mrs. Y. Canterby loathed Mrs. S.)


6

List to a legend wholly untrue!

The clock in the steeple was striking two;

The dance was ended, and, filled with hope,

Rattleton rattled down B—e slope.

7

Blue were the coats by the rickshaw shaft;

Red were the chevrons fore and aft.

Closed was the hood; but, nevertheless,

Under the hood sat Saphira S.

8

So thought Traplegh. Her voice was gruff.

He never noticed, but whispered stuff

To the hooded rickshaw he ‘hadn’t orter.’

(Rattleton’s drink was never water.)

9

Rattleton Traplegh’s tongue was stilled;

Rattleton Traplegh’s blood was chilled

(Fill the hiatus yourself. Not I.)

When the lamplight showed Mrs. Canterby.

10

Was there a ‘ruction’? Who can say?

Rattleton Traplegh bolted away

To a place in the plains (which are rather warm)

Left Mrs. Smith in the thick of the storm.

11

Now for the moral. Never walk

By night with a rickshaw, and never talk

In a way you shouldn’t. At least, take care

To look in the rickshaw and see who’s there.

			


				





	

					

				
The Destroyers
			

			
			

				
1

The strength of twice three thousand horse

That seeks the single goal;

The line that holds the rending course,

The hate that swings the whole:

The stripped hulls, slinking through the gloom,

At gaze and gone again–

The Brides of Death that wait the groom–

The Choosers of the Slain.

2

Offshore where sea and skyline blend

In rain, the daylight dies;

The sullen, shouldering swells attend

Night and our sacrifice.

Adown the stricken capes no flare–

No mark on spit or bar,–

Girdled and desperate we dare

The blindfold game of war.

3

Nearer the up-flung beams that spell

The council of our foes;

Clearer the barking guns that tell

Their scattered flank to close.

Sheer to the trap they crowd their way

From ports for this unbarred.

Quiet, and count our laden prey,

The convoy and her guard!

4

On shoal with scarce a foot below,

Where rock and islet throng,

Hidden and hushed we watch them throw

Their anxious lights along.

Not here, not here your danger lies

(Stare hard, O hooded eyne!)

Save where the dazed rock-pigeons rise

The lit cliffs give no sign.

5

Therefore–to break the rest ye seek,

The Narrow Seas to clear

Hark to the siren’s whimpering shriek

The driven death is here!

Look to your van a league away,–

What midnight terror stays

The bulk that checks against the spray

Her crackling tops ablaze?

6

Hit, and hard hit! The blow went home,

The muffled, knocking stroke–

The steam that overruns the foam–

The foam that thins to smoke–

The smoke that clokes the deep aboil–

The deep that chokes her throes

Till, streaked with ash and sleeked with oil,

The lukewarm whirlpools close!

7

A shadow down the sickened wave

Long since her slayer fled:

But hear their chattering quick-fires rave

Astern, abeam, ahead!

Panic that shells the drifting spar–

Loud waste with none to check–

Mad fear that rakes a scornful star

Or sweeps a consort’s deck.

8

Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick,

Now ere their wits they find,

Lay in and lance them to the quick–

Our gallied whales are blind!

Good luck to those that see the end,

Good-bye to those that drown–

For each his chance as chance shall send–

And God for all! Shut down!

9

The strength of twice three thousand horse

That serve the one command;

The hand that heaves the headlong force,

The hate that backs the hand:

The doom-bolt in the darkness freed,

The mine that splits the main;

The white-hot wake, the ‘wildering speed–

The Choosers of the Slain!


Choose another poem


Explore the site from the Home page

			


				





	

					

				
Recessional
			

			
			

				
God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine–
Lord God of Hosts be with us yet,
Lest we forget–lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget–lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget–lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law–
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget–lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word–
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!  




Choose another poem

			


				





	

					

				
The Two-sided Man
			

			
			

				
Much I owe to the Lands that grew -
More to the Lives that fed -
But most to Allah Who gave me two 
Separate sides to my head. 

Much I reflect on the Good and True 
In the Faiths beneath the sun, 
But most upon Allah who gave me two 
Sides to my head not one.  

Wesley’s following, Calvin’s flock, 
White or yellow or bronze, 
Shaman, Ju-ju or Angekok, 
Minister, Mukamuk, Bonze -  

Here is a health, my brothers, to you, 
However your prayers are said, 
And praised be Allah Who gave me two 
Separate sides to my head!  

I would go without shirt or shoe, 
Friend, tobacco or bread, 
Sooner than lose for a minute the two 
Separate sides of my head!


Choose another poem

			


				





	

					

				
The Looking-Glass
			

			
			

				

              Queen Bess was Harry’s daughter. 
              Stand forward partners all!
              In ruff and stomacher and gown
              She danced King Philip down-a-down,
              And left her shoe to show ’twas true—
              (The very tune I’m playing you)
              In Norgem at Brickwall!  

The Queen was in her chamber, and she was middling old,
Her petticoat was satin, and her stomacher was gold.
Backward and forward and sideways did she pass,
Making up her mind to face the cruel looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As comely or as kindly or as young as what she was! 

Queen Bess was Harry’s daughter. Now hand your partners all! 

The Queen was in her chamber, a-combing of her hair.
There came Queen Mary’s spirit and It stood behind her chair,
Singing “Backward and forward and sideways may you pass,
But I will stand behind you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass
As lovely or unlucky or as lonely as I was!” 

Queen Bess was Harry’s daughter. Now hand your partners all! 

The Queen was in her chamber, a-weeping very sore,
There came Lord Leicester’s spirit and It scratched upon the door,
Singing “Backward and forward and sideways may you pass,
But I will walk beside you till you face the looking-glass.
The cruel looking-glass that will never show a lass,
As hard and unforgiving or as wicked as you was!” 

Queen Bess was Harry’s daughter. Now kiss your partners all! 

The Queen was in her chamber, her sins were on her head.
She looked the spirits up and down and statelily she said:–
“Backward and forward and sideways though I’ve been,
Yet I am Harry’s daughter and I am England’s Queen!”
And she faced the looking-glass (and whatever else there was)
And she saw her day was over and she saw her beauty pass
In the cruel looking-glass, that can always hurt a lass
More hard than any ghost there is or any man there was!


Choose another poem

			


				





	

					

				
The Queen’s Men
			

			
			

				
Valour and Innocence
Have latterly gone hence
To certain death by certain shame attended.
Envy—ah! even to tears!—
The fortune of their years
Which, though so few, yet so divinely ended. 

Scarce had they lifted up
Life’s full and fiery cup,
Than they had set it down untouched before them.
Before their day arose
They beckoned it to close—
Close in confusion and destruction o’er them. 

They did not stay to ask
What prize should crown their task—
Well sure that prize was such as no man strives for;
But passed into eclipse,
Her kiss upon their lips—
Even Belphœbe’s, whom they gave their lives for!


Choose another poem