Poems – Page 76 – The Kipling Society

A Tale of Yesterday’s Ten Thousand Years

1 
Oh! come along ye tuneful 'spins', Melpomene & Co., 
And help to twang this poet's lyre and draw his long, long bow, 
While he retails a 'corker' of ten thousand years ago!
2 
Ten times ten weary centuries ago
(The world runs round in circles) from below 
We came to Simla. Same old game you know!
3 
And I was I, and You were You, and They
Were They, and We were We, and pay was pay; 
And Hearts were trumps, as at the present day.
4 
Ten times ten wicked centuries gone by 
One Hakim Khan, astrologer, nati-
vity, and fortune-teller, came to my
5 
Hotel with leaden dice; and broke my peace 
With prophecies of Marriage and Decease, 
And Wealth and Wisdom—all for five rupees.
6 
Quoth he:—'Four months from now ('twas April then) 
Oh Sahib! esteem yourself most blessed of men,
At Goldsteen's khotee when the clock strikes ten.
7 
When—here he paused, and murmured,—'Who am I? 
Oh Sahib! to force the hand of Destiny?
Look for the maiden with the azure tie.'
8 
I answered:—'Hakim, this is fraud confest: 
I know no maiden epicenely dressed.
Fly Hakim'—and he fled ...For it was best.
9 
Three months rolled on—ten thousand years ago—
I loved (how passionately none can know)
And went to 'Goldsteen's' when the moon was low.
10 
In the verandah, as the clock struck ten
(The dance had barely started), blessed of men
Was I, oh worthy Hakim! Edith Venn
11 
(That was her name ten times ten centuries
Ago) bare on her breast, to my surprise,
A three-inch riband azure as her eyes.
12 
We married. Then I asked her—'Was it fate?' 
She told me Hakim Khan had bade her wait 
In April for a man with sword-scarred pate.
13 
'Wear then this riband.' On her breast she wore— 
We met at 'Goldsteen's'—married—for a score
Of years she lived. Then died. I lived ten more.
14 
Died also. Died the Hakim. Died all men.
The world spun round. My old wife, Edith Venn, 
I wait at 'Goldsteen's' when the clock strikes ten
15 
Tonight .... the riband on her breast ... and she
May haply, at that hour remember me ... 
At all events, I'll 'pop' to her and see.

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A Tale of Two Cities

Where the sober-colored cultivator smiles
                   On his byles;
Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crow
                  Come and go;
Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea,
                  Hides and ghi;
Where the Babu drops inflammatory hints
                  In his prints;
Stands a City—Charnock chose it—packed away
                  Near a Bay—
By the Sewage rendered fetid, by the sewer
                  Made impure,
By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swamp
                   Moist and damp;
And the City and the Viceroy, as we see,
                   Don’t agree. 

Once, two hundred years ago, the trader came
                  Meek and tame.
Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed,
                  Till mere trade
Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth
                  South and North
Till the country from Peshawur to Ceylon
                  Was his own.
Thus the midday halt of Charnock—more’s the pity!—
                  Grew a City.
As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed,
                  So it spread—
Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built
                   On the silt—
Palace, byre, hovel—poverty and pride—
                  Side by side;
And, above the packed and pestilential town,
                   Death looked down. 

But the Rulers in that City by the Sea
                  Turned to flee—
Fled, with each returning spring-tide from its ills
                  To the Hills.
From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blaze
                  Of old days,
From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,
                   Beat retreat;
For the country from Peshawur to Ceylon
                  Was their own.
But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain
                  For his gain.

Now the resting-place of Charnock, ’neath the palms,
                  Asks an alms,
And the burden of its lamentation is,
                  Briefly, this:
“Because for certain months, we boil and stew,
                  So should you.
Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire
                  In our fire!”
And for answer to the argument, in vain
                  We explain
That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot cry:—
                  “All must fry!”
That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain
                   For gain.
Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,
                   From its kitchen. 

Let the Babu drop inflammatory hints
                  In his prints;
And mature—consistent soul—his plan for stealing
                  To Darjeeling:
Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile,
                  England’s isle;
Let the City Charnock pitched on—evil day!—
                   Go Her way.
Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors
                  Heap their stores,
Though Her enterprise and energy secure
                   Income sure,
Though “out-station orders punctually obeyed”
                  Swell Her trade—
Still, for rule, administration, and the rest,
                  Simla’s best.

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A St Helena Lullaby

1 
"How far is St. Helena from a little child at play?"
What makes you want to wander there with all the world between?
Oh, Mother, call your son again or else he'll run away.
(No one thinks of winter when the grass is green!)
2 
"How far is St. Helena from a fight in Paris street?"
I haven't time to answer now—the men are falling fast.
The guns begin to thunder, and the drums begin to beat.
(If you take the first step, you will take the last!)
3 
"How far is St. Helena from the field of Austerlitz?"
You couldn't hear me if I told—so loud the cannons roar.
But not so far for people who are living by their wits.
("Gay go up" means "Gay go down" the wide world o'er!)
4 
"How far is St. Helena from an Emperor of France?"
I cannot see—I cannot tell—the Crowns they dazzle so.
The Kings sit down to dinner, and the Queens stand up to dance.
(After open weather you may look for snow!)
5 
"How far is St. Helena from the Capes of Trafalgar?"
A longish way—a longish way—with ten year more to run.
It's South across the water underneath a falling star.
(What you cannot finish you must leave undone!)
6 
"How far is St. Helena from the Beresina ice?"
An ill way—a chill way—the ice begins to crack.
But not so far for gentlemen who never took advice.
(When you can't go forward you must e'en come back!) 
7 
"How far is St. Helena from the field of Waterloo?"
A near way—a clear way—the ship will take you soon.
A pleasant place for gentlemen with little left to do.
(Morning never tries you till the afternoon!)
8 
"How far from St. Helena to the Gate of Heaven's Grace?"
That no one knows—that no one knows—and no one ever will.
But fold your hands across your heart and cover up your face,
And after all your trapesings, child, lie still!

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A Song to Mithras

Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall! 
'Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!' 
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!

Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat,
Our helmets scorch our foreheads; our sandals burn our feet.
Now in the ungirt hour; now ere we blink and drowse,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!

Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main,
Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again! 
Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!

Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great bull dies,
Look on Thy children in darkness. Oh take our sacrifice!
Many roads Thou hast fashioned: all of them lead to the Light,
Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright!

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A Song of the English

Fair is our lot—O goodly is our heritage!
 (Humble ye, my people, and be fearful in your mirth!)
    For the Lord our God Most High
    He hath made the deep as dry,
 He hath smote for us a pathway to the ends of all the Earth! 

Yea, though we sinned—and our rulers went from righteousness—
 Deep in all dishonour though we stained our garments' hem.
    Oh be ye not dismayed,
    Though we stumbled and we strayed,
 We were led by evil counsellors—the Lord shall deal with them! 

Hold ye the Faith—the Faith our Fathers sealèd us;
 Whoring not with visions—overwise and overstale.
     Except ye pay the Lord
     Single heart and single sword,
 Of your children in their bondage shall He ask them treble-tale! 

Keep ye the Law—be swift in all obedience—
 Clear the land of evil, drive the road and bridge the ford.
     Make ye sure to each his own
     That he reap where he hath sown;
 By the peace among Our peoples let men know we serve the Lord! 

                              *      *      *      *      * 

. . . Hear now a song—a song of broken interludes—
A song of little cunning; of a singer nothing worth.
    Through the naked words and mean
    May ye see the truth between
As the singer knew and touched it in the ends of all the Earth!

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A Song of Kabir

Oh, light was the world that he weighed in his hands!
Oh, heavy the tale of his fiefs and his lands!
He has gone from the guddee and put on the shroud,
And departed in guise of bairagi avowed! 

Now the white road to Delhi is mat for his feet.
The sal and the kikar must guard him from heat.
His home is the camp, and waste, and the crowd - 
He is seeking the Way as bairagi avowed! 

He has looked upon Man, and his eyeballs are clear - 
(There was One; there is One, and but One, saith Kabir);
The Red Mist of Doing has thinned to a cloud -
He has taken the Path for bairagi avowed! 

To learn and discern of his brother the clod,
Of his brother the brute, and his brother the God,
He has gone from the council and put on the shroud
("Can ye hear?" saith Kabir), a bairagi avowed!
 


guddee - seat of justice 
bairagi - wandering holy man
sal and kikar - wayside trees

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A Song of French Roads

"The National Roads of France are numbered throughout, and
carry their numbers upon each kilometre stone. By following these
indications, comprehensible even to strangers, the tourist can see
at a glance if he is on the correct road. For example, Route Nationale
No. 20 conducts from Paris to the Spanish frontier at Bourg-Madame,
in the Eastern Pyrenees; and No.10 to the same frontier at Hendaye,
on the Bay of Biscay.” — GUIDE BOOK.

1
Now praise the Gods of Time and Chance
    That bring a heart’s desire,
And lay the joyous roads of France
    Once more beneath the tyre—
So numbered by Napoleon,
    The veriest ass can spy
How Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame
    And Ten is for Hendaye. 
2
Sixteen hath fed our fighting-line
    From Dunkirk to Péronne,
And Thirty-nine and Twenty-nine
    Can show where it has gone,
Which slant through Arras and Bapaume,
    And join outside Cambrai,
While Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
    And Ten is for Hendaye. 
3
The crops and houses spring once more
    Where Thirty-seven ran,
And even ghostly Forty-four
    Is all restored to man.
Oh, swift as shell-hole poppies pass
    The blurring years go by,
And Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
    And Ten is for Hendaye! 
4
And you desire that sheeted snow
     Where chill Mont Louis stands?
And we the rounder gales that blow
    Full-lunged across the Landes—
So you will use the Orleans Gate,
    While we slip through Versailles;
Since Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
    And Ten is for Hendaye. 
5
Sou’-West by South—and South by West—
    On every vine appear
Those four first cautious leaves that test
    The temper of the year;
The dust is white at Angoulême,
    The sun is warm at Blaye;
And Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
    And Ten is for Hendaye. 
6
Broad and unbridled, mile on mile,
    The highway drops her line
Past Langon down that grey-walled aisle
    Of resin-scented pine;
And ninety to the lawless hour
    The kilometres fly—
What was your pace to Bourg-Madame?
     We sauntered to Hendaye. 
7
Now Fontarabia marks our goal,
    And Bidassoa shows,
At issue with each whispering shoal
    In violet, pearl and rose,
Ere crimson over ocean’s edge
    The sunset banners die . . .
Yes—Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
    But Ten is for Hendaye! 
8
Oh, praise the Gods of Time and Chance
    That ease the long control,
And bring the glorious soul of France
    Once more to cheer our soul
With beauty, change and valiancy
    Of sun and soil and sky,
Where Twenty takes to Bourg-Madame,
    And Ten is for Hendaye!

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A Song of Bananas

1 
Have you no Bananas, simple townsmen all?
   “Nay, but we have them certainly.
“We buy them off the barrows, with the vegetable-marrows
   “And the cabbage of our own country,
   “(From the costers of our own country.)” 
2 
Those are not Bananas, simple townsmen all.
   (Plantains from Canaryward maybe!)
For the true are red and gold, and they fill no steamer’s hold,
   But flourish in a rare country,
   (That men go far to see.) 
3 
Their stiff fronds point the nooning down, simple townsmen all,
   Or rear against the breezes off the sea;
Or duck and loom again, through the curtains of the rain
   That the loaded hills let free—
   (Bellying ’twixt the uplands and the sea.) 
4 
Little birds inhabit there, simple townsmen all—
   Jewelled things no bigger than a bee;
And the opal butterflies plane and settle, flare and rise,
   Through the low-arched greenery,
   (That is malachite and jade of the sea.) 
5 
The red earth works and whispers there, simple townsmen all,
   Day and night in rank fecundity,
That the Blossom and the Snake lie open and awake, 
   As it was by Eden Tree,
   (When the First Moon silvered through the Tree) . . .
6 
But you must go to business, simple townsmen all,
   By ’bus and train and tram and tube must flee!
For your Pharpars and Abanas do not include Bananas
   (And Jordan is a distant stream to drink of, simple townsmen),
   Which leaves the more for me!

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A Song of Addresses

(Dedicated, without permission, to the Calcutta Municipality).

We represent the Ward of Bow Bazar! 
  We're the dolphins of the Hugli on the roll!
We're the crests of Kinchinjunga, we're the sons of Holy Gunga 
  And we come to guide Your Lordship's infant soul!
(CHORUS)  They're the pinks of Ooltadunga, they're the pearls of Holy Gunga,
                      And they'll edify His Lordship's simple soul!

You will please to take your orders, Sir, from us, 
  You will kindly let us warn you of your slips,
As the stewards tried and trusty of the sewage-sodden busti
  You will reverence the wisdom of our lips.
(CHORUS)  He will learn to govern nations through their lucid lucubrations,
                      Who will jump upon his stomach if he trips.

We're your festive fellow-subjects. Hariji!  
  We're a fid of every 'longshore breed and clique—
From the quite-played-out Caucasian to the Jew and the Eurasian 
  And the Chinaman, Armenian and Greek.
(CHORUS)  He will gaze upon the faces of his fellow-subject races, 
                      And will bow before their fine unblushing cheek.

We're the rocket-politicans of Bengal,
  We're the patent gas and atmospheric ram!
We're the Product nickel-plated of a postulate misstated, 
  And an Aspinal-enamel-painted sham!
(CHORUS)  Yes, a paralytic camel done with Aspinal enamel 
                      And a dangerous and homicidal sham.

But we'll teach you how to govern as you ought 
  From  Peshawur to the Coromandel main.
We will all instruct Your Lordship in the duties of your wardship,
  And will regulate the measures of your reign.
(CHORUS)  They will first expound his duty from Peshawur unto Ooty, 
                      And then, perhaps, will flush a city drain.

                      (GENERAL CHORUS)

When they've pointed out the path he ought to tread, 
  And declared their views on Franchise and Reform,
They may rinse a reeking kintal, they may even dare to hint all 
  Their roads are not unflooded after storm.
They may mulct in more than lucre gowlis thrice convict of phuka
  And may segregate their lepers in a gaum.
But at present they're explaining the Entire Art of Reigning 
  To the trumpet and the cymbal and the shawm.

                      (ENCORE VERSE)

When the Eatanswill of Asia knows its place
  And the value of each copper Pott and Slurk,
It may drop unbalanced bluster for the jaroo and the duster—
  It may even—settle down to do its work!

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A Song in the Desert

1 
Friend, thou beholdest the lightning? Who has the charge of it—
To decree which rock-ridge shall receive—shall be chosen for targe of it?
Which crown among palms shall go down, by the thunderbolt broken;
While the floods drown the sere wadis where no bud is token? 
2 
First for my eyes, above all, he made show of his treasure.
First in his ear, before all, I made sure of my measure.
If it were good—what acclaim! None other so moved me.
If it were faulty—what shame? While he mocked me he loved me. 
3 
Friend, thou hast seen in Rida’ar, the low moon descending,
One silent, swart, swift-striding camel, oceanward wending?
Browbound and jawbound the rider, his shadow in front of him,
Ceaselessly eating the distances? That was the wont of him. 
4 
Whether the cliff-walled defiles, the ambush prepared for him;
Whether the wave-crested dunes—a single sword bared for him—
Whether cold danger fore-weighed, or quick peril that took him
Alone, out of comfort or aid, no breath of it shook him. 
5 
Whether he feasted or fasted, sweated or shivered,
There was no proof of the matter—no sign was delivered.
Whatever this dust or that heat, or those fools that he laboured with,
He forgot and forbore no observance towards any he neighboured with. 
6 
Friend, thou hast known at Rida’ar, when the Council was bidden,
One face among faces that leaped to the light and were hidden?
One voice among night-wasting voices of boasting and shouting?
And that face and that voice abide with thee? His beyond doubting! 
7 
Never again in Rida’ar, my watch-fire burning,
That he might see from afar, shall I wait his returning;
Or the roar of his beast as she knelt and he leaped to unlade her,
Two-handedly tossing me jewels. He was no trader! 
8 
Gems and wrought gold, never sold—brought for me to behold them;
Tales of far magic unrolled—to me only he told them,
With the light, easy laugh of dismissal ’twixt story and story—
As a man brushes sand from his hand, or the great dismiss glory. 
9 
Never again in Rida’ar! My ways are made black to me!
Whether I sing or am silent, he shall not come back to me!
There is no measure for trial, nor treasure for bringing.
Allah divides the Companions. (Yet he said—yet he said:—
                                                          “Cease not from singing.”)

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