Poems – Page 78 – The Kipling Society

A Pilgrim’s Way

1 
I do not look for holy saints to guide me on my way,
Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.
If these are added, I rejoice—if not, I shall not mind,
So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.
     For as we come and as we go (and deadly-soon go we!)
     The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!
2 
Thus I will honour pious men whose virtue shines so bright
(Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right),
And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred
(Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head).
     And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,
     The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me! 
3 
And when they bore me overmuch, I will not shake mine ears,
Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.
And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;
Since I myself have done no less and—sometimes pulled it off.
     Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,
     The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me! 
4 
And when they work me random wrong, as oftentimes hath been,
I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean).
And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise.
No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside courtesies.
     But, as we give and as we take—whate’er our takings be—
     The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me! 
5 
But when I meet with frantic folk who sinfully declare
There is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spare
Till I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we have
Show nothing irredeemable on either side the grave.
     For as we live and as we die—if utter Death there be—
     The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me! 
6 
Deliver me from every pride—the Middle, High, and Low—
That bars me from a brother’s side, whatever pride he show.
And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and pen
That bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged. Amen!
That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,
That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,
To prove the same in deed and name, and hold unshakenly
(Where’er I go, whate’er I know, whoe’er my neighbour be)
     This single faith in Life and Death and to Eternity:
     “The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!”

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A Pageant of Elizabeth

      Like Princes crowned they bore them—
        Like Demi-Gods they wrought,
      When the New World lay before them
        In headlong fact and thought. 
      Fate and their foemen proved them
        Above all meed of praise,
      And Gloriana loved them,
        And Shakespeare wrote them plays! 

                *             *              *             *
  
Now Valour, Youth, and Life’s delight break forth
    In flames of wondrous deed, and thought sublime—
Lightly to mould new worlds or lightly loose
    Words that shall shake and shape all after-time! 

Giants with giants, wits with wits engage,
    And England-England-England takes the breath
 Of morning, body and soul, till the great Age
    Fulfils in one great chord:—Elizabeth!

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A Nightmare of Names

1 
It was a wearied journalist who sought his little bed, 
With twenty Burma telegrams all waiting to be read.
Then the Nightmare and her nine-fold rose up his dreams to haunt,
And from those Burma telegrams they wove this dismal chaunt:—
2 
'Bethink thee, man of ink and shears,' so howled the fiendish crew, 
'That each dacoit has one long name, and every hamlet two. 
Moreover, all our outposts bear peculiar names and strange:
There are one hundred outposts and, once every month, they change.
3 
If Poungdoungzoon and Pyalhatzee today contain the foe, 
Be sure they pass tomorrow to Gwebin or Shway-my-o.
But Baung-maung-hman remember, is a trusted Thoongye Woon,
The deadly foe of Maung-dhang-hlat, Myoke of Moung-kze-hloon.
4 
Poungthung and Waustung-chung are not at present overthrown, 
For they are near the Poon beyond the Hlinedathalone;
While Nannay-kone in Ningyan is near Mecakaushay,
But Shway-zet-dau is on the Ma, and quite the other way.
5 
Here are some simple titles which 'twere best to get in writing
In view of further telegrams detailing further fighting:—
Male, Myola, Toungbyoung, Talakso, Yebouk, Myo, 
Nattick, Hpan-loot-kin, Madeah, Padeng, Narogan, Mo.
6 
Pakhang, Samaitkyon, Banze, Mine-tseil, Mine-the-Kulay, 
Mantsankin, Toungbain, Bompan, Aeng, Naung, Banza, Kan-sauÂmya .
Kteepauts, Salung, Enlay, Yindan, Nwa-Koo, Mahan-gyee-kin, 
Kek-kai, Nat-lone, Salay, Toung-lone, Yihon, and lastly Tsin.'
7 
It was a wearied journalist—he left his little bed,
And faced the Burma telegrams, all waiting to be read;
But ere he took his map-book up, he prayed a little prayer— 
'Oh stop them fighting Lord knows who, in jungles Deuce knows where!'

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A New Departure

1 
He had said, in a Viceregal homily,
  (Alas for the sternness of rhyme!)
'I surmise British law's an anomaly,
  Give place to Bengal for a time.' 
These words were the pith of his homily
  And Calcutta considered them crime.
2 
From the City of Baboos  and bustees,  
  From that sorrowing City of Drains,
Came the cry:—'Oh my friend, let us trust he's 
  But mad, through long stay in the plains;
Perplexed with the stench of our bustees,
  His reason has reeled in the plains.'
3 
And the Planters who plant the Mofussil, 
  With Indigo, Coffee, and Tea,
Cried out, when they heard:—'Blow that cuss he'll
  Come down on such folk as we be,
Our coolies will "boss" the Mofussil, 
  With his pestilent A.C.P.C.' 
4 
But the Baboos that browsed in each office 
  Of Subordinate Civil Employ
Cried 'Hurrah for our Viceregal novice!
  Hurrah for the Brahminee boy!
Let the "mean white" be silent, and doff his
  Pith hat to Brahminee boy!'
5 
And the papers they print in Calcutta, 
  And the journals men read in Madras,
Were known in their pages to utter 
  Some hints that he might be an ... !
And this spread, from the sinks of Calcutta, 
  And the swamps of benighted Madras,
Till the thought set the land in a flutter–
  'Ye Gods! was His Lordship an ... ?'
6 
For his notions of natives were curious, 
  So India objected, and rose,
And, when India was properly furious,
  He remarked. 'This discussion I close,
The heat to my health is injurious, 
  I hie to Himalayan snows.'
7 
With the tact that belonged to his station,
  With a suavity solely his own,
He had set by the ears half a nation 
  And left it—to simmer alone.
With his maudlin ma-bap legislation,
  He had played merry Hades and—flown.

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A New Auld Lang Syne

We welcome to our hearts tonight our kinsmen from afar
Brothers in an Empire's fight, and comrades in our war.
For Auld Lang Syne my lads, and the fights of Auld Lang Syne
We drink our cup of fellowship, to the fights of Auld Lang Syne.  

The shamrock thistle leek and rose, with heath and wattle twine
And maple from Canadian snows for the sake of  Auld Lang Syne. 
For Auld Lang Syne take hands, from London to the line,
Good luck to those who toiled with us, since the days of Auld Lang Syne.  

Again to all we hold most dear in life we left behind
The wives we wooed, the bairns we kissed, and the loves of Auld Lang Syne,
For surely you have your sweetheart, and surely I have mine
We toast her name in silence here, and the girls of Auld Lang Syne. 

And last to him, the little man who led our fighting line
From Kabul to Kandahar in the days of Auld Lang Syne.
For Auld Lang Syne and "Bobs", our chief of Auld Lang Syne
We're here to do his work again, as we did in Auld Lang Syne.

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A Nativity

1 
The Babe was laid in the Manger
   Between the gentle kine—
All safe from cold and danger—
   “But it was not so with mine,
                              (With mine! With mine!)
“Is it well with the child, is it well?”
  The waiting mother prayed.
“For I know not how he fell,
  And I know not where he is laid.” 
2 
A Star stood forth in Heaven;
  The Watchers ran to see
The Sign of the Promise given—
   “But there comes no sign to me
                                (To me! To me!)
“My child died in the dark.
  Is it well with the child, is it well?
There was none to tend him or mark,
   And I know not how he fell.” 
3 
The Cross was raised on high;
   The Mother grieved beside—
“But the Mother saw Him die
   And took Him when He died.
                                 (He died! He died!)
“Seemly and undefiled
   His burial-place was made—
Is it well, is it well with the child?
   For I know not where he is laid.” 
4 
On the dawning of Easter Day
   Comes Mary Magdalene;
But the Stone was rolled away,
   And the Body was not within—
                               (Within! Within!)
“Ah, who will answer my word?
  The broken mother prayed.
“They have taken away my Lord,
  And I know not where He is laid.” 
5 
“The Star stands forth in Heaven.
    The watchers watch in vain
For Sign of the Promise given
    Of peace on Earth again—
                                 (Again! Again!)
“But I know for Whom he fell”—
   The steadfast mother smiled,
“Is it well with the child—is it well?
   It is well—it is well with the child!”

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A Murder in the Compound

At the wall's foot a smear of fly-flecked red— 
  Discoloured grass where from the wild bees flee.
Across the pathway to the flower-bed,
  The dark stream struggles forward, lazily, 
Blackened by that fierce fervour overhead
She does not heed, to whom the noontide glare 
  And the flies' turmoil round her livid lips
Are less account than that green puddle where, 
Just out of reach, the turbid water slips
Between the corn-ridge and the siris trees...
  The crows are gathered now, and peer and glance 
Athwart the branches, and no passer sees,
  When Life's last flicker leaves her countenance, 
How, merrily, they drop down, one by one,
To that gay-tinted bundle in the sun.

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A Morning Ride


In the hush of the cool, dim dawn when the shades begin to retreat, 
And the jackal bolts to his lair at the sound of your horse's feet;
When the great kite preens his wings and calls to his mate on the tree
And the lilac opens her buds ere the sun shall be up to see;
When the trailing rosebush thrills with the sparrows' pent up strife,
Oh! a ride in an Indian dawn, there's no such pleasure in life.

There's a bend on the (Ravee) river by the ruined temple gate 
There's a halt in the flowering millet; some twenty minutes to wait 
There's a glimpse of a dark blue habit—a ripple of laughter sweet
And ...only the mynas are witness how the Sahib and the Miss Sahib meet—
There's a whispered sentence of greeting as we canter over the grass—
Where the river runs to the sea like a river of molten glass.

Ah! well it is to be living when hands and heart are good 
To fetter a pulling horse or to love as a youngster should
When pay and the ponies prosper, and the bunniah cheaps his gram,
And the munshi  swears by the prophet, that the Sahib will pass his exam. 
What matter if life has its sorrows while the Present sufficeth for me,
And I live a life in an hour by the bend of the blue Ravee!

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picture credit : Indiatimes.com

A Mistake

1 
Of the two hundred fellows at School 
   I'm no fool,
So I flatter myself, yet confess
   My cunning is less
Than a new boy's whose virulent blows
   Brought blood to my nose.
2 
When the term was young at its birth, 
   And no dearth
Of money perplexed us, I saw
   Bear-sullen and raw
A new boy uncombed and uncouth,
   An ink-spotted youth.
3 
Whose visage suggestive of woe 
   Attracted me so
That I went to him full of good feeling,
   An angel of healing
Self-appointed, and said 'Tis relief
   To pour out one's grief
4 
To one whose experience immense
   Has given him sense.'
He drying his eyes on his cuff
   Pluckt heart up, enough
To answer, all snivel and snuffling:
   'Some beggars were scuffling
5 
And hurt him' (I think 'twas his knee 
   Suffered most in the spree.)
Then fled. Now it chanced I'd a share
   In that little affair,
Hit some one, who knows? Did I care
   For the how, when or where?
6 
Then I asked him, 'Describe me this youth, 
   With spirit and truth;'
He produced a description, full, fervid,
   In speech unreserved,
Of myself as I stood at the time
   Of that Corridor crime:
7 
Wound up his long speech, with a vow,
   (I've forgotten it now—
The words in their fullness and flavour)
   To instruct in behaviour
The person who smote him; then I
   With eagle-grey eye,
8 
In manner most melodramatic 
   Transfixed the lunatic
And said, 'I am he, do your worst
    O Urchin accursed!'
And he glared at me hard for a space, 
   Then full in my face
9 
Threw himself, laying hold of my throat 
   He fixed there and smote.—
Tho' I beat on his head with my fist 
   He would not desist;
This continued, not much to my glory.
   To finish my story—
10 
I was pummelled, kicked, scratched, torn, and smitten, 
   Bemauled and bebitten,
Till I gave up the field, and departed,
   Upset and downhearted.
With a new boy you don't know, don't quarrel, 
   Is my long-winded anecdote's moral.

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A Lost Leader

‘London, 25th. The Marquis of Ripon, in a speech
made at Bolton yesterday, appealed to the people of India
to vindicate his administration, &c.—Reuter’s Telegram.’

George Samuel, Marquis of Ripon, is sadly in need of a chit.
Chatterjees, Bannerjees, Mookerjees, rise ye and fashion it! 
What did His Lordship do for the land that ye live in? Write, 
This was his 'policy',—turmoil and babble and causeless strife. 
Seeds of dissension to sprout when the sower's name is forgot: 
Pedantry set on the throne, preaching the thing which is not. 
What has he done for the land? Look ye. From North to South, 
Have ye a nobler gift than the word of His Lordship's mouth?
Infinite torrent of speech—and he clamours in England yet; 
Crying aloud to the East, lest the East forgive and forget. 
Forgive him the lust for a name that led to his pitiful toil—
Forget what he sowed 'twixt the black and the white—the brawl and the broil.
He was 'greatest of all our rulers'. Are ye better thereby or worse?
Did he charm black want from your fields, or silver into your purse?
Did he sharpen the sword at the threshold that the house might be free from the foe?
Has he given you aught save words that ye worship His Lordship so? 
Ay! Fittest of rulers was he for a loud-mouthed, cackling land.
For ye live by words where men live by the work of their head and their hand—
As He lived, and shall live, by words who has fashioned him ropes of sand.

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