Poems – Page 9 – The Kipling Society

Quaeritur

Dawn that disheartens the desolate dunes, 
  Dulness of day as it bursts on the beach, 
Sea-wind that shrillest the thinnest of tunes,  
  What is the wisdom thy wailings would teach? 
Far, far away, down the foam-frescoed reach,  
  Where ravening rocks cleave the crest of the seas, 
Sigheth the sound of thy sonorous speech, 
  As grey gull and guillemot gather their fees;  
  Taking toll of the beasts that are bred in the seas.  

Foam-flakes fly farther than faint eyes can follow—
  Drop down the desolate dunes and are done;
Fleeter than foam-flowers flitteth the Swallow, 
  Sheer for the sweets of the South and the Sun. 
What is thy tale, O thou treacherous Swallow?
  Sing me thy secret, Beloved of the Skies, 
That I may gather my garments and follow—
  Flee on the path of thy pinions and rise
  Where strong storms cease and the weary wind dies. 

Lo! I am bound with the chains of my sorrow; 
  Swallow, swift Swallow, ah, wait for a while!
Stay but a moment—it may be to-morrow
  Chains shall be severed and sad souls shall smile!
Only a moment—a mere minute's measure—
  How shall it hurt such a swift one as thou? 
Pitiless Swallow, full flushed for thy pleasure,
  Canst thou not even one instant allow
  To weaker-winged wanderers? Wait for me now!

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Put forth to watch

Put forth to watch, unschooled, alone, 
  'Twixt hostile earth and sky;
The mottled lizard 'neath the stone 
  Is wiser here than I.

What stir across the haze of heat?
  What omen down the wind?
The buck that break before my feet— 
  They know, but I am blind!

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The Prodigal Son

1 
Here come I to my own again, 
Fed, forgiven, and known again, 
Claimed by bone of my bone again 
  And cheered by flesh of my flesh. 
The fatted calf is dressed for me, 
But the husks have greater zest for me, 
I think my pigs will be best for me, 
  So I'm off to the Yards afresh.
2 
I never was very refined, you see,
(And it weighs on my brother's mind, you see)
But there's no reproach among swine, d'you see, 
  For being a bit of a swine.
So I'm off with wallet and staff to eat 
The bread that is three parts chaff to wheat,
But glory be!— there's a laugh to it, 
  Which isn't the case when we dine.
3 
My father glooms and advises me, 
My brother sulks and despises me, 
And Mother catechises me 
  Till I want to go out and swear. 
And, in spite of the butler's gravity,
I know that the servants have it I 
Am a monster of moral depravity, 
  And I'm damned if I think it's fair! 
4 
I wasted my substance, I know I did, 
On riotous living, so I did, 
But there's nothing on record to show I did 
  Worse than my betters have done. 
They talk of the money I spent out there– 
They hint at the pace that I went out there–
But they all forget I was sent out there 
  Alone as a rich man's son.
5 
So I was a mark for plunder at once, 
And lost my cash (can you wonder?) at once.
But I didn't give up and knock under at once, 
  I worked in the Yards for a spell, 
Where I spent my nights and days with hogs,
And shared their milk and maize with hogs, 
Till, I guess, I have learned what pays with hogs 
  And–I have that knowledge to sell!
6 
So back I go to my job again, 
Not so easy to rob again, 
Not quite so ready to sob again 
  On any neck that's around.
I'm leaving, Pater. Good-bye to you! 
God bless you, Mater! I'll write to you! 
I wouldn't be impolite to you,
  But, Brother, you are a hound!

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The Prayer

My brother kneels, so saith Kabir,
To stone and brass in heathen-wise,
But in my brother’s voice I hear
My own unanswered agonies.
His God is as his fates assign,
His prayer is all the world’s—and mine.

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The Plaint of the Junior Civilian

1 
I have worked for ten seasons or more, 
  In Settlement, District, or Court;
I have served, with the rest of my corps, 
  All over the Province, in short. 
From Ismail accursed, to the Bar, 
  From Jhang to Peshawur I roam, 
And back from Kohat to Hissar; 
          But—
  They tell me I'm 'fresh out from Home'!
2 
I have loved, I have lost, twice or thrice;
  My weeds are 'long Dawsons with straw'; 
I can sit fourteen-ones of shod Vice,
  And badger a pleader-at-law;
I can quote with precision the bulk 
  Of Currie's delectable tome; 
I can coax a Hill Chief from a sulk, 
          And—
  I find I am 'fresh out from Home'.
3 
I can flirt with the girls at the well 
  In dialect rude and uncouth;
I can force a fat Khattri to tell, 
  By accident, half of the truth. 
I can chew like a Rajah my pan, 
  I can slang with a Naqqal or Dôm,
I can say, 'Tera musha Pathan!' 
          Yet—
  They tell me I'm 'fresh out from Home'.
4 
That Home I have quitted an age.
  Ten Junes in the District seem long.
For I sailed when 'Our Boys' was the rage, 
  And 'Tommy, make room' was the song; 
There's a patch on the top of my pate
  That needs not the care of the comb, 
And thirteen-eleven's my weight; 
          Though—
  They tell me I'm 'fresh out from Home'.
5 
I have worn my first saddle and second 
  Clean down to the wood of the tree; 
And D.C.'s a dozen I've reckoned 
  Have managed my transfers and me; 
I am learnéd in roadways and cess,
  In rabi, rice-huskers, and loam-
Over thirty, but nevertheless,
          Write—
  The papers, I'm 'fresh out from Home'.
6 
[I have grievances many and sound,
  That blossom and bloom with the years; 
And imminent dangers surround
  Myself and my 'juvenile' peers
Who remember when Davies was lord, 
  When Egerton passed o'er the foam, 
Ere Aitchison came—the abhorred; 
          Still—
  We learn we are 'fresh out from Home'.]
7 
Oh, babes of the Punjab Commission,   
  Oh, sucklings of '73, 
Consider our humble position, 
  Remember what juniors we be!
Oh, lads without standing or credit, 
  Nous, influence, ukal, aplomb, 
The press, in its wisdom, hath said it: 
          We—
  Are all of us 'fresh out from Home'.

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Pity poor fighting men

All the world over, nursing their scars,
Sit the old fighting-men broke in the wars—
Sit the old fighting-men, surly and grim
Mocking the lilt of the conquerors' hymn.

Dust of the battle o'erwhelmed them and hid. 
Fame never found them for aught that they did. 
Wounded and spent to the lazar they drew, 
Lining the road where the Legions roll through.

Sons of the Laurel who press to your meed, 
(Worthy God's pity most—you who succeed!) 
Ere you go triumphing, crowned, to the stars, 
Pity poor fighting-men, broke in the wars!

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The Pious Sub’s Creed

1 
I do believe in Afghan wars 
  (As far away as Peshin is)
I love to stick them in because 
  Deception most refreshin' is.
And thirteen hundred copies mean, 
  Just thirteen hundred lies you see,
And other papers think we've been
  No end informed and wise you see.
2 
I do believe in 'frontier news'  
  At least cum grano salis,
As giving scope to Wheeler's views
  Who my eternal pal is.
And anything conducive to
  A 'scrap' with 'frontier gup' in it 
Would make us most abusive to
  All papers less well up in it.
3 
I do believe the C.M.G.
  The type of all perfection 
And other papers mostly be
  In need of much correction.
I do believe the native press
  A sink of all that vicious is,
And each 'babu' in English dress 
  A 'darn side' too officious is.
4 
I do believe the British Press 
  Are censors of morality 
Collectively, but none the less
  Imply their deep rascality.
I do believe commandments ten
  To keep one should endeavour 
At least, all unofficial men
  But viceroys—hardly ever. 
5 
I do believe in Earthquake shakes 
  And tickets compliment'ry
The one at least a column makes
  The other free-seat entry.
If any foolish Briton du'st
  Loose captives from captivity
I do believe each journal must
  Incontinently give it he.
6 
I do believe in tiger skins
  From fourteen feet to twenty
At least when for my many sins 
  Mail items aren't in plenty.
I do believe in 'monster' leaps 
  By 'liliputian' horses
And dig out 'flying shots' in heaps
  From 'most authentic sources'.
7 
I do believe the scissors are
  The world's most sure foundation
And pasting paragraphs by far 
  The finest occupation.
I do believe that naught too low
  Or high for daily grist is—
I think the Bible's true—I know
  The Indian Civil List is.

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Parting

Hot kisses on red lips that burn—
   A silence—Then some loving word.—
Two hearts that parted yearn—
   A parting long deferred—

Another kiss—What harm is this I do?
   Another vow of Love that cannot die,— 
   Then far asunder thou and I
Wait the long blank days thro'.

Oh Love, believe me! I have never failed 
   In all my passion, for a moment's space,
   Oh Love believe me—Years shall ne'er efface
   The memory of thy beauty & thy grace, 
Till Life by Death be veiled

For Time and all Eternity I hold
   Firm fixed to thee—If the strong Powers will 
   That thou should'st cease to love me—still
My Love becomes not cold.

One moment longer, ere these lines be thrown 
   In fire that is cooler than my soul,—
   Pray thou, that of our sin—the whole
Be borne by me alone—

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Parade Song of the Camp Animals

ELEPHANTS OF THE GUN-TEAMS 

WE LENT to Alexander the strength of Hercules,
The wisdom of out foreheads, the cunning of our knees.
We bowed our necks to service—they ne’er were loosed again,—
Make way there, way for the ten-foot teams
Of the Forty-Pounder train! 

GUN-BULLOCKS

Those heroes in their harnesses avoid a cannon-ball,
And what they know of powder upsets them one and all;
Then we come into action and tug the guns again,—
Make way there, way for the twenty yoke
Of the Forty-Pounder train! 

CAVALRY HORSES

By the brand on my withers, the finest of tunes
Is played by the Lancers, Hussars, and Dragoons,
And it’s sweeter than ‘Stables’ or ‘Water’ to me,
The Cavalry Canter of ‘Bonnie Dundee!’ 
Then feed us and break us and handle and groom,
And give us good riders and plenty of room,
And launch us in column of squadron and see
The Way of the War-horse to ‘Bonnie Dundee!’ 

SCREW-GUN MULES

As me and my companions were scrambling up a hill,
The path was lost in rolling stones, but we went forward still;
For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere,
And it’s our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to spare! 

Good luck to every sergeant, then, that lets us pick our road!
Bad luck to all the driver-men that cannot pack a load!
For we can wriggle and climb, my lads, and turn up everywhere,
And it’s our delight on a mountain height, with a leg or two to spare! 

COMMISSARIAT CAMELS

We haven’t a camelty tune of our own
To help us trollop along,
But every neck is a hair-trombone
(Rtt-ta-ta-ta! is a hair-trombone!)
And this is our marching-song:
Can’t! Don’t! Shan’t! Won’t!
Pass it along the line!
Somebody’s pack has slid from his back,
’Wish it were only mine!
Somebody’s load has tipped off in the road—
Cheer for a halt and a row!
Urrr! Yarrh! Grr! Arrh!
Somebody’s catching it now! 

ALL THE BEASTS TOGETHER

Children of the Camp are we,
Serving each in his degree;
Children of the yoke and goad,
Pack and harness, pad and load.
See our line across the plain,
Like a heelrope bent again,
Reaching, writhing, rolling far,
Sweeping all away to war!
While the men that walk beside,
Dusty, silent, heavy-eyed,
Cannot tell why we or they
March and suffer day by day.
Children of the Camp are we,
Serving each in his degree;
Children of the yoke and goad,
Pack and harness, pad and load.

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Pagett, M.P.

                                   The toad beneath the harrow knows
                                   Exactly where each tooth-point goes.
                                   The butterfly upon the road
                                   Preaches contentment to that toad.

1 
Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith–
He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth";
Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East", in November,
And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September. 
2 
March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay,
Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay."
March went out with the roses. "Where is your heat?" said he.
"Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.P. 
3 
April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat,–
Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.
He grew speckled and lumpy—hammered I grieve to say,
Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way. 
4 
May set in with a dust-storm,–Pagett went down with the sun. 
All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.
Imprimis–ten day's "liver"—due to his drinking beer;
Later, a dose of fever–slight, but he called it severe. 
5 
Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat–
Lowered his portly person–made him yearn to depart.
He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid,"
But seemed to think it a wonder that any one ever stayed. 
6 
July was a trifle unhealthy,–Pagett was ill with fear.
'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear.
He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears;
But I hadn't seen my children for close upon seven years. 
7 
We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon,
(I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon.
That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled
With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head. 
8 
And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips
As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips",
And the sneers of the travelled idiots who duly misgovern the land,
And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.

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