Rudyard Kipling

(JUTLAND) 1916 Not in the thick of the fight, Not in the press of the odds, Do the heroes come to their height, Or we know the demi-gods. That stands over till peace. We can only perceive Men returned from the seas, Very grateful for leave. They grant us sudden days Snatched from their business of war; But we are too close to appraise What manner of men they are. And, whether their names go down With age-kept victories, Or whether they battle and drown Unreckoned, is hid from our eyes. They are too near to be great, But our children shall understand When and how our fate Was changed, and by whose hand. Our children shall measure their worth. We are content to be blind . . . But we know that we walk on a new-born earth With the saviours of mankind.

1914-18 (Sea Warfare) They bear, in place of classic names, Letters and numbers on their skin. They play their grisly blindfold games In little boxes made of tin. Sometimes they stalk the Zeppelin, Sometimes they learn where mines are laid, Or where the Baltic ice is thin. That is the custom of "The Trade." Few prize-courts sit upon their claims. They seldom tow their targets in. They follow certain secret aims Down under, far from strife or din. When they are ready to begin No flag is flown, no fuss is made More than the shearing of a pin. That is the custom of "The Trade." The Scout's quadruple funnel flames A mark from Sweden to the Swin, The Cruiser's thund'rous screw proclaims Her comings out and goings in: But only whiffs of paraffin Or creamy rings that fizz and fade Show where the one-eyed Death has been. That is the custom of "The Trade." Their feats, their fortunes and their fames Are hidden from their nearest kin; No eager public backs or blames, No journal prints the yarn they spin (The Censor would not let it in! ) When they return from run or raid. Unheard they work, unseen they win. That is the custom of "The Trade."

1914-18 (Sea Warfare) The ships destroy us above And ensnare us beneath. We arise, we lie down, and we move In the belly of Death. The ships have a thousand eyes To mark where we come . . . But the mirth of a seaport dies When our blow gets home.

(‘“The Finest Story in the World”’ —Many Inventions ) 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?

1894 You couldn’t pack a Broadwood half a mile— You mustn’t leave a fiddle in the damp— You couldn’t raft an organ up the Nile, And play it in an Equatorial swamp. I travel with the cooking-pots and pails— I’m sandwiched ’tween the coffee and the pork— And when the dusty column checks and tails, You should hear me spur the rearguard to a walk! With my ‘Pilly-willy-winky-winky-popp!’ [Oh, it’s any tune that comes into my head!] So I keep ’em moving forward till they drop; So I play ’em up to water and to bed. In the silence of the camp before the fight, When it’s good to make your will and say your prayer, You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight, Explaining ten to one was always fair. I’m the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd, Of the Patently Impossible and Vain— And when the Thing that Couldn’t has occurred, Give me time to change my leg and go again. With my ‘Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tump!’ In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled. There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus, I—the war-drum of the White Man round the world! By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread, Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own,— ’Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed, In the silence of the herder’s hut alone— In the twilight, on a bucket upside down, Hear me babble what the weakest won’t confess— I am Memory and Torment—I am Town! I am all that ever went with evening dress! With my ‘Tunka-tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!’ [So the lights—the London Lights—grow near and plain!] So I rowel ’em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh Till I bring my broken rankers home again. In desire of many marvels over sea, Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars, I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores. He is blooded to the open and the sky, He is taken in a snare that shall not fail, He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die, Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale. With my ‘Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!’ [Oh, the green that thunders aft along the deck!] Are you sick o’ towns and men? You must sign and sail again, For it’s ‘Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!’ Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear— Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel— Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer— Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal: Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow, Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine, Hear me lead my reckless children from below Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine! With my ‘Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!’ [Oh, the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!] And we ride the iron stallions down to drink, Through the cañons to the waters of the West! And the tunes that mean so much to you alone— Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose— Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan— I can rip your very heartstrings out with those; With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun— And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink, And the merry play that drops you, when you’re done. To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think. With my ‘Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!’ Here’s a trifle on account of pleasure past, Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin And—the heavier repentance at the last! Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof— I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man! Let the trumpet snare the foeman to the proof— I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran! My bray ye may not alter nor mistake When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things, But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make, Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings? With my ‘Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!’ [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?] But the word—the word is mine, when the order moves the line And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die! The grandam of my grandam was the Lyre— [Oh, the blue below the little fisher-huts!] That the Stealer stooping beachward filled with fire, Till she bore my iron head and ringing guts! By the wisdom of the centuries I speak— To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth— I, the joy of life unquestioned—I, the Greek— I, the everlasting Wonder-song of Youth! With my ‘Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!’ [What d’ye lack, my noble masters! What d’ye lack?] So I draw the world together link by link: Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!

1896 Speakin’ in general, I ’ave tried ’em all— The ’appy roads that take you o’er the world. Speakin’ in general, I ’ave found them good For such as cannot use one bed too long, But must get ’ence, the same as I ’ave done, An’ go observin’ matters till they die. What do it matter where or ’ow we die, So long as we’ve our ’ealth to watch it all— The different ways that different things are done, An’ men an’ women lovin’ in this world; Takin’ our chances as they come along, An’ when they ain’t, pretendin’ they are good? In cash or credit—no, it aren’t no good; You ’ave to ’ave the ’abit or you’d die, Unless you lived your life but one day long, Nor didn’t prophesy nor fret at all, But drew your tucker some’ow from the world, An’ never bothered what you might ha’ done. But, Gawd, what things are they I ’aven’t done? I’ve turned my ’and to most, an’ turned it good, In various situations round the world— For ’im that doth not work must surely die; But that's no reason man should labour all ’Is life on one same shift—life’s none so long. Therefore, from job to job I’ve moved along. Pay couldn’t ’old me when my time was done, For something in my ’ead upset it all, Till I ’ad dropped whatever ’twas for good, An’, out at sea, be’eld the dock-lights die, An’ met my mate—the wind that tramps the world! It’s like a book, I think, this bloomin’ world, Which you can read and care for just so long, But presently you feel that you will die Unless you get the page you’re readin’ done, An’ turn another—likely not so good; But what you’re after is to turn ’em all. Gawd bless this world! Whatever she ’ath done— Excep’ when awful long I’ve found it good. So write, before I die, ‘’E liked it all!’

(MODERN MACHINERY) We were taken from the ore-bed and the mine, We were melted in the furnace and the pit— We were cast and wrought and hammered to design, We were cut and filed and tooled and gauged to fit. Some water, coal, and oil is all we ask, And a thousandth of an inch to give us play: And now, if you will set us to our task, We will serve you four and twenty hours a day! We can pull and haul and push and lift and drive, We can print and plough and weave and heat and light, We can run and race and swim and fly and dive, We can see and hear and count and read and write! Would you call a friend from half across the world? If you’ll let us have his name and town and state, You shall see and hear your crackling question hurled Across the arch of heaven while you wait. Has he answered? Does he need you at his side? You can start this very evening if you choose, And take the Western Ocean in the stride Of seventy thousand horses and some screws! The boat-express is waiting your command! You will find the Mauretania at the quay, Till her captain turns the lever ’neath his hand, And the monstrous nine-decked city goes to sea. Do you wish to make the mountains bare their head And lay their new-cut forests at your feet? Do you want to turn a river in its bed, Or plant a barren wilderness with wheat? Shall we pipe aloft and bring you water down From the never-failing cisterns of the snows, To work the mills and tramways in your town, And irrigate your orchards as it flows? It is easy! Give us dynamite and drills! Watch the iron-shouldered rocks lie down and quake As the thirsty desert-level floods and fills, And the valley we have dammed becomes a lake. But remember, please, the Law by which we live, We are not built to comprehend a lie, We can neither love nor pity nor forgive. If you make a slip in handling us you die! We are greater than the Peoples or the Kings— Be humble, as you crawl beneath our rods!- Our touch can alter all created things, We are everything on earth—except The Gods! Though our smoke may hide the Heavens from your eyes, It will vanish and the stars will shine again, Because, for all our power and weight and size, We are nothing more than children of your brain!

1897 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!

(‘The Winged Hats’ — Puck of Pook’s Hill ) Rome never looks where she treads. Always her heavy hooves fall On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads; And Rome never heeds when we bawl. Her sentries pass on—that is all, And we gather behind them in hordes, And plot to reconquer the Wall, With only our tongues for our swords. We are the Little Folk—we! Too little to love or to hate. Leave us alone and you’ll see How we can drag down the State! We are the worm in the wood! We are the rot at the root! We are the taint in the blood! We are the thorn in the foot! Mistletoe killing an oak— Rats gnawing cables in two— Moths making holes in a cloak— How they must love what they do! Yes—and we Little Folk too, We are busy as they— Working our works out of view— Watch, and you’ll see it some day! No indeed! We are not strong, But we know Peoples that are. Yes, and we’ll guide them along To smash and destroy you in War! We shall be slaves just the same? Yes, we have always been slaves, But you—you will die of the shame, And then we shall dance on your graves! We are the Little Folk, we, etc.

1917 They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young, The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave: But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung, Shall they come with years and honour to the grave? They shall not return to us, the strong men coldly slain In sight of help denied from day to day: But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain, Are they too strong and wise to put away? Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide— Never while the bars of sunset hold. But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died, Shall they thrust for high employments as of old? Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour? When the storm is ended shall we find How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power By the favour and contrivance of their kind? Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends, Even while they make a show of fear, Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their friends, To conform and re-establish each career? Their lives cannot repay us—their death could not undo— The shame that they have laid upon our race. But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew, Shall we leave it unabated in its place?