Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1012 page)

0, stop your ringing and let me be —
Let be, 0 Brookland bells!
You’ll ring Old Goodman out of the sea,
Before I wed one else!

Old Goodman’s Farm is rank sea-sand,
And was this thousand year;
But it shall turn to rich plough-land
Before I change my dear.

0, Fairfield Church is water-bound
From autumn to the spring;
But it shall turn to high hill-ground
Before my bells do ring.

0, leave me walk on Brookland Road,
In the thunder and warm rain —
0, leave me look where my love goed,
And p’raps I’ll see her again!

 
Low down — low down!
 Where the liddle green lanterns shine —
 0 maids, I’ve done with ‘ee all but one,
 And she can never be mine!

Brown Bess

The Army Musket — 1700-1815
In the days of lace-ruffles, perukes and brocade
  Brown Bess was a partner whom none could despise —
An out-spoken, flinty-lipped, brazen-faced jade,
  With a habit of looking men straight in the eyes —
At Blenheim and Ramillies fops would confess
They were pierced to the heart by the charms of Brown Bess.

Though her sight was not long and her weight was not small,
  Yet her actions were winning, her language was clear;
And everyone bowed as she opened the ball
  On the arm of some high-gaitered, grim grenadier.
Half Europe admitted the striking success
Of the dances and routs that were given by Brown Bess.

When ruffles were turned into stiff leather stocks,
   And people wore pigtails instead of perukes,
Brown Bess never altered her iron-grey locks.
  She knew she was valued for more than her looks.
“Oh, powder and patches was always my dress,
And I think am killing enough,” said Brown Bess.

So she followed her red-coats, whatever they did,
  From the heights of Quebec to the plains of Assaye,
From Gibraltar to Acre, Cape Town and Madrid,
  And nothing about her was changed on the way;
(But most of the Empire which now we possess
Was won through those years by old-fashioned Brown Bess.)

In stubborn retreat or in stately advance,
  From the Portugal coast to the cork-woods of Spain,
She had puzzled some excellent Marshals of France
  Till none of them wanted to meet her again:
But later, near Brussels, Napoleon — no less —
 Arranged for a Waterloo ball with Brown Bess.

She had danced till the dawn of that terrible day —
   She danced till the dusk of more terrible night,
And before her linked squares his battalions gave way,
   And her long fierce quadrilles put his lancers to flight:
And when his gilt carriage drove off in the press,
 “I have danced my last dance for the world!” said Brown Bess.

If you go to Museums — there’s one in Whitehall —
  Where old weapons are shown with their names writ beneath,
You will find her, upstanding, her back to the wall,
  As stiff as a ramrod, the flint in her teeth.
And if ever we English had reason to bless
Any arm save our mothers’, that arm is Brown Bess!

Buddha at Kamakura

1892
“And there is a Japanese idol at Kamakura”
O ye who tread the Narrow Way
By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day,
Be gentle when “the heathen” pray
  To Buddha at Kamakura!

To him the Way, the Law, apart,
Whom Maya held beneath her heart,
Ananda’s Lord, the Bodhisat,
  The Buddha of Kamakura.

For though he neither burns nor sees,
Nor hears ye thank your Deities,
Ye have not sinned with such as these,
  His children at Kamakura,

Yet spare us still the Western joke
When joss-sticks turn to scented smoke
The little sins of little folk
  That worship at Kamakura —

The grey-robed, gay-sashed butterflies
That flit beneath the Master’s eyes.
He is beyond the Mysteries
  But loves them at Kamakura.

And whoso will, from Pride released,
Contemning neither creed nor priest,
May feel the Soul of all the East
  About him at Kamakura.

Yea, every tale Ananda heard,
Of birth as fish or beast or bird,
While yet in lives the Master stirred,
  The warm wind brings Kamakura.

Till drowsy eyelids seem to see
A-flower ‘neath her golden
htee
The Shwe-Dagon flare easterly
  From Burmah to Kamakura,

And down the loaded air there comes
The thunder of Thibetan drums,
And droned —
“Om mane padme hums”
—
  A world’s-width from Kamakura.

Yet Brahmans rule Benares still,
Buddh-Gaya’s ruins pit the hill,
And beef-fed zealots threaten ill
  To Buddha and Kamakura.

A tourist-show, a legend told,
A rusting bulk of bronze and gold,
So much, and scarce so much, ye hold
  The meaning of Kamakura?

But when the morning prayer is prayed,
Think, ere ye pass to strife and trade,
Is God in human image made
  No nearer than Kamakura?

*

Om mane padme hums
— The Buddhist invocation.

The Burden

“The Gardeners”
From “Debits and Credits” (1919-1923)
One grief on me is laid
   Each day of every year,
Wherein no soul can aid,
   Whereof no soul can hear:
Whereto no end is seen
   Except to grieve again —
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
   Where is there greater pain?

To dream on dear disgrace
   Each hour of every day —
To bring no honest face
   To aught I do or say:
To lie from morn till e’en —
   To know my lies are vain —
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
   Where can be greater pain?

To watch my steadfast fear
   Attend mine every way
Each day of every year —
   Each hour of every day:
To burn, and chill between —
   To quake and rage again —
Ah, Mary Magdalene,
   Where shall be greater pain:

One grave to me was given —
   To guard till Judgment Day —
But God looked down from Heaven
   And rolled the Stone away!
One day of all my years —
   One hour of that one day —
His Angel saw my tears
   And rolled the Stone away!

The Burial

            1904
(C. F. Rhodes, buried in the Matoppos, April 10, 1902)
When that great Kings return to clay,
   Or Emperors in their pride,
Grief of a day shall fill a day,
  Because its creature died.
But we — we reckon not with those
  Whom the mere Fates ordain,
This Power that wrought on us and goes
  Back to the Power again.

Dreamer devout, by vision led
  Beyond our guess or reach,
The travail of his spirit bred
  Cities in place of speech.
So huge the all-mastering thought that drove —
  So brief the term allowed —
Nations, not words, he linked to prove
  His faith before the crowd.

It is his will that he look forth
  Across the world he won —
The granite of the ancient North —
  Great spaces washed with sun.

There shall he patient take his seat
  (As when the Death he dared),
And there await a people’s feet
  In the paths that he prepared.

There, till the vision he foresaw
  Splendid and whole arise,
And unimagined Empires draw
  To council ‘neath his skies,
The immense and brooding Spirit still
  Shall quicken and control.
Living he was the land, and dead,
  His soul shall be her soul!

Butterflies

“
Wireless
” — Traffic and Discoveries

Eyes aloft, over dangerous places,
The children follow the butterflies,
And, in the sweat of their upturned faces,
Slash with a net at the empty skies.

So it goes they fall amid brambles,
And sting their toes on the nettle-tops,
Till, after a thousand scratches and scrambles,
They wipe their brows and the hunting stops.

Then to quiet them comes their father
And stills the riot of pain and grief,
Saying,  “Little ones,  go and gather
Out of my garden a cabbage-leaf.

“You will find on it whorls and clots of
Dull grey eggs that, properly fed,
Turn, by way of the worm, to lots of
Glorious butterflies raised from the dead.”  .  .  .

“Heaven is beautiful, Earth is ugly,”
The three-dimensioned preacher saith;
So we must not look where the snail and the slug lie
For Psyche’s birth.  .  .  .  And that is our death!

By the Hoof of the Wild Goat

“To Be Filed For Reference” — Plain Tales From the Hills

    By the Hoof of the Wild Goat uptossed
    From the cliff where she lay in the Sun
    Fell the Stone
    To the Tarn where the daylight is lost,
    So she fell from the light of the Sun
    And alone!

    Now the fall was ordained from the first
    With the Goat and the Cliff and the Tarn,
    But the Stone
    Knows only her life is accursed
    As she sinks from the light of the Sun
    And alone!

    Oh Thou Who hast builded the World,
    Oh Thou Who hast lighted the Sun,
    Oh Thou Who hast darkened the Tarn,
    Judge Thou
    The sin of the Stone that was hurled
    By the goat from the light of the Sun,
    As she sinks in the mire of the Tarn,
    Even now — even now — even now!

Cain and Abel

1934
Western Version
Cain and Abel were brothers born.
  
(Koop-la! Come along, cows!)
One raised cattle and one raised corn.
 
(Koop-la! Come along! Co-hoe!)

And Cain he farmed by the river-side,
So he did not care how much it dried.

For he banked, and he sluiced, and he ditched and he led
 
(And the Corn don’t care for the Horn) —
A-half Euphrates out of her bed
  To water his dam’ Corn!

But Abel herded out on the plains
Where you have to go by the dams and rains.

It happened, after a three-year drought,
The wells, and the springs, and the dams gave out.

The Herd-bulls came to Cain’s new house
 
(They wanted water so! — )
With the hot red Sun between their brows,
Sayin’ “Give us water for our pore cows!”
  But Cain he told ‘em — “No!”

The Cows they came to Cain’s big house
With the cold white Moon between their brows,
Sayin’ “Give some water to us pore cows!”
   But Cain he told ‘em — “No?”

The li’l Calves came to Cain’s fine house
With the Evenin’ Star between their brows,
 Sayin’ “‘Give us water an’ we’ll be cows!”
   But Cain he told ‘em — “No!”

The Herd-bulls led ‘em back again,
An’ Abel went an’ said to Cain: —
“Oh, sell me water, my brother dear,
Or there will be no beef this year.”
  And Cain he answered — “No!”

“Then draw your hatches, my brother true,
An’ let a little water through.”
  But Cain he answered: — “No!

“My dams are tight an’ my ditches are sound,
An’ not a drop goes through or round
  Till she’s done her duty by the Corn.

“I will not sell, an’ I will not draw,
An’ if you breach, I’ll have the Law,
   As sure as you are born!”

Then Abel took his best bull-goad,
An’ holed a dyke on the Eden road.

He opened her up with foot an’ hand,
An’ let Euphrates loose on the land.

He spilled Euphrates out on the plain,
So’s all his cattle could drink again.

Then Cain he saw what Abel done —
But, in those days, there was no Gun!

So he made him a club of a hickory-limb,
An’ halted Abel an’ said to him: —

“I did not sell an’ I did not draw,
An’ now  you’ve breached I’ll have the Law.

“You ride abroad in your hat and spurs,
Hell-hoofin’ over my cucumbers!

“You pray to the Lord to send you luck
An’ you loose your steers in my garden-truck:

“An’ now you’re bust, as you ought to be,
You can keep on prayin’ but not to me!”

Then Abel saw it meant the life;
But, in those days, there was no Knife: