Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1046 page)

Mary, Pity Women!

You call yourself a man,
  For all you used to swear,
An’ Leave me, as you can,
  My certain shame to bear?
  I’ear! You do not care —
You done the worst you know.
  I ‘ate you, grinnin’ there....
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

Nice while it lasted, an’ now it is over —
Tear out your ‘eart an’ good-bye to you lover!
What’s the use o’ grievin’, when the mother that bore you
(Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?

It aren’t no false alarm,
  The finish to your fun;
You — you ‘ave brung the ‘arm,
  An’ I’m the ruined one!
  An’ now you’ll off an’ run
With some new fool in tow.
  Your ‘eart? You ‘aven’t none...
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

When a man is tired there is naught will bind ‘im
All ‘e solemn promised ‘e will shove be’ind ‘im.
What’s the good o’ prayin’ for The Wrath to strike ‘im
(Mary, pity women!), when the rest are like ‘im?

What ‘ope for me or — it?
  What’s left for us to do?
I’ve walked with men a bit,
  But this — but this is you.
  So ‘elp me, Christ, it’s true!
Where can I ‘de or go?
You coward through and through!...
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

All the more you give ‘em the less are they for givin’ —
Love lies dead, an’ you cannot kiss ‘im livin’.
Down the road ‘e led you there is no returnin’
(Mary, pity women!), but you’re late in learnin’!

You’d like to treat me fair?
  You can’t, because we’re pore?
We’d starve? What do I care!
  We might, but
this
is shore!
  I want the name — no more —
The name, an’ lines to show,
  An’ not to be an ‘ore....
Ah, Gawd, I love you so!

What the good o’ pleadin’, when the mother that bore you
(Mary, pity women!) knew it all before you?
Sleep on ‘is promises an’ wake to your sorrow
(Mary, pity women!), for we sail to-morrow!

Mary’s Son

1911
If you stop to find out what your wages will be
  And how they will clothe and feed you,
Willie, my son, don’t you go on the Sea.
  For the Sea will never need you.

If you ask for the reason of every command,
  And argue with people about you,
Willie, my son, don’t you go on the Land,
  For the Land will do better without you.

If you stop to consider the work you have done
  And to boast what your labour is worth, dear,
Angels may come for you, Willie, my son,
  But you’ll never be wanted on Farth, dear!

The Masque of Plenty

  Argument. — The Indian Government being minded
to discover the economic condition of their lands, sent a Committee to
inquire into it; and saw that it was good.

Scene. —
The wooded heights of Simla. The Incarnation of
   the Government of India in the raiment of the Angel of Plenty
   signs, to pianoforte accompaniment: —

“How sweet is the shepherd’s sweet life!
  From the dawn to the even he strays —
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.
 
(adagio dim.)
Filled with praise!”

(largendo con sp.)
Now this is the position,
                  Go make an inquisition
                  Into their real condition
                    As swiftly as ye may.

             
(p)
Ay, paint our swarthy billions
                  The richest of vermillions
                  Ere two well-led cotillions
                    Have danced themselves away.

Turkish Patrol,
as able and intelligent Investigators wind
                down the Himalayas: —

What is the state of the Nation? What is its occupation?
Hi! get along, get along, get along — lend us the information!

(dim.)
Census the
byle
and the
yabu
— capture a first-class Babu,
  Set him to file Gazetteers — Gazetteers . . .
               
(ff)
What is the state of the Nation, etc., etc.

Interlude,
from Nowhere in Particular, to stringed and Oriental instruments.

Our cattle reel beneath the yoke they bear —
  The earth is iron and the skies are brass —
And faint with fervour of the flaming air
  The languid hours pass.

The well is dry beneath the village tree —
  The young wheat withers ere it reach a span,
And belts of blinding sand show cruelly
  Where once the river ran.

Pray, brothers, pray, but to no earthly King —
  Lift up your hands above the blighted grain,
Look westward — if they please, the Gods shall bring
  Their mercy with the rain.

Look westward — bears the blue no brown cloud-bank?
  Nay, it is written — wherefore should we fly?
On our own field and by our cattle’s flank
  Lie down, lie down to die!

      Semi-Chorus

  By the plumed heads of Kings
      Waving high,
  Where the tall corn springs
      O’er the dead.
  If they rust or rot we die,
  If they ripen we are fed.
  Very mighty is the power of our Kings!

Triumphal return to Simla of the Investigators, attired after
  the manner of Dionysus, leading a pet tiger-cub in wreaths
  of rhubarb-leaves, symbolical of India under medical treatment.
  They sing:
—

We have seen, we have written — behold it, the proof of our manifold toil!
In their hosts they assembled and told it — the tale of the Sons of the Soil.
We have said of the Sickness — “Where is it?” — and of Death — “It is far from our ken,” —
We have paid a particular visit to the affluent children of men.
We have trodden the mart and the well-curb — we hae stooped to the bield and the byre;
And the King may the forces of Hell curb for the People have all they desire!

 
Castanets and step-dance: —

Oh, the
dom
and the
mag
and the
thakur
and the
thag,
  And the
nat
and the
brinjaree,
And the
bunnia
and the
ryot
are as happy and as quiet
And as plump as they can be!

Yes, the
jain
and the
jat
in his stucco-fronted hut,
  And the bounding
bazugar,
By the favour of the King, are as fat as anything,
  They are — they are — they are!

Recitative,
Government of India, with white satin wings
    and electro-plated harp: —

How beautiful upon the Mountains — in peace reclining,
Thus to be assured that our people are unanimously dining.
And though there are places not so blessed as others in naural advantages, which, after all, was only to be expected,
Proud and glad are we to congratulate you upon the work you have thus ably effected.
(Cres.)
How be-ewtiful upon the Mountains!

Hired Band,
 brasses only, full chorus: —

  God bless the Squire
  And all his rich relations
  Who teach us poor people
  We eat our proper rations —
    We eat our proper rations,
    In spite of inundations,
    Malarial exhalations,
    And casual starvations,
  We have, we have, they say we have —
  We
have
our proper rations!

Chorus of the Crystallised Facts

  Before the beginning of years
  There came to the rule of the State
  Men with a pair of shears,
  Men with an Estimate —
  Strachey with Muir for leaven,
  Lytton with locks that fell,
  Ripon fooling with Heaven,
  And Temple riding like H — ll!
  And the bigots took in hand
  Cess and the falling of rain,
  And the measure of sifted sand
  The dealer puts in the grain —
  Imports by land and sea,
  To uttermost decimal worth,
  And registration — free —
  In the houses of death and of birth.
  And fashioned with pens and paper,
  And fashioned in black and white,
  With Life for a flickering taper
  And Death for a blazing light —
  With the Armed and the Civil Power,
  That his strength might endure for a span —
  From Adam’s Bridge to Peshawur,
  The Much Administered Man.

  In the towns of the North and the East,
  They gathered as unto rule,
  They bade him starve his priest
  And send his children to school.
  Railways and roads they wrought,
  For the needs of the soil within;
  A time to squabble in court,
  A time to bear and to grin.
  And gave him peace in his ways,
  Jails — and Police to fight,
  Justice — at length of days,
  And Right — and Might in the Right.
  His speech is of mortgaged bedding,
  On his kine he borrows yet,
  At his heart is his daughter’s wedding,
  In his eye foreknowledged of debt.
  He eats and hath indigestion,
  He toils and he may not stop;
  His life is a long-drawn question
  Between a crop and a crop.

*

byle
— The ox and the pony.
  
dom
— A list of various Indian tribes and castes.

The Master-Cook

“His Gift”

With us there rade a Maister-Cook that came
From the Rochelle which is neere Angouleme.
Littel hee was, but rounder than a topp,
And his small berd hadde dipped in manie a soppe,
His honde was smoother than beseemeth mann’s,
And his discoorse was all of marzipans,
Of tripes of Caen, or Burdeux snailes swote,
And Seinte Menhoulde wher cooken pigges-foote.
To Thoulouse and to Bress and Carcasson
For pyes and fowles and chesnottes hadde hee wonne,
Of hammes of Thuringie colde hee prate,
And well hee knew what Princes hadde on plate
At Christmas-tide, from Artois to Gascogne.

Lordinges, quod hee, manne liveth nat alone
By bred, but meates rost and seethed, and broth,
And purchasable deinties, on mine othe.
Honey and hote gingere well liketh hee,
And whales-flesch mortred with spicerie.
For, lat be all how man denie or carpe,”
Him thries a daie his honger maketh sharpe,
And setteth him at boorde with hawkes eyne,
Snuffing what dish is set beforne to deyne,
Nor, till with meate he all — to fill to brim,
None other matter nowher mooveth him.
Lat holie Seintes sterve as bookes boast,
Most mannes soule is in his bellie most.
For, as man thinketh in his hearte is hee,
But, as hee eateth so his thought shall bee.
And Holie Fader’s self (with reveraunce)
Oweth to Cooke his port and his presaunce.
Wherebye it cometh past disputison
Cookes over alle men have dominion,
Which follow them as schippe her gouvernail.
Enoff of wordes-beginneth heere my tale: —

McAndrew’s Hymn

Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,
An’, taught by time, I tak’ it so — -exceptin’ always Steam.
From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God — -
Predestination in the stride o’ yon connectin’-rod.
John Calvin might ha’ forged the same — -enorrmous, certain, slow — -
Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame — -my “Institutio.”
I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please;
I’ll stand the middle watch up here — -alone wi’ God an’ these
My engines, after ninety days o’ rase an’ rack an’ strain
Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin’ home again.
Slam-bang too much — -they knock a wee — -the crosshead-gibs are loose,
But thirty thousand mile o’ sea has gied them fair excuse....
Fine, clear an’dark — -a full-draught breeze, wi’ Ushant out o’ sight,
An’ Ferguson relievin’ Hay. Old girl, ye’ll walk to-night!
His wife’s at Plymouth.... Seventy — -One — -Two — -Three since he began — -
Three turns for Mistress Ferguson... and who’s to blame the man?
There’s none at any port for me, by drivin’ fast or slow,
Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago.
(The year the Sarah Sands was burned. Oh roads we used to tread,
Fra’ Maryhill to Pollokshaws — fra’ Govan to Parkhead!)
Not but that they’re ceevil on the Board. Ye’ll hear Sir Kenneth say:
“Good morn, McAndrew! Back again? An’ how’s your bilge to-day?”
Miscallin’ technicalities but handin’ me my chair
To drink Madeira wi’ three Earls — -the auld Fleet Engineer
That started as a boiler-whelp — -when steam and he were low.
I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi’ tow!
Ten pound was all the pressure then — -Eh! Eh! — -a man wad drive;
An’ here, our workin’ gauges give one hunder sixty-five!
We’re creepin’ on wi’ each new rig — -less weight an’ larger power;
There’ll be the loco-boiler next an’ thirty miles an hour!
Thirty an’ more. What I ha’ seen since ocean-steam began
Leaves me na doot for the machine: but what about the man?
The man that counts, wi’ all his runs, one million mile o’ sea:
Four time the span from Earth to Moon.... How far, O Lord from thee
That wast beside him night an’ day? Ye mind my first typhoon?
It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi’ the saloon.
Three feet were on the stokehold-floor — -just slappin’ to an’ fro — -
An’ cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show.
Marks! I ha’ marks o’ more than burns — -deep in my soul an’ black,
An’ times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back.
The sins o’ four an’ forty years, all up an’ down the seas.
Clack an’ repeat like valves half-fed.... Forgie’s our trespasses!
Nights when I’d come on to deck to mark, wi’ envy in my gaze,
The couples kittlin’ in the dark between the funnel-stays;
Years when I raked the Ports wi’ pride to fill my cup o’ wrong — -
Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong!
Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode — -
Jane Harrigan’s an’ Number Nine, The Reddick an’ Grant Road!
An’ waur than all — -my crownin’ sin — -rank blasphemy an’ wild.
I was not four and twenty then — -Ye wadna judge a child?
I’d seen the Tropics first that run — -new fruit, new smells, new air — -
How could I tell — -blinf-fou wi’ sun — - the Deil was lurkin’ there?
By day like playhouse-scenes the shore slid past our sleepy eyes;
By night thos soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies,
In port (we used no cargo-steam) I’d daunder down the streets — -
An ijjit grinnin’ in a dream — -for shells an’ parrakeets,
An’ walkin’-sticks o’ carved bamboo an’ blowfish stuffed an’ dried — -
Fillin’ my bunk wi’ rubbishry the Cheif put overside.
Till, off Sambawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a land-breeze ca’,
Milk-warm wi’ breath o’ spice an’ bloom: “McAndrew, Come awa’!”
Firm, clear an’ low — -no haste, no hate — -the ghostly whisper went,
Just statin’ eevidential facts beyon’ all argument:
“Your mither’s god’s a graspin’ deil, the shadow o’ yoursel’,
“Got out o’ books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an’ Hell.
“They mak’ him in the Broomielaw, o’ Glasgie cold an’ dirt,
“A jealous, pridefu’ fetich, lad, that’s only strong to hurt.
“Ye’ll not go back to Him again an’ kiss His red-hot rod,
“But come wi’ Us” (Now who were They?) “an’ know the Leevin’ God,
“That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest,
“But swells the ripenin’ cocoanuts an’ ripes the woman’s breast.”
An’ there it stopped: cut off: no more; that quiet, certain voice — -
For me, six months o’ twenty-four, to leave or take at choice.
‘Twas on me like a thunderclap — -it racked me through an’ through — -
Temptation past the show o’ speech, unnameable an’ new — -
The Sin against the Holy Ghost?... An’ under all, our screw.