RUDYARD KIPLING

THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR

                  'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor

                  With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead?

                  She 'as ships on the foam -- she 'as millions at 'ome,

                  An' she pays us poor beggars in red.

                      (Ow, poor beggars in red!)

                  There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses,

                  There's 'er mark on the medical stores --

                  An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind

                  That takes us to various wars.

                   (Poor beggars! -- barbarious wars!)

                  Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor,

                   An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns,

                   The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces

                   O' Missis Victorier's sons.

                         (Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!)

                  Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,

                  For 'alf o' Creation she owns:

                  We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,

                  An' we've salted it down with our bones.

                      (Poor beggars! -- it's blue with our bones!)

                  Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,

                  Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,

                  For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown

                  When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!

                      (Poor beggars! -- we're sent to say "Stop"!)

                   Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,

                   From the Pole to the Tropics it runs --

                   To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,

                   An' open in form with the guns.

                         (Poor beggars! -- it's always they guns!)

                  We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor,

                  It's safest to let 'er alone:

                  For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land

                  Wherever the bugles are blown.

                      (Poor beggars! -- an' don't we get blown!)

                  Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin',

                  An' flop round the earth till you're dead;

                  But you won't get away from the tune that they play

                  To the bloomin' old rag over'ead.

                      (Poor beggars! -- it's 'ot over'ead!)

                  Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow,

                   Wherever, 'owever they roam.

                   'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require

                   A speedy return to their 'ome.

                         (Poor beggars! -- they'll never see 'ome!)

                  THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain   shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side,

And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride:

He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day,

And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.

Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides:

"Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?"

Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:

"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.

At dusk he harries the Abazai -- at dawn he is into Bonair,

But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare,

So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,

By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.

But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,

For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.

There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,

And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen."

The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he,

With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Helland the head of the gallows-tree.

The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat --

Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.

He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,

Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,

Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,

And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack.

He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.

"Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said.  "Show now if ye can ride."

It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go,

The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.

The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,

But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.

There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,

And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen.

They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,

The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.

The dun he fell at a water-course -- in a woeful heap fell he,

And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.

He has knocked the pistol out of his hand -- small room was there to strive,

'Twas only by favour of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive:

There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,

But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.

If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,

The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row:

If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,

The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly."

Lightly answered the Colonel's son:  "Do good to bird and beast,

But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.

If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away,

Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.

They will feed their horse on the standing crop,their men on the garnered grain,

The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.

But if thou thinkest the price be fair, -- thy brethren wait to sup,

The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, -- howl, dog, and call them up!

And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,

Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!"

Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.

"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and grey wolf meet.

May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;

What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?"

Lightly answered the Colonel's son:  "I hold by the blood of my clan:

Take up the mare for my father's gift -- by God, she has carried a man!"

The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast;

"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best.

So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,

My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain."

The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end,

"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he;"will ye take the mate from a friend?"

"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb.

Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!"

With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest --

He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.

"Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides,

And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.

Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,

Thy life is his -- thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.

So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,

And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line,

And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power --

Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur."

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault,

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,

On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.

The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,

And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.

And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear --

There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.

"Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son.

"Put up the steel at your sides!

Last night ye had struck at a Border thief -- to-night 'tis a man of the Guides!"

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,

When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth!

 CITIES AND THRONES AND POWERS

Cities and Thrones and Powers,

Stand in Time's eye,

Almost as long as flowers,

Which daily die:

But, as new buds put forth,

To glad new men,

Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,

The Cities rise again.

This season's Daffodil,

She never hears

What change, what chance, what chill,

Cut down last year's:

But with bold countenance,

And knowledge small,

Esteems her seven days' continuance

To be perpetual.

So time that is o'er kind,

To all that be,

Ordains us e'en as blind,

As bold as she:

That in our very death,

And burial sure,

Shadow to shadow, well-persuaded, saith,

"See how our works endure!"

WHEN EARTH'S LAST PICTURE IS PAINTED

When Earth's last picture is painted

And the tubes are twisted and dried

When the oldest colours have faded

And the youngest critic has died

We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it

Lie down for an aeon or two

'Till the Master of all good workmen

Shall put us to work anew

And those that were good shall be happy

They'll sit in a golden chair

They'll splash at a ten league canvas

With brushes of comet's hair

They'll find real saints to draw from

Magdalene, Peter, and Paul

They'll work for an age at a sitting

And never be tired at all.

And only the Master shall praise us.

And only the Master shall blame.

And no one will work for the money.

No one will work for the fame.

But each for the joy of the working,

And each, in his separate star,

Will draw the thing as he sees it.

For the God of things as they are!

Cold Iron

Cold is for the mistress -- silver for the maid --

Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade."

"Good!" said the Baron, sitting in his hall,

"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of them all."

So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,

Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.

"Nay!" said the cannoneer on the castle wall,

"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- shall be master for you all!"

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,

When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;

He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,

And Iron -- Cold Iron -- was master of it all!

Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)

"What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword?"

"Nay!" said the Baron, "mock not at my fall,

For Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all."

"Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown --

Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown."

"As my loss is grievous, so my hope is small,

For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!)

"Here is Bread and here is Wine -- sit and sup with me.

Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall

How Iron -- Cold Iron -- can be master of men all!"

He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread,

With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:

"See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,

Show Iron -- Cold Iron -- to be master of men all."

"Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.

Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.

I forgive thy treason -- I redeem thy fall --

For Iron -- Cold Iron -- must be master of men all!"

"Crowns are for the valiant -- sceptres for the bold!

Thrones and powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold."

"Nay!" said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,

"But Iron -- Cold Iron -- is master of men all!

Iron out of Calvary is master of men all!"

                  THE EXPLANATION

                  Love and Death once ceased their strife

                  At the Tavern of Man's Life.

                  Called for wine, and threw -- alas! --

                  Each his quiver on the grass.

                  When the bout was o'er they found

                  Mingled arrows strewed the ground.

                  Hastily they gathered then

                  Each the loves and lives of men.

                  Ah, the fateful dawn deceived!

                  Mingled arrows each one sheaved;

                  Death's dread armoury was stored

                  With the shafts he most abhorred;

                  Love's light quiver groaned beneath

                  Venom-headed darts of Death.

                  Thus it was they wrought our woe

                  At the Tavern long ago.

                  Tell me, do our masters know,

                  Loosing blindly as they fly,

                  Old men love while young men die?

                   THE LEGEND OF EVIL

                    I

                  This is the sorrowful story

                  Told when the twilight fails

                  And the monkeys walk together

                  Holding their neighbours' tails: --

                  "Our fathers lived in the forest,

                  Foolish people were they,

                  They went down to the cornland

                  To teach the farmers to play.

                  "Our fathers frisked in the millet,

                  Our fathers skipped in the wheat,

                  Our fathers hung from the branches,

                  Our fathers danced in the street.

                  "Then came the terrible farmers,

                  Nothing of play they knew,

                  Only. . .they caught our fathers

                  And set them to labour too!

                  "Set them to work in the cornland

                  With ploughs and sickles and flails,

                  Put them in mud-walled prisons

                  And -- cut off their beautiful tails!

                  "Now, we can watch our fathers,

                  Sullen and bowed and old,

                  Stooping over the millet,

                  Sharing the silly mould,

                  "Driving a foolish furrow,

                  Mending a muddy yoke,

                  Sleeping in mud-walled prisons,

                  Steeping their food in smoke.

                  "We may not speak to our fathers,

                  For if the farmers knew

                  They would come up to the forest

                  And set us to labour too."

                  This is the horrible story

                  Told as the twilight fails

                  And the monkeys walk together

                  Holding their kinsmen's tails.

                    II

                  'Twas when the rain fell steady an' the Ark was pitched an' ready,

                  That Noah got his orders for to take the bastes below;

                  He dragged them all together by the horn an' hide an' feather,

                  An' all excipt the Donkey was agreeable to go.

                  Thin Noah spoke him fairly, thin talked to him sevarely,

                  An' thin he cursed him squarely to the glory av the Lord: --

                  "Divil take the ass that bred you, and the greater ass that fed you --

                  Divil go wid you, ye spalpeen!" an' the Donkey went aboard.

                  But the wind was always failin', an' 'twas most onaisy sailin',

                  An' the ladies in the cabin couldn't stand the stable air;

                  An' the bastes betwuxt the hatches, they tuk an' died in  batches,

                  Till Noah said: -- "There's wan av us that hasn't paid his fare!"

                  For he heard a flusteration 'mid the bastes av all creation --

                  The trumpetin' av elephints an' bellowin' av whales;

                  An' he saw forninst the windy whin he wint to stop the shindy

                  The Divil wid a stable-fork bedivillin' their tails.

                  The Divil cursed outrageous, but Noah said umbrageous: --

                  "To what am I indebted for this tenant-right invasion?"

                  An' the Divil gave for answer: -- "Evict me if you can, sir,

                  For I came in wid the Donkey -- on Your Honour's invitation."

" THE POWER OF THE DOG "

There is sorrow enough in the natural way

From men and women to fill our day;

And when we are certain of sorrow in store,

Why do we always arrange for more?

Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware

Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy

Love unflinching that cannot lie—

Perfect passion and worship fed

By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.

Nevertheless it is hardly fair

To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits

Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,

And the vet's unspoken prescription runs

To lethal chambers or loaded guns,

Then you will find—it's your own affair—

But . . . you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,

With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)

When the spirit that answered your every mood

Is gone—wherever it goes—for good,

You will discover how much you care,

And will give your heart to a dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,

When it comes to burying Christian clay.

Our loves are not given, but only lent,

At compound interest of cent per cent.

Though it is not always the case, I believe,

That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:

For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,

A short-time loan is as bad as a long—

So why in—Heaven (before we are there)

Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

To Merilang for my tuition details

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