Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1038 page)

Kitchener’s School

1898

Being a translation of the song that was made by a Mohammedan
schoolmaster of Bengal Infantry (some time on service at Suakim)
when he heard that Kitchener was taking money from the English to
build a Madrissa for Hubshees — or a college for the Sudanese at Khartoum.

OH, HUBSHEE, carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast! This is the message of Kitchener who did not break you in jest. It was permitted to him to fulfil the long-appointed years; Reaching the end ordained of old over your dead Emirs. He stamped only before your walls, and the Tomb ye knew was dust: He gathered up under his armpits all the swords of your trust: He set a guard on your granaries, securing the weak from the strong: He said: — “ Go work the waterwheels that were abolished so long.” He said: — “Go safely, being abased. I have accomplished my vow.” That was the mercy of Kitchener. Cometh his madness now! He does not desire as ye desire, nor devise as ye devise: He is preparing a second host — an army to make you wise. Not at the mouth of his clean-lipped guns shall ye learn his name again, But letter by letter, from Kaf to Kaf, at the mouths of his chosen men. He has gone back to his own city, not seeking presents or bribes, But openly asking the English for money to buy you Hakims and scribes. Knowing that ye are forfeit by battle and have no right to live, He begs for money to bring you learning — and all the English give. It is their treasure — it is their pleasure — thus are their hearts inclined: For Allah created the English mad — the maddest of all mankind! They do not consider the Meaning of Things; they consult not creed nor clan. Behold, they clap the slave on the back, and behold, he ariseth a man! They terribly carpet the earth with dead, and before their cannon cool, They walk unarmed by twos and threes to call the living to school. How is this reason (which is their reason) to judge a scholar’s worth, By casting a ball at three straight sticks and defending the same with a fourth? But this they do (which is doubtless a spell) and other matters more strange, Until, by the operation of years, the hearts of their scholars change: Till these make come and go great boats or engines upon the rail (But always the English watch near by to prop them when they fail); Till these make laws of their own choice and Judges of their own blood; And all the mad English obey the Judges and say that that Law is good. Certainly they were mad from of old; but I think one new thing, That the magic whereby they work their magic — wherefrom their fortunes spring — May be that they show all peoples their magic and ask no price in return. Wherefore, since ye are bond to that magic, O Hubshee, make haste and learn! Certainly also is Kitchener mad. But one sure thing I know — If he who broke you be minded to teach you, to his Madrissa go! Go, and carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast, For he who did not slay you in sport, he will not teach you in jest.

The Ladies

I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it;
  I’ve rouged an’ I’ve ranged in my time;
I’ve ‘ad my pickin’ o’ seethearts,
  An’ four o’ the lot was prime.
One was an ‘arf-caste widow,
  One was awoman at Prome,
One was the wife of a
jemadar-sais
  An’ one is a girl at ‘ome.

Now I aren’t no ‘and with the ladies,
  For, takin’ ‘em all along,
You never can say till you’ve tried ‘em,
  An’ then you are like to be wrong.
There’s times when you’ll think that you mightn’t,
  There’s times when you’ll know that you might;
But the things you will learn from the Yellow an’ Brown,
  They’ll ‘elp you a lot with the White!

I was a young un at ‘Oogli,
  Shy as a girl to begin;
Aggie de Castrer she made me,
  An’ Aggie was clever as sin;
Older than me, but my first un —
  More like a mother she were —
Showed me the way to promotion an’ pay,
  An’ I learned about women from ‘er!

Then I was ordered to Burma,
  Actin’ in charge o’ Bazar,
An’ I got me a tiddy live ‘eathen
  Through buyin’ supplies off ‘er pa.
Funny an’ yellow an’ faithful —
  Doll in a teacup she were —
But we lived on the square, like a true-married pair,
  An’ I learned about women from ‘er!

Then we was shifted to Neemuch
  (Or I might ha’ been keepin’ ‘er now),
An’ I took with a shiny she-devil,
  The wife of a nigger at Mhow;
‘Taught me the gipsy-folks’
bolee;
  Kind o’ volcano she were,
For she knifed me one night ‘cause I wished she was white,
  And I learned about women from ‘er!

Then I come ‘ome in a trooper,
  ‘Long of a kid o’ sixteen —
‘Girl from a convent at Meerut,
   The straightest I ever ‘ave seen.
Love at first sight was ‘er trouble,
 
She
didn’t know what it were;
An’ I wouldn’t do such, ‘cause I liked ‘er too much,
  But — I learned about women from ‘er!

I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it,
  An’ now I must pay for my fun,
For the more you ‘ave known o’ the others
  The less will you settle to one;
An’ the end of it’s sittin’ and thinking’,
  An’ dreamin’ Hell-fires to see;
So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not),
  An’ learn about women from me!

What did the Colonel’s Lady think?
  Nobody never knew.
Somebody asked the Sergeant’s Wife,
  An’ she told ‘em true!
When you get to a man in the case,
  They’re like as a row of pins —
For the Colonel’s Lady an’ Judy O’Grady
  Are sisters under their skins!

Lady Geraldine’s Hardship

E.B. Browning
 — The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)
I turned — Heaven knows we women turn too much
To broken reeds, mistaken so for pine
That shame forbids confession — a handle I turned
(The wrong one, said the agent afterwards)
And so flung clean across your English street
Through the shrill-tinkling glass of the shop-front-paused,
Artemis mazed ‘mid gauds to catch a man,
And piteous baby-caps and christening-gowns,
The worse for being worn on the radiator.

   .    .    .    .    .    .    .

My cousin Romney judged me from the bench:
Propounding one sleek forty-shillinged law
That takes no count of the Woman’s oversoul.
I should have entered, purred he, by the door —
The man’s retort — the open obvious door —
And since I chose not, he — not he — could change
The man’s rule, not the Woman’s, for the case.
Ten pounds or seven days... Just that... I paid!

The Lament of the Border Cattle Thief

O woe is me for the merry life
 I led beyond the Bar,
And a treble woe for my winsome wife
 That weeps at Shalimar.

They have taken away my long jezail,
 My shield and sabre fine,
And heaved me into the Central jail
 For lifting of the kine.

The steer may low within the byre,
 The Jat may tend his grain,
But there’ll be neither loot nor fire
 Till I come back again.

And God have mercy on the Jat
 When once my fetters fall,
And Heaven defend the farmer’s hut
 When I am loosed from thrall.

It’s woe to bend the stubborn back
 Above the grinching quern,
It’s woe to hear the leg-bar clack
 And jingle when I turn!

But for the sorrow and the shame,
 The brand on me and mine,
I’ll pay you back in leaping flame
 And loss of the butchered kine.

For every cow I spared before
 In charity set free,
If I may reach my hold once more
 I’ll reive an honest three.

For every time I raised the low
 That scared the dusty plain,
By sword and cord, by torch and tow
 I’ll light the land with twain!

Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai,
 Young
Sahib
with the yellow hair —
Lie close, lie close as khuttucks lie,
 Fat herds below Bonair!

The one I’ll shoot at twilight-tide,
 At dawn I’ll drive the other;
The black shall mourn for hoof and hide,
 The white man for his brother.

‘Tis war, red war, I’ll give you then,
 War till my sinews fail;
For the wrong you have done to a chief of men,
 And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl.

And if I fall to your hand afresh
 I give you leave for the sin,
That you cram my throat with the foul pig’s flesh,
 And swing me in the skin!

The Land

“Friendly book” — A Diversity of Creatures

When  Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius-a Briton of the Clay,
Saying:  “What about that River-piece for layin’’ in to hay?”

And the aged Hobden answered:  “I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin’ bad.
An’ the more that you neeglect her the less you’ll get her clean.
Have it jest as you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d dreen.”

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style —
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And  in  drouthy  middle  August,  when  the  bones  of  meadows
         show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat — well could Ogier wield his
          brand —
Much he knew of foaming waters — not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: “What about that River-piece; she doesn’t look no good?”

And that aged Hobden answered  “‘Tain’t for me not interfere.
But I’ve known that bit o’ meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you’ve a mind to, but I’ve proved it time on ‘ time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!”

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours’ solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was
        in’t. —
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English-Anglo-Saxon was their name —
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
“Hob, what about that River-bit — the Brook’s got up no bounds? “

 And that aged Hobden answered: “‘Tain’t my business to advise,
But  ye might ha’ known ‘twould happen from the way the valley
                 lies.
 Where ye can’t hold back the water you must try and save the
            sile.
 Hev it jest as you’ve a mind to, but, if I was you, I’d spile!”

 They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,
 And planks of elms behind ‘em and immortal oaken knees.
 And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
 You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.
.       .          .         .          .      .         .          .            .             .
 
Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto
, I, who own the River-field,
  Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
  Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
  All sorts of powers and profits which-are neither mine nor theirs,

  I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
  I can fish-but Hobden tickles — I can shoot — but Hobden wires.
  I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
  Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a
      hedge.

Shall I dog his morning progress o’er the track-betraying dew?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment? I would sooner summons Pan.

His dead are in the churchyard — thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
 And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
 Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

 Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
 Would  I  lose  his  large  sound  council,  miss  his  keen  amending
         eyes.
 He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
 And if flagrantly a poacher — ’tain’t for me to interfere.