Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (1085 page)

There is no need to give our reasons, though
  Gawd knows we all ‘ad reasons which were fair;
But other people might not judge ‘em so —
  And now it doesn’t matter what they were.

What man can weigh or size another’s woe:
  There are some things too bitter ‘ard to bear.
Suffice it we ‘ave finished — Domino!
  As we can testify, for we are there,
In the side-world where “wilful-missings “ go.

The Winners

(“The Story of the Gadsbys”)

What the moral? Who rides may read.
When the night is thick and the tracks are blind
A friend at a pinch is a friend, indeed,
But a fool to wait for the laggard behind.
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest who travels alone.

White hands cling to the tightened rein,
Slipping the spur from the booted heel,
Tenderest voices cry “ Turn again!”
Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel,
High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone —
He travels the fastest who travels alone.

One may fall but he falls by himself —
Falls by himself with himself to blame.
One may attain and to him is pelf —
Loot of the city in Gold or Fame.
Plunder of earth shall be all his own
Who travels the fastest and travels alone.

Wherefore the more ye be helpen-.en and stayed,
Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil,
Sing the heretical song I have made —
His be the labour and yours be the spoil.
Win by his aid and the aid disown —
He travels the fastest who travels alone!

The Wishing-Caps

Enlarged  From  “Kim”

               Life’s all getting and giving,
               I’ve only myself to give.
               What shall I do for a living?
               I’ve only one life to live.
               End it?  I’ll not find another.
               Spend it? But how shall I best?
               Sure the wise plan is to live like a man
               And Luck may look after the rest!
               Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
               Give or hold at your will.
               If I’ve no care for Fortune,
               Fortune must follow me still.

               Bad Luck, she is never a lady
               But the commonest wench on the street,
               Shuffling, shabby and shady,
               Shameless to pass or meet.
               Walk with her once — it’s a weakness!
               Talk to her twice. It’s a crime!
               Thrust her away when she gives you “good day”
               And the besom won’t board you next time.
               Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
               What is Your Ladyship’s mood?
               If I have no care for Fortune,
               My Fortune is bound to be good!

               Good Luck she is never a lady
               But the cursedest quean alive!
               Tricksy,  wincing  and  jady,
               Kittle to lead or drive.
               Greet her — she’s hailing a stranger!
               Meet her — she’s busking to leave.
               Let her alone for a shrew  to the bone,
               And the hussy comes plucking your sleeve!
               Largesse!  Largesse, Fortune!
               I’ll neither follow nor flee.
               If I don’t run after Fortune,
               Fortune must run after me!

With Drake in the Tropics

A.D. 1580
South and far south below the Line,
  Our Admiral leads us on,
Above, undreamed-of planets shine —
  The stars we know are gone.
Around, our clustered seamen mark
  The silent deep ablaze
With fires, through which the far-down shark
  Shoots glimmering on his ways.

The sultry tropic breezes fail
  That plagued us all day through;
Like molten silver hangs our sail,
  Our decks are dark with dew.
Now the rank moon commands the sky.
  Ho! Bid the watch beware
And rouse all sleeping men that lie
  Unsheltered in her glare.

How long the time ‘twixt bell and bell!
  How still our lanthorns burn!
How strange our whispered words that tell
  Of England and return!
Old towns, old streets, old friends, old loves,
  We name them each to each,
While the lit face of Heaven removes
  Them farther from our reach.

Now is the utmost ebb of night
  When mind and body sink,
And loneliness and gathering fright
  O’erwhelm us, if we think —
Yet, look, where in his room apart,
  All windows opened wide,
Our Admiral thrusts away the chart
  And comes to walk outside.

Kindly, from man to man he goes,
  With comfort, praise, or jest,
Quick to suspect our childish woes,
  Our terror and unrest.
It is as though the sun should shine —
  Our midnight fears are gone!
South and far south below the Line,
  Our Admiral leads us on!

With Scindia to Delphi

More than a hundred years ago, in a great battle fought near Delhi,
an Indian Prince rode fifty miles after the day was lost
with a beggar-girl, who had loved him and followed him in all his camps,
on his saddle-bow.  He lost the girl when almost within sight of safety.
A Maratta trooper tells the story: —

The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck,
 Our hands and scarfs were saffron-dyed for signal of despair,
When we went forth to Paniput to battle with the
Mlech
, —
 Ere we came back from Paniput and left a kingdom there.

Thrice thirty thousand men were we to force the Jumna fords —
 The hawk-winged horse of Damajee, mailed squadrons of the Bhao,
Stark levies of the southern hills, the Deccan’s sharpest swords,
 And he the harlot’s traitor son the goatherd Mulhar Rao!

Thrice thirty thousand men were we before the mists had cleared,
 The low white mists of morning heard the war-conch scream and bray;
We called upon Bhowani and we gripped them by the beard,
 We rolled upon them like a flood and washed their ranks away.

The children of the hills of Khost before our lances ran,
 We drove the black Rohillas back as cattle to the pen;
‘Twas then we needed Mulhar Rao to end what we began,
 A thousand men had saved the charge; he fled the field with ten!

There was no room to clear a sword — no power to strike a blow,
 For foot to foot, ay, breast to breast, the battle held us fast —
Save where the naked hill-men ran, and stabbing from below
 Brought down the horse and rider and we trampled them and passed.

To left the roar of musketry rang like a falling flood —
 To right the sunshine rippled red from redder lance and blade —
Above the dark
Upsaras
* flew, beneath us plashed the blood,
 And, bellying black against the dust, the Bhagwa Jhanda swayed.

* The Choosers of the Slain.

I saw it fall in smoke and fire, the banner of the Bhao;
 I heard a voice across the press of one who called in vain: —
“Ho! Anand Rao Nimbalkhur, ride!  Get aid of Mulhar Rao!
 Go shame his squadrons into fight — the Bhao — the Bhao is slain!”

Thereat, as when a sand-bar breaks in clotted spume and spray —
 When rain of later autumn sweeps the Jumna water-head,
Before their charge from flank to flank our riven ranks gave way;
 But of the waters of that flood the Jumna fords ran red.

I held by Scindia, my lord, as close as man might hold;
 A Soobah of the Deccan asks no aid to guard his life;
But Holkar’s Horse were flying, and our chiefest chiefs were cold,
 And like a flame among us leapt the long lean Northern knife.

I held by Scindia — my lance from butt to tuft was dyed,
 The froth of battle bossed the shield and roped the bridle-chain —
What time beneath our horses’ feet a maiden rose and cried,
 And clung to Scindia, and I turned a sword-cut from the twain.

(He set a spell upon the maid in woodlands long ago,
 A hunter by the Tapti banks she gave him water there:
He turned her heart to water, and she followed to her woe.
 What need had he of Lalun who had twenty maids as fair?)

Now in that hour strength left my lord; he wrenched his mare aside;
 He bound the girl behind him and we slashed and struggled free.
Across the reeling wreck of strife we rode as shadows ride
 From Paniput to Delhi town, but not alone were we.

‘Twas Lutuf-Ullah Populzai laid horse upon our track,
 A swine-fed reiver of the North that lusted for the maid;
I might have barred his path awhile, but Scindia called me back,
 And  I — O woe for Scindia! — I listened and obeyed.

League after league the formless scrub took shape and glided by —
 League after league the white road swirled behind the white mare’s feet —
League after league, when leagues were done, we heard the Populzai,
 Where sure as Time and swift as Death the tireless footfall beat.

Noon’s eye beheld that shame of flight, the shadows fell, we fled
 Where steadfast as the wheeling kite he followed in our train;
The black wolf warred where we had warred, the jackal mocked our dead,
 And terror born of twilight-tide made mad the labouring brain.

I gasped: — “A kingdom waits my lord; her love is but her own.
 A day shall mar, a day shall cure for her, but what for thee?
Cut loose the girl:  he follows fast.  Cut loose and ride alone!”
 Then Scindia ‘twixt his blistered lips: — “My Queens’ Queen shall she be!

“Of all who ate my bread last night ‘twas she alone that came
 To seek her love between the spears and find her crown therein!
One shame is mine to-day, what need the weight of double shame?
 If once we reach the Delhi gate, though all be lost, I win!”

We rode — the white mare failed — her trot a staggering stumble grew, —
 The cooking-smoke of even rose and weltered and hung low;
And still we heard the Populzai and still we strained anew,
 And Delhi town was very near, but nearer was the foe.

Yea, Delhi town was very near when Lalun whispered: — “Slay!
 Lord of my life, the mare sinks fast — stab deep and let me die!”
But Scindia would not, and the maid tore free and flung away,
 And turning as she fell we heard the clattering Populzai.

Then Scindia checked the gasping mare that rocked and groaned for breath,
 And wheeled to charge and plunged the knife a hand’s-breadth in her side —
The hunter and the hunted know how that last pause is death —
 The blood had chilled about her heart, she reared and fell and died.

Our Gods were kind.  Before he heard the maiden’s piteous scream
 A log upon the Delhi road, beneath the mare he lay —
Lost mistress and lost battle passed before him like a dream;
 The darkness closed about his eyes — I bore my King away.

You Must n’t Swim...

         You must n’t swim till you’re six weeks old,
              Or your head will be sunk by your heels;
         And summer gales and Killer Whales
              Are bad for baby seals.

         Are bad for baby seals, dear rat,
              As bad as bad can be;
         But splash and grow strong,
         And you can’t be wrong,
              Child of the Open Sea!

The Young British Soldier

When the ‘arf-made recruity goes out to the East
‘E acts like a babe an’ ‘e drinks like a beast,
An’ ‘e wonders because ‘e is frequent deceased
   Ere ‘e’s fit for to serve as a soldier.
      Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
      Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
      Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
         So-oldier
OF
the Queen!

Now all you recruities what’s drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an’ ‘ark to my lay,
An’ I’ll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
   A soldier what’s fit for a soldier.
      Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o’ the grog-sellers’ huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay’nets that rots out your guts —
Ay, drink that ‘ud eat the live steel from your butts —
   An’ it’s bad for the young British soldier.
      Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes — as it will past a doubt —
Keep out of the wet and don’t go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
   An’ it crumples the young British soldier.
      Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o’ your foes is the sun over’ead:
You
must
wear your ‘elmet for all that is said:
If ‘e finds you uncovered ‘e’ll knock you down dead,
   An’ you’ll die like a fool of a soldier.
      Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .