Selected Poems of Rudyard Kipling
Date: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Year 5; Poetry

Selected Poems
of

Rudyard Kipling

1865-1936

1
A Boy Scouts’ Patrol Song

These are our regulations—

There’s just one law for the Scout

And the first and the last, and the present and the past,

And the future and the perfect is “Look out!”

I, thou and he, look out!

We, ye and they, look out!

Though you didn’t or you wouldn’t

Or you hadn’t or you couldn’t;

You jolly well must look out!

Look out, when you start for the day

That your kit is packed to your mind;

There is no use going away

With half of it left behind.

Look out that your laces are tight,

And your boots are easy and stout,

Or you’ll end with a blister at night.

(Chorus) All Patrols look out!

Look out for the birds of the air,

Look out for the beasts of the field—

They’ll tell you how and where

The other side’s concealed.

When the blackbird bolts from the copse,

Or the cattle are staring about,

The wise commander stops

And (chorus) All Patrols look out!

Look out when your front is clear,

And you feel you are bound to win.

Look out for your flank and your rear—

That’s where surprises begin.

For the rustle that isn’t a rat,

For the splash that isn’t a trout,

For the boulder that may be a hat

(Chorus) All Patrols look out!

For the innocent knee-high grass,

For the ditch that never tells,

Look out!  Look out ere you pass—

And look out for everything else!

A sign mis-read as you run

May turn retreat to a rout—

For all things under the sun

(Chorus) All Patrols look out!

Look out when your temper goes

At the end of a losing game;

When your boots are too tight for your toes;

And you answer and argue and blame.

It’s the hardest part of the Law,

But it has to be learnt by the Scout—

For whining and shirking and “jaw”

(Chorus) All Patrols look out!

2
Blue Roses

The Light that Failed

Roses red and roses white

Plucked I for my love’s delight.

She would none of all my posies—

Bade me gather her blue roses.

Half the world I wandered through,

Seeking where such flowers grew.

Half the world unto my quest

Answered me with laugh and jest.

Home I came at wintertide,

But my silly love had died

Seeking with her latest breath

Roses from the arms of Death.

It may be beyond the grave

She shall find what she would have.

Mine was but an idle quest—

Roses white and red are best!

3
The Broken Men

For things we never mention,

For Art misunderstood—

For excellent intention

That did not turn to good;

From ancient tales’ renewing,

From clouds we would not clear—

Beyond the Law’s pursuing

We fled, and settled here.

We took no tearful leaving,

We bade no long good-byes.

Men talked of crime and thieving,

Men wrote of fraud and lies.

To save our injured feelings

’Twas time and time to go—

Behind was dock and Dartmoor,

Ahead lay Callao!

The widow and the orphan

That pray for ten per cent,

They clapped their trailers on us

To spy the road we went.

They watched the foreign sailings

(They scan the shipping still),

And that’s your Christian people

Returning good for ill!

God bless the thoughtful islands

Where never warrants come;

God bless the just Republics

That give a man a home,

That ask no foolish questions,

But set him on his feet;

And save his wife and daughters

From the workhouse and the street!

On church and square and market

The noonday silence falls;

You’ll hear the drowsy mutter

Of the fountain in our halls.

Asleep amid the yuccas

The city takes her ease—

Till twilight brings the land-wind

To the clicking jalousies.

Day long the diamond weather,

The high, unaltered blue—

The smell of goats and incense

And the mule-bells tinkling through.

Day long the warder ocean

That keeps us from our kin,

And once a month our levee

When the English mail comes in.

You’ll find us up and waiting

To treat you at the bar;

You’ll find us less exclusive

Than the average English are.

We’ll meet you with a carriage,

Too glad to show you round,

But—we do not lunch on steamers,

For they are English ground.

We sail o’ nights to England

And join our smiling Boards—

Our wives go in with Viscounts

And our daughters dance with Lords,

But behind our princely doings,

And behind each coup we make,

We feel there’s Something Waiting,

And—we meet It when we wake.

Ah, God! One sniff of England—

To greet our flesh and blood—

To hear the traffic slurring

Once more through London mud!

Our towns of wasted honour—

Our streets of lost delight!

How stands the old Lord Warden?

Are Dover’s cliffs still white?

4
The Children’s Song

(from Puck of Pook’s Hill)

Land of our Birth, we pledge to thee

Our love and toil in the years to be;

When we are grown and take our place

As men and women with our race.

Father in Heaven who lovest all,

Oh, help Thy children when they call;

That they may build from age to age

An undefiled heritage.

Teach us to bear the yoke in youth,

With steadfastness and careful truth;

That, in our time, Thy Grace may give

The Truth whereby the Nations live.

Teach us to rule ourselves alway,

Controlled and cleanly night and day;

That we may bring, if need arise,

No maimed or worthless sacrifice.

Teach us to look in all our ends

On Thee for judge, and not our friends;

That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed

By fear or favour of the crowd.

Teach us the Strength that cannot seek,

By deed or thought, to hurt the weak;

That, under Thee, we may possess

Man’s strength to comfort man’s distress.

Teach us Delight in simple things,

And Mirth that has no bitter springs;

Forgiveness free of evil done,

And Love to all men ’neath the sun!

Land of our Birth, our faith, our pride,

For whose dear sake our fathers died;

Oh, Motherland, we pledge to thee

Head, heart and hand through the years to be!

5
Covenant

We thought we ranked above the chance of ill.

Others might fall, not we, for we were wise—

Merchants in freedom. So, of our free-will

We let our servants drug our strength with lies.

The pleasure and the poison had its way

On us as on the meanest, till we learned

That he who lies will steal, who steals will slay.

Neither God’s judgment nor man’s heart was turned.

Yet there remains His Mercy—to be sought

Through wrath and peril till we cleanse the wrong

By that last right which our forefathers claimed

When their Law failed them and its stewards were bought.

This is our cause. God help us, and make strong

Our will to meet Him later, unashamed!

6
The Holy War

“For here lay the excellent wisdom of him that built Mansoul, that the walls could never be broken down nor hurt by the most mighty adverse potentate unless the townsmen gave consent thereto.”

—Bunyan’s Holy War.

A tinker out of Bedford,

A vagrant oft in quod,

A privet under Fairfax,

A minister of God—

Two hundred years and thirty

Ere Armageddon came

His single hand portrayed it,

And Bunyan was his name!

He mapped for those who follow,

The world in which we are—

“This famous town of Mansoul”

That takes the Holy War.

Her true and traitor people,

The gates along her wall,

From Eye Gate unto Feel Gate,

John Bunyan showed them all.

All enemy divisions,

Recruits of every class,

And highly-screened positions

For flame or poison-gas;

The craft that we call modern,

The crimes that we call new,

John Bunyan had ’em typed and filed

In sixteen Eighty-two.

Likewise the Lords of Looseness

That hamper faith and works,

The Perseverance-Doubters,

And Present-Comfort shirks,

With brittle intellectuals

Who crack beneath a strain—

John Bunyan met that helpful set

In Charles the Second’s reign.

Emmanuel’s vanguard dying

For right and not for rights,

My Lord Apollyon lying

To the State-kept Stockholmites,

The Pope, the swithering Neutrals

The Kaiser and his Gott—

Their roles, their goals, their naked souls—

He knew and drew the lot.

Now he hath left his quarters,

In Bunhill Fields to lie,

The wisdom that he taught us

Is proven prophecy—

One watchword through our Armies,

One answer from our Lands:—

“No dealings with Diabolus

As long as Mansoul stands!”

A pedlar from a hovel,

The lowest of the low,

The Father of the Novel,

Salvation’s first Defoe,

Eight blinded generations

Ere Armageddon came,

He showed us how to meet it,

And Bunyan was his name!

7
Hymn Before Action

The earth is full of anger,

The seas are dark with wrath,

The Nations in their harness

Go up against our path:

Ere yet we loose the legions—

Ere yet we draw the blade,

Jehovah of the Thunders,

Lord God of Battles, aid!

High lust and froward bearing,

Proud heart, rebellious brow—

Deaf ear and soul uncaring,

We seek Thy mercy now!

The sinner that forswore Thee,

The fool that passed Thee by,

Our times are known before Thee—

Lord, grant us strength to die!

For those who kneel beside us

At altars not Thine own,

Who lack the lights that guide us,

Lord, let their faith atone!

If wrong we did to call them,

By honour bound they came;

Let not Thy Wrath befall them,

But deal to us the blame.

From panic, pride, and terror

Revenge that knows no rein—

Light haste and lawless error,

Protect us yet again,

Cloke Thou our undeserving,

Make firm the shuddering breath,

In silence and unswerving

To taste Thy lesser death.

Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,

Remember, reach and save

The soul that comes to-morrow

Before the God that gave!

Since each was born of woman,

For each at utter need—

True comrade and true foeman—

Madonna, intercede!

E’en now their vanguard gathers,

E’en now we face the fray—

As Thou didst help our fathers,

Help Thou our host to-day.

Fulfilled of signs and wonders,

In life, in death made clear—

Jehovah of the Thunders,

Lord God of Battles, hear!

8
Fifty North and Forty West

(From Just So Stories)

When the cabin port-holes are dark and green

Because of the seas outside;

When the ship goes wop (with a wiggle between)

And steward falls into the soup-tureen,

And trunks begin to slide;

When Nursey lies on the floor in a heap,

And Mummy tells you to let her sleep,

And you aren’t waked or washed or dressed,

Why, then you will know (if you haven’t guessed)

You’re “Fifty North and Forty West!”

9
from How the Camel Got His Hump

(From Just So Stories)

The Camel’s hump is an ugly lump

Which well you may see at the Zoo;

But uglier yet is the hump we get

From having too little to do.

Kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo,

If we haven’t enough to do-oo-oo,

We get the hump—

Cameelious hump—

The hump that is black and blue!

We climb out of bed with a frouzly head,

And a snarly-yarly voice.

We shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl

At our bath and our boots and our toys;

And there ought to be a corner for me

(And I know there is one for you)

When we get the hump—

Cameelious hump—

The hump that is black and blue!

The cure for this ill is not to sit still,

Or frowst with a book by the fire;

But to take a large hoe and a shovel also,

And dig till you gently perspire;

And then you will find that the sun and the wind,

And the Djinn of the Garden too,

Have lifted the hump—

The horrible hump—

The hump that is black and blue!

I get it as well as you-oo-oo—

If I haven’t enough to do-oo-oo!

We all get hump—

Cameelious hump—

Kiddies and grown-ups too!

10
Most Wise Baviaan

(From Just So Stories)

I am the Most Wise Baviaan, saying in Most wise tones,

“Let us melt into the landscape—just us two by our lones.”

People have come—in a carriage—calling. But Mummy is there …

Yes, I can go if you take me—Nurse says she don’t care.

Let’s go up to the pig-styes and sit on the farmyard rails!

Let’s say things to the bunnies, and watch ’em skitter their tails!

Let’s—oh, anything, daddy, so long as it’s you and me,

And going truly exploring, and not being in till tea!

Here’s your boots (I’ve brought ’em), and here’s your cap and stick,

And here’s your pipe and tobacco. Oh, come along out of it—quick!

11
Serving Men

(From Just So Stories)

I keep six honest serving-men

(They taught me all I knew);

Their names are What and Why and When

And How and Where and Who.

I send them over land and sea,

I send them east and west;

But after they have worked for me,

I give them all a rest.

I let them rest from nine till five,

For I am busy then,

As well as breakfast, lunch and tea,

For they are hungry men.

But different folk have different views.

I know a person small—

She keeps ten million serving-men,

Who get no rest at all!

She sends ’em abroad on her own affairs,

From the second she opens her eyes—

One million Hows, two million Wheres,

And seven million Whys!

12
The Sing-Song of Old Man Kangaroo

(From Just So Stories)

This is the mouth-filling song
of the race that was run by a Boomer,

Run in a single burst—
only event of its kind—

Started by big God Nqong
from Warrigaborrigarooma,

Old Man Kangaroo first:

Yellow-Dog Dingo behind.

Kangaroo bounded away,
his back-legs working like pistons—

Bounded from morning till dark,
twenty-five feet to a bound.

Yellow-Dog Dingo lay
like a yellow cloud in the distance—

Much too busy to bark.

My! but they covered the ground!

Nobody knows where they went,
or followed the track that they flew in,

For that Continent
hadn’t been given a name.

They ran thirty degrees,
from Torres Straits to the Leeuwin

(Look at the Atlas, please),
and they ran back as they came.

S’posing you could trot
from Adelaide to the Pacific,

For an afternoon’s run
half what these gentlemen did

You would feel rather hot,
but your legs would develop terrific—

Yes, my importunate son,
you’d be a Marvellous Kid!

13
To Rio

(From Just So Stories)

I’ve never sailed the Amazon,

I’ve never reached Brazil;

But the Don and Magdalena,

They can go there when they will!

Yes, weekly from Southampton

Great steamers, white and gold,

Go rolling down to Rio

(Roll down—roll down to Rio!)

And I’d like to roll to Rio

Some day before I’m old!

I’ve never seen a Jaguar,

Nor yet an Armadill—

He’s dilloing in his armour,

And I s’pose I never will,

Unless I go to Rio

These wonders to behold—

Roll down—roll down to Rio—

Roll really down to Rio!

Oh, I’d love to roll to Rio

Some day before I’m old!

14
from The Cat That Walked by Himself

(From Just So Stories)

Pussy can sit by the fire and sing,

Pussy can climb a tree,

Or play with a silly old cork and string

To ’muse herself, not me.

But I like Binkie my dog, because

He knows how to behave;

So, Binkie’s the same as the First Friend was,

And I am the Man in Cave!

Pussy will play Man Friday till

It’s time to wet her paw

And make her walk on the window-sill

(For the footprint Crusoe saw)

Then she fluffles her tail and mews,

And scratches and won’t attend.

But Binkie will play whatever I choose,

And he is my true First Friend!

Pussy will rub my knees with her head

Pretending she loves me hard;

But the very minute I go to my bed

Pussy runs out in the yard,

And there she stays till the morning-light;

So I know it is only pretend;

But Binkie, he snores at my feet all night,

And he is my Firstest Friend!

15
There Was Never

(From Just So Stories)

There was never a Queen like Balkis,

From here to the wide world’s end;

But Balkis talked to a butterfly

As you would talk to a friend.

There was never a King like Solomon

Not since the world began;

But Solomon talked to a butterfly

As a man would talk to a man.

She was Queen of Sabea—

And he was Asia’s Lord—

But they both of ’em talked to butterflies

When they took their walks abroad!

16
The Bee-boy’s Song

Bees! Bees! Hark to your bees!

“Hide from your neighbours as much as you please,

But all that has happened, to us you must tell,

Or else we will give you no honey to sell!”

A maiden in her glory,

Upon her wedding-day,

Must tell her Bees the story,

Or else they’ll fly away.

Fly away—die away—

Dwindle down and leave you!

But if you don’t deceive your Bees,

Your Bees will not deceive you.

Marriage, birth or buryin’,

News across the seas,

All you’re sad or merry in,

You must tell the Bees.

Tell ’em coming in an’ out,

Where the Fanners fan,

’Cause the Bees are just about

As curious as a man!

Don’t you wait where the trees are,

When the lightnings play,

Nor don’t you hate where Bees are,

Or else they’ll pine away.

Pine away—dwine away—

Anything to leave you!

But if you never grieve your Bees,

Your Bees’ll never grieve you.

17
A Child’s Garden

Now there is nothing wrong with me

Except—I think it’s called T.B.

And that is why I have to lay

Out in the garden all the day.

Our garden is not very wide,

And cars go by on either side,

And make an angry-hooty noise

That rather startles little boys.

But worst of all is when they take

Me out in cars that growl and shake,

With charabancs so dreadful-near

I have to shut my eyes for fear.

But when I’m on my back again,

I watch the Croydon aeroplane

That flies across to France, and sings

Like hitting thick piano-strings.

When I am strong enough to do

The things I’m truly wishful to,

I’ll never use a car or train

But always have an aeroplane;

And just go zooming round and round,

And frighten Nursey with the sound,

And see the angel-side of clouds,

And spit on all those motor-crowds!

18
A Nativity

The Babe was laid in the Manger

Between the gentle kine—

All safe from cold and danger—

“But it was not so with mine,

(With mine! With mine!)

“Is it well with the child, is it well?”

The waiting mother prayed.

“For I know not how he fell,

And I know not where he is laid.”

A Star stood forth in Heaven;

The Watchers ran to see

The Sign of the Promise given—

“But there comes no sign to me.

(To me! To me!)

“My child died in the dark.

Is it well with the child, is it well?

There was none to tend him or mark,

And I know not how he fell.”

The Cross was raised on high;

The Mother grieved beside—

“But the Mother saw Him die

And took Him when He died.

(He died! He died!)

“Seemly and undefiled

His burial-place was made—

Is it well, is it well with the child?

For I know not where he is laid.”

On the dawning of Easter Day

Comes Mary Magdalene;

But the Stone was rolled away,

And the Body was not within—

(Within! Within!)

“Ah, who will answer my word?”

The broken mother prayed.

“They have taken away my Lord,

And I know not where He is laid.”

*   *   *   *   *   *

“The Star stands forth in Heaven.

The watchers watch in vain

For Sign of the Promise given

Of peace on Earth again—

(Again! Again!)

“But I know for Whom he fell”—

The steadfast mother smiled,

“Is it well with the child—is it well?

It is well—it is well with the child!”

19
Our Fathers of Old
from “A Doctor of Medicine” (Rewards and Fairies)

Excellent herbs had our fathers of old—

Excellent herbs to ease their pain—

Alexanders and Marigold,

Eyebright, Orris, and Elecampane—

Basil, Rocket, Valerian, Rue,

(Almost singing themselves they run)

Vervain, Dittany, Call-me-to-you—

Cowslip, Melilot, Rose of the Sun.

Anything green that grew out of the mould

Was an excellent herb to our fathers of old.

Wonderful tales had our fathers of old,

Wonderful tales of the herbs and the stars—

The Sun was Lord of the Marigold,

Basil and Rocket belonged to Mars.

Pat as a sum in division it goes—

(Every herb had a planet bespoke)—

Who but Venus should govern the Rose?

Who but Jupiter own the Oak?

Simply and gravely the facts are told

In the wonderful books of our fathers of old.

Wonderful little, when all is said,

Wonderful little our fathers knew.

Half their remedies cured you dead—

Most of their teaching was quite untrue—

“Look at the stars when a patient is ill.

(Dirt has nothing to do with disease),

Bleed and blister as much as you will,

Blister and bleed him as oft as you please.”

Whence enormous and manifold

Errors were made by our fathers of old.

Yet when the sickness was sore in the land,

And neither planets nor herbs assuaged,

They took their lives in their lancet-hand

And, oh, what a wonderful war they waged!

Yes, when the crosses were chalked on the door—

(Yes, when the terrible dead-cart rolled! )

Excellent courage our fathers bore—

None too learned, but nobly bold

Into the fight went our fathers of old.

If it be certain, as Galen says—

And sage Hippocrates holds as much—

“That those afflicted by doubts and dismays

Are mightily helped by a dead man’s touch,”

Then, be good to us, stars above!

Then, be good to us, herbs below!

We are afflicted by what we can prove,

We are distracted by what we know.

So—ah, so!

Down from your heaven or up from your mould

Send us the hearts of our Fathers of old!

20
The Thousandth Man
based on Ecclesiastes 7:28

One man in a thousand, Solomon says,

Will stick more close than a brother.

And it’s worth while seeking him half your days

If you find him before the other.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine depend

On what the world sees in you,

But the Thousandth Man will stand your friend

With the whole round world agin you.

’Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show

Will settle the finding for ’ee,

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ’em go

By your looks, or your acts, or your glory,

But if he finds you and you find him,

The rest of the world don’t matter;

For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim

With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more talk

Than he uses yours for his spendings,

And laugh and meet in you daily walk

As though there had been no lendings.

Nine hundred and ninety-nine of ’em call

For silver and gold in their dealings;

But the Thousandth Man he’s worth ’em all,

Because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong’s your wrong, and his right’s your right,

In season or out of season.

Stand up and back it in all men’s sight—

With that for your only reason!

Nine hundred and ninety-nine can’t bide

The shame or mocking or laughter,

But the Thousandth man will stand by your side

To the gallows-foot—and after!

21
When Earth’s Last Picture Is Painted

When Earth’s last picture is painted,
and the tubes are twisted and dried,

When the oldest colors have faded
and the youngest critic has died,

We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it—
lie down for an eon or two,

Till the Master of All Good Workmen
shall set us to work anew.

And those who were good shall be happy:

they shall sit in a golden chair;

They shall splash at a ten-league canvas
with brushes of comet’s hair;

They shall find real saints to draw from—

Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;

They shall 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 shall work for the money,
and no one shall work for fame,

But each for the joy of the working,
and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees It
for the God of Things as They are!

22
The Way Through the Woods

They shut the road through the woods

Seventy years ago.

Weather and rain have undone it again,

And now you would never know

There was once a path through the woods

Before they planted the trees.

It is underneath the coppice and heath,

And the thin anemonies.

Only the keeper sees

That, where the ringdove broods,

And the badgers roll at ease,

There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods

Of a summer evening late,

When the night air cools on the trout-ring’d pools

Where the otter whistles his mate

(They fear not men in the woods

Because they see so few),

You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet

And the swish of a skirt in the dew,

Steadily cantering through

The misty solitudes,

As though they perfectly knew

The old lost road through the woods …

But there is no road through the woods.

23
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?

24
If

If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you

But make allowance for their doubting too,

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master,

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;

If all men count with you, but none too much,

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

25
Gunga Din

You may talk o’ gin and beer

When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,

An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;

But when it comes to slaughter

You will do your work on water,

An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.

Now in Injia’s sunny clime,

Where I used to spend my time

A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,

Of all them blackfaced crew

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

It was “Din! Din! Din!

You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!

Hi! slippery hitherao!

Water, get it! Panee lao1

You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.”

The uniform ’e wore

Was nothin’ much before,

An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,

For a piece o’ twisty rag

An’ a goatskin water-bag

Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.

When the sweatin’ troop-train lay

In a sidin’ through the day,

Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,

We shouted “Harry By!”2

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.

It was “Din! Din! Din!

You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?

You put some juldee in it3

Or I’ll marrow you this minute4

If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

’E would dot an’ carry one

Till the longest day was done;

An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin’ nut,

’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.

With ’is mussick on ’is back,5

’E would skip with our attack,

An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire”,

An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide

’E was white, clear white, inside

When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was “Din! Din! Din!”

With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.

When the cartridges ran out,

You could hear the front-files shout,

“Hi! ammunition-mules an’ Gunga Din!”

I shan’t forgit the night

When I dropped be’ind the fight

With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.

I was chokin’ mad with thirst,

An’ the man that spied me first

Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.

’E lifted up my ’ead,

An’ he plugged me where I bled,

An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water-green:

It was crawlin’ and it stunk,

But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,

I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

It was “Din! Din! Din!

’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;

’E’s chawin’ up the ground,

An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:

For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!”

’E carried me away

To where a dooli lay,

An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.

’E put me safe inside,

An’ just before ’e died,

“I ’ope you liked your drink,” sez Gunga Din.

So I’ll meet ’im later on

At the place where ’e is gone—

Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;

’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals

Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,

An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!

Yes, Din! Din! Din!

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,

By the livin’ Gawd that made you,

You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

26
The Overland-Mail

In the name of the Empress of India, make way,

O Lords of the Jungle wherever you roam,

The woods are astir at the close of the day—

We exiles are waiting for letters from Home—

Let the robber retreat; let the tiger turn tail,

In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail!

With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,

He turns to the foot-path that leads up the hill—

The bags on his back, and a cloth round his chin,

And, tucked in his belt, the Post-Office bill;—

“Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,

Per runner, two bags of the Overland-Mail.”

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.

Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff

Does the tempest cry “Halt”? What are tempests to him?

The service admits not a “but” or an “if”;

While the breath’s in his mouth, he must bear without fail,

In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail.

From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,

From level to upland, from upland to crest,

From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur,

Fly the soft-sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.

From rail to ravine—to the peak from the vale—

Up, up through the night goes the Overland-Mail.

There’s a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road—

A jingle of bells on the foot-path below—

There’s a scuffle above in the monkeys’ abode—

The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow—

For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail;—

In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail.

27
Seal Lullaby

Oh, hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,

And black are the waters that sparkled so green,

The moon o’er the combers, looks downward to find us

At rest in the hollows that rustle between.

Where billow meets billow, there soft be thy pillow;

Ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!

The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,

Asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas.

28
Cold Iron

(from Rewards and Fairies)

“Gold 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 of 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!”

29
The Sons of Martha

This poem refers in large part to the following passage in the Bible (Luke 10:38—42, Revised Standard Version):

Now as they went on their way, he entered a village; and a woman named Martha received him into her house. And she had a sister called Mary, who sat at the Lord’s feet and listened to his teaching. But Martha was distracted with much serving; and she went to him and said, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Tell her then to help me.” But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things; one thing is needful. Mary has chosen the good portion, which shall not be taken away from her.”

The Sons of Mary seldom bother,
for they have inherited that good part;

But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother
of the careful soul and the troubled heart.

And because she lost her temper once,
and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,

Her Sons must wait upon Mary’s Sons,
world without end, reprieve, or rest.

It is their care in all the ages
to take the buffet and cushion the shock.

It is their care that the gear engages;
it is their care that the switches lock.

It is their care that the wheels run truly;
it is their care to embark and entrain,

Tally, transport, and deliver duly
the Sons of Mary by land and main.

They say to mountains “Be ye removèd.”

They say to the lesser floods “Be dry.”

Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd—
they are not afraid of that which is high.

Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit—
then is the bed of the deep laid bare,

That the Sons of Mary may overcome it,
pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

They finger Death at their gloves’ end
where they piece and repiece the living wires.

He rears against the gates they tend:

they feed him hungry behind their fires.

Early at dawn, ere men see clear,
they stumble into his terrible stall,

And hale him forth like a haltered steer,
and goad and turn him till evenfall.

To these from birth is Belief forbidden;
from these till death is Relief afar.

They are concerned with matters hidden—
under the earthline their altars are—

The secret fountains to follow up,
waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,

And gather the floods as in a cup,
and pour them again at a city’s drouth.

They do not preach that their God will rouse them
a little before the nuts work loose.

They do not preach that His Pity allows them
to drop their job when they damn-well choose.

As in the thronged and the lighted ways,
so in the dark and the desert they stand,

Wary and watchful all their days
that their brethren’s ways may be long in the land.

Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood
to make a path more fair or flat;

Lo, it is black already with the blood
some Son of Martha spilled for that!

Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven,
not as a witness to any creed,

But simple service simply given
to his own kind in their common need.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd—
they know the Angels are on their side.

They know in them is the Grace confessèd,
and for them are the Mercies multiplied.

They sit at the feet—they hear the Word—
they see how truly the Promise runs.

They have cast their burden upon the Lord,
and—the Lord He lays it on Martha’s Sons!

30
A Pilgrim’s Way

I do not look for holy saints to guide me on my way,

Or male and female devilkins to lead my feet astray.

If these are added, I rejoice—if not, I shall not mind,

So long as I have leave and choice to meet my fellow-kind.

For as we come and as we go (and deadly-soon go we!)

The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

Thus I will honour pious men whose virtue shines so bright

(Though none are more amazed than I when I by chance do right),

And I will pity foolish men for woe their sins have bred

(Though ninety-nine per cent. of mine I brought on my own head).

And, Amorite or Eremite, or General Averagee,

The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

And when they bore me overmuch, I will not shake mine ears,

Recalling many thousand such whom I have bored to tears.

And when they labour to impress, I will not doubt nor scoff;

Since I myself have done no less and—sometimes pulled it off.

Yea, as we are and we are not, and we pretend to be,

The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

And when they work me random wrong, as oftentimes hath been,

I will not cherish hate too long (my hands are none too clean).

And when they do me random good I will not feign surprise.

No more than those whom I have cheered with wayside charities.

But, as we give and as we take—whate’er our takings be—

The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

But when I meet with frantic folk who sinfully declare

There is no pardon for their sin, the same I will not spare

Till I have proved that Heaven and Hell which in our hearts we have

Show nothing irredeemable on either side of the grave.

For as we live and as we die—if utter Death there be—

The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!

Deliver me from every pride—the Middle, High, and Low—

That bars me from a brother’s side, whatever pride he show.

And purge me from all heresies of thought and speech and pen

That bid me judge him otherwise than I am judged. Amen!

That I may sing of Crowd or King or road-borne company,

That I may labour in my day, vocation and degree,

To prove the same in deed and name, and hold unshakenly

(Where’er I go, whate’er I know, whoe’er my neighbor be)

This single faith in Life and Death and to Eternity:

“The people, Lord, Thy people, are good enough for me!”

31
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!”

32
“For All We Have and Are” (A War Poem)

For all we have and are,

For all our children’s fate,

Stand up and meet the war.

The Hun is at the gate!

Our world has passed away

In wantonness o’erthrown.

There is nothing left to-day

But steel and fire and stone.

Though all we knew depart,

The old commandments stand:—

“In courage keep your heart,

In strength lift up your hand.”

Once more we hear the word

That sickened earth of old:—

“No law except the sword

Unsheathed and uncontrolled,”

Once more it knits mankind,

Once more the nations go

To meet and break and bind

A crazed and driven foe.

Comfort, content, delight,

The ages’ slow-bought gain,

They shrivelled in a night,

Only ourselves remain

To face the naked days

In silent fortitude,

Through perils and dismays

Renewed and re-renewed.

Though all we made depart,

The old commandments stand:—

“In patience keep your heart,

In strength lift up your hand.”

No easy hopes or lies

Shall bring us to our goal,

But iron sacrifice

Of body, will, and soul.

There is but one task for all—

For each one life to give.

Who stands if freedom fall?

Who dies if England live?

33
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 for 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 for the 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?

34
The Choice

The American Spirit Speaks:

To the Judge of Right and Wrong

With Whom fulfillment lies

Our purpose and our power belong,

Our faith and sacrifice.

Let Freedom’s land rejoice!

Our ancient bonds are riven;

Once more to use the eternal choice

Of good or ill is given.

Not at a little cost,

Hardly by prayer or tears,

Shall we recover the road we lost

In the drugged and doubting years.

But after the fires and the wrath,

But after searching and pain,

His Mercy opens us a path

To live with ourselves again.

In the Gates of Death rejoice!

We see and hold the good—

Bear witness, Earth, we have made our choice

For Freedom’s brotherhood.

Then praise the Lord Most High

Whose Strength hath saved us whole,

Who bade us choose that the Flesh should die

And not the living Soul!

To the God in Man displayed—

Wheree’er we see that Birth,

Be love and understanding paid

As never yet on earth!

To the Spirit that moves in Man,

On Whom all worlds depend,

Be Glory since our world began

And service to the end!

35
Ballad of the Clampherdown

This was originally written for the “St. James’s Gazette” as a deliberate skit on a letter by a correspondent who seemed to believe that naval warfare of the future would be conducted on the old Nelsonic battle lines, including boarding, etc. By some accident it was treated from the first as a serious contribution—was even, if I remember rightly, set to music as a cantata. I never explained this till now.

—Rudyard Kipling, in the Definitive Edition of his verse, published in 1940, after his death

It was our war-ship Clampherdown

Would sweep the Channel clean,

Wherefore she kept her hatches close

When the merry Channel chops arose,

To save the bleached marine.

She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton,

And a great stern-gun beside;

They dipped their noses deep in the sea,

They racked their stays and stanchions free

In the wash of the wind-whipped tide.

It was our war-ship Clampherdown,

Fell in with a cruiser light

That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun

And a pair o’ heels wherewith to run

From the grip of a close-fought fight.

She opened fire at seven miles—

As ye shoot at a bobbing cork—

And once she fired and twice she fired,

Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired

That lolls upon the stalk.

“Captain, the bow-gun melts apace,

The deck-beams break below,

’Twere well to rest for an hour or twain,

And botch the shattered plates again.”

And he answered, “Make it so.”

She opened fire within the mile—

As ye shoot at the flying duck—

And the great stern-gun shot fair and true,

With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue,

And the great stern-turret stuck.

“Captain, the turret fills with steam,

The feed-pipes burst below—

You can hear the hiss of the helpless ram,

You can hear the twisted runners jam.”

And he answered, “Turn and go!”

It was our war-ship Clampherdown,

And grimly did she roll;

Swung round to take the cruiser’s fire

As the White Whale faces the Thresher’s ire

When they war by the frozen Pole.

“Captain, the shells are falling fast,

And faster still fall we;

And it is not meet for English stock

To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock

The death they cannot see.”

“Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B.,

We drift upon her beam;

We dare not ram, for she can run;

And dare ye fire another gun,

And die in the peeling steam?”

It was our war-ship Clampherdown

That carried an armour-belt;

But fifty feet at stern and bow

Lay bare as the paunch of the purser’s sow,

To the hail of the Nordenfeldt.

“Captain, they hack us through and through;

The chilled steel bolts are swift!

We have emptied the bunkers in open sea,

Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be.”

And he answered, “Let her drift.”

It was our war-ship Clampherdown,

Swung round upon the tide,

Her two dumb guns glared south and north,

And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth,

And she ground the cruiser’s side.

“Captain, they cry, the fight is done,

They bid you send your sword.”

And he answered, “Grapple her stern and bow.

They have asked for the steel. They shall have it now;

Out cutlasses and board!”

It was our war-ship Clampherdown

Spewed up four hundred men;

And the scalded stokers yelped delight,

As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight

Stamp o’er their steel-walled pen.

They cleared the cruiser end to end,

From conning-tower to hold.

They fought as they fought in Nelson’s fleet;

They were stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet,

As it was in the days of old.

It was the sinking Clampherdown

Heaved up her battered side—

And carried a million pounds in steel,

To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel,

And the scour of the Channel tide.

It was the crew of the Clampherdown

Stood out to sweep the sea,

On a cruiser won from an ancient foe,

As it was in the days of long ago,

And as it still shall be.

36
Alnaschar and the Oxen

There’s a pasture in a valley

Where the hanging woods divide,

And a Herd lies down and ruminates in peace;

Where the pheasant rules the nooning,

And the owl the twilight tide,

And the war-cries of our world die out and cease.

Here I cast aside the burden

That each weary week-day brings

And, delivered from the shadows I pursue,

On peaceful, postless, Sabbaths

I consider Weighty Things

Such as Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!

At the gate beside the river

Where the trouty shallows brawl,

I know the pride that Lobengula felt,

When he bade the bars be lowered

Of the Royal Cattle Kraal,

And fifteen miles of oxen took the veldt.

From the walls of Bulawayo

In unbroken file they came

To where the Mount of Council cuts the blue …

I have only six and twenty,

But the principle’s the same

With my Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!

To a luscious sound of tearing,

Where the clovered herbage rips,

Level-backed and level-bellied watch ’em move.

See those shoulders, guess that heart-girth,

Praise those loins, admire those hips,

And the tail set low for flesh to make above!

Count the broad unblemished muzzles,

Test the kindly mellow skin

And, where yon heifer lifts her head at call,

Mark the bosom’s just abundance

’Neath the gay and cleancut chin,

And those eyes of Juno, overlooking all!

Here is colour, form and substance,

I will put it to the proof

And, next season, in my lodges shall be born

Some very Bull of Mithras,

Flawless from his agate hoof

To his even-branching ivory, dusk-tipped horn.

He shall mate with block-square virgins—

Kings shall seek his like in vain,

While I multiply his stock a thousandfold,

Till an hungry world extol me,

Builder of a lofty strain

That turns one standard ton at two years old.

There’s a valley, under oakwood,

Where a man may dream his dream,

In the milky breath of cattle laid at ease,

Till the moon o’ertops the alders,

And her image chills the stream,

And the river-mist runs silver round their knees!

Now the footpaths fade and vanish;

Now the ferny clumps deceive;

Now the hedgerow-folk possess their fields anew;

Now the Herd is lost in darkness,

And I bless them as I leave,

My Sussex Cattle feeding in the dew!

37
The Floods

The rain it rains without a stay

In the hills above us, in the hills;

And presently the floods break way

Whose strength is in the hills.

The trees they suck from every cloud,

The valley brooks they roar aloud—

Bank-high for the lowlands, lowlands,

Lowlands under the hills!

The first wood down is sere and small,

From the hills—the brishings off the hills;

And then come by the bats and all

We cut last year in the hills;

And then the roots we tried to cleave

But found too tough and had to leave—

Polting through the lowlands, lowlands,

Lowlands under the hills!

The eye shall look, the ear shall hark

To the hills, the doings in the hills,

And rivers mating in the dark

With tokens from the hills.

Now what is weak will surely go,

And what is strong must prove it so—

Stand fast in the lowlands, lowlands,

Lowlands under the hills!

The floods they shall not be afraid—

Nor the hills above ’em, nor the hills—

Of any fence which man has made

Betwixt him and the hills.

The waters shall not reckon twice

For any work of man’s device,

But bid it down to the lowlands, lowlands,

Lowlands under the hills!

The floods shall sweep corruption clean—

By the hills, the blessing of the hills—

That more the meadows may be green

New-mended from the hills.

The crops and cattle shall increase,

Nor little children shall not cease.

Go—plough the lowlands, lowlands,

Lowlands under the hills!

38
Four-Feet

I have done mostly what most men do,

And pushed it out of my mind;

But I can’t forget, if I wanted to,

Four-Feet trotting behind.

Day after day, the whole day through—

Wherever my road inclined—

Four-feet said, “I am coming with you!”

And trotted along behind.

Now I must go by some other round,—

Which I shall never find—

Somewhere that does not carry the sound

Of Four-Feet trotting behind.

39
Gallio’s Song

“And Gallio cared for none of these things.”

ACTS xviii. 17.

All day long to the judgment-seat

The crazed Provincials drew—

All day long at their ruler’s feet

Howled for the blood of the Jew.

Insurrection with one accord

Banded itself and woke,

And Paul was about to open his mouth

When Achaia’s Deputy spoke—

“Whether the God descend from above

Or the Man ascend upon high,

Whether this maker of tents be Jove

Or a younger deity—

I will be no judge between your gods

And your godless bickerings.

Lictor, drive them hence with rods—

I care for none of these things!

Were it a question of lawful due

Or Caesar’s rule denied,

Reason would I should bear with you

And order it well to be tried;

But this is a question of words and names,

I know the strife it brings.

I will not pass upon any your claims.

I care for none of these things.

One thing only I see most clear,

As I pray you also see.

Claudius Caesar hath set me here

Rome’s Deputy to be.

It is Her peace that ye go to break—

Not mine, nor any king’s.

But, touching your clamour of ‘Conscience sake,’

I care for none of these things.

Whether ye rise for the sake of a creed,

Or riot in hope of spoil,

Equally will I punish the deed,

Equally check the broil;

Nowise permitting injustice at all

From whatever doctrine it springs—

But—whether ye follow Priapus or Paul,

I care for none of these things!”

40
The Law of the Jungle

Now this is the Law of the Jungle—

as old and as true as the sky;

And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper,

but the Wolf that shall break it must die.

As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk

the Law runneth forward and back—

For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf,

and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.

Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip;
drink deeply, but never too deep;

And remember the night is for hunting,
and forget not the day is for sleep.

The Jackal may follow the Tiger,
but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown,

Remember the Wolf is a hunter—
go forth and get food of thine own.

Keep peace with the Lords of the Jungle—
the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear.

And trouble not Hathi the Silent,
and mock not the Boar in his lair.

When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle,
and neither will go from the trail,

Lie down till the leaders have spoken—
it may be fair words shall prevail.

When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack,
ye must fight him alone and afar,

Lest others take part in the quarrel,
and the Pack be diminished by war.

The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge,
and where he has made him his home,

Not even the Head Wolf may enter,
not even the Council may come.

The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge,
but where he has digged it too plain,

The Council shall send him a message,
and so he shall change it again.

If ye kill before midnight, be silent,
and wake not the woods with your bay,

Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop,
and your brothers go empty away.

Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates,
and your cubs as they need, and ye can;

But kill not for pleasure of killing,
and seven times never kill Man!

If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker,
devour not all in thy pride;

Pack-Right is the right of the meanest;
so leave him the head and the hide.

The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack.

Ye must eat where it lies;

And no one may carry away of that meat
to his lair, or he dies.

The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf.

He may do what he will;

But, till he has given permission,
the Pack may not eat of that Kill.

Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling.

From all of his Pack he may claim

Full-gorge when the killer has eaten;
and none may refuse him the same.

Lair-Right is the right of the Mother.

From all of her year she may claim

One haunch of each kill for her litter,
and none may deny her the same.

Cave-Right is the right of the Father—
to hunt by himself for his own:

He is freed of all calls to the Pack;
he is judged by the Council alone.

Because of his age and his cunning,
because of his gripe and his paw,

In all that the Law leaveth open,
the word of your Head Wolf is Law.

Now these are the Laws of the Jungle,

and many and mighty are they;

But the head and the hoof of the Law

and the haunch and the hump is—Obey!

Notes

↑1 Panee lao - Bring water quickly.

↑2 Harry By - O brother.

↑3 put some juldee in it - Be quick

↑4 marrow - hit

↑5 mussick - water-skin