The Works of Rudyard Kipling Part 13

Answer, sombre beast and dreary, Where is Brown, the young, the cheery, Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force?

You were at that last dread dak We must cover at a walk, Bring them back to me, O Undertaker's Horse!

With your mane unhogged and flowing, And your curious way of going, And that businesslike black crimping of your tail, E'en with Beauty on your back, Sir, Pacing as a lady's hack, Sir, What wonder when I meet you I turn pale?

It may be you wait your time, Beast, Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast-- Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the gla.s.s-- Follow after with the others, Where some dusky heathen smothers Us with marigolds in lieu of English gra.s.s.

Or, perchance, in years to follow, I shall watch your plump sides hollow, See Carnifex (gone lame) become a corse-- See old age at last o'erpower you, And the Station Pack devour you, I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker's Horse!

But to insult, jibe, and quest, I've Still the hideously suggestive Trot that hammers out the unrelenting text, And I hear it hard behind me In what place soe'er I find me:-- "'Sure to catch you sooner or later. Who's the next?"

THE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE

This fell when dinner-time was done-- 'Twixt the first an' the second rub-- That oor mon Jock cam' hame again To his rooms ahist the Club.

An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang, An' syne we thocht him fou, An' syne he trumped his partner's trick, An' garred his partner rue.

Then up and spake an elder mon, That held the Spade its Ace-- "G.o.d save the lad! Whence comes the licht "That wimples on his face?"

An' Jock he sn.i.g.g.e.red, an' Jock he smiled, An' ower the card-brim wunk:-- "I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg, "May be that I am drunk."

"There's whusky brewed in Galashils "An' L. L. L. forbye; "But never liquor lit the lowe "That keeks fra' oot your eye.

"There's a third o' hair on your dress-coat breast, "Aboon the heart a wee?"

"Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye "That s...o...b..rs ower me."

"Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts, "An' terrier dogs are fair, "But never yet was terrier born, "Wi' ell-lang gowden hair!

"There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast, "Below the left lappel?"

"Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar, "Whenas the stump-end fell."

"Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coa.r.s.e, "For ye are short o' cash, "An' best Havanas couldna leave "Sae white an' pure an ash.

"This nicht ye stopped a story braid, "An' stopped it wi' a curse.

"Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel'-- "An' capped it wi' a worse!

"Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou!

"But plainly we can ken "Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band "O' cantie single men!"

An' it fell when sirris-shaws were sere, An' the nichts were lang and mirk, In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring, Oor Jock gaed to the Kirk!

ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER

A great and glorious thing it is To learn, for seven years or so, The Lord knows what of that and this, Ere reckoned fit to face the foe-- The flying bullet down the Pa.s.s, That whistles clear: "All flesh is gra.s.s."

Three hundred pounds per annum spent On making brain and body meeter For all the murderous intent Comprised in "villainous saltpetre!"

And after--ask the Yusufzaies What comes of all our 'ologies.

A scrimmage in a Border Station-- A canter down some dark defile-- Two thousand pounds of education Drops to a ten-rupee jezail-- The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride, Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

No proposition Euclid wrote, No formulae the text-books know, Will turn the bullet from your coat, Or ward the tulwar's downward blow Strike hard who cares--shoot straight who can-- The odds are on the cheaper man.

One sword-knot stolen from the camp Will pay for all the school expenses Of any Kurrum Valley scamp Who knows no word of moods and tenses, But, being blessed with perfect sight, Picks off our messmates left and right.

With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem, The troop-ships bring us one by one, At vast expense of time and steam, To slay Afridis where they run.

The "captives of our bow and spear"

Are cheap--alas! as we are dear.

THE BETROTHED

"You must choose between me and your cigar."

--BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885.

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot, And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a s.p.a.ce; In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at--Maggie's a loving la.s.s, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pa.s.s.

There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay; But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away--

Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown-- But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town!

Maggie, my wife at fifty--grey and dour and old-- With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold!

And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the b.u.t.t of a dead cigar--

The b.u.t.t of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket-- With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket!

Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a while.

Here is a mild Manila--there is a wifely smile.

Which is the better portion--bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string?

Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride?

Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close,