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The Undertaker's Horse

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"To-tschin-shu is condemned to death.

How can he drink tea with the Executioner?"

Japanese Proverb.

The eldest son bestrides him,

And the pretty daughter rides him,

And I meet him oft o' mornings on the Course;

And there kindles in my bosom

An emotion chill and gruesome

As I canter past the Undertaker's Horse.

Neither shies he nor is restive,

But a hideously suggestive

Trot, professional and placid, he affects;

And the cadence of his hoof-beats

To my mind this grim reproof beats:—

"Mend your pace, my friend, I'm coming. Who's the next?"

Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen,

I have watched the strongest go—men

Of pith and might and muscle—at your heels,

Down the plantain-bordered highway,

(Heaven send it ne'er be my way!)

In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels.

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 glass—

Follow after with the others,

Where some dusky heathen smothers

Us with marigolds in lieu of English grass.

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

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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—

"God save the lad! Whence comes the licht

"That wimples on his face?"

An' Jock he sniggered, 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 slobbers 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 coarse,

"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

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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 Pass,

That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass."

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

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"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 space;

In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face.

Maggie is pretty to look at—Maggie's a loving lass,

But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass.

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 butt of a dead cigar—

The butt 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,

This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return,

With only a Suttee's passion—to do their duty and burn.

This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead,

Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead.

The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main,

When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again.

I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal,

So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall.

I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides,

And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides.

For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between

The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen.

And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear,

But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year;

And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light

Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight.

And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove,

But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love.

Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire?

Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire?

Open the old cigar-box—let me consider anew—

Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you?

A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke;

And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.

Light me another Cuba—I hold to my first-sworn vows.

If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse!

A Tale of Two Cities

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Where the sober-colored cultivator smiles

On his byles;

Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crow

Come and go;

Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea,

Hides and ghi;

Where the Babu drops inflammatory hints

In his prints;

Stands a City—Charnock chose it—packed away

Near a Bay—

By the Sewage rendered fetid, by the sewer

Made impure,

By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swamp

Moist and damp;

And the City and the Viceroy, as we see,

Don't agree.

Once, two hundred years ago, the trader came

Meek and tame.

Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed,

Till mere trade

Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth

South and North

Till the country from Peshawur to Ceylon

Was his own.

Thus the midday halt of Charnock—more's the pity!

Grew a City.

As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed,

So it spread—

Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built

On the silt—

Palace, byre, hovel—poverty and pride—

Side by side;

And, above the packed and pestilential town,

Death looked down.

But the Rulers in that City by the Sea

Turned to flee—

Fled, with each returning spring-tide from its ills

To the Hills.

From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blaze

Of old days,

From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,

Beat retreat;

For the country from Peshawur to Ceylon

Was their own.

But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain

For his gain.

Now the resting-place of Charnock, 'neath the palms,

Asks an alms,

And the burden of its lamentation is,

Briefly, this:

"Because for certain months, we boil and stew,

So should you.

Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire

In our fire!"

And for answer to the argument, in vain

We explain

That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot fry:

"All must fry!"

That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain

For gain.

Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,

From its kitchen.

Let the Babu drop inflammatory hints

In his prints;

And mature—consistent soul—his plan for stealing

To Darjeeling:

Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile,

England's isle;

Let the City Charnock pitched on—evil day!

Go Her way.

Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors

Heap their stores,

Though Her enterprise and energy secure

Income sure,

Though "out-station orders punctually obeyed"

Swell Her trade—

Still, for rule, administration, and the rest,

Simla's best.

The Complete Poetical Works of Rudyard Kipling (570+ Poems in One Edition)

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