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 the 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!
ROAD-SONG OF THE BANDAR-LOG
Here we go in a flung festoon,
Half-way up to the jealous moon!
Don’t you envy our pranceful bands?
Don’t you wish you had extra hands?
Wouldn’t you like if your tails were – so –
Curved in the shape of a Cupid’s bow?
Now you’re angry but – never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
Here we sit in a branchy row,
Thinking of beautiful things we know;
Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,
All complete, in a minute or two –
Something noble and grand and good,
Won by merely wishing we could.
Now we’re going to – never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
All the talk we ever have heard
Uttered by bat or beast or bird –
Hide or fin or scale or feather –
Jabber it quickly and all together!
Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!
Now we are talking just like men.
Let’s pretend we are … Never mind!
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
This is the way of the Monkey-kind!
Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,
That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings.
By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,
Be sure – be sure, we’re going to do some splendid things!
THE MARRIED MAN
The bachelor ’e fights for one
As joyful as can be;
But the married man don’t call it fun,
Because he fights for three –
For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It
(An’ Two an’ One makes Three)
’E wants to finish ’is little bit,
An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea!
The bachelor pokes up ’is ’ead
To see if you are gone;
But the married man lies down instead,
An’ waits till the sights come on,
For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ a hit
(Direct or ricochee)
’E wants to finish ’is little bit,
An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea.
The bachelor will miss you clear
To fight another day;
But the married man, ’e says ‘No fear!’
’e wants you out of the way
Of ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It
(An’ ’is road to ’is farm or the sea),
’E wants to finish ’is little bit,
An’ ’e wants to go ’ome to ’is tea.
The bachelor ’e fights ’is fight
An’ stretches out an’ snores;
But the married man sits up all night –
For ’e don’t like out-o’-doors.
’E’ll strain an’ listen an’ peer
An’ give the first alarm –
For the sake o’ the breathin’ ’e’s used to ’ear,
An’ the ’ead on the thick of ’is arm.
The bachelor may risk ’is ’ide
To ’elp you when you’re downed;
But the married man will wait beside
Till the ambulance comes round.
’E’ll take your ’ome address
An’ all you’ve time to say,
Or if ’e sees there’s ’ope, ’e’ll press
Your art’ry ’alf the day –
– For ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It
(An’ One from Three leaves Two),
For ’e knows you wanted to finish your bit,
An’ ’e knows ’oo’s wantin’ you.
Yes, ’Im an’ ’Er an’ It
(Our ’oly One in Three),
We’re all of us anxious to finish our bit,
An’ we want to get ’ome to our tea!
Yes, It an’ ’Er an’ ’Im,
Which often makes me think
The married man must sink or swim
An’ – ’e can’t afford to sink!
Oh, ’Im an’ It and ’Er
Since Adam an’ Eve began!
So I’d rather fight with the bacheler
An’ be nursed by the married man!
‘FOR TO ADMIRE’
The Injian Ocean sets an’ smiles
So sof’, so bright, so bloomin’ blue;
There aren’t a wave for miles an’ miles
Excep’ the jiggle from the screw.
The ship is swep’, the day is done,
The bugle’s gone for smoke and play;
An’ black ag’in in the settin’ sun
The Lascar sings, ‘Hum deckty hai!’
For to admire an’ for to see,
For to be’old this world so wide –
It never done no good to me,
But I can’t drop it if I tried!
I see the sergeants pitchin’ quoits,
I ’ear the women laugh an’ talk,
I spy upon the quarter-deck
The orficers an’ lydies walk.
I thinks about the things that was,
An’ leans an’ looks acrost the sea,
Till, spite of all the crowded ship,
There’s no one lef’ alive but me.
The things that was which I ’ave seen,
In barrick, camp, an’ action too,
I tells them over by myself,
An’ sometimes wonders if they’re true;
For they was odd – most awful odd –
But all the same, now they are o’er,
There must be ’eaps o’ plenty such,
An’ if I wait I’ll see some more.
Oh, I ’ave come upon the books,
An’ frequent broke a barrick-rule,
An’ stood beside an’ watched myself
Be’avin’ like a bloomin’ fool.
I paid my price for findin’ out,
Not never grutched the price I paid,
But sat in Clink without my boots,
Admirin’ ’ow the world was made.
Be’old a cloud upon the beam,
An’ ’umped above the sea appears
Old Aden, like a barrick-stove
That no one’s lit for years an’ years.
I passed by that when I began,
An’ I go ’ome the road I came,
A time-expired soldier-man
With six years’ service to ’is name.
My girl she said, ‘Oh, stay with me!’
My mother ’eld me to ’er breast.
They’ve never written none, an’ so
They must ’ave gone with all the rest –
With all the rest which I ’ave seen
An’ found an’ known an’ met along.
I cannot say the things I feel,
An’ so I sing my evenin’ song:
For to admire an’ for to
see,
For to be’old this world so wide –
It never done no good to me,
But I can’t drop it if I tried!
BUDDHA AT KAMAKURA
‘And there is a Japanese idol at Kamakura.’
Oh ye who tread the Narrow Way
By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day,
Be gentle when the ‘heathen’ pray
To Buddha at Kamakura!
To Him the Way, the Law, Apart
Whom Maya held beneath her heart,
Ananda’s Lord, the Bodhisat,
The Buddha of Kamakura.
For though He neither burns nor sees,
Nor hears ye thank your Deities,
Ye have not sinned with such as these,
His children at Kamakura,
Yet spare us still the Western joke
When joss-sticks turn to scented smoke
The little sins of little folk
That worship at Kamakura –
The grey-robed, gay-sashed butterflies
That flit beneath the Master’s eyes –
He is beyond the Mysteries
But loves them at Kamakura.
And whoso will, from Pride released,
Contemning neither creed nor priest,
May feel the Soul of all the East
About him at Kamakura.
Yea, every tale Ananda heard,
Of birth as fish or beast or bird,
While yet in lives the Master stirred,
The warm wind brings Kamakura.
Till drowsy eyelids seem to see
A-flower ’neath her golden htee
The Shwe-Dagon flare easterly
From Burma to Kamakura.
And down the loaded air there comes
The thunder of Thibetan drums,
And droned – ‘Om mane padme hum’s’
A world’s-width from Kamakura.
Yet Brahmans rule Benares still,
Buddh-Gaya’s ruins pit the hill,
And beef-fed zealots threaten ill
To Buddha and Kamakura.
A tourist-show, a legend told,
A rusting bulk of bronze and gold,
So much, and scarce so much, ye hold
The meaning of Kamakura?
But when the morning prayer is prayed,
Think, ere ye pass to strife and trade,
Is God in human image made
No nearer than Kamakura?
From THE JUNGLE BOOK
The stream is shrunk – the pool is dry,
And we be comrades, thou and I;
With fevered jowl and dusty flank
Each jostling each along the bank;
And, by one drouthy fear made still,
Forgoing thought of quest or kill.
Now ’neath his dam the fawn may see
The lean Pack-wolf as cowed as he,
And the tall buck, unflinching, note
The fangs that tore his father’s throat.
The pools are shrunk – the streams are dry,
And we be playmates, thou and I,
Till yonder cloud – Good Hunting! – loose
The rain that breaks our Water Truce.
How Fear Came.
THE KING
‘Farewell, romance!’ the Cave-men said;
‘With bone well carved He went away.
‘Flint arms the ignoble arrowhead,
‘And jasper tips the spear to-day.
‘Changed are the Gods of Hunt and Dance,
‘And He with these. Farewell, Romance!’
‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Lake-folk sighed;
‘We lift the weight of flatling years;
‘The caverns of the mountain-side
‘Hold Him who scorns our hutted piers.
‘Lost hills whereby we dare not dwell.
‘Guard ye His rest. Romance, Farewell!’
‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Soldier spoke;
‘By sleight of sword we may not win,
‘But scuffle ‘mid uncleanly smoke
‘Of arquebus and culverin.
‘Honour is lost, and none may tell
‘Who paid good blows. Romance, farewell!’
‘Farewell, Romance!’ the Traders cried;
‘Our keels ha’ lain with every sea.
‘The dull-returning wind and tide
‘Heave up the wharf where we would be;
‘The known and noted breezes swell
‘Our trudging sails. Romance, farewell!’
‘Goodbye, Romance!’ the Skipper said;
‘He vanished with the coal we burn.
‘Our dial marks full-steam ahead,
‘Our speed is timed to half a turn.
‘Sure as the ferried barge we ply
‘ ’Twixt port and port. Romance, goodbye!’
‘Romance!’ the season-tickets mourn,
‘He never ran to catch His train,
‘But passed with coach and guard and horn –
‘And left the local – late again!’
Confound Romance! … And all unseen
Romance brought up the nine-fifteen.
His hand was on the lever laid,
His oil-can soothed the worrying cranks,
His whistle waked the snowbound grade,
His fog-horn cut the reeking Banks;
By dock and deep and mine and mill
The Boy-god reckless laboured still!
Robed, crowned and throned, He wove His spell,
Where heart-blood beat or hearth-smoke curled,
With unconsidered miracle,
Then taught His chosen bard to say:
‘Our King was with us – yesterday!’
THE LADIES
I’ve taken my fun where I found it;
I’ve rogued an’ I’ve ranged in my time;
I’ve ‘ad my pickin’ o’ sweethearts,
An’ four o’ the lot was prime.
One was an ’arf-caste widow,
One was a woman 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, taken’ ’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 then 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 the trooper,
‘Long of a kid o’ sixteen –
Girl from a convent at Meerut,
The straightest I ever ’ave se
en.
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 thinkin’,
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 ever knew.
Somebody asked the Sergeant’s Wife,
An’ she told ’em trae!
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!
RECESSIONAL
God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine –
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose,
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,