Songs from Books

A DEDICATION

 
And they were stronger hands than mine
That digged the Ruby from the earth —
More cunning brains that made it worth
The large desire of a king,
And stouter hearts that through the brine
Went down the perfect Pearl to bring.
 
 
Lo, I have wrought in common clay
Rude figures of a rough-hewn race,
Since pearls strew not the market-place
In this my town of banishment,
Where with the shifting dust I play,
And eat the bread of discontent.
 
 
Yet is there life in that I make.
O thou who knowest, turn and see —
As thou hast power over me
So have I power over these,
Because I wrought them for thy sake,
And breathed in them mine agonies.
 
 
Small mirth was in the making – now
I lift the cloth that cloaks the clay,
And, wearied, at thy feet I lay
My wares, ere I go forth to sell.
The long bazar will praise, but thou —
Heart of my heart – have I done well?
 

MOTHER O' MINE

 
If I were hanged on the highest hill, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine! I know whose love would follow me still, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
 
 
If I were drowned in the deepest sea, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine! I know whose tears would come down to me, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
 
 
If I were damned of body and soul, I know whose prayers would make me whole, Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
 

THE ONLY SON

 
She dropped the bar, she shot the bolt, she fed the fire anew,
For she heard a whimper under the sill and a great grey paw came through.
The fresh flame comforted the hut and shone on the roof-beam,
And the Only Son lay down again and dreamed that he dreamed a dream.
The last ash fell from the withered log with the click of a falling spark,
And the Only Son woke up again, and called across the dark: —
'Now was I born of womankind and laid in a mother's breast?
For I have dreamed of a shaggy hide whereon I went to rest?
And was I born of womankind and laid on a father's arm?
For I have dreamed of clashing teeth that guarded me from harm.
And was I born an Only Son and did I play alone?
For I have dreamed of comrades twain that bit me to the bone.
And did I break the barley-cake and steep it in the tyre?
For I have dreamed of a youngling kid new-riven from the byre.
For I have dreamed of a midnight sky and a midnight call to blood,
And red-mouthed shadows racing by, that thrust me from my food.
'Tis an hour yet and an hour yet to the rising of the moon,
But I can see the black roof-tree as plain as it were noon.
'Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the trooping blackbuck go;
But I can hear the little fawn that bleats behind the doe.
'Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the crop and the upland meet,
But I can smell the wet dawn-wind that wakes the sprouting wheat.
Unbar the door, I may not bide, but I must out and see
If those are wolves that wait outside or my own kin to me!'
 

* * * * *

 
She loosed the bar, she slid the bolt, she opened the door anon,
And a grey bitch-wolf came out of the dark and fawned on the Only Son!
 

MOWGLI'S SONG AGAINST PEOPLE

 
I will let loose against you the fleet-footed vines —
I will call in the Jungle to stamp out your lines!
    The roofs shall fade before it,
      The house-beams shall fall,
    And the Karela, the bitter Karela,
      Shall cover it all!
 
 
In the gates of these your councils my people shall sing,
In the doors of these your garners the Bat-folk shall cling;
    And the snake shall be your watchman,
      By a hearthstone unswept;
    For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
      Shall fruit where ye slept!
 
 
Ye shall not see my strikers; ye shall hear them and guess;
By night, before the moon-rise, I will send for my cess,
    And the wolf shall be your herdsman
      By a landmark removed,
    For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
      Shall seed where ye loved!
 
 
I will reap your fields before you at the hands of a host;
Ye shall glean behind my reapers for the bread that is lost;
    And the deer shall be your oxen
      On a headland untilled,
    For the Karela, the bitter Karela,
      Shall leaf where ye build!
 
 
I have untied against you the club-footed vines —
I have sent in the Jungle to swamp out your lines!
    The trees – the trees are on you!
      The house-beams shall fall,
    And the Karela, the bitter Karela,
      Shall cover you all!
 

ROMULUS AND REMUS

 
Oh, little did the Wolf-Child care,
  When first he planned his home,
What City should arise and bear
  The weight and state of Rome!
 
 
A shiftless, westward-wandering tramp,
  Checked by the Tiber flood,
He reared a wall around his camp
  Of uninspired mud.
 
 
But when his brother leaped the Wall
  And mocked its height and make,
He guessed the future of it all
  And slew him for its sake.
 
 
Swift was the blow – swift as the thought
  Which showed him in that hour
How unbelief may bring to naught
  The early steps of Power.
 
 
Foreseeing Time's imperilled hopes
  Of Glory, Grace, and Love —
All singers, Cæsars, artists, Popes —
  Would fail if Remus throve,
 
 
He sent his brother to the Gods,
  And, when the fit was o'er,
Went on collecting turves and clods
  To build the Wall once more!
 

CHAPTER HEADINGS

THE JUNGLE BOOKS

 
Now Chil the Kite brings home the night
    That Mang the Bat sets free —
The herds are shut in byre and hut
    For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power,
    Talon and tush and claw.
Oh hear the call! – Good hunting all
    That keep the Jungle Law!
 
 
Mowgli's Brothers.
 

* * * * *

 
His spots are the joy of the Leopard: his horns are the Buffalo's pride.
Be clean, for the strength of the hunter is known by the gloss of his hide.
If ye find that the bullock can toss you, or the heavy-browed Sambhur can gore;
Ye need not stop work to inform us. We knew it ten seasons before.
Oppress not the cubs of the stranger, but hail them as Sister and Brother,
For though they are little and fubsy, it may be the Bear is their mother.
'There is none like to me!' says the Cub in the pride of his earliest kill;
But the Jungle is large and the Cub he is small. Let him think and be still.
 
 
Kaa's Hunting.
 

* * * * *

 
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,
Foregoing 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! – looseThe rain that breaks our Water Truce.
 
 
How Fear Came.
 

* * * * *

 
What of the hunting, hunter bold?
  Brother, the watch was long and cold.
What of the quarry ye went to kill?
  Brother, he crops in the jungle still.
Where is the power that made your pride?
  Brother, it ebbs from my flank and side.
Where is the haste that ye hurry by?
  Brother, I go to my lair to die!
 
 
'Tiger-Tiger!'
 

* * * * *

 
Veil them, cover them, wall them round —
  Blossom, and creeper, and weed —
Let us forget the sight and the sound,
  The smell and the touch of the breed!
 
 
Fat black ash by the altar-stone.
  Here is the white-foot rain,
And the does bring forth in the fields unsown,
  And none shall affright them again;
And the blind walls crumble, unknown, o'erthrown,
  And none shall inhabit again!
 
 
Letting in the Jungle.
 

* * * * *

 
These are the Four that are never content, that have never been filled since the Dews began —
Jacala's mouth, and the glut of the Kite, and the hands of the Ape, and the Eyes of Man.
 
 
The King's Ankus.
 

* * * * *

 
For our white and our excellent nights – for the nights of swift running,
    Fair ranging, far-seeing, good hunting, sure cunning!
For the smells of the dawning, untainted, ere dew has departed!
For the rush through the mist, and the quarry blind-started!
For the cry of our mates when the sambhur has wheeled and is standing at bay!
      For the risk and the riot of night!
      For the sleep at the lair-mouth by day!
        It is met, and we go to the fight.
                Bay! O bay!
 
 
Red Dog.
 

* * * * *

 
Man goes to Man! Cry the challenge through the Jungle!
  He that was our Brother goes away.
Hear, now, and judge, O ye People of the Jungle, —
  Answer, who shall turn him – who shall stay?
 
 
Man goes to Man! He is weeping in the Jungle:
  He that was our Brother sorrows sore!
Man goes to Man! (Oh, we loved him in the Jungle!)
  To the Man-Trail where we may not follow more.
 
 
The Spring Running.
 

* * * * *

 
At the hole where he went in
Red-Eye called to Wrinkle-Skin.
Hear what little Red-Eye saith:
'Nag, come up and dance with death!'
 
 
Eye to eye and head to head,
  (Keep the measure, Nag.)
This shall end when one is dead;
  (At thy pleasure, Nag.)
 
 
Turn for turn and twist for twist —
  (Run and hide thee, Nag.)
Hah! The hooded Death has missed!
  (Woe betide thee, Nag!)
 
 
'Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.'
 

* * * * *

 
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.
 
 
The White Seal.
 

* * * * *

 
You mustn'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 White Seal.
 

* * * * *

 
I will remember what I was, I am sick of rope and chain.
  I will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs.
I will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane.
  I will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.
 
 
I will go out until the day, until the morning break,
  Out to the winds' untainted kiss, the waters' clean caress.
I will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket-stake.
  I will revisit my lost loves, and playmates master-less!
 
 
Toomai of the Elephants.
 

* * * * *

 
The People of the Eastern Ice, they are melting like the snow —
They beg for coffee and sugar; they go where the white men go.
The People of the Western Ice, they learn to steal and fight;
They sell their furs to the trading-post; they sell their souls to the white.
The People of the Southern Ice, they trade with the whaler's crew;
Their women have many ribbons, but their tents are torn and few.
But the People of the Elder Ice, beyond the white man's ken —
Their spears are made of the narwhal-horn, and they are the last of the Men!
 
 
Quiquern.
 

* * * * *

 
When ye say to Tabaqui, 'My Brother!' when ye call the Hyena to meat,
Ye may cry the Full Truce with Jacala – the Belly that runs on four feet.
 
 
The Undertakers.
 

* * * * *

 
The night we felt the earth would move
  We stole and plucked him by the hand,
Because we loved him with the love
  That knows but cannot understand.
 
 
And when the roaring hillside broke,
  And all our world fell down in rain,
We saved him, we the Little Folk;
  But lo! he does not come again!
 
 
Mourn now, we saved him for the sake
  Of such poor love as wild ones may.
Mourn ye! Our brother will not wake,
  And his own kind drive us away!
 
 
The Miracle of Purun Bhagat.
 

THE EGG-SHELL

 
The wind took off with the sunset —
The fog came up with the tide,
When the Witch of the North took an Egg-shell
With a little Blue Devil inside.
'Sink,' she said, 'or swim,' she said,
'It's all you will get from me.
And that is the finish of him!' she said.
And the Egg-shell went to sea.
 
 
The wind fell dead with the midnight —
The fog shut down like a sheet,
When the Witch of the North heard the Egg-shell
Feeling by hand for a fleet.
'Get!' she said, 'or you're gone,' she said,
But the little Blue Devil said 'No!'
'The sights are just coming on,' he said,
And he let the Whitehead go.
 
 
The wind got up with the morning —
And the fog blew off with the rain,
When the Witch of the North saw the Egg-shell
And the little Blue Devil again.
'Did you swim?' she said. 'Did you sink?' she said,
And the little Blue Devil replied:
'For myself I swam, but I think,' he said,
'There's somebody sinking outside.'
 

THE KING'S TASK

 
After the sack of the City, when Rome was sunk to a name,
In the years that the lights were darkened, or ever St. Wilfrid came,
Low on the borders of Britain (the ancient poets sing)
Between the Cliff and the Forest there ruled a Saxon King.
Stubborn all were his people from cottar to overlord —
Not to be cowed by the cudgel, scarce to be schooled by the sword;
Quick to turn at their pleasure, cruel to cross in their mood,
And set on paths of their choosing as the hogs of Andred's Wood.
Laws they made in the Witan – the laws of flaying and fine —
Common, loppage and pannage, the theft and the track of kine —
Statutes of tun and market for the fish and the malt and the meal —
The tax on the Bramber packhorse and the tax on the Hastings keel.
Over the graves of the Druids and under the wreck of Rome
Rudely but surely they bedded the plinth of the days to come.
Behind the feet of the Legions and before the Norseman's ire,
Rudely but greatly begat they the framing of state and shire.
Rudely but deeply they laboured, and their labour stands till now,
If we trace on our ancient headlands the twist of their eight-ox plough.
There came a king from Hamtun, by Bosenham he came.
He filled Use with slaughter, and Lewes he gave to flame.
He smote while they sat in the Witan – sudden he smote and sore,
That his fleet was gathered at Selsea ere they mustered at Cymen's Ore.
Blithe went the Saxons to battle, by down and wood and mere,
But thrice the acorns ripened ere the western mark was clear.
Thrice was the beechmast gathered, and the Beltane fires burned
Thrice, and the beeves were salted thrice ere the host returned.
They drove that king from Hamtun, by Bosenham o'erthrown,
Out of Rugnor to Wilton they made his land their own.
Camps they builded at Gilling, at Basing and Alresford,
But wrath abode in the Saxons from cottar to overlord.
Wrath at the weary war-game, at the foe that snapped and ran
Wolf-wise feigning and flying, and wolf-wise snatching his man.
Wrath for their spears unready, their levies new to the blades —
Shame for the helpless sieges and the scornful ambuscades.
At hearth and tavern and market, wherever the tale was told,
Shame and wrath had the Saxons because of their boasts of old.
And some would drink and deny it, and some would pray and atone;
But the most part, after their anger, avouched that the sin was their own.
Wherefore, girding together, up to the Witan they came,
And as they had shouldered their bucklers so did they shoulder their blame.
For that was the wont of the Saxons (the ancient poets sing),
And first they spoke in the Witan and then they spoke to the King:
'Edward King of the Saxons, thou knowest from sire to son,
'One is the King and his People – in gain and ungain one.
'Count we the gain together. With doubtings and spread dismays
'We have broken a foolish people – but after many days.
'Count we the loss together. Warlocks hampered our arms,
'We were tricked as by magic, we were turned as by charms.
'We went down to the battle and the road was plain to keep,
'But our angry eyes were holden, and we struck as they strike in sleep —
'Men new shaken from slumber, sweating, with eyes a-stare
'Little blows uncertain dealt on the useless air.
'Also a vision betrayed us, and a lying tale made bold
'That we looked to hold what we had not and to have what we did not hold:
'That a shield should give us shelter – that a sword should give us power —
'A shield snatched up at a venture and a hilt scarce handled an hour:
'That being rich in the open, we should be strong in the close —
'And the Gods would sell us a cunning for the day that we met our foes.
'This was the work of wizards, but not with our foe they bide,
'In our own camp we took them, and their names are Sloth and Pride.
'Our pride was before the battle: our sloth ere we lifted spear,
'But hid in the heart of the people as the fever hides in the mere,
'Waiting only the war-game, the heat of the strife to rise
'As the ague fumes round Oxeney when the rotting reed-bed dries.
'But now we are purged of that fever – cleansed by the letting of blood,
'Something leaner of body – something keener of mood.
'And the men new-freed from the levies return to the fields again,
'Matching a hundred battles, cottar and lord and thane.
'And they talk aloud in the temples where the ancient wargods are.
'They thumb and mock and belittle the holy harness of war.
'They jest at the sacred chariots, the robes and the gilded staff.
'These things fill them with laughter, they lean on their spears and laugh.
'The men grown old in the war-game, hither and thither they range —
'And scorn and laughter together are sire and dam of change;
'And change may be good or evil – but we know not what it will bring,
'Therefore our King must teach us. That is thy task, O King!'
 

POSEIDON'S LAW

 
When the robust and Brass-bound Man commissioned first for sea
His fragile raft, Poseidon laughed, and 'Mariner,' said he,
'Behold, a Law immutable I lay on thee and thine,
That never shall ye act or tell a falsehood at my shrine.
 
 
'Let Zeus adjudge your landward kin, whose votive meal and salt
At easy-cheated altars win oblivion for the fault,
But you the unhoodwinked wave shall test – the immediate gulf condemn —
Except ye owe the Fates a jest, be slow to jest with them.
 
 
'Ye shall not clear by Greekly speech, nor cozen from your path
The twinkling shoal, the leeward beach, and Hadria's white-lipped wrath;
Nor tempt with painted cloth for wood my fraud-avenging hosts;
Nor make at all, or all make good, your bulwarks and your boasts.
 
 
'Now and henceforward serve unshod, through wet and wakeful shifts,
A present and oppressive God, but take, to aid, my gifts —
The wide and windward-opening eye, the large and lavish hand,
The soul that cannot tell a lie – except upon the land!'
 
 
In dromond and in catafract – wet, wakeful, windward-eyed —
He kept Poseidon's Law intact (his ship and freight beside),
But, once discharged the dromond's hold, the bireme beached once more,
Splendaciously mendacious rolled the Brass-bound Man ashore.
 
 
The thranite now and thalamite are pressures low and high,
And where three hundred blades bit white the twin-propellers ply:
The God that hailed, the keel that sailed, are changed beyond recall,
But the robust and Brass-bound Man he is not changed at all!
 
 
From Punt returned, from Phormio's Fleet, from Javan and Gadire,
He strongly occupies the seat about the tavern fire,
And, moist with much Falernian or smoked Massilian juice,
Revenges there the Brass-bound Man his long-enforced truce!
 

A TRUTHFUL SONG

 
The Bricklayer:
 
 
  I tell this tale, which is strictly true, 
Just by way of convincing you  
How very little, since things mere made,  
Things have altered in the building trade.
 
 
  A year ago, come the middle of March,
  We was building flats near the Marble Arch,
  When a thin young man with coal-black hair
  Came up to watch us working there.
 
 
  Now there wasn't a trick in brick or stone
  That this young man hadn't seen or known;
  Nor there wasn't a tool from trowel to maul
  But this young man could use 'em all!
 
 
  Then up and spoke the plumbyers bold,
  Which was laying the pipes for the hot and cold:
  'Since you with us have made so free,
  Will you kindly say what your name might be?'
 
 
  The young man kindly answered them:
  'It might be Lot or Methusalem,
  Or it might be Moses (a man I hate),
  Whereas it is Pharaoh surnamed the Great.
 
 
  'Your glazing is new and your plumbing's strange,
  But otherwise I perceive no change,
  And in less than a month if you do as I bid
  I'd learn you to build me a Pyramid!'
 
 
The Sailor:
 
 
  I tell this tale, which is stricter true,  
Just by way of convincing you  
How very little, since things was made,  
Things have altered in the shipwright's trade.
 
 
  In Blackwall Basin yesterday
  A China barque re-fitting lay,
  When a fat old man with snow-white hair
  Came up to watch us working there.
 
 
  Now there wasn't a knot which the riggers knew
  But the old man made it – and better too;
  Nor there wasn't a sheet, or a lift, or a brace.
  But the old man knew its lead and place.
 
 
  Then up and spoke the caulkyers bold,
  Which was packing the pump in the afterhold:
  'Since you with us have made so free,
  Will you kindly tell what your name might be?'
 
 
  The old man kindly answered them:
  'It might be Japheth, it might be Shem,
  Or it might be Ham (though his skin was dark),
  Whereas it is Noah, commanding the Ark.
 
 
  'Your wheel is new and your pumps are strange,
  But otherwise I perceive no change,
  And in less than a week, if she did not ground,
  I'd sail this hooker the wide world round!'
 
 
Both:
 
 
  We tell these tales, which are strictest true,  
Just by way of convincing you  
How very little, since things was made,  
Anything alters in any one's trade.