THE WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING:
ONE VOLUME EDITION

   I have eaten your bread and salt,
      I have drunk your water and wine,
   The deaths ye died I have watched beside,
      And the lives that ye led were mine.

   Was there aught that I did not share
      In vigil or toil or ease,
   One joy or woe that I did not know,
      Dear hearts across the seas?

   I have written the tale of our life
      For a sheltered people's mirth,
   In jesting guise—but ye are wise,
   And ye know what the jest is worth.

   We are very slightly changed
   From the semi-apes who ranged
      India's prehistoric clay;
   Whoso drew the longest bow,
   Ran his brother down, you know,
      As we run men down today.

   “Dowb,” the first of all his race,
   Met the Mammoth face to face
      On the lake or in the cave,
   Stole the steadiest canoe,
   Ate the quarry others slew,
      Died—and took the finest grave.

   When they scratched the reindeer-bone
   Someone made the sketch his own,
      Filched it from the artist—then,
   Even in those early days,
   Won a simple Viceroy's praise
      Through the toil of other men.

   Ere they hewed the Sphinx's visage
   Favoritism governed kissage,
   Even as it does in this age.

   Who shall doubt the secret hid
   Under Cheops' pyramid
   Was that the contractor did
      Cheops out of several millions?
   Or that Joseph's sudden rise
   To Comptroller of Supplies
   Was a fraud of monstrous size
      On King Pharoah's swart Civilians?

   Thus, the artless songs I sing
   Do not deal with anything
      New or never said before.

   As it was in the beginning,
   Is today official sinning,
      And shall be forevermore.

   Old is the song that I sing—
      Old as my unpaid bills—
   Old as the chicken that kitmutgars bring
   Men at dak-bungalows—old as the Hills.

   Ahasuerus Jenkins of the “Operatic Own”
    Was dowered with a tenor voice of super-Santley tone.

   His views on equitation were, perhaps, a trifle queer;
   He had no seat worth mentioning, but oh! he had an ear.

   He clubbed his wretched company a dozen times a day,
   He used to quit his charger in a parabolic way,
   His method of saluting was the joy of all beholders,
   But Ahasuerus Jenkins had a head upon his shoulders.

   He took two months to Simla when the year was at the spring,
   And underneath the deodars eternally did sing.

   He warbled like a bulbul, but particularly at
   Cornelia Agrippina who was musical and fat.

   She controlled a humble husband, who, in turn, controlled a Dept.,
   Where Cornelia Agrippina's human singing-birds were kept
   From April to October on a plump retaining fee,
   Supplied, of course, per mensem, by the Indian Treasury.

   Cornelia used to sing with him, and Jenkins used to play;
   He praised unblushingly her notes, for he was false as they:
   So when the winds of April turned the budding roses brown,
   Cornelia told her husband: “Tom, you mustn't send him down.”

   They haled him from his regiment which didn't much regret him;
   They found for him an office-stool, and on that stool they set him,
   To play with maps and catalogues three idle hours a day,
   And draw his plump retaining fee—which means his double pay.

   Now, ever after dinner, when the coffeecups are brought,
   Ahasuerus waileth o'er the grand pianoforte;
   And, thanks to fair Cornelia, his fame hath waxen great,
   And Ahasuerus Jenkins is a power in the State.

   This ditty is a string of lies.
   But—how the deuce did Gubbins rise?

   POTIPHAR GUBBINS, C. E.,
   Stands at the top of the tree;
   And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led
   To the hoisting of Potiphar G.

   Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,
   Is seven years junior to Me;
   Each bridge that he makes he either buckles or breaks,
   And his work is as rough as he.

   Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,
   Is coarse as a chimpanzee;
   And I can't understand why you gave him your hand,
   Lovely Mehitabel Lee.

   Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,
   Is dear to the Powers that Be;
   For They bow and They smile in an affable style
   Which is seldom accorded to Me.

   Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,
   Is certain as certain can be
   Of a highly-paid post which is claimed by a host
   Of seniors—including Me.

   Careless and lazy is he,
   Greatly inferior to Me.

   What is the spell that you manage so well,
   Commonplace Potiphar G.?

   Lovely Mehitabel Lee,
   Let me inquire of thee,
   Should I have riz to what Potiphar is,
   Hadst thou been mated to me?

   This is the reason why Rustum Beg,
   Rajah of Kolazai,
   Drinketh the “simpkin” and brandy peg,
   Maketh the money to fly,
   Vexeth a Government, tender and kind,
   Also—but this is a detail—blind.

   RUSTUM BEG of Kolazai—slightly backward native state
   Lusted for a C. S. I.,—so began to sanitate.
   Built a Jail and Hospital—nearly built a City drain—
   Till his faithful subjects all thought their Ruler was insane.

   Strange departures made he then—yea, Departments stranger still,
   Half a dozen Englishmen helped the Rajah with a will,
   Talked of noble aims and high, hinted of a future fine
   For the state of Kolazai, on a strictly Western line.

   Rajah Rustum held his peace; lowered octroi dues a half;
   Organized a State Police; purified the Civil Staff;
   Settled cess and tax afresh in a very liberal way;
   Cut temptations of the flesh—also cut the Bukhshi's pay;

   Roused his Secretariat to a fine Mahratta fury,
   By a Hookum hinting at supervision of dasturi;
   Turned the State of Kolazai very nearly upside-down;
   When the end of May was nigh, waited his achievement crown.

   When the Birthday Honors came,
   Sad to state and sad to see,
   Stood against the Rajah's name nothing more than C. I. E.!

   Things were lively for a week in the State of Kolazai.
   Even now the people speak of that time regretfully.

   How he disendowed the Jail—stopped at once the City drain;
   Turned to beauty fair and frail—got his senses back again;
   Doubled taxes, cesses, all; cleared away each new-built thana;
   Turned the two-lakh Hospital into a superb Zenana;

   Heaped upon the Bukhshi Sahib wealth and honors manifold;
   Clad himself in Eastern garb—squeezed his people as of old.

   Happy, happy Kolazai!  Never more  will Rustum Beg
   Play to catch the Viceroy's eye. He prefers the “simpkin” peg.

   “Now there were two men in one city;
   the one rich and the other poor.”

   Jack Barrett went to Quetta
      Because they told him to.
   He left his wife at Simla
      On three-fourths his monthly screw:
   Jack Barrett died at Quetta
      Ere the next month's pay he drew.

   Jack Barrett went to Quetta.
      He didn't understand
   The reason of his transfer
      From the pleasant mountain-land:
   The season was September,
      And it killed him out of hand.

   Jack Barrett went to Quetta,
      And there gave up the ghost,
   Attempting two men's duty
      In that very healthy post;
   And Mrs. Barrett mourned for him
      Five lively months at most.

   Jack Barrett's bones at Quetta
      Enjoy profound repose;
   But I shouldn't be astonished
      If now his spirit knows
   The reason of his transfer
      From the Himalayan snows.

   And, when the Last Great Bugle Call
      Adown the Hurnal throbs,
   When the last grim joke is entered
      In the big black Book of Jobs,
   And Quetta graveyards give again
      Their victims to the air,
   I shouldn't like to be the man
      Who sent Jack Barrett there.

       Though tangled and twisted the course of true love
               This ditty explains,
       No tangle's so tangled it cannot improve
               If the Lover has brains.

   Ere the steamer bore him Eastward, Sleary was engaged to marry
   An attractive girl at Tunbridge, whom he called “my little Carrie.”

   Sleary's pay was very modest; Sleary was the other way.
   Who can cook a two-plate dinner on eight poor rupees a day?

   Long he pondered o'er the question in his scantly furnished quarters—
   Then proposed to Minnie Boffkin, eldest of Judge Boffkin's daughters.

   Certainly an impecunious Subaltern was not a catch,
   But the Boffkins knew that Minnie mightn't make another match.

   So they recognised the business and, to feed and clothe the bride,
   Got him made a Something Something somewhere on the Bombay side.

   Anyhow, the billet carried pay enough for him to marry—
   As the artless Sleary put it:—“Just the thing for me and Carrie.”

   Did he, therefore, jilt Miss Boffkin—impulse of a baser mind?
   No! He started epileptic fits of an appalling kind.

   [Of his modus operandi only this much I could gather:—
   “Pears's shaving sticks will give you little taste and lots of lather.”]

   Frequently in public places his affliction used to smite
   Sleary with distressing vigour—always in the Boffkins' sight.

   Ere a week was over Minnie weepingly returned his ring,
   Told him his “unhappy weakness” stopped all thought of marrying.

   Sleary bore the information with a chastened holy joy,—
   Epileptic fits don't matter in Political employ,—
   Wired three short words to Carrie—took his ticket, packed his kit—
   Bade farewell to Minnie Boffkin in one last, long, lingering fit.

   Four weeks later, Carrie Sleary read—and laughed until she wept—
   Mrs. Boffkin's warning letter on the “wretched epilept.”...

   Year by year, in pious patience, vengeful Mrs. Boffkin sits
   Waiting for the Sleary babies to develop Sleary's fits.

   PUBLIC WASTE

     Walpole talks of “a man and his price.”
            List to a ditty queer—
     The sale of a Deputy-Acting-Vice-
           Resident-Engineer,
     Bought like a bullock, hoof and hide,
     By the Little Tin Gods on the Mountain Side.

   By the Laws of the Family Circle 'tis written in letters of brass
   That only a Colonel from Chatham can manage the Railways of State,
   Because of the gold on his breeks, and the subjects wherein he must pass;
   Because in all matters that deal not with Railways his knowledge is great.

   Now Exeter Battleby Tring had laboured from boyhood to eld
   On the Lines of the East and the West, and eke of the North and South;
   Many Lines had he built and surveyed—important the posts which he held;
   And the Lords of the Iron Horse were dumb when he opened his mouth.

   Black as the raven his garb, and his heresies jettier still—
   Hinting that Railways required lifetimes of study and knowledge—
   Never clanked sword by his side—Vauban he knew not nor drill—
   Nor was his name on the list of the men who had passed through the “College.”

   Wherefore the Little Tin Gods harried their little tin souls,
   Seeing he came not from Chatham, jingled no spurs at his heels,
   Knowing that, nevertheless, was he first on the Government rolls
   For the billet of “Railway Instructor to Little Tin Gods on Wheels.”

   Letters not seldom they wrote him, “having the honour to state,”
    It would be better for all men if he were laid on the shelf.
   Much would accrue to his bank-book, an he consented to wait
   Until the Little Tin Gods built him a berth for himself,

   “Special, well paid, and exempt from the Law of the Fifty and Five,
   Even to Ninety and Nine”—these were the terms of the pact:
   Thus did the Little Tin Gods (long may Their Highnesses thrive!)
   Silence his mouth with rupees, keeping their Circle intact;

   Appointing a Colonel from Chatham who managed the Bhamo State Line
   (The which was one mile and one furlong—a guaranteed twenty-inch gauge),
   So Exeter Battleby Tring consented his claims to resign,
   And died, on four thousand a month, in the ninetieth year of his age!

   We have another viceroy now,—those days are dead and done
   Of Delilah Aberyswith and depraved Ulysses Gunne.

   Delilah Aberyswith was a lady—not too young—
   With a perfect taste in dresses and a badly-bitted tongue,
   With a thirst for information, and a greater thirst for praise,
   And a little house in Simla in the Prehistoric Days.

   By reason of her marriage to a gentleman in power,
   Delilah was acquainted with the gossip of the hour;
   And many little secrets, of the half-official kind,
   Were whispered to Delilah, and she bore them all in mind.

   She patronized extensively a man, Ulysses Gunne,
   Whose mode of earning money was a low and shameful one.
   He wrote for certain papers, which, as everybody knows,
   Is worse than serving in a shop or scaring off the crows.

   He praised her “queenly beauty” first; and, later on, he hinted
   At the “vastness of her intellect” with compliment unstinted.
   He went with her a-riding, and his love for her was such
   That he lent her all his horses and—she galled them very much.

   One day, THEY brewed a secret of a fine financial sort;
   It related to Appointments, to a Man and a Report.
   'Twas almost worth the keeping,—only seven people knew it—
   And Gunne rose up to seek the truth and patiently pursue it.

   It was a Viceroy's Secret, but—perhaps the wine was red—
   Perhaps an Aged Councillor had lost his aged head—
   Perhaps Delilah's eyes were bright—Delilah's whispers sweet—
   The Aged Member told her what 'twere treason to repeat.

   Ulysses went a-riding, and they talked of love and flowers;
   Ulysses went a-calling, and he called for several hours;
   Ulysses went a-waltzing, and Delilah helped him dance—
   Ulysses let the waltzes go, and waited for his chance.

   The summer sun was setting, and the summer air was still,
   The couple went a-walking in the shade of Summer Hill.
   The wasteful sunset faded out in Turkish-green and gold,
   Ulysses pleaded softly, and— that bad Delilah told!

   Next morn, a startled Empire learnt the all-important news;
   Next week, the Aged Councillor was shaking in his shoes.
   Next month, I met Delilah and she did not show the least
   Hesitation in affirming that Ulysses was a “beast.”