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KIPLING, Rudyard


If you can keep your head when all about you

Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;

If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

To serve your turn long after they are gone,

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,

Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,

And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

The Appeal

If I have given you delight

By aught that I have done,

Let me lie quiet in that night

Which shall be yours anon:

And for the little, little, span

The dead are born in mind,

Seek not to question other than

The books I leave behind.


By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' eastward to the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat -- jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o'mud --
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd --
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "~Kulla-lo-lo!~"
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the ~hathis~ pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

But that's all shove be'ind me -- long ago an' fur away,
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay . . .

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and --
Law! wot do they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be --
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

The Last Chantey

“And There Was No More Sea.”

THUS said the Lord in the vault above the cherubim,

Calling to the angels and the souls in their degree;

“Lo! Earth has passed away

On the smoke of Judgment Day.

That our word may be established shall we gather up the sea?”

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:

“Plague upon the hurricanes that made us furl and flee!

But the war is done between us,

In the deep the Lord hath seen us—

Our bones we ’ll leave the barracout, and God may sink the sea!”

Then said the soul of Judas that betrayed Him:

“Lord, hast Thou forgotten Thy covenant with me?

How once a year I go

To cool me on the floe,

And Ye take my day of mercy if Ye take away the sea!”

Then said the soul of the angel of the Offshore Wind:

(He that bits the thunder when the bullmouthed breakers flee):

“I have watch and ward to keep

O’er Thy wonders on the deep,

And Ye take mine honor from me if Ye take away the sea!”

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:

“Nay, but we were angry, and a hasty folk are we!

If we worked the ship together

Till she foundered in foul weather,

Are we babes that we should clamor for a vengeance on the sea!”

Then said the souls of the slaves that men threw overboard:

“Kennelled in the picaroon a weary band were we;

But Thy arm is strong to save,

And it touched us on the wave,

And we drowsed the long tides idle till Thy trumpets tore the sea.”

Then cried the soul of the stout Apostle Paul to God:

“Once we frapped a ship, and she labored woundily.

There were fourteen score of these,

And they blessed Thee on their knees,

When they learned Thy grace and glory under Malta by the sea.”

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,

Plucking at their harps, and they plucked unhandily:

“Our thumbs are rough and tarred,

And the tune is something hard—

May we lift the Dipsea Chantey such as seamen use at sea?”

Then said the souls of the gentlemen adventurers—

Fettered wrist to bar all for red iniquity:

“Ho, we revel in our chains

O’er the sorrow that was Spain’s;

Heave or sink it, leave or drink it, we were masters of the sea!”

Up spake the soul of a gray Gothavn ’speckshioner—

(He that led the flinching in the fleets of fair Dundee):

“Ho, the ringer and right whale,

And the fish were struck for sale,

Will Ye whelm them all for wantonness that wallow in the sea?”

Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,

Crying: “Under Heaven, here is neither land nor lea!

Must we sing for evermore

On the windless, glassy floor?

Take back your golden fiddles and we ’ll beat for open sea!”

Then stooped the Lord, and he called the good sea up to Him,

And ’stablished His borders unto all eternity,

That such as have no pleasure

For to praise the Lord by measure

They may enter into galleons and serve Him on the sea.

Sun, wind and cloud shall fail not from the face of it,

Stringing, ringing spindrift nor the fulmar flying free,

And the ships shall go abroad

To the glory of the Lord,

Who heard the silly sailor men and gave them back their sea!

When Earth's Last Picture Is Painted

When Earth's last picture is painted

And the tubes are twisted and dried

When the oldest colors have faded

And the youngest critic has died

We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it

Lie down for an aeon or two

'Till the Master of all good workmen

Shall put us to work anew

And those that were good shall be happy

They'll sit in a golden chair

They'll splash at a ten league canvas

With brushes of comet's hair

They'll find real saints to draw from

Magdalene, Peter, and Paul

They'll work for an age at a sitting

And never be tired at all.

And only the Master shall praise us.

And only the Master shall blame.

And no one will work for the money.

No one will work for the fame.

But each for the joy of the working,

And each, in his separate star,

Will draw the thing as he sees it.

For the God of things as they are!