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Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room Ballads
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And there’s Subadar Prag Tewarri
Who tells how the work was done.
THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS
Beneath the deep veranda’s shade,
When bats begin to fly,
I sit me down and watch – alas! —
Another evening die.
Blood-red behind the sere ferash
She rises through the haze.
Sainted Diana! can that be
The Moon of Other Days?
Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith,
Sweet Saint of Kensington!
Say, was it ever thus at Home
The Moon of August shone,
When arm in arm we wandered long
Through Putney’s evening haze,
And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath
The Moon of Other Days?
But Wandle’s stream is Sutlej now,
And Putney’s evening haze
The dust that half a hundred kine
Before my window raise.
Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist
The seething city looms,
In place of Putney’s golden gorse
The sickly babul blooms.
Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust,
And bid the pie-dog yell,
Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ,
From each bazaar its smell;
Yea, suck the fever from the tank
And sap my strength therewith:
Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face
To little Kitty Smith!
THE OVERLAND MAIL
(Foot-Service to the Hills)
In the name of the Empress of India, make way,
O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.
The woods are astir at the close of the day —
We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.
Let the robber retreat – let the tiger turn tail —
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!
With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,
He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill —
The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,
And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill:
“Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,
Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail.”
Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.
Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.
Does the tempest cry “Halt”? What are tempests to him?
The Service admits not a “but” or and “if.”
While the breath’s in his mouth, he must bear without fail,
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.
From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,
From level to upland, from upland to crest,
From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur,
Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.
From rail to ravine – to the peak from the vale —
Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.
There’s a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road —
A jingle of bells on the foot-path below —
There’s a scuffle above in the monkey’s abode —
The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow.
For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail:
“In the name of the Empress the Overland Mail!”
WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID
June 21st, 1887
By the well, where the bullocks go
Silent and blind and slow —
By the field where the young corn dies
In the face of the sultry skies,
They have heard, as the dull Earth hears
The voice of the wind of an hour,
The sound of the Great Queen’s voice:
“My God hath given me years,
Hath granted dominion and power:
And I bid you, O Land, rejoice.”
And the ploughman settles the share
More deep in the grudging clod;
For he saith: “The wheat is my care,
And the rest is the will of God.
Who tells how the work was done.
THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS
Beneath the deep veranda’s shade,
When bats begin to fly,
I sit me down and watch – alas! —
Another evening die.
Blood-red behind the sere ferash
She rises through the haze.
Sainted Diana! can that be
The Moon of Other Days?
Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith,
Sweet Saint of Kensington!
Say, was it ever thus at Home
The Moon of August shone,
When arm in arm we wandered long
Through Putney’s evening haze,
And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath
The Moon of Other Days?
But Wandle’s stream is Sutlej now,
And Putney’s evening haze
The dust that half a hundred kine
Before my window raise.
Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist
The seething city looms,
In place of Putney’s golden gorse
The sickly babul blooms.
Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust,
And bid the pie-dog yell,
Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ,
From each bazaar its smell;
Yea, suck the fever from the tank
And sap my strength therewith:
Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face
To little Kitty Smith!
THE OVERLAND MAIL
(Foot-Service to the Hills)
In the name of the Empress of India, make way,
O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.
The woods are astir at the close of the day —
We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.
Let the robber retreat – let the tiger turn tail —
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!
With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,
He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill —
The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,
And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill:
“Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,
Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail.”
Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.
Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.
Does the tempest cry “Halt”? What are tempests to him?
The Service admits not a “but” or and “if.”
While the breath’s in his mouth, he must bear without fail,
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.
From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir,
From level to upland, from upland to crest,
From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur,
Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest.
From rail to ravine – to the peak from the vale —
Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.
There’s a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road —
A jingle of bells on the foot-path below —
There’s a scuffle above in the monkey’s abode —
The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow.
For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail:
“In the name of the Empress the Overland Mail!”
WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID
June 21st, 1887
By the well, where the bullocks go
Silent and blind and slow —
By the field where the young corn dies
In the face of the sultry skies,
They have heard, as the dull Earth hears
The voice of the wind of an hour,
The sound of the Great Queen’s voice:
“My God hath given me years,
Hath granted dominion and power:
And I bid you, O Land, rejoice.”
And the ploughman settles the share
More deep in the grudging clod;
For he saith: “The wheat is my care,
And the rest is the will of God.
Другие электронные книги автора Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
Другие аудиокниги автора Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
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