Newspaper History

Tag: Rudyard Kipling

  • The Glory of the Garden

    From the Albuquerque Morning Journal, April 10, 1915. By Rudyard Kipling.

    Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
    Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
    With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
    But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

    For where the old thick laurels grow along the thin red wall,
    You’ll find the tool and potting sheds which are the heart of all,
    The cold frames and the hothouses, the dung pits and the tanks,
    The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

    And there you’ll see the gardeners, the men and ’prentice boys
    Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise;
    For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
    The glory of the garden it abideth not in words.

    And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
    And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
    But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
    For the glory of the garden occupieth all who come.

    Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
    By singing, “Oh, how beautiful!” and sitting in the shade
    While better men than we go out and start their working lives
    At grubbing weeds from gravel paths with broken dinner knives.

    There’s not a pair of legs so thin, there’s not a head so thick,
    There’s not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick,
    But it can find some needful job that’s crying to be done,
    For the glory of the garden glorifieth every one.

    Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
    If it’s only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
    And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden
    You will find yourself a partner in the glory of the garden.

    Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
    That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees,
    So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
    For the glory of the garden that it may not pass away!
    And the glory of the garden it shall never pass away!

  • In Partibus

    From The Sun, March 21, 1915. By Rudyard Kipling.

    The buses run to Battersea,
        The buses run to Bow
    The buses run to Westbourne Grove
        And Notting Hill also;
    But I am sick of London town
        From Shepherd’s Bush to Bow.

    I see the smut upon my cuff
        And feel him on my nose;
    I cannot leave my window wide
        When gentle zephyr blows,
    Because he brings disgusting things
        And drops ’em on my clothes.

    The sky, a greasy soup-toureen,
        Shuts down atop my brow.
    Yes, I have sighed for London town
        And I have got it now:
    And half of it is fog and filth,
        And half is fog and row.

    And when I take my nightly prowl
        ’Tis passing good to meet
    The pious Briton lugging home
        His wife and daughter sweet,
    Through four packed miles of seething vice
        Thrust out upon the street.

    Earth holds no horror like to this
        In any land displayed,
    From Suez unto Sandy Hook,
        From Calais to Port Said;
    And ’twas to hide their heathendom
        The beastly fog was made.

    I cannot tell when dawn is near,
        Or when the day is done,
    Because I always see the gas
        And never see the sun,
    And now, methinks, I do not care
        A cuss for either one.

    But stay, there was an orange, or
        An aged egg its yolk;
    It might have been a Pears’ balloon
        Or Barnum’s latest joke;
    I took it for the sun and wept
        To watch it through the smoke.

    It’s oh to see the morn ablaze
        Above the mango-tope,
    When homeward through the dewy cane
        The little jackals lope,
    And half Bengal heaves into view,
        New washed—with sunlight soap.

    It’s oh for one deep whisky peg
        When Christmas winds are blowing,
    When all the men you ever knew,
        And all you’ve ceased from knowing,
    Are “entered for the Tournament,
        And everything that’s going.”

    But I consort with long-haired things
        In velvet collar-rolls,
    Who talk about the Aims of Art,
        And “theories” and “goals,”
    And moo and coo with women-folk
        About their blessed souls.

    But that they call “psychology”
        Is lack of liver pill,
    And all that blights their tender souls
        Is eating till they’re ill,
    And their chief way of winning goals
        Consists of sitting still.

    It’s oh to meet an Army man,
        Set up and trimmed and taut,
    Who does not spout hashed libraries
        Or think the next man’s thought,
    And walks as though he owned himself,
        And hogs his bristles short.

    Hear now, a voice across the seas
        To kin beyond my ken,
    If ye have ever filled an hour
        With stories from my pen,
    For pity’s sake send some one here
        To bring me news of men!

    The buses run to Islington,
        To Highgate and Soho,
    To Hammersmith and Kew therewith
        And Camberwell also,
    But I can only murmur “Bus!”
        From Shepherd’s Bush to Bow.

  • Soldier, Soldier

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, February 16, 1915. By Rudyard Kipling.

    “Soldier, soldier, come from the wars,
        Why don’t you march with my true love?”
    “We’re fresh from off the ship an’ ‘e’s maybe give the slip,
        An’ you’d best go look for a new love.

    “New love! True love!
        Best go look for a new love:
    The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,
        An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

    “Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
        What did you see o’ my true love?”
    “I seed ‘im serve the Queen in a suit o’ rifle green,
        An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

    “Soldier, soldier, come from the wars,
        Did ye see no more o’ my true love?”
    “I seed ‘im runnin’ by when the shots began to fly—
        But you’d best go look for a new love.”

    “Soldier, soldier, come from the wars,
        Did aught take ‘arm to my true love?”
    “I couldn’t see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white—
        An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

    “Soldier, soldier, come from the wars,
        I’ll up an’ tend to my true love!”
    “‘E’s lying on the dead with a bullet through ‘is ‘ead,
        An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

    “Soldier, soldier, come from the wars,
        I’ll down an’ die with my true love!”
    “The pit we dug’ll ‘ide ‘im an’ the twenty men beside ‘im—
        An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

    “Soldier, soldier, come from the wars,
        Do you bring no sign from my true love?”
    “I bring a lock of ‘air that ‘e allus used to wear,
        An’ you’d best go look for a new love.”

    “Soldier, soldier, come from the wars,
        O then I know it’s true I’ve lost my true love!”
    “An’ I tell you truth again—when you’ve lost the feel o’ pain
        You’d best take me for your true love.”

    True love! New love!
        Best take ‘im for a new love.
    The dead they cannot rise, an’ you’d better dry your eyes,
        An’ you’d best take ‘im for your true love.

  • June in India

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, November 9, 1914. By Rudyard Kipling.

    No hope, no change! The clouds have shut us in
        And through the cloud the sullen Sun strikes down
        Full on the bosom of the tortured town;
    Till night falls, heavy as remembered sin

    That will not suffer sleep or thought of ease,
        And, hour on hour, the dry eyed Moon in spite
        Glares through the haze and mocks with watery light
    The torment of the uncomplaining trees.

    Far off the Thunder bellows her despair
    To echoing Earth, thrice parched. The lightnings fly
        In vain. No help the heaped up clouds afford
        But wearier weight of burdened, burning air,
    What truce with Dawn? Look, from the aching sky
    Day stalks, a tyrant with a flaming sword!

  • Hymn Before Action

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, August 6, 1914. By Rudyard Kipling.

    The earth is full of anger,
        The seas are dark with wrath,
    The Nations in their harness
        Go up against our path;
    Ere yet we loose the legions—
        Ere yet we draw the blade,
    Jehovah of the Thunders,
        Lord God of Battles, aid!

    High lust and forward bearing,
        Proud heart, rebellious brow—
    Deaf ear and soul uncaring,
        We seek Thy mercy now!
    The sinner that forswore Thee,
        The fool that passed Thee by,
    Our times are known before Thee—
        Lord, grant us strength to die!

    From panic, pride and terror
        Revenge that knows no reign,
    Light haste and lawless error,
        Protect us yet again.
    Cloak Thou, our underserving,
        Make firm the shuddering breath;
    In silence and unswerving
        To taste Thy lesser death!

    E’en now the vanguard gathers,
        E’en now we face the fray—
    As Thou didst help our fathers,
        Help Thou our host today!
    Fulfilled of signs and wonders,
        In life, in death made clear—
    Jehovah of the Thunders,
        Lord God of Battles, hear!

  • If We Only Knew

    From the Newark Evening Star, July 29, 1914. By Rudyard Kipling.

    If we knew the cares and trials,
        Knew the efforts all in vain,
    And the bitter disappointment,
        Understood the loss and gain—
    Would the grim eternal roughness
        Seem—I wonder—just the same;
    Should we help where now we hinder,
        She we pity where we blame?

    Ah! We judge each other harshly,
        Knowing not life’s hidden force—
    Knowing not the fount of action
        Is less turbid at its source;
    Seeing not amid the evil
        All the golden grains of good;
    And we’d love each other better
        If we only understood.

    Could we judge all deeds by motives
        That surround each other’s lives,
    See the naked heart and spirit,
        Know what spur the action gives,
    Often we would find it better
        Just to judge all actions good;
    We should love each other better
        If we only understood.

  • Gunga Din

    From The Birmingham Age Herald, September 17, 1913. By Rudyard Kipling.

    You may talk o’ gin an’ beer
    When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,
    An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;
    But if it comes to slaughter
    You will do your work on water,
    An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.
    Now in India’s sunny clime,
    Where I used to spend my time
    A-servin’ of ’er majesty the queen,
    Of all them black faced crew
    The finest man I knew
    Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.

    He was “Din! Din! Din!
    You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!
    Hi! slippy hitherao
    Water, get it! Panee lao,
    You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!”

    The uniform ’e wore
    Was nothin’ much before,
    An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,
    For a twisty piece o’ rag
    An’ a goatskin water-bag
    Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.
    When the sweatin’ troop train lay
    In a sidin’ through the day,
    Where the ’eat would make yer bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,
    We shouted ‘Harry By!’
    Till our throats were bricky dry,
    Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.

    It was “Din! Din! Din!
    You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?
    You put some juldee in it,
    Or I’ll marrow you this minute
    If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!”

    ’E would dot an’ carry one
    Till the longest day was done;
    An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.
    If we charged or broke or cut,
    You could bet your bloomin’ nut,
    ’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear,
    With ’is mussick on ’is back,
    ’E would skip with our attack,
    An’ watch us till the bugles made “Retire.”
    An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide
    ’E was white, clear white, inside
    When he went to tend the wounded under fire!

    It was “Din! Din! Din!
    With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.
    When the cartridges ran out,
    You’d ‘ear the front files shout:
    Hi! ammunition mules an’ Gunga Din!”

    I shan’t forget the night
    When I dropped be’ind the fight
    With a bullet where my belt plate should ’a’ been.
    I was chokin’ mad with thirst,
    An’ the man that spied me first
    Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.
    ’E lifted up my ’ead,
    An’ he plugged me where I bled,
    An’ ’e guv me ’arf a pint o’ water green.
    It was crawlin’ an’ it stunk,
    But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,
    I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

    It was “Din! Din! Din!
    ‘Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;
    ‘E’s chawin’ up the ground an’ ’e’s kickin’ all around;
    For Gawd’s sake, git the water, Gunga Din!”
    ’E carried me away
    To where a dooli lay,
    An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.
    ’E put me safe inside,
    An’ just before ’e died:
    “I ’ope you liked your drink,” sez Gunga Din.
    So I’ll meet ’im later on
    In the place where ’e is gone,
    Where it’s always double drill and no canteen;
    ’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals
    Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,
    An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!

    Din! Din! Din!
    You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
    Though I’ve belted you an’ flayed you,
    By the livin’ Gawd that made you,
    You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!