A neat older book

[SeaCat]

This afternoon I stopped in the local Library and checked out their sales box while adding some donations of my own.

I found an older book for $1.00 so I picked it up.

"Barrack Room Ballads and other verses" by Rudyard Kipling. (Seventh Edition, 1894.)

I know it's not worth much but it has some of his works I haven't read before.

Cat

 

[voluptuary_manque]

That's a good collection. I've never read the entire set but like the one's I've seen.

 

[oggbashan]

Congratulations, SeaCat.

I have a collection of Kipling, some of them 1st Indian editions (his earliest publications).

Kipling was the first English writer to win a Nobel Prize for Literature (in 1907).

His reputation as a writer comes and goes. Sometimes he is appreciated, sometimes he isn't. His first editions published in England are still surprisingly cheap. There are two reasons. Firstly he was very popular at the time and therefore his first editions were printed in significant print runs, and secondly he is less popular now than he was, so the value of his books has dropped.

As a short story writer he could be superb. He could also be awful as in his Stalky schoolboy books. Puck of Pooks Hill and Rewards and Fairies are still bought and enjoyed. The Jungle Books are better than Disney made them.

His rendition of soldiers' dialect was considered accurate at the time but some of it is almost unintelligible now, and some military critics complained that it wasn't actually genuine even then.

He is seen as an apologist for the British Empire but in his time he was more critical than most. His poem Recessional for the Diamond Jubilee of 1897 was vilified for being almost treasonous but it was a salutary reminder that Empires are not eternal.

Like Winston Churchill he is often quoted, partially quoted and misquoted. For example:

East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.

The full quote is:

East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgement Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!

The full quote means something completely different from the first line.

And:

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

The full quote is:

When the Hymalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Og

 

[lisa123414]

i have a kipling

will not give it up for love or money, although he is not my favorite, but am enamored of the fact that quality does not
necessarily
equate
to market value
xp

 

[TE999]

He: "Do you enjoy Kipling?"

She: "I don't know, I've never Kippled."

 

[trysail]

Rikki-Tikki-Tavi was one of my favorite childhood tales. Any writer who wrote the kind of stuff that appears below is worth reading.



"At the end of the fight
is a tombstone white,
with the name of the late deceased,
And the epitaph drear:
A fool lies here
who tried to hustle the East.''

-Rudyard Kipling
The Naulahka (1892)





___________________________________

"If..."​

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 your dreams your master;
If you can think— and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters 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— what's more— you'll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling





________________________________________



"As the bitch returns to her vomit,
and the sow to her mire,
so the poor fool's bandaged finger,
returns to the fire."

-Rudyard Kipling



_______________________________________________

Tommy
Rudyard Kipling

I WENT into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer,
The publican ’e up an’ sez, “We serve no red-coats here.”
The girls be’ind the bar they laughed an’ giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an’ to myself sez I:
O it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, go away”;
But it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play,—
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it’s “Thank you, Mister Atkins”, when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but ’adn’t none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-’alls,
But when it comes to fightin’, Lord! they’ll shove me in the stalls!
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, wait outside”;
But it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide,—
The troopship’s on the tide, my boys, the troopship’s on the tide,
O it’s “Special train for Atkins” when the trooper’s on the tide.

Yes, makin’ mock o’ uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an’ they’re starvation cheap;
An’ hustlin’ drunken soldiers when they’re goin’ large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin’ in full kit.
Then it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, ’ow’s yer soul?”
But it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll,—
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it’s “Thin red line of ’eroes” when the drums begin to roll.

We aren’t no thin red ’eroes, nor we aren’t no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An’ if sometimes our conduck isn’t all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don’t grow into plaster saints;
While it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Tommy, fall be’ind”,
But it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind,—
There’s trouble in the wind, my boys, there’s trouble in the wind,
O it’s “Please to walk in front, sir”, when there’s trouble in the wind.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s Uniform is not the soldier-man’s disgrace.
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “Chuck him out, the brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ’is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
An’ Tommy ain’t a bloomin’ fool—you bet that Tommy sees!

 

[voluptuary_manque]

Reprobate Bear that I am, my personal opinion is that English poetry went to Hell and the sewer after Kipling died. Fuck you, Ezra Pound!

 

[ishtat]

Congratulations, SeaCat.


example:

East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet.

The full quote is:

East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgement Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!

The full quote means something completely different from the first line.

And:

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

The full quote is:

When the Hymalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Og

Og, I believe that the "East is east and west is west" poem has a particular significance to Americans because Kipling wrote it specifically for an American audience at the time the USA was first becoming involved in the Phillipines. It was essentially a poetic lecture to the US not to shirk their imperial (and moral) responsibilities. The idea of imperial expansion as a moral responsibility is now of course a little passe!

"Recessional" I think of as a hymn rather than a poem - not an original thought because TS Eliot suggested it before me.

"The Female of the species" is (to my mind) an anthem to Cloudy, particularly the third verse:

" When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengance of the squaws,
'Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

 

[Handley_Page]

To my mind Kipling had a biting edge to his words; that Tommy Atkins piece is true, even today, although thanks for a few well-intentioned folks the concept of the deservin' 'ero is catching on. Witness the parade when the dead are repatriated.


I hope I've got this one right:-

When you're wounded and lying on Afghanistan's plains
And the women come out to pick the remains
just roll on your rifle and blow out your brains
and go to your God like a so'jer.

[thought; not changed too much, has it?]

 

[JackLuis]

When I was about 14 I found a book called "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man," by Robert W. Service. He had a style like Kipling's and is probably better know for his poems of the Klondike. "The Cremation of Sam McGee," and the like.

The book was his take on WW1, where he drove an ambulance. I haven't seen the book in many years, probably in my storage along with my Kipling and ~500 others.

The book made me think about war and fighting and inevitably politics. I believe I learned more from Service than I did from any other poet.

 

[trysail]

When I was about 14 I found a book called "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man," by Robert W. Service. He had a style like Kipling's and is probably better know for his poems of the Klondike. "The Cremation of Sam McGee," and the like...

That brings back a fond memory.

In my senior year, an instructor gave us a choice between taking the final exam or reciting ( from memory ) "The Cremation of Sam McGee." A surprisingly high percentage of the class chose to take the exam.

 

[Smarmy_and_Sappe]

...my favorite...

You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when 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 Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced 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! slippery 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 piece o' twisty 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 your 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 'e 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 could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I shan't forgit 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' and 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
At 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!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

 

[cloudy]

For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

The full quote is:

When the Hymalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Og

My favorite Kipling work!

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
‘Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husbands, each confirms the other’s tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells—
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthrall but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

 

[Smarmy_and_Sappe]

When I was about 14 I found a book called "Rhymes of a Red Cross Man," by Robert W. Service. He had a style like Kipling's and is probably better know for his poems of the Klondike. "The Cremation of Sam McGee," and the like.

The book was his take on WW1, where he drove an ambulance. I haven't seen the book in many years, probably in my storage along with my Kipling and ~500 others.

The book made me think about war and fighting and inevitably politics. I believe I learned more from Service than I did from any other poet.

My uncle used to recite Service poems when I was growing up. It was because of him that I spent ten years in the Yukon. And yes, I've been to the marge of Lake Labarge.

 

[Handley_Page]

And the last line passed into legend.

Sam McGee:-

There are strange things done in the midnight sun,
By the men who toil for gold,
And the arctic trails have their secret tales,
That would make your blood run cold.
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see,
Was that night on the marge of Lake le Barge,
When I cremated Sam Magee.

 

[oggbashan]

Dan McGrew
By Robert Service

A bunch of the boys were whooping up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a rag-time tune;
Back of the bar in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o’-love, the lady that’s known as Lou.

The coming of Dan McGrew

At the end of the Nineties, the North wind did blow;
We’d tossed out the stiff died of a case of slow;
Our hearts in thrall to the face of a woman untrue
We longed and lusted for the lady known as Lou.

The boys played poker in the lukewarm Malamute saloon;
Our whiskey parched lips too frozen to carry a tune;
Wrapped in rich furs, her charms revealed to few,
Her bottom we craved, that of the lady known as Lou.

The bar door opened with a crash: the man from the trail,
Half hidden by packages, the chilled courier with mail
Stumbled and staggered across to the bar, “Give me a slew!”
He cried to be met with rye served by fair hand of Lou.

His face brightened as the rough rye hit the spot
“Listen to me” he gasped as we covered the pot
I’ve news from the line will make you feel blue
The auditor’s coming, Dangerous Dan McGrew.”

Some cents, they were missing, two million or three
The only culprit as plain as the bark on a tree
An audit, she couldn’t afford it, almost everyone knew
Her books as false as the heart of the lady known as Lou

...

 

[oggbashan]

THE GREEN EYE OF THE LITTLE YELLOW GOD
by J. Milton Hayes​

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

He was known as "Mad Carew" by the subs at Khatmandu,
He was hotter than they felt inclined to tell;
But for all his foolish pranks, he was worshipped in the ranks,
And the Colonel's daughter smiled on him as well.

He had loved her all along, with a passion of the strong,
The fact that she loved him was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one and arrangements had begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball.

He wrote to ask what present she would like from Mad Carew;
They met next day as he dismissed a squad;
And jestingly she told him then that nothing else would do
But the green eye of the little Yellow God.

On the night before the dance, Mad Carew seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him as they puffed at their cigars:
But for once he failed to smile, and he sat alone awhile,
Then went out into the night beneath the stars.

He returned before the dawn, with his shirt and tunic torn,
And a gash across his temple dripping red;
He was patched up right away, and he slept through all the day,
And the Colonel's daughter watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked if they could send his tunic through;
She brought it, and he thanked her with a nod;
He bade her search the pocket saying "That's from Mad Carew,"
And she found the little green eye of the god.

She upbraided poor Carew in the way that women do,
Though both her eyes were strangely hot and wet;
But she wouldn't take the stone and Mad Carew was left alone
With the jewel that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height, on that still and tropic night,
She thought of him and hurried to his room;
As she crossed the barrack square she could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide, with silver moonlight shining through;
The place was wet and slipp'ry where she trod;
An ugly knife lay buried in the heart of Mad Carew,
'Twas the "Vengeance of the Little Yellow God."

There's a one-eyed yellow idol to the north of Khatmandu,
There's a little marble cross below the town;
There's a broken-hearted woman tends the grave of Mad Carew,
And the Yellow God forever gazes down.

 

[bronzeage]

This is probably one of Kipling's worst, from a technical view, but I go back to it time and time again.


The Sons of Martha.

The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.

It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.

They say to mountains ``Be ye removèd.'' They say to the lesser floods ``Be dry.''
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd---they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill-tops shake to the summit---then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

They finger Death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.

To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden---under the earthline their altars are---
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.

They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not preach that His Pity allows them to drop their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's ways may be long in the land.

Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with the blood some Son of Martha spilled for that!
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd---they know the Angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the feet---they hear the Word---they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and---the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons!