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 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!

Rudyard Kipling

Tommy

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, Mr. 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 how'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;

Yes it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;

But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool--you bet that Tommy sees!

Rudyard Kipling

Danny Deever

``WHAT are the bugles blowin' for?'' said Files-on-Parade.

``To turn you out, to turn you out,'' the Colour-Sergeant said.

``What makes you look so white, so white?'' said Files-on-Parade.

``I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch,'' the Colour-Sergeant said.

For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,

The regiment's in 'ollow square--they're hangin' him to-day;

They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,

An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

``What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?'' said Files-on-Parade.

``It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold,'' the Colour-Sergeant said.

``What makes that front-rank man fall down?'' says Files-on-Parade.

``A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun,'' the Colour-Sergeant said.

They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,

They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;

An' e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound--

O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!

``'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine,'' said Files-on-Parade.

``'E's sleepin' out an' far tonight,'' the Colour Sergeant said.

``I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times,'' said Files-on-Parade.

``E's drinkin bitter beer alone,'' the Colour-Sergeant said.

They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,

For 'e shot a comrade sleepin'--you must look 'im in the face;

Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace,

While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

``What's that so black agin the sun?'' said Files-on-Parade.

``It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life,'' the Colour-Sergeant said.

``What's that that whimpers over'ead?'' said Files-on-Parade.

``It's Danny's soul that's passin' now,'' the Colour-Sergeant said.

For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play,

The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away;

Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer today,

After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

Rudyard Kipling

Recessional

God of our fathers, known of old--

Lord of our far-flung battle line--

Beneath Whose awful hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine--

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget--lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;

The captains and the kings depart:

Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget--lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;

On dune and headland sinks the fire:

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Ninevah and Tyre!

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,

Lest we forget--lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--

Such boasting as the Gentiles use

Or lesser breeds without the Law--

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust

In reeking tube and iron shard--

All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding, calls not Thee to guard--

For frantic boast and foolish word,

Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!

Amen.

Rudyard Kipling

The Power of the Dog

THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way

From men and women to fill our day;

And when we are certain of sorrow in store,

Why do we always arrange for more?

Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware

Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy

Love unflinching that cannot lie--

Perfect passion and worship fed

By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.

Nevertheless it is hardly fair

To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits

Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,

And the vet's unspoken prescription runs

To lethal chambers or loaded guns,

Then you will find--it's your own affair--

But...you've given your heart for a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,

With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!);

When the spirit that answered your every mood

Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,

You will discover how much you care,

And will give your heart for the dog to tear.

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,

When it comes to burying Christian clay.

Our loves are not given, but only lent,

At compound interest of cent per cent.

Though it is not always the case, I believe,

That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:

For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,

A short-time loan is as bad as a long--

So why in Heaven (before we are there)

Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Rudyard Kipling

Gunga Din

YOU may talk o' gin and beer

When you're quartered safe out here,

And you're sent to penny-fights and Aldershot it,

But when it comes to slaughter,

You will do your work on water,

And you'll lick the bloomin' boots o' them 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.

It was "Din! Din! Din!

You limpin' lump of 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,

And rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,

For a piece o' twisty rag

And a goatskin water-bag

Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.

When the sweatin' troop-train lay

In a sidin' through the day,

When the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,

We shouted "Harry By!"

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped him '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 and carry one

Till the longest day was done,

And 'e didn't seem to know the use of fear;

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin' nut

'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.

'E would skip to our attack,

With 'is mussick on 'is back,

And watch us till the bugles made "Retire",

And for all 'is dirty hide,

'E was white, clear white, inside

When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!

It was "Din! Din! Din!"

With the bullet kickin' dust spots on the green;

When the cartridges ran out,

You could hear the front lines 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 have been.

I was chokin' mad with thirst,

And the man that spied me first

Was our good ol' grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.

'E lifted up my head,

And 'e plugged me where I bled,

And 'e gave 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 his spleen--

'E's chawin up the ground,

And 'e's kickin' all around,

For Gawd's sake get the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away

To where a dooli lay,

And a bullet came and drilled the beggar clean.

'E put me safe inside,

And just before 'e died,

"I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din.

So I'll see '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,

And I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!

And it's "Din! Din! Din!"

You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!

Though I've belted you and flayed you,

By the livin' God that made you,

You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Rudyard Kipling

Edgehill Fight

[The Battle of Edgehill, fought in 1642, was the first large battle of the English Civil Wars]

NAKED and gray the Cotswolds stand

Beneath the summer sun,

And the stubble fields on either hand

Where Sour and Avon run.

There is no change in the patient land

That has bred us every one.

She should have passed in cloud and fire

And saved us from this sin

Of war--red war--'twixt child and sire,

Household and kith and kin,

In the heart of a sleepy Midland shire,

With the harvest scarcely in.

But there is no change as we meet at last

On the brow-head or the plain,

And the raw astonished ranks stand fast

To slay or to be slain

By the men they knew in the kindly past

That shall never come again--

By the men they met at dance or chase,

In the tavern or the hall,

At the justice bench and the market place,

At the cudgel play or brawl--

Of their own blood and speech and race,

Comrades or neighbors all!

More bitter than death this day must prove

Whichever way it go,

For the brothers of the maids we love

Make ready to lay low

Their sisters' sweethearts, as we move

Against our dearest foe.

Thank Heaven! At last the trumpets peal

Before our strength gives way.

For King or for the Commonweal--

No matter which they say,

The first dry rattle of new-drawn steel

Changes the world today!

Rudyard Kipling