A Song of the English (1909)/The Song of the Dead

by Rudyard Kipling, W. Heath Robinson

For other versions of this work, see The Song of the Dead (Kipling).

Layout 2

THE SONG OF THE DEAD

THE SONG OF THE DEAD

VI

CAME THE WHISPER, CAME THE VISION

Came the Whisper, came the Vision, came the Tower with the Need,
Till the Soul that is not man's soul was lent as to lead.

VII

THEN THE LAST WATER DRIED

Then the wood failed—then the food failed—then the last water dried—
In the faith of little children we lay down and died.

VIII

ON THE SAND-DRIFT—ON THE VELDT-SIDE

On the sand-drift—on the veldt-side—in the fern-scrub we lay.
That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way.

X

FOLLOW AFTER

Follow after—follow after—for the harvest is sown:
By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own!

CAME THE WHISPER
CAME THE VISION

THEN THE LAST
WATER DRIED

ON THE SAND DRIFT
THE VELDT SIDE

FOLLOW AFTER

WHEN DRAKE WENT DOWN
TO THE HORN

AND SHE CALLS US
STILL UNFED

LORD GOD, WE HA' PAID
IN FULL

BUT DROPS OUT DEAD
ON THE SAND

X

WHEN DRAKE WENT DOWN TO THE HORN

When Drake went down to the Horn,
And England was crowned thereby.

XI

SHE CALLS US, STILL UNFED

We have fed our sea for a thousand years,
⁠And she calls us, still unfed,
Though there's never a wave of all her waves
⁠But marks our English dead.

XII

LORD GOD, WE HA' PAID IN FULL!

If blood be the price of admiralty,
⁠Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

XIII

BUT DROPS OUR DEAD ON THE SAND

There's never a flood goes shoreward now
⁠But lifts a keel we manned;
There's never an ebb goes seaward now
⁠But drops our dead on the sand-
But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,
⁠From the Ducies to the Swin.

Hear now the Song of the Dead—in the North by the torn berg-edges—
They that took still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Snug of the Dead in the South—in the sun by their skeleton horses,
Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust of the sere river-courses.

Song of the Dead in the East—in the heat-rotted jungle hollows,
Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof—in the brake of the buffalo-wallows.
Song of the Dead in the West—in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them,
Where the wolverine tumbles their packs from the camp and the grave-mount they made them;
⁠Hear now the Song of the Dead!

We were dreamers, dreaming greatly, in the man-stifled town;
We yearned beyond the sky-line where the strange roads go down.
Came the Whisper, came the Vision, came the Power with the Need,
Till the Soul that is not man's soul was lent as to lead.
As the deer breaks—as the steer breaks—from the herd where they graze,
In the faith of little children we went on our ways.

Then the wood failed—then the food failed—then the last water dried
In the faith of little children we lay down and died.
On the sand-drift—on the veldt-side—in the fern-scrub we lay.
That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way.
Follow after—follow after! We have watered the root,
And the bud has come to blossom that ripens for fruit!

Follow after—we are waiting, by the trails that we lost,
For the sounds of many footsteps, for the tread of a host.
Follow after—follow after—for the harvest is sown:
By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own!

When Drake went down to the Horn
⁠And England was crowned thereby,
'Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed
⁠Our Lodge—our Lodge was born
⁠(And England was crowned thereby!)

Which never shall close again
⁠By day nor yet by night,
While man shall take his life to stake
⁠At risk of shoal or main
⁠(By day nor yet by night)

But standeth even so
⁠As now we witness here,
While men depart, of joyful heart,
⁠Adventure for to know
⁠(As now bear witness here!)

We have fed our sea for a thousand years
⁠And she calls us, still unfed,
Though there's never a wave of all her waves
⁠But marks our English dead:
We have strawed our best to the weed's unrest
⁠To the shark and the sheering gull.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
⁠Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

There's never a flood goes shoreward now
⁠But lifts a keel we manned:
There's never an ebb goes seaward now
⁠But drops our dead on the sand—
But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,
⁠From the Ducies to the Swin.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
⁠Lord God, we ha' paid it in!

We must feed our sea for a thousand years,
⁠For that is our doom and pride,
As it was when they sailed with the Golden Hind,
⁠Or the wreck that struck last tide—
Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef
⁠Where the ghastly blue-lights flare.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
⁠Lord God, we ha' bought it fair!