Ballads and Barrack-Room Ballads

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Ballads and Barrack-Room Ballads  (1892) 
by Rudyard Kipling

BALLADS

AND

BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

Ballads and Barrack-Room Ballads (1892), p. ii.jpg

BALLADS


AND


BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS

BY

RUDYARD KIPLING
Author of “Plain Tales from the Hills,” “The Naulahka,” etc.


New York
MACMILLAN AND CO.
AND LONDON
1892

All rights reserved

Copyright, 1892,

By MACMILLAN AND CO.

Typography by J. S. Cushing & Co., Boston, U.S.A.
Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston, U.S.A.

To

Beyond the path of the outmost sun, through utter darkness hurled,
Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled,
Sit such as fought and sailed and ruled and loved and made our world.

They are purged of pride because they died; they know the worth of their bays;
They sit at wine with the Maidens Nine, and the Gods of the Elder Days—
It is their will to serve or be still as fitteth our Father’s praise.

’Tis theirs to sweep through the ringing deep where Azrael’s outposts are,
Or buffet a path through the Pit’s red wrath when God goes out to war,
Or hang with the reckless Seraphim on the rein of a red-maned star.

They take their mirth in the joy of the earth—they dare not grieve for her pain—
For they know of toil and the end of toil—they know God’s Law is plain;
So they whistle the Devil to make them sport who know that sin is vain.

And ofttimes cometh our wise Lord God, master of every trade,
And tells them tales of the Seventh Day—of Edens newly made,
And they rise to their feet as He passes by—gentlemen unafraid.

To these who are cleansed of base Desire, Sorrow and Lust and Shame—
Gods, for they knew the heart of Men—men, for they stooped to Fame—
Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother’s spirit came.

Scarce had he need to cast his pride or slough the dross of earth.
Even as he trod that day to God, so walked he from his birth—
In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth.

So, cup to lip in fellowship, they gave him welcome high
And made him place at the banquet board, the Strong Men ranged thereby,
Who had done his work and held his peace and had no fear to die.

Beyond the loom of the last lone star through open darkness hurled,
Further than rebel comet dared or hiving star-swarm swirled,
Sits he with such as praise our God for that they served his world.

PREFACE

The greater part of the ‘Barrack-Room Ballads,’ as well as ‘Cleared,’ ‘Tomlinson,’ and ‘The English Flag’ have appeared in the ‘National Observer.’ Messrs. Macmillan and Co. have kindly given me permission to reproduce four ballads contributed to their Magazine, and I am indebted to the ‘St. James Gazette’ for a like courtesy in regard to the ballads of the ‘Clampherdown’ and ‘Bolivar,’ and the ‘Imperial Rescript.’ ‘The Rhyme of the Three Captains’ was printed first in the ‘Athenæum.’ I fancy that most of the other verses are new.

CONTENTS


Ballads
page
THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST
Oh East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, 3
THE LAST SUTTEE
Udai Chand lay sick to death, 12
THE BALLAD OF THE KING’S MERCY
Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told, 18
THE BALLAD OF THE KING’S JEST
When spring-time flushes the desert grass, 25
WITH SCINDIA TO DELHI
The wreath of banquet overnight lay withered on the neck, 31
THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE
This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone, 40
THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE THIEF
O woe is me for the merry life, 53
THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS
. . . At the close of a winter day, 56
THE BALLAD OF THE ‘CLAMPHERDOWN’
It was our war-ship ‘Clampherdown,’ 64
THE BALLAD OF THE ‘BOLIVAR’
Seven men from all the world, back to docks again, 69
THE SACRIFICE OF ER-HEB
Er-Heb beyond the hills of Ao-Safai, 74
THE EXPLANATION
Love and Death once ceased their strife, 85
THE GIFT OF THE SEA
The dead child lay in the shroud, 86
EVARRA AND HIS GODS
Read here: This is the story of Evarra—man—, 90
THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS
When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold, 94
THE LEGEND OF EVIL
This is the sorrowful story, 98
THE ENGLISH FLAG
Winds of the World, give answer? They are whimpering to and fro—, 102
‘CLEARED’
Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt, 108
AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT
Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed, 116
TOMLINSON
Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square, 120
Barrack-Room Ballads
page
DANNY DEEVER
‘What are the bugles blowin’ for?’ said Files-on-Parade, 133
TOMMY
I went into a public-’ouse to get a pint o’ beer, 136
‘FUZZY-WUZZY’
We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas, 140
SOLDIER, SOLDIER
‘Soldier, soldier, come from the wars,’ 143
SCREW-GUNS
Smokin’ my pipe on the mountings, sniffin’ the mornin’ cool, 146
CELLS
I’ve a head like a concertina: I’ve a tongue like a button-stick, 150
GUNGA DIN
You may talk o’ gin and beer, 153
OONTS!
Wot makes the soldier’s ’eart to penk, wot makes him to perspire? 157
LOOT
If you’ve ever stole a pheasant-egg be’ind the keeper’s back, 161
‘SNARLEYOW’
This ’appened in a battle to a batt’ry of the corps, 165
THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR
’Ave you ’eard o’ the Widow at Windsor, 169
BELTS
There was a row in Silver Street that’s near to Dublin Quay, 172
THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER
When the ’arf-made recruity goes out to the East, 176
MANDALAY
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin’ eastward to the sea, 180
TROOPIN’
Troopin’, troopin’, troopin’ to the sea, 184
THE WIDOW’S PARTY
‘Where have you been this while away,’ 187
FORD O’ KABUL RIVER
Kabul town’s by Kabul river—, 190
GENTLEMEN-RANKERS
To the Legion of the Lost Ones to the Cohort of the Damned, 193
ROUTE-MARCHIN’
We’re marchin’ on relief over Injia’s sunny plains, 196
SHILLIN’ A DAY
My name is O’Kelly, I’ve heard the revelly, 200
L’ENVOI
There’s a whisper down the field where the year has shot her yield, 202

WORKS BY RUDYARD KIPLING.


IN THE PRESS.

THE NAULAHKA.

By Rudyard Kipling and the late Wolcott Balestier.

LIFE’S HANDICAP.

STORIES OF MINE OWN PEOPLE,

12mo, cloth. $1.00.

In this volume the following stories are published for the first time:

The Finances of the Gods. The Limitations of Pambé Serang.
The Lang Men o’ Larut. Little Tobrah.
Reingelder and the German Flag. Bubbling Well Road.
The Wandering Jew. The City of Dreadful Night.
Through the Fire. Georgie Porgie.
The Amir’s Homily. Naboth.
Jews in Shushan. The Dream of Duncan Parrenness.

No volume of his yet published gives a better illustration of his genius, and of the weird charm which have given his stories such deserved popularity.—Boston Daily Traveller.

Some of Mr. Kipling’s best work is in this volume. Mr. Kipling is a literary artist of the first rank, and everything in the way of short stories he has written thus far has proved itself to be well worth the reading.—Boston Beacon.

12mo. $1.50.

“The Light that Failed” is an organic whole,—a book with a backbone,—and stands out boldly among the nerveless, placid, invertebrate things called novels that enjoy an expensive but ephemeral existence in the circulating libraries.—Athenæum.


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BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

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Mr. Kipling knows and appreciates the English in India, and is a born story-teller and a man of humour into the bargain. . . . It would be hard to find better reading.—The Saturday Review.

Every one knows that it is not easy to write good short stories. Mr. Kipling has changed all that. Here are forty of them averaging less than eight pages apiece; there is not a dull one in the lot. Some are tragedy, some broad comedy, some tolerably sharp satire. The time has passed to ignore or undervalue Mr. Kipling. He has won his spurs and taken his prominent place in the arena. This, as the legitimate edition, should be preferred to the pirated ones by all such as care for honesty in letters.—Churchman.

One of the first things that strikes the reader is the exceptional excellence of the tales. In so large a collection as forty stories one naturally expects to find some two or three of peculiar power dwarfing the rest. It is the fate of most collections, but here there are at least a dozen, possibly even a score, with regard to which it would be quite impossible to say that this or that is the most powerful or the most beautiful. The explanation is simple—the variety equals the intensity, the imaginative insight, the literary tact. Indeed, we are not sure whether this variety—inexhaustible it seems—is not by far and away the most striking and the most satisfactory characteristic of the volume. The man who wrote these tales has manifestly numberless others to tell. . . . Character, situation, incident, humour, pathos, tragic force, are all in abundance; words alone are at a minimum. Of course these are “plain” tales,—lightning-flash tales. A gleam, and there the whole tragedy or comedy is before you—elaborate it for yourself afterwards,—Glasgow Herald.

Whatever may be Mr. Kipling's ability in the higher walks of fiction, his ability as a story-teller or for narrating such incidents, whether real or fictitious, as are here put together is beyond question. They are told with ease, force, and directness. The humorous stories are probably the best, but whether humorous or grave—and there are both in the volume—they throw considerable light upun certain phases of European society in India and on numerous aspects of native Indian life. There is not an uninteresting story in the volume, and one closes the book with the desire to read the “other stories" Mr. Kipling so often alludes to, and somewhat tantalizingly passes over.—Scottish Review


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F. MARION CRAWFORD.
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KHALED. A Tale of Arabia December.
THE WITCH OF PRAGUE January.

MR. ISAACS. A Tale of Modern India.

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“It is a touching romance, filled with scenes of great dramatic power.”—Boston Commercial Bulletin.

“It is full of life and movement, and is one of the best of Mr. Crawford's books,”—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.

“The interest is unflagging throughout. Never has Mr. Crawford done more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism is only the case and cover for those intense feelings which, placed under no matter what humble conditions, produce the most dramatic and the most tragic situations. . . . This is a secret of genius, to take the most coarse and common material, the meanest surroundings, the most sordid material prospects, and out of the vehement passions which sometimes dominate all human beings to build up with these poor elements scenes and passages, the dramatic and emotional power of which at once enforce attention and awaken the profoundest interest.”—New York Tribune.


KHALED. A Tale of Arabia.

“The story is powerful, it is pervaded by fine poetic feeling, is picturesque to a remarkable degree, and the local colour is extraordinary in its force and truth. Of the many admirable contributions to the literature of fiction that Mr. Crawford has made, this book is, on the whole, the most artistic in construction and finish, and the thorough artist is apparent at every stage of the story. His plot is intensely dramatic, but he has never permitted it to sway him to the extent of slighting any of the more minute details under the impulse of merely telling what he has to tell. He holds his theme firmly in hand and controls instead of being controlled by it. The characters have been drawn with the greatest care, and stand out in bold relief and fine contrast. The atmosphere of the East is in every page, in every utterance.”—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.


THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. A Fantastic Tale.

“Mr. Crawford has written in many keys, but never in so strange a one as that which dominates ‘The Witch of Prague.’ . . . The artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed and carried out is admirable and delightful. . . . Mr. Crawford has scored a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained throughout. . . . A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting story.”—New York Tribune.



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WORKS BY HENRY JAMES.


A NEW VOLUME OF STORIES.

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The public will be glad to find Mr. James in his best vein. One is thankful again that there is so brilliant an American author to give us entertaining sketches of life.—Boston Herald.


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The stories are told with that mastery of the art of story-telling which their writer possesses in a conspicuous degree.—Literary World.


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{{fine|Henry James has never appeared to better advantage as an author than in this delightful volume of critical essays.—Boston Saturday Evening Gazette.


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His short stories, which are always bright and sparkling, are delightful. . . . Will bear reading again and again.—Mail and Express.


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This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1927.


The author died in 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 85 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.