"What's your favorite Kipling poem?" Topic

Noticed a lot of quotes of "Tommy" in the thread about that horrible incident in the swimming pool with the injured military.

Kipling's been out of fashion among literary sorts in the US since the 1960's. But he'll always be read by soldiers and engineers.

Hard to pick a favorite, but I love this one, could have been written for a fantasy wargamer, and I lost a dear friend in Vietnam who was just like Kipling's brother-in-law:

To Wolcott Balestier

Beyond the path of the outmost sun through utter darkness hurled --
Further than ever comet flared or vagrant star-dust swirled --
Live 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 --
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 His daily toil, 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 hearts of men, men for they stooped to Fame,
Borne on the breath that men call Death, my brother's spirit came.

He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth --
E'en 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 those that praise our God for that they served His world.

"Recessional". It should be Required Reading for all politicians in Foreign Offices everywhere.

Yup, that's a great one.

This is the CA board. We don't do literature here. While we may have read Kipling, we certainly don't admit to it here, either!

Kipling was a lot more complex, and often contradictory, than the popular image of him suggests. I'd propose this one as an example – "Danny Deaver" from 1890:

"What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade.
"To turn you out, to turn you out," the Color-Sergeant said.
"What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade.
"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the Color-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 today;
They've taken of his buttons 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 Color-Sergeant said.
"What makes that front-rank man fall down?" said Files-on-Parade.
"A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun," the Color-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,
They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;
And 'e'll swing in 'alf 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 Color-Sergeant said.
"I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade.
"'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Color-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to his place,
For 'e shot a comrade sleepin'--you must look 'im in the face;
Nine 'undred of 'is county and 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 Color-Sergeant said.
"What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Color-Sergeant said.
For they've done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play,
The regiment's in column, and they're marchin' us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin', and they'll want their beer today,
After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

Of course, it should be "Colour-Sergeant". I've no idea why anyone thought that ought to be Americanized.

An idiot English lit professor once tried to tell me that Kipling glorified war. Right, like in "The Hyenas" or the "Birds of Prey."

"The Widow at Windsor" has always been my favorite Kipling poem and I think it's obvious why when reading the 3rd line.

The Brommer……..

Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor,
For 'alf o' Creation she owns:
We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame,
An' we've salted it down with our bones.
(Poor beggars! -- it's blue with our bones!)
Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,
For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown
When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"!
(Poor beggars! -- we're sent to say "Stop"!)
Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow,
From the Pole to the Tropics it runs --
To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file,
An' open in form with the guns.
(Poor beggars! -- it's always they guns!)

I've always liked "Arithmetic on the Frontier", especially the last verse:

"With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,
The troop-ships bring us one by one,
At vast expense of time and steam,
To slay Afridis where they run.

The "captives of our bow and spear"
Are cheap--alas! as we are dear."

There is a modernized version out, but I don't think Kipling has to worry.

or "The Widow's Party":

"What was the end of all the show,
Johnnie, Johnnie?"
Ask my Colonel, for I don't know,
Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
We broke a King and we built a road --
A court-house stands where the reg'ment goed.
And the river's clean where the raw blood flowed
When the Widow give the party.
(Bugle: Ta--rara--ra-ra-rara!)

As good an argument for Imperialism as one can make.

Yes, panzerCDR, there's quite a lot that applies today.

With home bred hordes the hillsides teem,
The C-5s bring us one-by-one,
At vast expense of gasoline,
To slay the Pushtun as they run.

Recipeints of our "shock and awe"
Are cheap-alas! and note our flaws.

The rest is even worse doggerel.

Yes, yeech.

"The Grave of the Hundred Head"

"For they swore by the Holy Water,
They swore by the salt they ate,
That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib
Should go to his God in state,
With fifty file of Burmans
To open him Heaven's Gate."

link

Rich

Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out.

We quarrelled about Havannas, we fought o'er a good cheroot,
And I know that she is exacting, and she says I am a brute.

I like 'The Betrothed.' I don't smoke, but I agree with the conclusion:

Light me another Cuba--I'll hold to my first-sworn vows,
If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse.

Of course, I never quote the line before that last verse in the presence of members of the fair sex:

And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke.

Grelber

Prudent, Grelber, BECAUSE "the female of the species is more deadly than the male"!

<p>Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow,
Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop,</p>

I always smile at this line… I assume it's a reference to Napoleon's reference to England as a 'nation of shopkeepers'.

I've always liked his "The Screw Guns" ever since hearing it sung to the "Eaton Boating Song" on a rcording by the Band of the Royal Artillery.

Ubique

There is a word you often see, pronounce it as you may –
'You bike,' 'you bikwe,' 'ubbikwe' – alludin' to R.A.
It serves 'Orse, Field, an' Garrison as motto for a crest,
An' when you've found out all it means I'll tell you 'alf the rest.

Ubique means the long-range Krupp be'ind the low-range 'ill –
Ubique means you'll pick it up an', while you do stand, still.
Ubique means you've caught the flash an' timed it by the sound.
Ubique means five gunners' 'ash before you've loosed a round.

Ubique means Blue Fuse1, an' make the 'ole to sink the trail. 1extreme range
Ubique means stand up an' take the Mauser's 'alf-mile 'ail.
Ubique means the crazy team not God nor man can 'old.
Ubique means that 'orse's scream which turns your innards cold.

Ubique means 'Bank, 'Olborn, Bank – a penny all the way –
The soothin' jingle-bump-an'-clank from day to peaceful day.
Ubique means 'They've caught De Wet, an' now we sha'n't be long.'
Ubique means 'I much regret, the beggar's going strong!'

Ubique means the tearin' drift where, breech-blocks jammed with mud,
The khaki muzzles duck an' lift across the khaki flood.
Ubique means the dancing plain that changes rocks to Boers.
Ubique means the mirage again an' shellin' all outdoors.

Ubique means 'Entrain at once for Grootdefeatfontein'!
Ubique means 'Off-load your guns' – at midnight in the rain!
Ubique means 'More mounted men. Return all guns to store.'
Ubique means the R.A.M.R. Infantillery Corps!

Ubique means the warnin' grunt the perished linesman knows,
When o'er 'is strung an' sufferin' front the shrapnel sprays 'is foes,
An' as their firin' dies away the 'usky whisper runs
From lips that 'aven't drunk all day: 'The Guns! Thank Gawd, the Guns!'

Extreme, depressed, point-blank or short, end-first or any'ow,
From Colesberg Kop to Quagga's Poort – from Ninety-Nine till now –

Rudyard Kipling

I've always liked the "The Young British Soldier" and this part in particular:

When ‘arf your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight, for the soldier…

One of his most haunting poems:-

The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass,
We used to pass—we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.

The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.

The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.

It didn't pass—it didn't pass—
It didn't pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane.

Whenever friends got into romantic difficulties, I quoted the following, to their dismay:

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you and I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair
(Even as you and I!)

Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste
And the work of our head and hand,
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand.

A fool there was and his goods he spent
(Even as you and I!)
Honor and faith and a sure intent
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(And it wasn't the least what the lady meant),
(Even as you and I!)

Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned,
Belong to the woman who didn't know why
(And now we know she never knew why)
And did not understand.

The fool we stripped to his foolish hide
(Even as you and I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside--
(But it isn't on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died--
(Even as you and I!)

And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame
That stings like a white hot brand.

It's coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing at last she could never know why)
And never could understand.

And, of course, for belligerent fun (and as a celebration of my heritage *grins*), it's hard to beat this one…

There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay,
Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree;
It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark:
The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park.

For it was: -- "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!"
An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!"
O buckle an' tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison's down to the Park!

There was a row in Silver Street -- the regiments was out,
They called us "Delhi Rebels", an' we answered "Threes about!"
That drew them like a hornet's nest -- we met them good an' large,
The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge.
Then it was: -- "Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street -- an' I was in it too;
We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru!
I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm
A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
O it was: -- "Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street -- they sent the Polis there,
The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care;
But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,
Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es.
For it was: -- "Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street -- it might ha' raged till now,
But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how;
'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run:
An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun.
While it was: -- "Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street -- but that put down the shine,
Wid each man whisperin' to his next: "'Twas never work o' mine!"
We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him,
The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him.
When it was: -- "Belts . . .

There was a row in Silver Street -- it isn't over yet,
For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;
'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:
There was a row in Silver Street -- begod, I wonder why!

But it was: -- "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!"
An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!"
O buckle an' tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison's down to the Park!

For me it's Arithmatic on the Frontier. It does sum up our current problems in Helmand.

Panzer CDR has given some quotes, but I think the whole poem neatly encapsulates the problems of fighting guerillas born to fight.

A great and glorious thing it is
To learn, for seven years or so,
The Lord knows what of that and this,
Ere reckoned fit to face the foe --
The flying bullet down the Pass,
That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass."

Three hundred pounds per annum spent
On making brain and body meeter
For all the murderous intent
Comprised in "villanous saltpetre!"
And after -- ask the Yusufzaies
What comes of all our 'ologies.

A scrimmage in a Border Station --
A canter down some dark defile --
Two thousand pounds of education
Drops to a ten-rupee jezail --
The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,
Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

No proposition Euclid wrote,
No formulae the text-books know,
Will turn the bullet from your coat,
Or ward the tulwar's downward blow
Strike hard who cares -- shoot straight who can --
The odds are on the cheaper man.

One sword-knot stolen from the camp
Will pay for all the school expenses
Of any Kurrum Valley scamp
Who knows no word of moods and tenses,
But, being blessed with perfect sight,
Picks off our messmates left and right.

With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,
The troop-ships bring us one by one,
At vast expense of time and steam,
To slay Afridis where they run.
The "captives of our bow and spear"
Are cheap -- alas! as we are dear.

The Young British Soldier for me, although that's a call that changes from time to time – far too much great stuff to pick from.

Dom.

As for Kipling glorifying war:

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.

Yeah, that sure is selling the dream….

Definitely Tommee. Its timeless and sadly rings true for any country.

You're all wrong – Ballad of Boda Thone is the winner because it's very funny and a bit macabre. Dastardly Burmese warlord meets gets his comuppance by being sat on and killed by fat post office babu.

"He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean,
He filled old ladies with kerosene;
While over the water the Papers cried,
"The patriot fights for his countryside!"

Some things don't change.

If any question why we died,
Tell them, because our fathers lied

And to show how a nation supports its veterans, as apt today as it was when written:

There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they kuew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighen the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be conbnued' and 'see next page' o'the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the sconrn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shamme.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made --"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

I've always liked "Tommy" with its portrayal of society's ambivalent attitude to soldiers.

Oh, it's Tommy this and Tommy that,
And Tommy go away.
But it's "Thank your Mr Atkins",
When the drums begin to play.

He's a writer who KNOWS about and understands war, it's forgotten sacrifices and grubby endings, rather than mindlessly glorifying it. And he can take the voice of the lost and ordinary and makes them speak for all of us. "Epitaphs of the War" is a very thoughtful piece; "Fuzzy Wuzzy" is as respectful of the other side.

My favourite? It's a little off-theme for this thread, but it has to be "The Gift of the Sea".

So many of his poems have the touch of greatness – I'm sure they will always be read and appreciated.

The amazing thing about Kipling is the number of poems we can all quote from. Other poets just don't do it for wargamers. He wrote from the poignant to the hilarious. And inside each was a small dig at the self-righteous stuffed shirt who's major contribution to his country was a stiff letter to the Times.

I have far to many "favorites" to quote one here.

"ere's to you Fuzzy Wuzzy
in your 'ome in the Sudan
You're a poor benighted 'eathen,
but a first class fighting man."

All honor unto Bangs, for ne'er thereafter did Jones know
By word or act official, who read off that helio
But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan
They know the worthy General as "that most immoral man".

"For East is East and West is West
And never the twain shall meet.
Til Earth and Sky stand presently
As God's great judgement seat.

But there is neither East nor West
Nor border, nor breed, nor birth
When two strong men stand face to face,
Though they come from the ends of the Earth."

"Now in Inja's sunny clime
Where I used to spend my time
A servin' of 'er Majesty the Queen
Why of all that blackface crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din."

Those from memory.

Tennyson comes close, but not enough on war. Although Locksley Hall was an oft quoted poem by the RAF in WWII.

"For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be;

Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,
Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales;

Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rain'd a ghastly dew
From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue;

Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,
With the standards of the peoples plunging thro' the thunder-storm;

Till the war-drum throbb'd no longer, and the battle-flags were furl'd
In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world."

A personal fave,"Boots." "…….movin'up an' down again and there's no discharge in the war." The title of the one piece quoted by MahanMan ,I believe was,"The Vampire".

Doc you never surprise me! The general consensus among most critics and poets is that as a poet, Kipling was a good children's story teller.
In fact, his short stories and children's books are still read, while his poems have descended into the mists along with White Man's Burden, etc.

Now they read like bumpy doggerel and, in truth, are seldom taught except as museum piece evidence of the Imperial ideals. They are obvious, devoid of subtlety, and easily understood. Which accounts for his widespread exposure among the narrowly literate.

He sorta died with the Empire in the mid-thirties. To deny that he was glorifying war is an interesting assertion. False, but interesting.

But, poetry is like most items of taste-chacun a son gout. Of your gout, I have no doubt.

To deny that he was glorifying war is an interesting assertion. False, but interesting.

You think?

'Have you news of my boy Jack?'
Not this tide.
'When d'you think that he'll come back?'
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

'Has any one else had word of him?'
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.

'Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?'
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind -
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.

Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

Jack was Kipling's only son, killed at the battle of Loos. Of course without Rudyard's influence at the War Office Jack wouldn't have been there in the first place, having initially failed his army medical…

I don't know…..

……I've never Kipled.

Piquetone, you've no idea how much it gladdens me that you hold Kipling in disdain. I expected no more of you, but it is good to have it confirmed.

"The general consensus among most critics and poets is that…"

So what?

Who cares what critics think, talentless, jealous parasites without the balls to step up to the plate and create something themsleves, living second hand off other peoples' genuine productive effort.

"descended into the mists along with White Man's Burden, etc."

You're obviously not aware of your country's foreign aid budget, VSO, the Peace Corps, Oxfam, Cafod, etc, etc ad infinitum. The White Man's Burden has never been in better health, it just got a liberal face lift.

"seldom taught except as museum piece evidence of the Imperial ideals"

Often noble ones.

Says a lot, too, that "easily understood" is a pejorative in your book. You prefer inpenetrability, I assume?

"To deny that he was glorifying war is an interesting assertion. False, but interesting."

See kawasakis post. Touché.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made --"
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

I tripped over this one a while back. While not the most stirring piece of poetry, it certainly shows that the mishandling of veterans is a far older problem than most people think.

The general consensus among most critics and poets is that as a poet, Kipling was a good children's story teller.

Because topical poets are always abused once their topics are no longer understood. In addition, "practicing" critics are a scourge in any field (with a partial exception for restaurant critics) because very few of them practice the field they critique. Poetry is just the opposite, however. The more poetry literate you are, the less qualified to critique others you become. Not that this stops anyone…

The idea that Kipling wrote glorifying and poetic war propaganda can only come from a severly limited reading of his works. He wrote *about* war, good and bad, just as he wrote about the Empire, good and bad.

They are obvious, devoid of subtlety, and easily understood. Which accounts for his widespread exposure among the narrowly literate.

Subtle poetry is for snobs with nothing better to do. Kipling wasn't writing for them.

Kipling is Good Stuff.

Personally, I like "Widow of Windsor", "Fuzzy Wuzzy" and "Tommy" best.

Pique, do you perhaps find your poetry in coffeehouses?

So many to enjoy, but the one that always gets me is "Snarleyow". What I think was good about Kipling was that he didnt really push an aggenda too often, he just told it like it was.

Snarleyow

This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps
Which is first among the women an' amazin' first in the war;
An' what the blommin' battle was I don't remember now,
But Two's off--lead 'e answered to the name o' Snarleyow.
Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;
Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears;
But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog
Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!

They was movin' into action, they was needed very sore,
To learn a little schoolin' to a native army corps,
They 'ad nipped against an uphill, they was tuckin' down the brow,
When a tricky, trundlin' roundshot give the knock to Snarleyow.

They cut 'im loose an' left 'im -- ''e was almost tore in two--
But he tried to follow after as a well-trained 'orse should do;
'E went an' fouled the limber, an' the Driver's Brother squeals:
"Pull up, pull up for Snarleyow -- 'is head's between 'is 'eels!"

The Driver 'umped 'is shoulder, for the wheels was goin' round,
An' there ain't no "Stop, conductor!" when a batt'ry's changin' ground;
Sez'e: "I broke the begger in, an' very sad I feels,
But I couldn't pull up, not for you -- your 'ead between your 'eels!"

'E 'adn't 'ardly spoke the word, before a droppin' shell
A little right the batt'ry an' between the sections fell;
an' when the smoke 'ad cleared away, before the limber wheels,
There lay the Driver's Brother 'is 'ead between 'is 'eels.

Then sez the Driver's Brother, an' 'is words was very plain,
"For Gawd's own sake get over me, an' put me out o' pain."
They saw 'is wounds was mortal, an' they judged that it was best,
So they took an' drove the limber straight across 'is back an' chest.

The Driver 'e give nothin' 'cept a little coughin' grunt,
But 'e swung 'is 'orses 'andsome when it came to "Action Front!"
An' if one wheel was juicy, you may lay your Monday head
"Twas juicier for the natives when the case begun to spread.

The moral of this story, it is plainly to be seen:
You 'avn't got no families when servin' of the Queen --
You 'avn't got no brothers, fathers, sisters, wives, or sons --
If you want to win your battles take an' work your bloomin' guns!
Down in the Infantry, nobody cares;
Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears;
But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog
Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog!

Yeah Kipling really glorifies war doesnt he.

Kipling glorifying war:

The Hyaenas

After the burial-parties leave
And the baffled kites have fled;
The wise hyaenas come out at eve
To take account of our dead.

How he died and why he died
Troubles them not a whit.
They snout the bushes and stones aside
And dig till they come to it.

They are only resolute they shall eat
That they and their mates may thrive,
And they know that the dead are safer meat
Than the weakest thing alive.

(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,
And a child will sometimes stand;
But a poor dead soldier of the King
Can never lift a hand.)

They whoop and halloo and scatter the dirt
Until their tushes white
Take good hold of the army shirt,
And tug the corpse to light,

And the pitiful face is shewn again
For an instant ere they close;
But it is not discovered to living men --
Only to God and to those

Who, being soulless, are free from shame,
Whatever meat they may find.
Nor do they defile the dead man's name --
That is reserved for his kind.

or this one:

"Birds of Prey" March

March! The mud is cakin' good about our trousies.
Front! -- eyes front, an' watch the Colour-casin's drip.
Front! The faces of the women in the 'ouses
Ain't the kind o' things to take aboard the ship.

Cheer! An' we'll never march to victory.
Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar!
The Large Birds o' Prey
They will carry us away,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more!

Wheel! Oh, keep your touch; we're goin' round a corner.
Time! -- mark time, an' let the men be'ind us close.
Lord! the transport's full, an' 'alf our lot not on 'er --
Cheer, O cheer! We're going off where no one knows.

March! The Devil's none so black as 'e is painted!
Cheer! We'll 'ave some fun before we're put away.
'Alt, an' 'and 'er out -- a woman's gone and fainted!
Cheer! Get on! -- Gawd 'elp the married men to-day!

Hoi! Come up, you 'ungry beggars, to yer sorrow.
('Ear them say they want their tea, an' want it quick!)
You won't have no mind for slingers, not to-morrow --
No; you'll put the 'tween-decks stove out, bein' sick!

'Alt! The married kit 'as all to go before us!
'Course it's blocked the bloomin' gangway up again!
Cheer, O cheer the 'Orse Guards watchin' tender o'er us,
Keepin' us since eight this mornin' in the rain!

Stuck in 'eavy marchin'-order, sopped and wringin' --
Sick, before our time to watch 'er 'eave an' fall,
'Ere's your 'appy 'ome at last, an' stop your singin'.
'Alt! Fall in along the troop-deck! Silence all!

Cheer! For we'll never live to see no bloomin' victory!
Cheer! An' we'll never live to 'ear the cannon roar! (One cheer more!)
The jackal an' the kite
'Ave an 'ealthy appetite,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!)
The eagle an' the crow
They are waitin' ever so,
An' you'll never see your soldiers any more! ('Ip! Urroar!)
Yes, the Large Birds o' Prey
They will carry us away,

Now they read like bumpy doggerel and, in truth, are seldom taught except as museum piece evidence of the Imperial ideals. They are obvious, devoid of subtlety, and easily understood.

What stupid criteria to use. Poetry isn't good unless it's impenetrable?

Leslie Fish has set to music a number of Kipling's poems. Great stuff; if you have achance to get her tapes, do so.

I like so much that I am not sure of my favorite, it often depends on the mood I am in.

As to his merits, anyone who has been a soldier will see that he understood. While there are some things in war that are deserve glory, there are others that cause us to hang our heads. I see that he saw both. He also prefered his country first (that IS a virtue), but also noted strengths in people from other lands.

Kipling certainly did not glorify war, but he saw the good (honor, courage, sacrifice) in soldiers, and sometimes may have glorified them to an extent -- but with eyes wide open to reality.

To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about,
Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout;
But to stand an' be still to the Birken'ead drill is a damn tough bullet to chew,
An' they done it, the Jollies -- 'Er Majesty's Jollies -- soldier an' sailor too!
Their work was done when it 'adn't begun; they was younger nor me an' you;
Their choice it was plain between drownin' in 'eaps an' bein' mopped by the screw,
So they stood an' was still to the Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too!

We're most of us liars, we're 'arf of us thieves, an' the rest are as rank as can be,
But once in a while we can finish in style (which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me).
But it makes you think better o' you an' your friends, an' the work you may 'ave to do,
When you think o' the sinkin' Victorier's Jollies -- soldier an' sailor too!
Now there isn't no room for to say ye don't know -- they 'ave proved it plain and true --
That whether it's Widow, or whether it's ship, Victorier's work is to do,
An' they done it, the Jollies -- 'Er Majesty's Jollies -- soldier an' sailor too!