The Runners

News!
What is the word that they tell now, now, now!
The little drums beating in the bazaars?
They beat (among, the buyers and the sellers)
Nimrud, ah, Nimrud!
God tends a gnat against Nimrud!
Watchers, O Watchers a thousand!

News!
At the edge of the crops, now, now, where the well-wheels are halted,
One prepares to loose the bullocks and one scrapes his hoe,
They beat (among the Bowers and the reapers)
Nimrud, ah, Nimrud!
God prepares an ill day far Nimrud!
Watchers, O Watchers ten thousand.

News!
By the fires of the camps, now, now, where the travellers meet,
Where the camels come in and the horses: their men conferring,
They beat (among the packmen and the drivers)
Nimrud, ah, Nimrud!
Thus it befell last noon to Nimrud!
Watchers, O Watchers an hundred thousand!

News!
Under the shadow of the border-peels, now, now, now!
In the rocks of the passes where the expectant shoe their horses,
They beat (among the rifles and the riders)
Nimrud, ah, Nimrud!
Shall we go up against Nimrud?
Watchers, O Watchers a thousand thousand!

News!
Bring out the heaps of grain, open the account-books again!
Drive forward the well-bullocks against the taxable harvest!
Eat and lie under the trees, pitch the police-guarded fair-grounds, O dancers!
Hide away the rifles and let down the ladders from the watch-towers!
They beat (among all the peoples)
Now, now, now!
God has reserved the Sword for Nimrud!
God has given Victory to Nimrud!
Let us abide under Nimrud!
O Well-disposed and Heedful, an hundred thousand thousand

Rudyard

Rudyard Kipling was an English journalist, short-story writer, poet, and novelist. He was born in British India, which inspired much of his work. His notable works include the novels 'The Jungle Book,' 'Kim,' and the poem 'If—.' Kipling was one of the most popular writers in the United Kingdom in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. He received the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1907, making him the youngest recipient of the award.

Rudyard

The Liner She's A Lady

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The Hyaenas

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The Holy War

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The Kingdom

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Route Marchin'

We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains,
A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains;
Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed,
There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road;
With its best foot first
And the road a-sliding past,
An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last;
While the Big Drum says,
With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!"
"Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?"*

Why don't you get on?

Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see,
There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree,
An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind,
An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind.
While it's best foot first. . .

At half-past five...

Rudyard

Columns

Out o' the wilderness, dusty an' dry
(Time, an' 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
Oo is it 'eads to the Detail Supply?
A section, a pompom, an' six 'undred men.

'Ere comes the clerk with 'is lantern an' keys
(Time, an 'igh time to be trekkin 'again!)
" Surplus of everything, draw what you please
"For the section, the pompom, an' six 'undred men."

"What are our orders an' where do we lay?"
(Time, an 'igh time to be trekkin' again!)
"You came after dark, you will leave before day,
"You section, you pompom, you six' undred men!"

Down the tin street, 'alf awake an 'unfed,
'Ark to 'em blessin' the Gen'ral in bed!

Now by the church an' the outspan they wind,
Over the ridge an' it's all lef' be'ind
For the section, etc.

Soon they wil...

Rudyard

The Story Of Rud.

Once for a tight little Island, fonder of ha'pence than kicks,
Rud., a maker of verses, sang of an Empire of Bricks,
Sang of the Sons of that Empire - told them they came of the Blood -
Rubbing it under their noses. Read ye the Story of Rud!

Pleased was the Public to hear it - rose in their hundreds to sing -
Swallowed it, chewed it, and gurgled: 'Verily, this is the thing!
Thus do we wallop our foemen - roll 'em away in the mud -
This is the People that we are. Glory and laurels for Rud.!'

Later he pictured a Panic - later he pictured a Scare,
Pictured the burning of coast towns - skies in a reddening glare -
Pictured the Mafficking Million - collared, abortive, alone -
Out of the duty he owed them, pictured them down to the bone.

Sick was the Pub...

John Kendall (Dum-Dum)

The Overland Mail

In the name of the Empress of India, make way,
O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam.
The woods are astir at the close of the day,
We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.
Let the robber retreat, let the tiger turn tail,
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!

With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in,
He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill,
The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,
And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill:
"Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,
Per runnger, two bags of the Overland Mail."

Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim.
Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.
Does the tempest cry "Halt"? What are tempests to him?
The Service admits not a "but...

Rudyard

The Feet Of The Young Men

Now the Four-way Lodge is opened, now the Hunting Winds are loose,
Now the Smokes of Spring go up to clear the brain;
Now the Young Men's hearts are troubled for the whisper of the Trues,
Now the Red Gods make their medicine again!
Who hath seen the beaver busied?
Who hath watched the black-tail mating?
Who hath lain alone to hear the wild-goose cry?
Who hath worked the chosen water where the ouananiche is waiting,
Or the sea-trout's jumping-crazy for the fly?
He must go, go, go away from here!
On the other side the world he's overdue.
'Send your road is clear before you when the old
Spring-fret comes o'er you,
And the Red Gods call for you!
So for one the wet sail arching through the rainbow round the bow,
And for one the creak of snow-shoes on the crust;
And...

Rudyard

The Last Lap

How do we know, by the bank-high river,
Where the mired and sulky oxen wait,
And it looks as though we might wait for ever,
How do we know that the floods abate?
There is no change in the current's brawling,
Louder and harsher the freshet scolds;
Yet we can feel she is falling, falling
And the more she threatens the less she holds,
Down to the drift, with no word spoken,
The wheel-chained wagons slither and slue....
Achtung! The back of the worst is broken!
And lash your leaders! we're through, we're through!

How do we know, when the port-fog holds us
Moored and helpless, a mile from the pier,
And the week-long summer smother enfolds us,
How do we know it is going to clear?
There is no break in the blindfold weather,
But, one and another, about the ...

Rudyard