Return

The GODS of the COPYBOOK HEADINGS

 

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,

I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.

Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all. 

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn

That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:

But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,

So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind. 

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,

Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,

But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come

That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome. 

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,

They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;

They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;

So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things. 

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.

They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.

But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."  

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life

(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)

Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."  

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all, 

By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul; 

But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy, 

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."  

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,

And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true

That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four–

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more. 

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man

There are only four things certain since Social Progress began. 

That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire, 

And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire; 

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins

When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins, 

As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn, 

The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Rudyard Kipling

Future.

The trouble with our times is that the future is not what it used to be.

Rudyard Kipling, from Captains Courageous

Singing.

HOW the DAY BROKE

The night was very silent, and the moon was going down, 

  And the winds of dawn were chilling all the sea.

The full tide turned in silver o'er the ridge's length of brown, 

When a little muffled figure left the dim-seen, sleeping town

  By the white road that leadeth to the sea.

The night was very silent, and the tide was falling fast, 

  And the dawn was breaking dimly o'er the sea;

The early boats like shadows with their lanterns flitted past, 

And the little muffled figure by the sand-hills stayed at last,

  Where the waste land opens on the sea.

The night is well-nigh ended, and the moon has gone to rest

  And the winds of dawn are lashing all the sea.

But the weariness is over and the doubt is all confessed, 

And hope is re-arisen and the wrong is all redressed,

But the little muffled figure lays her head upon his breast 

  Who has waited for her coming by the sea.

The night is passed and done with, and the day is cold and white

  As the loosed winds riot o'er the sea,

But the woe is passed and done with as a shadow of the night, 

And the little muffled figure flitteth, singing, out of sight

  To the fishing-town that faces on the sea.

Rudyard Kipling

Happy Birthday, Rudyard Kipling

Burne-Jones, 2nd Bt, Rudyard Kipling, 1899

A SMUGGLER'S SONG

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,

Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,

Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.

Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by.

Five and twenty ponies,

Trotting through the dark -

Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.

Laces for a lady; letters for a spy,

Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to find

Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,

Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.

Put the brishwood back again - and they'll be gone next day !

If you see the stable-door setting open wide;

If you see a tired horse lying down inside;

If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;

If the lining's wet and warm - don't you ask no more !

If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,

You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.

If they call you " pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,

Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been !

Knocks and footsteps round the house - whistles after dark -

You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.

Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie

They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by !

'If You do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,

You'll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France,

With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood -

A present from the Gentlemen, along 'o being good !

Five and twenty ponies,

Trotting through the dark -

Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.

Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie -

Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by!

Rudyard Kipling, born on this day in 1865

Perfectly.

The WAY THROUGH the WOODS

They shut the road through the woods

Seventy years ago. 

Weather and rain have undone it again, 

And now you would never know 

There was once a road through the woods 

Before they planted the trees. 

It is underneath the coppice and heath, 

And the thin anemones.

Only the keeper sees 

That, where the ring-dove broods,

And the badgers roll at ease, 

There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods 

Of a summer evening late, 

When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools 

Where the otter whistles his mate, 

(They fear not men in the woods, 

Because they see so few.) 

You will hear the beat of a horse's feet, 

And the swish of a skirt in the dew, 

Steadily cantering through 

The misty solitudes, 

As though they perfectly knew 

The old lost road through the woods...

But there is no road through the woods.

Rudyard Kipling

Guard.

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 Nineveh 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 boastings 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!

Rudyard Kipling

Believe.

Certain Observations on the Short Story, arranged for the use of Josephine Balestier by Rudyard Kipling ...

15.  There is only one way in which a tale should be told and that is to make the reader believe that he has found it.

If.

Kipling challenged, "If you can think–and not make thoughts your aim."

Steve offers practical magic.

Happy Birthday, Kipling

MANDALAY

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,

There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;

For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:

"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!"

                             Come you back to Mandalay,

                             Where the old Flotilla lay:

Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay?

                             On the road to Mandalay,

                             Where the flyin'-fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! 

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,

An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat - jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, 

An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,

An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:

                             Bloomin' idol made o' mud 

                             Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd

Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!

                             On the road to Mandalay...

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,

She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!

With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek

We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.

                             Elephints a-pilin' teak

                             In the sludgy, squdgy creek,

Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!

                             On the road to Mandalay...

But that's all shove be'ind me - long ago an' fur away 

An' there ain't no 'buses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;

An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:

"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."

                             No! you won't 'eed nothin' else

                             But them spicy garlic smells,

An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;

                             On the road to Mandalay... 

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,

An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;

Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,

An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?

                             Beefy face an' grubby 'and - 

                             Law! wot do they understand?

I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!

                             On the road to Mandalay...

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,

Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;

For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;

                             On the road to Mandalay,

                             Where the old Flotilla lay,

With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!

                             O the road to Mandalay,

                             Where the flyin'-fishes play,

An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

Rudyard Kipling, born on this day in 1865.

The rest of Kipling's poems are HERE.

Room.

Obey.

When your daemon is in charge, do not try to think consciously. Drift, wait, and obey.

Rudyard Kipling

Happy Birthday, Kipling

When Earth's last picture is painted

And the tubes are twisted and dried

When the oldest colors have faded

And the youngest critic has died

We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it

Lie down for an aeon or two

'Till the Master of all good workmen

Shall put us to work anew

And those that were good shall be happy

They'll sit in a golden chair

They'll splash at a ten league canvas

With brushes of comet's hair

They'll find real saints to draw from

Magdalene, Peter, and Paul

They'll work for an age at a sitting

And never be tired at all.

And only the Master shall praise us.

And only the Master shall blame.

And no one will work for the money.

No one will work for the fame.

But each for the joy of the working,

And each, in his separate star,

Will draw the thing as he sees it.

For the God of things as they are!

Rudyard Kipling, born on this day in 1865

Sing.

Yoshida, Four Seasons of an Oak Tree, Summer,  n/d

A TREE SONG 

Of all the trees that grow so fair,

Old Engerland to adorn,

Greater are none beneath the Sun,

Than Oak and Ash and Thorn.

Sing Oak and Ash and Thorn, good Sirs

(All of a Midsummer's morn)!

Surely we sing of no little thing,

In Oak and Ash and Thorn!

Oak of the Clay lived many a day,

Or ever Aeneas began;

Ash of the Loam was a lady at home,

When Brut was an outlaw man;

Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town

(From which was London born);

Witness hereby the ancientry

Of Oak and Ash and Thorn!

Yew that is old in churchyard mould,

He breedeth a mighty bow;

Alder for shoes do wise men choose,

And beech for cups also.

But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,

Your shoes are clean outworn,

Back ye must speed for all that ye need,

To Oak and Ash and Thorn!

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth

Till every gust be laid,

To drop a limb on the head of him

That anyway trusts her shade:

But whether a lad be sober or sad,

Or mellow with ale from the horn,

He'll take no wrong when he lieth along

'Neath Oak and Ash and Thorn!

Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight,

Or he would call it a sin;

But—we have been out in the woods all night,

A-conjuring Summer in!

And we bring you news by word of mouth—

Good news for cattle and corn—

Now is the Sun come up from the South,

With Oak and Ash and Thorn!

Sing Oak and Ash and Thorn, good Sirs

(All of a Midsummer's morn)!

England shall bide till Judgement Tide,

By Oak and Ash and Thorn!

Rudyard Kipling

Through.

Doisneau, Punished Pupil, 1956

The CONUNDRUM of the WORKSHOPS

When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,

Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,

Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew -

The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;

And he left his lore to the use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain

When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art ?" in the ear of the branded Cain.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South, they talked and

they fought in the West,

Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest -

Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,

And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art ?"

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,

Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art ?"

The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,

While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree - and new as the new-cut tooth -

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;

And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,

The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art ?"

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,

We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,

We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;

But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art ?"

When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,

The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould -

They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,

For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,

And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,

And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,

By the favour of God we might know as much - as our father Adam knew!

Rudyard Kipling

Happy Birthday, Kipling

Rudyard Kipling was born on this day in 1865.

The BELL BUOY

They christened my brother of old—

   And a saintly name he bears—

They gave him his place to hold

   At the head of the belfry-stairs,

   Where the minster-towers stand

And the breeding kestrels cry.

   Would I change with my brother a league inland?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I !

In the flush of the hot June prime,

   O’er sleek flood-tides afire,

I hear him hurry the chime

   To the bidding of checked Desire;

   Till the sweated ringers tire

And the wild bob-majors die.

   Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

When the smoking scud is blown—

   When the greasy wind-rack lowers—

Apart and at peace and alone,

   He counts the changeless hours.

   He wars with darkling Powers

(I war with, a darkling sea);

   Would he stoop to my work in the gusty mirk?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not he!

There was never a priest to pray,

   There was never a hand to toll,

When they made me guard of the bay,

   And moored me over the shoal.

   I rock, I reel, and I roll—

My four great hammers ply—

   Could I speak or be still at the Church’s will?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

The landward marks have failed,

   The fog-bank glides unguessed,

The seaward lights are veiled,

   The spent deep feigns her rest:

   But my ear is laid to her breast,

I lift to the swell—I cry!

   Could I wait in sloth on the Church’s oath?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

At the careless end of night

   I thrill to the nearing screw;

I turn in the clearing light

   And I call to the drowsy crew;

   And the mud boils foul and blue

As the blind bow backs away.

   Will they give me their thanks if they clear the banks?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not they!

The beach-pools cake and skim,

   The bursting spray-heads freeze,

I gather on crown and rim

   The grey, grained ice of the seas,

   Where, sheathed from bitt to trees,

The plunging colliers lie.

   Would I barter my place for the Church’s grace?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

Through the blur of the whirling snow,

   Or the black of the inky sleet,

The lanterns gather and grow,

   And I look for the homeward fleet.

   Rattle of block and sheet—

‘Ready about—stand by!’

   Shall I ask them a fee ere they fetch the quay?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

I dip and I surge and I swing

   In the rip of the racing tide,

By the gates of doom I sing,

   On the horns of death I ride.

   A ship-length overside,

Between the course and the sand,

   Fretted and bound I bide

             Peril whereof I cry.

Would I change with my brother a league inland?

(Shoal! ’Ware shoal!) Not I!

Rudyard Kipling

Knew.

O'Keeffe, Untitled (Landscape), 1903

The WAY THROUGH the WOODS

They shut the road through the woods

Seventy years ago.

Weather and rain have undone it again,

And now you would never know

There was once a road through the woods

Before they planted the trees.

It is underneath the coppice and heath,

And the thin anemones.

Only the keeper sees

That, where the ring-dove broods,

And the badgers roll at ease,

There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods

Of a summer evening late,

When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools

Where the otter whistles his mate,

(They fear not men in the woods,

Because they see so few.)

You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,

And the swish of a skirt in the dew,

Steadily cantering through

The misty solitudes,

As though they perfectly knew

The old lost road through the woods.

But there is no road through the woods.

Rudyard Kipling

Watch.

A SMUGGLER'S SONG

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse's feet,

Don't go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street,

Them that ask no questions isn't told a lie.

Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by.

Five and twenty ponies,

Trotting through the dark -

Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.

Laces for a lady; letters for a spy,

Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by!

Running round the woodlump if you chance to find

Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,

Don't you shout to come and look, nor use 'em for your play.

Put the brishwood back again - and they'll be gone next day !

If you see the stable-door setting open wide;

If you see a tired horse lying down inside;

If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;

If the lining's wet and warm - don't you ask no more !

If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,

You be careful what you say, and mindful what is said.

If they call you " pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,

Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been !

Knocks and footsteps round the house - whistles after dark -

You've no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.

Trusty's here, and Pincher's here, and see how dumb they lie

They don't fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by !

'If You do as you've been told, 'likely there's a chance,

You'll be give a dainty doll, all the way from France,

With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood -

A present from the Gentlemen, along 'o being good !

Five and twenty ponies,

Trotting through the dark -

Brandy for the Parson, 'Baccy for the Clerk.

Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie -

Watch the wall my darling while the Gentlemen go by!

Rudyard Kipling

World-class.

If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten.

Rudyard Kipling

C-SPAN's masterful In-Depth series has yielded unforgettable stories from these world-class historians ...

Stephen A. Ambrose

Shelby Foote

Paul Johnson

David McCullogh

Mine.

If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine
I know whose tears would come down to me
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o’ mine, O mother o’ mine!

Rudyard Kipling

Happy Mother's Day, Mum!

Stories.

If history were taught in the form of stories, it would never be forgotten.

Rudyard Kipling