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Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг
Verses 1889-1896
THE FIRST CHANTEY
Mine was the woman to me, darkling I found her;
Haling her dumb from the camp, took her and bound her.
Hot rose her tribe on our track ere I had proved her;
Hearing her laugh in the gloom, greatly I loved her.
Swift through the forest we ran; none stood to guard us,
Few were my people and far; then the flood barred us —
Him we call Son of the Sea, sullen and swollen.
Panting we waited the death, stealer and stolen.
Yet ere they came to my lance laid for the slaughter,
Lightly she leaped to a log lapped in the water;
Holding on high and apart skins that arrayed her,
Called she the God of the Wind that He should aid her.
Life had the tree at that word (Praise we the Giver!)
Otter-like left he the bank for the full river.
Far fell their axes behind, flashing and ringing,
Wonder was on me and fear – yet she was singing!
Low lay the land we had left. Now the blue bound us,
Even the Floor of the Gods level around us.
Whisper there was not, nor word, shadow nor showing,
Till the light stirred on the deep, glowing and growing.
Then did He leap to His place flaring from under,
He the Compeller, the Sun, bared to our wonder.
Nay, not a league from our eyes blinded with gazing,
Cleared He the gate of the world, huge and amazing!
This we beheld (and we live) – the Pit of the Burning!
Then the God spoke to the tree for our returning;
Back to the beach of our flight, fearless and slowly,
Back to our slayers went he: but we were holy.
Men that were hot in that hunt, women that followed,
Babes that were promised our bones, trembled and wallowed:
Over the necks of the Tribe crouching and fawning —
Prophet and priestess we came back from the dawning!
THE LAST CHANTEY
“And there was no more sea.”
Thus said The Lord in the Vault above the Cherubim
Calling to the Angels and the Souls in their degree:
“Lo! Earth has passed away
On the smoke of Judgment Day.
That Our word may be established shall We gather up the sea?”
Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:
“Plague upon the hurricane that made us furl and flee!
But the war is done between us,
In the deep the Lord hath seen us —
Our bones we’ll leave the barracout’, and God may sink the sea!”
Then said the soul of Judas that betray]\ed Him:
“Lord, hast Thou forgotten Thy covenant with me?
How once a year I go
To cool me on the floe?
And Ye take my day of mercy if Ye take away the sea!”
Then said the soul of the Angel of the Off-shore Wind:
(He that bits the thunder when the bull-mouthed breakers flee):
“I have watch and ward to keep
O’er Thy wonders on the deep,
And Ye take mine honour from me if Ye take away the sea!”
Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners:
“Nay, but we were angry, and a hasty folk are we!
If we worked the ship together
Till she foundered in foul weather,
Are we babes that we should clamour for a vengeance on the sea?”
Then said the souls of the slaves that men threw overboard:
“Kennelled in the picaroon a weary band were we;
But Thy arm was strong to save,
And it touched us on the wave,
And we drowsed the long tides idle till Thy Trumpets tore the sea.”
Then cried the soul of the stout Apostle Paul to God:
“Once we frapped a ship, and she laboured woundily.
There were fourteen score of these,
And they blessed Thee on their knees,
When they learned Thy Grace and Glory under Malta by the sea!”
Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,
Plucking at their harps, and they plucked unhandily:
“Our thumbs are rough and tarred,
And the tune is something hard —
May we lift a Deep-sea Chantey such as seamen use at sea?”
Then said the souls of the gentlemen-adventurers —
Fettered wrist to bar all for red iniquity:
“Ho, we revel in our chains
O’er the sorrow that was Spain’s;
Heave or sink it, leave or drink it, we were masters of the sea!”
Up spake the soul of a gray Gothavn ‘speckshioner —
(He that led the flinching in the fleets of fair Dundee):
“Oh, the ice-blink white and near,
And the bowhead breaching clear!
Will Ye whelm them all for wantonness that wallow in the sea?”
Loud sang the souls of the jolly, jolly mariners,
Crying: “Under Heaven, here is neither lead nor lee!
Must we sing for evermore
On the windless, glassy floor?
Take back your golden fiddles and we’ll beat to open sea!”
Then stooped the Lord, and He called the good sea up to Him,
And ‘stablished his borders unto all eternity,
That such as have no pleasure
For to praise the Lord by measure,
They may enter into galleons and serve Him on the sea.
Sun, wind, and cloud shall fail not from the face of it,
Stinging, ringing spindrift, nor the fulmar flying free;
And the ships shall go abroad
To the Glory of the Lord
Who heard the silly sailor-folk and gave them back their sea!
THE MERCHANTMEN
King Solomon drew merchantmen,
Because of his desire
For peacocks, apes, and ivory,
From Tarshish unto Tyre:
With cedars out of Lebanon
Which Hiram rafted down,
But we be only sailormen
That use in London Town.
Coastwise – cross-seas – round the world and back again —
Where the flaw shall head us or the full Trade suits —
Plain-sail – storm-sail – lay your board and tack again —
And that’s the way we’ll pay Paddy Doyle for his boots!
We bring no store of ingots,
Of spice or precious stones,
But that we have we gathered
With sweat and aching bones:
In flame beneath the tropics,
In frost upon the floe,
And jeopardy of every wind
That does between them go.
And some we got by purchase,
And some we had by trade,
And some we found by courtesy
Of pike and carronade —
At midnight, ‘mid-sea meetings,
For charity to keep,
And light the rolling homeward-bound
That rode a foot too deep.
By sport of bitter weather
We’re walty, strained, and scarred
From the kentledge on the kelson
To the slings upon the yard.
Six oceans had their will of us
To carry all away —
Our galley’s in the Baltic,
And our boom’s in Mossel Bay!
We’ve floundered off the Texel,
Awash with sodden deals,
We’ve slipped from Valparaiso
With the Norther at our heels:
We’ve ratched beyond the Crossets
That tusk the Southern Pole,
And dipped our gunnels under
To the dread Agulhas roll.
Beyond all outer charting
We sailed where none have sailed,
And saw the land-lights burning
On islands none have hailed;
Our hair stood up for wonder,
But, when the night was done,
There danced the deep to windward
Blue-empty ‘neath the sun!
Strange consorts rode beside us
And brought us evil luck;
The witch-fire climbed our channels,
And flared on vane and truck:
Till, through the red tornado,
That lashed us nigh to blind,
We saw The Dutchman plunging,
Full canvas, head to wind!
We’ve heard the Midnight Leadsman
That calls the black deep down —
Ay, thrice we’ve heard The Swimmer,
The Thing that may not drown.
On frozen bunt and gasket
The sleet-cloud drave her hosts,
When, manned by more than signed with us,
We passed the Isle o’ Ghosts!
And north, amid the hummocks,
A biscuit-toss below,
We met the silent shallop
That frighted whalers know;
For, down a cruel ice-lane,
That opened as he sped,
We saw dead Henry Hudson
Steer, North by West, his dead.
So dealt God’s waters with us
Beneath the roaring skies,
So walked His signs and marvels
All naked to our eyes:
But we were heading homeward
With trade to lose or make —
Good Lord, they slipped behind us
In the tailing of our wake!
Let go, let go the anchors;
Now shamed at heart are we
To bring so poor a cargo home
That had for gift the sea!
Let go the great bow-anchors —
Ah, fools were we and blind —
The worst we stored with utter toil,
The best we left behind!
Coastwise – cross-seas – round the world and back again,
Whither flaw shall fail us or the Trades drive down:
Plain-sail – storm-sail – lay your board and tack again —
And all to bring a cargo up to London Town!
M’ANDREW’S HYMN
Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream,
An’, taught by time, I tak’ it so – exceptin’ always Steam.
From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God —
Predestination in the stride o’ yon connectin’-rod.
John Calvin might ha’ forged the same – enorrmous, certain, slow —
Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame – my “Institutio”.
I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please;
I’ll stand the middle watch up here – alone wi’ God an’ these
My engines, after ninety days o’ race an’ rack an’ strain
Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin’ home again.
Slam-bang too much – they knock a wee – the crosshead-gibs are loose;
But thirty thousand mile o’ sea has gied them fair excuse..
Fine, clear an’ dark – a full-draught breeze, wi’ Ushant out o’ sight,
An’ Ferguson relievin’ Hay. Old girl, ye’ll walk to-night!
His wife’s at Plymouth… Seventy —
One – Two – Three since he began —
Three turns for Mistress Ferguson..and who’s to blame the man?
There’s none at any port for me, by drivin’ fast or slow,
Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago.
(The year the Sarah Sands was burned. Oh roads we used to tread,
Fra’ Maryhill to Pollokshaws – fra’ Govan to Parkhead!)
Not but they’re ceevil on the Board. Ye’ll hear Sir Kenneth say:
“Good-morrn, M’Andrew! Back again? An’ how’s your bilge to-day?”
Miscallin’ technicalities but handin’ me my chair
To drink Madeira wi’ three Earls – the auld Fleet Engineer,
That started as a boiler-whelp – when steam and he were low.
I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi’ tow.
Ten pound was all the pressure then – Eh! Eh! – a man wad drive;
An’ here, our workin’ gauges give one hunder fifty-five!
We’re creepin’ on wi’ each new rig – less weight an’ larger power:
There’ll be the loco-boiler next an’ thirty knots an hour!
Thirty an’ more. What I ha’ seen since ocean-steam began
Leaves me no doot for the machine: but what about the man?
The man that counts, wi’ all his runs, one million mile o’ sea:
Four time the span from earth to moon… How far, O Lord, from Thee?
That wast beside him night an’ day. Ye mind my first typhoon?
It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi’ the saloon.
Three feet were on the stokehold-floor – just slappin’ to an’ fro —
An’ cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show.
Marks! I ha’ marks o’ more than burns – deep in my soul an’ black,
An’ times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back.
The sins o’ four and forty years, all up an’ down the seas,
Clack an’ repeat like valves half-fed… Forgie’s our trespasses.
Nights when I’d come on deck to mark, wi’ envy in my gaze,
The couples kittlin’ in the dark between the funnel stays;
Years when I raked the ports wi’ pride to fill my cup o’ wrong —
Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong!
Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode —
Jane Harrigan’s an’ Number Nine, The Reddick an’ Grant Road!
An’ waur than all – my crownin’ sin – rank blasphemy an’ wild.
I was not four and twenty then – Ye wadna judge a child?
I’d seen the Tropics first that run – new fruit, new smells, new air —
How could I tell – blind-fou wi’ sun – the Deil was lurkin’ there?
By day like playhouse-scenes the shore slid past our sleepy eyes;
By night those soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies,
In port (we used no cargo-steam) I’d daunder down the streets —
An ijjit grinnin’ in a dream – for shells an’ parrakeets,
An’ walkin’-sticks o’ carved bamboo an’ blowfish stuffed an’ dried —
Fillin’ my bunk wi’ rubbishry the Chief put overside.
Till, off Sambawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a land-breeze ca’,
Milk-warm wi’ breath o’ spice an’ bloom: “M’Andrew, come awa’!”
Firm, clear an’ low – no haste, no hate – the ghostly whisper went,
Just statin’ eevidential facts beyon’ all argument:
“Your mither’s God’s a graspin’ deil, the shadow o’ yoursel’,
Got out o’ books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an’ Hell.
They mak’ Him in the Broomielaw, o’ Glasgie cold an’ dirt,
A jealous, pridefu’ fetich, lad, that’s only strong to hurt,
Ye’ll not go back to Him again an’ kiss His red-hot rod,
But come wi’ Us” (Now, who were They?) “an’ know the Leevin’ God,
That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest,
But swells the ripenin’ cocoanuts an’ ripes the woman’s breast.”
An’ there it stopped: cut off: no more; that quiet, certain voice —
For me, six months o’ twenty-four, to leave or take at choice.
‘Twas on me like a thunderclap – it racked me through an’ through —
Temptation past the show o’ speech, unnameable an’ new —
The Sin against the Holy Ghost?.. An’ under all, our screw.
That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin’ swell,
Thou knowest all my heart an’ mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell.
Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell!
Yet was Thy hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy care —
Fra’ Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o’ despair,
But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer!
We dared not run that sea by night but lay an’ held our fire,
An’ I was drowsin’ on the hatch – sick – sick wi’ doubt an’ tire:
“Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin’ o’ desire!”
Ye mind that word? Clear as our gongs – again, an’ once again,
When rippin’ down through coral-trash ran out our moorin’-chain;
An’ by Thy Grace I had the Light to see my duty plain.
Light on the engine-room – no more – bright as our carbons burn.
I’ve lost it since a thousand times, but never past return.
Obsairve. Per annum we’ll have here two thousand souls aboard —
Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord,
But – average fifteen hunder souls safe-borne fra’ port to port —
I am o’ service to my kind. Ye wadna blame the thought?
Maybe they steam from grace to wrath – to sin by folly led, —
It isna mine to judge their path – their lives are on my head.
Mine at the last – when all is done it all comes back to me,
The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon the sea.
We’ll tak’ one stretch – three weeks an’ odd by any road ye steer —
Fra’ Cape Town east to Wellington – ye need an engineer.
Fail there – ye’ve time to weld your shaft – ay, eat it, ere ye’re spoke;
Or make Kerguelen under sail – three jiggers burned wi’ smoke!
An’ home again, the Rio run: it’s no child’s play to go
Steamin’ to bell for fourteen days o’ snow an’ floe an’ blow —
The bergs like kelpies overside that girn an’ turn an’ shift
Whaur, grindin’ like the Mills o’ God, goes by the big South drift.
(Hail, snow an’ ice that praise the Lord: I’ve met them at their work,
An’ wished we had anither route or they anither kirk.)
Yon’s strain, hard strain, o’ head an’ hand, for though Thy Power brings
All skill to naught, Ye’ll understand a man must think o’ things.
Then, at the last, we’ll get to port an’ hoist their baggage clear —
The passengers, wi’ gloves an’ canes – an’ this is what I’ll hear:
“Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage. The tender’s comin’ now.”
While I go testin’ follower-bolts an’ watch the skipper bow.
They’ve words for every one but me – shake hands wi’ half the crew,
Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew.
An’ yet I like the wark for all we’ve dam’ few pickin’s here —
No pension, an’ the most we earn’s four hunder pound a year.
Better myself abroad? Maybe. I’d sooner starve than sail
Wi’ such as call a snifter-rod ross..French for nightingale.
Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I can not afford
To lie like stewards wi’ patty-pans – . I’m older than the Board.
A bonus on the coal I save? Ou ay, the Scots are close,
But when I grudge the strength Ye gave I’ll grudge their food to those.
(There’s bricks that I might recommend – an’ clink the fire-bars cruel.
No! Welsh – Wangarti at the worst – an’ damn all patent fuel!)
Inventions? Ye must stay in port to mak’ a patent pay.
My Deeferential Valve-Gear taught me how that business lay,
I blame no chaps wi’ clearer head for aught they make or sell.
I found that I could not invent an’ look to these – as well.
So, wrestled wi’ Apollyon – Nah! – fretted like a bairn —
But burned the workin’-plans last run wi’ all I hoped to earn.
Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an’ what that meant to me —
E’en tak’ it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee..
Below there! Oiler! What’s your wark? Ye find it runnin’ hard? Ye needn’t swill the cap wi’ oil – this isn’t the Cunard! Ye thought? Ye are not paid to think. Go, sweat that off again! Tck! Tck! It’s deeficult to sweer nor tak’ The Name in vain!
Men, ay an’ women, call me stern. Wi’ these to oversee
Ye’ll note I’ve little time to burn on social repartee.
The bairns see what their elders miss; they’ll hunt me to an’ fro,
Till for the sake of – well, a kiss – I tak’ ‘em down below.
That minds me of our Viscount loon – Sir Kenneth’s kin – the chap
Wi’ Russia leather tennis-shoon an’ spar-decked yachtin’-cap.
I showed him round last week, o’er all – an’ at the last says he:
“Mister M’Andrew, don’t you think steam spoils romance at sea?”
Damned ijjit! I’d been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws,
Manholin’, on my back – the cranks three inches off my nose.
Romance! Those first-class passengers they like it very well,
Printed an’ bound in little books; but why don’t poets tell?
I’m sick of all their quirks an’ turns – the loves an’ doves they dream —
Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o’ Steam!
To match wi’ Scotia’s noblest speech yon orchestra sublime
Whaurto – uplifted like the Just – the tail-rods mark the time.
The crank-throws give the double-bass, the feed-pump sobs an’ heaves,
An’ now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves:
Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides,
Till – hear that note? – the rod’s return
whings glimmerin’ through the guides.
They’re all awa’! True beat, full power, the clangin’ chorus goes
Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin’ dynamos.
Interdependence absolute, foreseen, ordained, decreed,
To work, Ye’ll note, at any tilt an’ every rate o’ speed.
Fra’ skylight-lift to furnace-bars, backed, bolted, braced an’ stayed,
An’ singin’ like the Mornin’ Stars for joy that they are made;
While, out o’ touch o’ vanity, the sweatin’ thrust-block says:
“Not unto us the praise, or man – not unto us the praise!”
Now, a’ together, hear them lift their lesson – theirs an’ mine:
“Law, Orrder, Duty an’ Restraint, Obedience, Discipline!”
Mill, forge an’ try-pit taught them that when roarin’ they arose,
An’ whiles I wonder if a soul was gied them wi’ the blows.
Oh for a man to weld it then, in one trip-hammer strain,
Till even first-class passengers could tell the meanin’ plain!
But no one cares except mysel’ that serve an’ understand
My seven thousand horse-power here.
Eh, Lord! They’re grand – they’re grand!
Uplift am I? When first in store the new-made beasties stood,
Were Ye cast down that breathed the Word declarin’ all things good?
Not so! O’ that warld-liftin’ joy no after-fall could vex,
Ye’ve left a glimmer still to cheer the Man – the Arrtifex!
That holds, in spite o’ knock and scale, o’ friction, waste an’ slip,
An’ by that light – now, mark my word – we’ll build the Perfect Ship.
I’ll never last to judge her lines or take her curve – not I.
But I ha’ lived an’ I ha’ worked. ‘Be thanks to Thee, Most High!
An’ I ha’ done what I ha’ done – judge Thou if ill or well —
Always Thy Grace preventin’ me..
Losh! Yon’s the “Stand by” bell.
Pilot so soon? His flare it is. The mornin’-watch is set.
Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin’, I’m no Pelagian yet.
Now I’ll tak’ on..
‘Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought What your good leddy costs in coal?.. I’ll burn ‘em down to port.
