 This is a Liby Vox recording. All Liby Vox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibyVox.org. Recording by Alan Lawley. General Jubair by Roger Kipling. With those that bred, with those that loosed the strife, he had no part whose hands were clear of gain, but subtle, strong and stubborn gave his life to a lost cause and knew the gift was vain. Later shall rise a people sane and great forged in strong fires, by equal war made one, telling old battles over without hate, not least his name shall pass from sire to son. He may not meet the unsweep of our van in the doomed city when we close the score, yet are his grave his grave that holds a man. Our deep-tongued guns shall answer his once more. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Sea and the Hills by Roger Kipling. Read for Liby Vox.org by Laurie Wilson. Who hath desired the sea? The sight of salt water unbounded, the heave and the halt and the hurl and the crash of the cumberwind hounded, the sleek verlds well before storm, grey, foamless, enormous and growing, stark calm on the lap of the line, or the crazy eyed hurricane blowing, his sea in no showing the same, his sea the same neat each showing, his sea as she reckons or thrills. So and no otherwise, so and no otherwise hillmen desire their hills. Who hath desired the sea? The immense and contemptuous surges, the shudder, the stumble, the swerve, as the star-stabbing balsa-brite emerges, the orderly clouds of the trades, and the ridged roaring sapphire thereunder, unheralded cliff-hunting flaws, and the head-sales low-vollowing thunder, his sea in no wonder the same, his sea in the same through each wonder, his sea as she rages or stills. So and no otherwise, so and no otherwise hillmen desire their hills. Who hath desired the sea? The menace as swift as her mercies, the enrolling walls of the fog, and the silver-winged breeze that disperses. The unstable mind-bird going south, and the calvins and groans that declare it, white-water half-guest oversight, and the moon breaking timely to bear it. His sea as his fathers have dared, his sea as his children shall dare it, his sea as she serves him or kills. So and no otherwise, so and no otherwise hillmen desire their hills. Who hath desired the sea? Her excellent loneliness rather than four courts of kings, and her outermost pits than the streets where men gather inland, among dust under trees, inland where the slayer may slay him, inland out of reach of her arms, and the bosom whereon he must lay him, his sea at the first that betrayed, at the last that shall never betray him, his sea that his being fulfills. So and no otherwise, so and no otherwise hillmen desire their hills. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I stand, and the breeding kestrels cry, Would I change with my brother a league inland? Shole, where shole? Not I. In the flush of the hot June prime, or smooth flood-tide sapphire, I hear him hurry the chime to the bidding of checked desire, till the sweated ringer's tire and the wild bob-majors die. Could I wait for my turn in the godly choir? Shole, where shole? Not I. When the smoking scud is blown, when the greasy windwreck 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 murk? Shole, where shole? 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 shole, I rock, I reel, and I roll. My four great hammers ply. Could I speak, or be still, at the church's will? Shole, where shole? Not I. The land-wood marks have failed. The fog-bank glides unguessed. The sea-wood 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? Shole, where shole? Not I. At the careless end of the night, I thrill to the nearing screw. I turn in the nearing 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? Shole, where shole? 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, sheafed from bit to trees, the plunging colliers lie. Would I barter my place for the church's grace? Shole, where shole? 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 home-wood fleet, rattle of block and sheet, ready about, stand by. Shall I ask them a fee, ere they fetch the key? Shole, where shole? 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 oversight between the course and the sand, fretted and bound I bide, peril whereof I cry. Would I change with my brother a league in land? Shole, where shole? Not I. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Cruisers by Rudyard Kipling, read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens. As our mother, the frigate, be painted and fine, make play for her bully, the ship of the line, so we, her bold daughters, by iron and fire, her cost and decoy to our master's desire. Now, pray you, consider what toils we endure, night-walking, wet sea lanes, a guard and a lure, since half of our trade is that same pretty sort, as meddlesome wenches do practice in port. For this is our office, to spy and make room, to hide, yet guiding the foe to their doom, surrounding, confounding to bait and betray, and tempt them to battle the seas with the way. The pot-bellied merchant, foreboding no wrong, with headlight and sidelight he lieth along, till, likeless and light-foot and lurking, leap we to force him discover his business by sea. And when we have wakened the lust of a foe to draw him by flight toward our bullies we go, till, where of strange smoke stealing nearer, he flies, or our bullies close in for, to make him good prize. So when we have spied on the path of their host, one flyeth to carry that word to the coast, and lest by false doubling they turn and go free, one lieth behind them to follow and see. Anon we return, being gathered again, across the sad valleys, or traveled with rain, across the grey ridges, or crisped and curled, to join the long dance round the curve of the world. The bitter salt-spindrift, the sun-glare likewise, the moon-track-equiver bewilders our eyes, where, linking and lifting our sisters we hail, to extrench of cross-surges, or plunge of head-gail. As maidens awaiting the bride to come forth make play with light-gestings and wit of no worth, so widdershen circling the bride-bed of death, each fleereth her neighbour, and signeth and seth. What see ye, their signals all leaven afar? What hear ye, God's thunder, or guns of our war? What mark ye, their smoke, or the cloud-wreck outblown? What chase ye, their lights, or the day-star low down? So, times past all number, deceived by false shows, deceiving we cumber the road of our foes, for this is our virtue, to track and betray, preparing great battles as seas wit the way. Now, peace is at end, and our peoples take heart, for the laws are clean-gone that restrain our art, up and down the near-headlands, and against the far wind, we are loosed, oh, be swift, to the work of our kind. The strength of twice three thousand horse that seek the single goal, the line that holds the rending course, the hate that swings the whole, the stripped hulls slinking through the gloom at gaze and gone again, the brides of death that wait the groom, the choosers of the slain. Off shore where sea and skyline blend, in rain the daylight dies, the sullen shouldering swells attend, night and our sacrifice, a down the stricken capes no flare, no mark on spit or bar, girdled and desperate we dare, the blindfold game of war. Nearer the upflung beams that spell the council of our foes, clearer the barking guns that tell their scattered flank to close, sheer to the trap they crowd their way, from ports for this unbarred, quiet and count our laden prey, the convoy and her guard. On shore with scarce a foot below, where rock and eyelet throng, hidden and hushed we watch them throw, their anxious lights along, not here, not here your danger lies, stare hard, oh hooded ein, save where the dazed rock pigeons arise, the lit cliffs give no sign. Therefore to break the rest ye seek, the narrow seas to clear, hark to the sirens whimpering shriek, the driven death is here, look to your van a league away, what midnight terror stays, the bulk that checks against the spray, her crackling tops ablaze. Hit and hard hit, the blow went home, the muffled knocking stroke, the steam that overrums the foam, the foam that thins to smoke, the smoke that cloaks the deeper boil, the deep that chokes her throes till, streaked with ash, and sleeked with oil, the lukewarm whirlpools close. A shadow down the sickened wave, long since her slayer fled, but here their chattering quickfires rave, a stern, a beam, a head, a nick that shells the drifting spar, loud waste with none to check, mad fear that rakes a scornful star, or sweeps a consort's deck. Now, while their silly smoke hangs thick, now ere their wits they find, lay in and lance them to the quick, our gallead whales are blind, good luck to those that see the end, good bye to those that drown, reach his chance as chance shall send, and God for all, shut down! The strength of twice three thousand horse, that serve the one command, the hand that heaves the headlong force, the hate that hacks the hand, the doombolt in the darkness freed, the mine that splits the main, the white-hot wake, the wieldering speed, the choosers of the slain. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. White Horses by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org by Adrienne Stevens Where run your cults at pasture? Where hide your mares to breed? Midbergs about the icecap, or wove Sargasso weed by chartless reef and channel, or crafty coast-wise bars, but most the ocean meadows all purple to the stars. Who holds the rain upon you? The latest gale let free. What meat is in your manger's? The glut of all the sea, twix tide and tides returning, great store of newly dead, the bones of those that faced us, and the hearts of those that fled. Afar, offshore and single, some stallion rearing swift, nays hungry for new fodder, and calls us to the drift. Then, down the cloven ridges, a million hooves unshod, break forth the mad white horses to seek their meat from God. Girth deep in hissing water, our furious vanguard strains, through mist of mighty tramplings, roll up the four-blown mains, a hundred leeks to leeward, ere yet the deep is stirred, the groaning rollers carry the coming of the herd. Whose hand may grip your nostrils, your forlock who may hold, in they that use the broads with us, the rider's bread and bold, that spy upon our matings, that rope us where we run, they know the strong white horses from father unto son. We breathe about their cradles, we race their babes ashore, we snuff against their thresholds, we nuzzle at their door, by day with stamping squadrons, by night in winning droves, creep up the wise white horses to call them from their loves. And come they, for your calling? No witt of man may save, they hear the loosed white horses above their father's grave, and kin of those we crippled, and sons of those we slew, spur down the wild white riders to school the herds anew. What service have ye paid them, oh jealous steeds and strong? Save we that throw their weaklings, is none dare work them wrong, while thick around the homestead are snow-backed leaders' grays, a guard behind their plunder, and avail before their ways. With march and counter-marchings, with weight of wheeling-hosts, stray mob or bands embattled, we ring the chosen coasts, and careless of our clamour that bids the stranger fly, at peace within our pickets, the wild white riders lie. Trust ye the curdled hollows, trust ye the neighing wind, trust ye the moaning groundswell, our herds are close behind, to bray your foeman's armies, to chill and snap his sword, trust ye the wild white horses, the horses of the Lord. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Second Voyage by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens We've sent our little cupids all ashore. They were frightened, they were tired, they were cold. Our sails of silk and purple go to store, and we've cut away our master-beaten gold. Foul weather! Oat is hemp and singing pine, for to stand against the brine, but love he is the master as of old. The sea has shorn our galleries away, the salt has soiled our gilding past remeade, our paint is flaked and rusted by the spray, our sides are half a fathom furred in weed. Foul weather! And the doves of Venus flared, and the patrols came instead, but love he was our master at our need. Was youth would keep no vigil at the bow? Was pleasure at the helm too drunk to steer? We've shipped three able quartermasters now, men call them custom, reverence, and fear. Foul weather! They are old and scarred and plain, but will run no risk again from any port or pathos mutineer. We seek no more the tempest for delight, we skirt no more the in-draft and the shoal, we ask no more of any day or night than to come with least adventure to our goal. Foul weather! What we find we needs must brook, but we do not go to look, nor tempt the Lord our God that saved us whole. Yet, caring so, not overly we care to brace and trim for every foolish blast, if the squall be pleased to sweep us unaware, he may bellow off to leeward like the last. Foul weather! We will blame it on the deep, for the watch must have their sleep, and love can come and wake us when't is past. Oh, launch them down with music from the beach. Oh, warp them out with garlands from the keys. Most resolute, a damsel unto each, new prowls that seek the old hasperides. Foul weather! Though we know the voyage is vain, yet we see our path again, in the saffron-bride-sales senting all the seas. Foul weather! End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Dykes by Rudyard Kipling. Read for LibriVox.org by Zana. We have no heart for the fishing. We have no hand for the oar. All that our fathers taught us of old pleases us now no more. All that our own hearts bid us believe we doubt where we do not deny. There is no proof in the bread we eat or rest in the toil we ply. Look you, our foreshore, stretches far through sea gate, dyke, and groin. May land all that our fathers made where the flats in the fairway join. They forced the sea, a sea-league back. They died, and their work stood fast. We were born to peace in the leave the dykes, but the time of our peace is past. Far off the full tide, clamors and slips, mouthing and testing all, nipping the flanks of the water gates, banging along the wall, turning the shingle, returning the shingle, changing the set of the sand. We are too far from the beach, men say, to know how the outworks stand. So we come down uneasy to look and easily pacing the beach. These are the dykes our fathers made. We have never known a breach. Time and again, the gale blown by, and we were not afraid. Now we come only to look at the dykes, at the dykes our fathers made. Or the marsh where the homesteads cower apart the harried sunlight flies, shifts and considers, wanes and recovers, scatters and sicken and dies, an evil ember bedded in ash, a spark blown west by the wind. We are surrendered to night and the sea, the gale and the tide behind. At the bridge of the lower saltings, the cattle gather and blare, roused by the feet of running men, dazed by the lantern glare. Unbar and let them away for their lives, the levels drown as they stand, where the flood wash forces the sluices aback and the ditches deliver inland. Ninefold deep to the top of the dykes the galloping breakers stride and their over-carried spray is a sea, a sea on the landward side. Coming like stallions they paw with their hooves, going they snatch with their teeth till the vents and the furs and the sand are dragged out and the old time wattles beneath. Bid men gather fuel for fire, the tar and the oil and the tow. Flame we shall need, not smoke dark if the riddled sea banks go. Bid the ringers watch in the tower, who knows what the dawn shall prove, each with his rope between his feet and the trembling bells above. Now we can only wait till the day, wait and apportion our shame. These are the dykes our fathers left, but we would not look to the same. Time and again we were warned of the dykes, time and again we left. Now it may fall we have slain our sons as our fathers we have betrayed. Walking along the wreck of the dykes, watching the work of the seas, these were the dykes our fathers made to our great prophet and ease. But the peace is gone and the prophet is gone and the old sure day withdrawn that our own houses show as strange when we come back in the dawn. This recording is in the public domain. The Song of Diego Valdez by Rudyard Kipling readforlibrevox.org by Zaina. The God of Fair Beginnings has prospered here in my hand the cargos of my lading and the keels of my command for out that many ventures that sailed with hope as high my own have made the better trade and admiral am I to me my king's much honor to me my people's love to me the pride of princes and power all pride above to me the shouting cities to me the mobs refrain who knows not noble Valdez have never heard of Spain but I remember comrades old playmates on new seas when as we traded orpiment among the savages a thousand leagues to south and 30 years removed they knew not noble Valdez but me they knew and loved then they that found good liquor and drank it not alone and they that found fair plunder they told us everyone about our chosen islands our secret shoals between when Walty from far voyage we gathered to Karine their burned our brimming faggots all pale along the shore their rows are worn pavilions a sail above an oar as flashed each yearning anchor through mellow seas of fire so swift our careless captains rode each to his desire where lay our loosed harness where turned our naked feet whose tavern mid the palm trees what quenches of what heat oh fountain in the desert oh cistern in the waste oh bread we ate in secret oh cup we spilled in haste the youth knew taut of longing the widow curbed and won the good wife proud at season and the maid aware of man all souls unslaked consuming defrauded in delays desire not more their quittance than I those forfeit days I dreamed to wait my pleasure unchanged my spring would bide wherefore to wait my pleasure I put my spring aside till first in face of fortune and last in mazed disdain I made Diego Valdez High Admiral of Spain then walked no wind neath heaven nor surge that did not aid I dared extreme occasion nor ever one betrayed they wrought a deeper treason led seas that served my needs they sold Diego Valdez to bondage of great deeds the tempest flung me seaward and pinned and bade me hold the course I might not alter and men esteemed me bold the calms and bade my quarry the fog wreath sealed his eyes the dawn wind brought my top sails and men esteemed me wise yet spite my tyrant triumphs bewildered dispossessed my dream held eye before me my vision of my rest but crowned by fleet and people and bound by king and pope stands here Diego Valdez to rob me of my hope no prayer of mine shall move him no words of his set free the lord of sixty penitents and the steward of the sea his will can loose ten thousand to seek their loves again but not Diego Valdez High Admiral of Spain there walks no wind neath heaven nor wave that shall restore the old greening riot and the clamorous crowded shore the fountain in the desert the cistern in the waste the bread we ate in secret the cup we spilled in haste now call I to my captains for counsel fly the sign now leap there's Alice Gallies tall of oared across the brine to me the straighter prison to me the heavier chain to me Diego Valdez High Admiral of Spain end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Broken Men by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Zana for things we never mention for art misunderstood for excellent intention that did not turn to good from ancient tales renewing from clouds we could not clear beyond the laws pursuing we fled and settled here we took no tearful leaving we bade no long goodbyes men talked of crime and thieving men wrote of fraud and lies to save our injured feelings which was time and time to go behind was dark and dark moor ahead like coyote the widow and the orphan that pray for ten percent they clapped their trailers on us to spy the road we went they watched the war they watched the road we went they watched the foreign sailings they scan the shipping still and that's your Christian people returning good for ill God bless the thoughtful islands where never warrants come God bless the just republics that give a man home that ask no foolish questions but set him on his feet and save his wife and daughters from the work house and the street on church and square until the silence falls you'll hear the drowsy mutter of the fountain in our halls asleep amid the yuckas the city takes her ease till twilight brings the land wind to our clicking jealousies day long the diamond weather the high unaltered blue the smell of goats and incense and the mule bells tinkling through day long the water ocean that keeps us from our kin and once a month our levy when the English mail comes in you'll find us up and waiting to treat you at the bar you'll find us less exclusive than the average English are we'll meet you with our carriage too glad to show you round but we do not lunch on steamers for they are English ground we sail, oh nights to England and join our smiling boards our wives go in with fist counts and our daughters dance with lords but behind our princely doings and behind each coup we make we feel there's something waiting and we meet it when we wake oh god once sniff of England to greet our flesh and blood to hear the handsome slurring once more through London mud our towns of wasted honour our streets of lost delight how stands the old lord warden our dovers cliffs still white end of poem this recording is in the public domain The Feet of the Young Men by Rudyard Kipling readforleaprevox.org by Zana 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 wananish is waiting or the sea trouts jumping crazy for the fly he must 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 over you and the red gods call for you so for wan the wet sail arching through the rainbow round the bow and for wan the creek of snowshoes on the crust and for wan the lakeside lilies where the bull moose waits the cow and for wan the mule train coughing in the dust who hath smelt wood smoke at twilight who hath heard the birch log burning who is quick to read the noises of the night let him follow with the others for the young men's feet are turning to the camps of proved desire and known delight let him go go etc one do you know the blackened timber do you know that racing stream with the raw right angled log jam at the end and the bar of sun warmed shingle where a man may bask and dream to the click of shod canoe poles where we're going with our rods and reels and traces to a silent smoky indian that we know to a couch of new polled hemlock with the starlight on our faces for the red gods call us out and we must go they must go go etc two do you know the shallow Baltic where the seas are steep and short where the bluff lee boarded fishing luggers ride do you know the joy of threshing leagues to leeward of your port on a coast you've lost the chart of over side it is there that I am going with an extra hand to bail her just one able long shore loafer that I know he can take his chance of drowning while I sail and sail and sail her for the red gods call me out and I must go he must go go etc three do you know the pile built village where the seago dealers trade do you know the reek of fish and wet bamboo do you know the steaming stillness of the orchid scented glade when the blazoned bird winged butterflies flop through it is there that I am going with my camphor net and boxes to a gentle yellow pirate that I know to my little wailing lemurs to my palms and flying foxes for the red gods call me out and I must go he must go go etc four do you know the world's white roof tree do you know that windy rift where the baffling mountain eddies chop and change do you know the long days patience belly down on frozen drift while the head of heads is feeding out of range it is there that I am going where the boulders and the snow lie with a trusty nimble tracker that I know I have sworn an oath to keep it on the horns of Ovis Poli and the red gods call me out and I must go he must go go etc and now the four way lodge is opened now the smokes of council rise pleasant smokes air yet twixed trail and trail they choose now the girths and ropes are tested now they pack their last supplies now our young men go to dance before the trues who shall meet them at those alters who shall light them to that shrine velvet footed who shall guide them to their goal unto each the voice and vision unto each his spore and sign lonely mountain in the northland misty sweat bath neath the line and to each a man that knows his naked soul white or yellow black or copper he's waiting as a lover local funnel dust of hooves or beat of train where the high grass hides the horsemen or the glaring flats discover where the steamer hails the landing or the surf boat brings the rover where the rails run out in sand drift quick ah heave the camp kit over for the red gods make their medicine again and we go go go away from here on the other side of the world we're overdue the road is clear before you when the old spring front comes over you and the red gods call for you end of poem this recording is in the public domain the truce of the bear by Rudyard Kipling read for leaprefox.org by Zana yearly with tent and rifle our careless white men go by the pass called Mutanani to shoot in the veil below yearly by Mutanani he follows our white men in Mattoon the old blind beggar bandaged from brow to chin eyeless noseless and lipless toothless broken of speech seeking a doll at the doorway he mumbles his tail to each over and over the story ending as he began make ye no truce with Adam's ad the bear that walks like a man there was a flint in my musket pricked and primed was the pan when I went hunting Adam's ad the bear that stands like a man I looked my last on the timber I looked my last on the snow when I went hunting Adam's ad 50 summers ago I knew his times and his seasons as he knew mine that fed by night the ripened maze field and robbed my house of bread I knew his strength and cunning as he knew mine that crept at dawn to the crowded goat pens and plundered while I slept up from his stony playground and down from his well-digged lair out on the naked ridges ran Adam's ad the bear groaning and grunting and roaring heavy with stolen meals two long marches to northward and I was at his heels two full marches to northward at the fall of the second night I came on my enemy Adam's ad all panting from his flight there was a charge in the musket pricked and primed was the pan my finger crooked on the trigger when he reared up like a man horrible hairy human with paws like hands in prayer making his supplications rose Adam's ad the bear I looked at the swaying shoulders at the Pontius swag and swing and my heart was touched with pity for the monstrous pleading thing touched with pity and wonder I did not fire then I have looked no more on women I have walked no more with men nearer he tottered and nearer with paws like hands that pray from brow to jaw that steel shod paw it ripped my face away sudden silent and savage searing his flame the blow faceless I fell before his feet 50 summers ago I heard him grunt and chuckle I heard him pass to his den he left me blind to the darkened years and the little mercy of men now you go down in the morning with guns of the newer style that load I have felt in the middle and range I have heard a mile luck to the white man's rifle that shoots so fast and true but pay and I lift my bandage and show what the bear can do flesh like slag in the furnace knobbed and withered in gray matoon the old blind beggar he gives good worth for his pay rouse him at noon in the bushes follow and press him hard not for his raging and roaring flingy from Adam's ad but pay and I put back the bandage this is the time to fear when he stands up like a tired man tottering near and near when he stands up as pleading and wavering man brute guise when he veils the hate and cunning of the little swinish eyes when he shows as seeking quarter with paws like hands and prayer that is the time of peril the time of the truce of the bear eyeless, noseless and lipless asking a doll at the door matoon the old blind beggar he tells it or and or fumbling and feeling the rifles warming his hands at the flame hearing our careless white men talk of the morrow's game over and over the story ending as he began there is no truce with Adam's ad bear that looks like a man end of poem this recording is in the public domain this is our lot if we live so long and labour until the end that we outlive the impatient ears and the much too patient friend and because we know we have breath in our mouth and think we have thought in our head we shall assume that we are alive whereas we are really dead we shall not acknowledge that old stars fade or alien planets arise that the seer bush birds or the desert blooms or the ancient well head dries or any new compass were with new men adventure neat new skies we shall lift up the ropes that constrained our youth to bind on our children's hands we shall call to the water below the bridges to return and replenish our lands we shall harness horses death's own pale horses and scholarly plough the sands we shall lie down in the eye of the sun for lack of a light on our way we shall rise up when the day is done and cheer up behold it is day we shall abide till the battle is vernier we amble into the fray we shall peck out and discuss and dissect and avert and extrude to our mind the flaccid tissues of a long dead issues offensive to God and mankind precisely like vultures over an ox that the army has left behind we shall make walk preposterous coasts of the glories we once created immodestly smearing from muddled pallets mismated and our friends will weep when we ask them with posts if our natural forces be abated the lamp of our youth will be utterly out but we shall subsist on the smell of it and whatever we do we shall fold our hands and suck our gums and think well of it yes we shall be perfectly pleased with our work that is the perfectest hell of it this is our lot if we live so long and listen to those who love us that we are shunned by the people about and shamed by the powers above us wherefore be free of your harness be times but being free be assured that he who had not endured to the death of his birth he had never endured end of poem this recording is in the public domain the explorer by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Shishang Jackmola there is no sense in going further it's the edge of cultivation so they said and I believed it broke my land and strung my fences in the little border station tucked away below the foothills with the trails run out and stop tell a voice as bad as conscience rank interminable changes on one everlasting whisper day and night repeat it so something hidden go and find it go and look behind the rangers something lost behind the rangers lost in waiting for you go so I went worn out of patience never told my nearest neighbors stole away with pack and ponies left him drinking in the town and the faith that moved mountains didn't seem to help my labors as I faced the sheer main rangers whipping up and leading down march by march I puzzled through them searching shoulders hurried on in hope of water headed back for lack of grass till I camped above the treeline drifted snow and naked boulders felt free air a stair to windward knew I'd stumble on the pass thought to name it for the finder but that night the norther found me froze and killed the planes spread ponies so I called the camp despair a way gap today though then my whisper wakered to hound me something lost behind the rangers over yonder go you there then I knew the while I doubted knew his hand was certain over me still it might be self delusion scores of better men had died I could reach the township living but he knows what terror stole me but I didn't I went down the other side till the snow ran out in flowers and the flowers turned to aloes and the aloes sprung to tickets and a brimming stream ran by but the tickets dwind to thorn scrub and the water drained to shallows and I dropped again on desert blasted earth and blasting sky I remember lighting fires I remember sitting by them I remember seeing faces hearing voices through the smoke I remember they were fancy for I threw a stone to triumph something lost behind the rangers was the only word they spoke I remember going crazy I remember that I knew it when I heard myself hallowing to the funny folk I saw very full of dreams not desert but my two legs took me through it and I used to watch him moving with the toes all black and raw but at last the country altered white man's country passed disputing rolling grass and open timber with a hint of hills behind there I found me food and water and I lay a weak recruiting got my strength and lost my nightmares then I entered on my find then I ran my first rough survey chose my trees and blazed and ringed them week by week I pried and sampled week by week my findings grew so he went to look for donkeys and by God he found a kingdom but by God who sent his whisper I had struck the worth of two up along the hostile mountains where the hair poised nose like shivers down and through the big fat marshes that the virgin orbit stains till I heard the mild wide mutterings of unimagined rivers and beyond the nameless timber saw illimitable plains plotted sites of future cities traced the easy grades between them watched unharnessed rapids wasting 50,000 head an hour counted leagues of water frontage through the axe-ripe words that screen them saw the plan to feed a people up and waiting for the power well I know who'll take the credit all the clever chaps that followed came a dozen men together never knew my desert fears track me by the camps I'd quitted used to water holes I'd hollowed they'll go back and do the talking they'll be called the pioneers they will find my sites of townships not the cities that I said there they will rediscover rivers not my rivers heard at night but my own old marks and bearings they will show me how to get there by the lowly cairns I build it they will guide my feet right have I named one single river have I claimed one single acre have I kept one single nugget batting samples no not I because my price was paid me ten times over by my maker but you wouldn't understand it you go up and occupy oars you'll find there wooden cattle water transit sure and steady that should keep the railway rates down coal and iron at your doors got to care to hide that country till he judged his people ready then he chose me for his whisper and I found it and it's yours yes your never-never country yes your edge of cultivation and no sense in going further till I crossed the range to see God forgive me no I didn't it's God's present to our nation anybody might have found it but his whisper came to me end of poem this recording is in the public domain the wage slaves by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Shashank Jackmulla oh glorious are the guarded heights where guardian souls abide self-exile from our gross delights above beyond outside an ampler arc their spirit swings commands a juster view we have their word for all these things no doubt their words are true yet we the bond slaves of our day whom dirt and danger press co-ires of insolence delay and leagued unfaithfulness such as our need must seek indeed and having found engage the men who merely do the work for which they draw the wage from forge and farm and mine and bench deck altar outpost mill school battalion counter trench rail sanate sheepfold throne creation's cry goes up on high from age to cheated age send us the men who do the work for which they draw the wage words cannot help nor wit achieve nor even the all gifted fool too weak to enter bide or leave the lists he cannot rule beneath the sun we count on none are evil to us wage except the men that do the work for which they draw the wage when through the gates of stress and strain comes forth the vast event the simple sheer sufficing sufficing sane result of labor spent they that have wrought the end untaught be neither saint nor sage but men who merely did the work for which they drew the wage wherefore to these the fates shall bend and all old idle things wherefore on these shall power attend beyond the grasp of kings each in his place by right not grace shall rule his heritage the men who simply do the work for which they draw the wage not such as scorn the loitering street or ways to earn its praise their noon tides unreturning heat about their morning ways but such as dower each more gauged hour alike with clean courage even the men who do the work for which they draw the wage men like to gods that do the work for which they draw the wage begin continue close the work for which they draw the wage end of the poem this recording is in the public domain the burial by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Shashank Jackmola when that great kings return to clay or emperors in their pride grief of a day shall fill a day because its creature died but we we reckon not with those whom the mayor fates ordain this power that rotten person goes back to the power again dreamer devout by vision led beyond our guess or reach the travail of his spirit bred cities in place of speech so huge the all mustering thought that drove so brief the term allowed nations not words he linked to prove his faith before it is his will that he look forth across the world he won the granite of the ancient north great spaces washed with sun there shall he patient make his seat as when the death he dared and there await a people's feet in the paths that he prepared there till the vision he foresaw splendid and whole arise and an imagined empires draw to councils neath his skies the immense and brooding spirit still shall quicken and control living he was the land and dead his soul shall be her soul end of poem this recording is in the public domain general jubair by Rajik Kipling read for Liby Vox.org by Alan Lawley with those that bred with those that loosed the strife he had no part whose hands were clear of gain but subtle strong and stubborn gave his life to a lost cause and knew the gift was vain later shall rise a people plain and great forged in strong fires by equal war made one telling old battles over without hate not least his name shall pass from sire to son he may not meet the ensweep of our van in the doomed city when we close the score yet are his grave his grave that holds man our deep-tongued guns shall answer his once more end of poem this recording is in the public domain the palace by Rajik Kipling read for Liby Vox.org by Larry Wilson when I was a king and a mason a master proven and skilled I cleared me ground for a palace such as a king should build I decreed and dug down to my levels presently under the silt I came on the wreck of a palace such as a king had built there was no worth in the fashion there was no wit in the plan hither, thither, aimless the ruined footings ran masonry brute mishandled but carbon on every stone after me come up the builder tell him I too have known swift to use my trenches where my well-planned ground works grew I tumbled his coins and his ashlars and cut and reset them anew lime I milled of the marples burned it, slacked it and spread taking and leaving at pleasure the gifts of the humble dead yet I despised not nor gloried yet as we wrenched them apart I read in the raised foundations the heart of that builder's heart as he had risen and pleaded so did I understand the form of the dream he had followed in the face of the thing he had planned when I was a king and a mason in the open noon of my pride they sent me a word from the darkness they whispered and called me aside they said the end is forbidden they said the use is fulfilled and thy palace shall stand as that others the spoil of a king who shall build I called my men from the trenches my quarries, my warps and my shears all I had wrought I abandoned to the faith of the faithless years only I cut on the timber only I carved on the stone after me come up the builder tell him I too have known I too have known end of poem this recording is in the public domain Sussex by Radute Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Kelly Gahn God gave all men all earth to love but since our hearts are small ordained for each one spot should prove beloved over all that as he watched creation's birth so we in god-like mood may of our love create our earth and see that it is good so one shall Baltic pines content as one some surrey glade or one the palm groves droned lament before Lovuca's trade each to his choice and I rejoice the lot has fallen to me in a fair ground in a fair ground ye Sussex by the sea no tender-hearted garden crowns no bosomed woods adorn our blunt bow-headed all-backed downs but gnarled and ridden thorn bare slopes were chasing shadows skim and through the gaps revealed, belt upon belt the wooded dim blue goodness of the wheeled clean of officious fence or hedge half-wild and holy tame the wise turf cloaks the white cliff edge as when the Romans came what sign of those that fought and died at shift of sword and sword arrow in the camp abide the sunlight and the sword here leaps ashore the full south west all heavy-winged with brine here lies above the folded crest the channels led in line and here the seafog's lap and cling and here each warning each the sheet bells and the ship bells ring along the hidden beach we have no waters to delight our broad and brookless fails only the dupond on the height of the river fails whereby no tattered urbage tells which way the season flies only our close bit time that smells like dawn in paradise here though the strong unhampered days the tinkling silence thrills or little lost down churches praise the lord who made the hills but here the old gods guard their round and in her secret heart the heathen kingdom willford found dreams as she dwells though all the rest were all my share with equal soul I'd see her nine and thirty sisters fair yet none more fair than she choose ye your need from tames to tweed and I will choose instead such lands as lie twist rake and rye black down and beachy head I will go out against the sun where the rolled scarper tires and a long man of wilming ton looks naked toward the shires and east till doubling rather crawls to find this fickle tide by dry and sea forgotten walls our ports of stranded pride I will go north about the shaws and the deep gills that breed huge oaks and old the which we hold no more than Sussex weed or south where windy pitting hose beguilded dolphin veers and black beside wide banked ooze lie down our Sussex steers so to the land our hearts we give till the sure magic rake and memory use and love make live us and our fields alike that deeper than our speech and thought beyond our reasons sway clay of the pit once we were wrought yearns to its fellow clay God gives all men all earth to love but since man's heart is small ordains for each one spot shall prove beloved over all each to his choice and I rejoice the lot has fallen me in a fair ground in a fair ground yay Sussex by the sea end of poem this recording is in the public domain song of the wise children by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Adrian Stevens song of the wise children when the darkened fifties dipped to the north and the fog divide the air and the day is dead at his breaking forth sirs it is bitter beneath the bear far to southward they wheel and glance the milliond molten spears of mourn the spears of our deliverance that shine on the house where we were born flying fish about our bowels flying sea fires in our wake this is the road to our father's house wither we go for our soul's sake we have forfeited our birthright we have forsaken all things meet we have forgotten the look of light we have forgotten the scent of heat they that walk with shaded brows year by year in a shining land they be men of our father's house they shall receive us and understand we shall go back by boltless doors to the life unaltered our childhood new to the naked feet on the cool dark floors and the high sealed rooms that the trade blows through to the trumpet flowers and the moon beyond and the tree toads chorus drowning all and the lisp of the split banana front that talked us to sleep when we were small the wayside magic the threshold spells none undo what the north has done because of the sights and the sounds and the smells that ran with our youth in the eye of the sun and earth accepting shall ask no vows nor the sea our love nor our lover the sky when we return to our father's house only the English shall wonder why end of poem this recording is in the public domain Buddha at Kamakura by Rudyard Kipling read for libervox.org and there is a Japanese idol at Kamakura Oh ye who tread the narrow way by tofu flare to judgment day be gentle when the heathen pray to Buddha at Kamakura to him the way the law apart whom Maya held beneath her heart Ananda's lord the bodhisatt the Buddha of Kamakura for though he neither burns nor sees nor hears ye thank your deities ye have not sinned with such as these his children at Kamakura yet spare us still the western joke when jostics turn to scented smoke the little sins of little folk that worship at Kamakura the grey-robed gay-sashed butterflies that flip beneath the master's eyes he is beyond the mysteries but loves them at Kamakura and who so will from pride released condemning neither creed nor priest may feel the soul of all the east about him at Kamakura ye every tale Ananda heard of birth as fish or beast or bird while yet in lives the master stirred the warm wind brings Kamakura till drowsy eyelids seem to see a flower neath her golden hitty the shwedagon flare easterly from Burma to Kamakura and down the loaded air there comes the thunder of Tibetan drums and droned Om Mane Padme Om's a world's whiff from Kamakura yet Brahmins rule Benares still Bodhgaya's ruins pit the hill leaf-fed zealots threaten ill to Buddha and Kamakura a tourist show a legend told a rusting bulk of bronze and gold so much and scarce so much ye hold the meaning of Kamakura but when the morning prayer is prayed think air ye pass to strife and trade is God in human image made no nearer than Kamakura end of poem this recording is in the public domain the white man's burden by Richard Kipling read it take up the white man's burden send forth the best ye breed go bind your sons to exile to serve your captives need to wait in heavy harness on fluttered folk and wild your new court sellered peoples half devil and half child take up the white man's burden in patient to abide to veil the threat of terror and check the show of pride by open speech and simple and hundred times made plain to seek another's profit and work another's gain take up the white man's burden the savage wars of peace fill for the mouth of famine and bid the sickness peace and when your goal is nearest the end for other's sort watch sloth and heathen folly bring all your hope to naught take up the white man's burden no tawny rules of kings but toil of self and sweeper the tale of common things the poor she shall not enter the road she shall not tread go make them with your living and mark them with your dead take up the white man's burden and reap his old reward the blame of those he better the hate of those he guard the cry of host's the humor are slowly toward the light why brought to us from bondage our loved egyptian night take up the white man's burden he dare not stoop to less nor call too loud on freedom to cloak your weariness by all you cry or whisper by all you leave or do the silent, sullen peoples shall wear your gods and you take up the white man's burden have done with childish days the lightly prophet laurel the easy ungrudged praise comes now to search your manhood through all the thankless years cold edged with dare-bought wisdom the judgment of your peers end of poem this recording is in the public domain Pharaoh and the Sergeant by Richard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Kelly Gahn consider that the meritorious services of the sergeant instructors attached to the egyptian army have been inadequately acknowledged to the excellence of their work is mainly due to the great improvement that has taken place in the soldiers of His Highness the Kedive extract from letter said England unto Pharaoh I must make a man of you to maxim his oppressor as a Christian ought to do and she sent old Pharaoh Sergeant What's-his-name it was not a duke nor earl nor yet a V-count it was not a big brass general that came but a man in khaki kit who could handle men a bit with his bedding labeled Sergeant What's-his-name said England unto Pharaoh though at present singing small you shall have a proper tune before it ends and she introduced old Pharaoh to the sergeant once for all a desert making friends it was not a crystal palace nor cathedral it was not a public house of common fame but a piece of red hot sand with a palm on either hand and a little hut for sergeant What's-his-name said England unto Pharaoh you've met miracles before when Aaron struck your rivers into blood but if you watch the sergeant he can show you something more he's a charm for making riflemen for mud it was neither Hindustani nor Coptix it was odds and ends and leavings of the same translated by a stick which is really half the trick and Pharaoh harked to sergeant What's-his-name there were years that no one talked of there were times of horrid doubt there was faith and hope and whacking and despair while the sergeant gave the cautions and he combed old Pharaoh out and England didn't seem to know or care that is England's awful way of doing business she would serve her god or gordon for she thinks her empire still is the strand in Holburn Hill and she didn't think of sergeant What's-his-name said England to the sergeant you can let my people go England used him cheap and nasty from the start and they entered him in battle on a most astonished foe but the sergeant he had hardened Pharaoh's heart that was broke along of all the plagues of Egypt 3,000 years before the sergeant came and he amended it again in a little more than 10 Pharaoh fought like sergeant What's-his-name it was wicked bad campaigning cheap and nasty from the first there was heat and dust and coolly work and sun there were vipers flies and sandstorms there was cholera and thirst but Pharaoh done the best he ever done down the desert down the railway down the river like Israelites from bondage so he came tween the clouds of dust and fire to the land of his desire and his Moses it was sergeant What's-his-name we are eating dirt and handfuls for to save our daily bread which we have to buy from those that hate us most and we must not raise the money where the sergeant raised the dead and it's wrong and bad and dangerous to boast but he did it on the cheap and on the quiet and he's not allowed to forward any claim though he drilled a black man white though he made a mummy fight he will still continue sergeant What's-his-name private, corporal, color sergeant but the everlasting miracles the same end of poem this recording is in the public domain Our Lady of the Snows by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by April 6-0-9-0 California United States of America Our Lady of the Snows Canadian Preferential Tariff, 1897 A nation spoke to a nation a queen sent word to a throne daughter am I in my mother's house but mistress in my own the gates are mine to open as the gates are mine to close and I set my house in order said the lady of the snows neither with laughter nor weeping fear of the child's amaze soberly under the white man's law my white men go their ways not for the Gentiles clamor insult or insult or threat of blows bow we the knee to ball said our lady of the snows my speech is clean and single I talk of common things words of the wharf and the marketplace and the where the merchant brings favor to those I favor but a stumbling block to my foes many there be that hate us said our lady of the snows I called my chiefs to counsel in the din of a town I called my chiefs to counsel in the din of a troubled year for the sake of a sign ye would not see any word ye would not hear this is our message and answer this is the path we chose for we be also a people said our lady of the snows carry the word to my sisters to the queens of the east and the south I have proven faith in the heritage by more than the word of the mouth they that are wise may follow ere the world's war trumpet blows but I I am first in the battle said our lady of the snows a nation spoke to a nation a throne sent word to a throne daughter am I in my mother's house but mistress in my own the gates are mine to open as the gates are mine to close and I abide by my mother's house said our lady of the snows end of poem this recording is in the public domain at Dona Farentis by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Vinnie Searam an extended observation of the ways and works of man from the four mile radius roughly to the plains of Hindustan I have drunk with mixed assemblies seen the racial ruction rise and the men of half creation and damning half creation's eyes I have watched them in their tantrums all that Pentecostal crew French, Italian, Arab Spaniard, Dutch and Greek and Russ and Jew Kelton Savage, Buff and Ochre Cream and Yellow, Mauve and White but it never really mattered till the English grew polite till the men with polished toppers till the men in long frock coats till the men that do not duel till the men who fight with votes and take their pleasures as St. Lawrence took his grid began to beg your pardon and the knowing croupier hid then the bandsmen with their fiddles and the girls that bring the beer felt the psychological moment left the lit casino clear but the uninstructed alien from the tootin to the gall was entrapped once more my country by that suave deceptive drawl as it was in ancient Suez ornith wilder milder skies I observe with apprehension when the racial ructions rise and with keener apprehension if I read the times are right hear the old casino order watch your man but be polite keep your temper never answer that was why they spat and swore don't hit first but move together there's no hurry to the door back to back and facing outward while the linguist tells him how so the hard pent rage ate inward till some idiot went too far let him have it and they had it and the same was serious war fist, umbrella, cane, decanter lamp and beer mug, chair and boot till behind the fleeing legions rose the long horse yell for loot then the oil cloth with its numbers as a banner fluttered free then the grand piano cantered on three casters down the quay white and breathing through their nostrils silent systematic swift they removed a face abolished all that man could heave or lift oh my country bless the training that from cock to castle runs the pitfall of the stranger but the bulwark of thy sons measured speech and ordered action slugger soul and unperturbed till we wake our island devil no wise cool for being curbed when the air of all the ages has the honor to remain when he will not hear an insult though men make it ne'er so plain when his lips are schooled to meekness when his back is bowed to blows while the keen osvogels know it while the waiting jackal knows build on the flanks of ethno where the sullen smoke puffs float or bathe in tropic waters where the lean fin dogs the boat cock the gun that is not loaded cook at the frozen dynamite but oh beware my country when my country grows polite end of poem this recording is in the public domain Kitchener's School by Rudyard Kippman read for Librevox.org by Vinnie Searam Oh hub she carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast this is the message of Kitchener who did not break you in jest it was permitted to him to fulfill the long appointed years reaching the end ordained of old over your dead amirs he stamped only before your walls and the tomb ye knew was dust he gathered up under his armpits all the swords of your trust he set a guard on your granaries securing the weak from the strong he said go work the water wheels that were abolished so long he said go safely being abased I have accomplished my vow that was the mercy of Kitchener cometh his madness now he does not desire as ye desire nor devise as ye devise he's preparing a second host for you wise not at the mouth of his clean-lipped guns shall ye learn his name again but letter by letter from calf to calf at the mouth of his chosen men he has gone back to his own city not seeking presents or bribes but openly asking the English for money to buy you hakeems and scribes knowing that ye are forfeit by battle and have no right to live he begs for money to bring you learning and all the English give it is their treasure their pleasure thus are their hearts inclined for Allah created the English mad the maddest of all mankind they do not consider the meaning of things they consult not creed or clan behold they clap the slave on the back and behold he arises a man they terribly carpet the earth with dead and before their cannon cool they walk unarmed by twos and threes to call the living to school how is this reason which is their reason to judge a scholar's worth by casting a ball at three straight sticks and defending the same with a fourth what this day do which is doubtless a spell and other matters more strange until by the operation of years the hearts of their scholars change till these may come and go great boats or engines upon the rail but always the English watch nearby to prop them when they fail till these make laws of their own choice and judges of their own blood and all the mad English obey the judges and say that the law is good certainly they were mad from of old but I think one new thing that the magic whereby they work their magic were from their fortune spring may be that they show all peoples their magic and ask no price in return wherefore since he are born to that magic oh hub she make haste and learn certainly also is kitchener mad but one sure thing I know if he who broke you be minded to teach you to his majors ago go and carry your shoes in your hand and bow your head on your breast for he who did not slay you in sport he will not teach you in jest end of poem this recording is in the public domain the young queen by right yard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Daphne Ma her hand was still on the sword hilt the spa was still on her heel she had not cast her harness of grey ward tinted steel high on her reds plus charger beautiful bold and brown bright eyed out of the puddle the young queen rode to be crowned she came to the old queen's presence in the hall of our thousand years in the hall of the five free nations that are peers among their peers royals he gave the greeting loyals about the head crying crown me my mother and the old queen stood and said crown the father I know who standard flies where the clean surge takes the you in all the coral barriers rise blood of a foes on thy bridle and speech of our friends in thy mouth how can I crown the father oh queen of the sovereign south let the five free nations witness but the young queen answered swift I shall be crowned of our crowning to hold our crown for a gift in the days when our folk were feeble thy sword made sure our lands wherefore we come in power to take our crown at thy hands and the old queen raised and kissed her and the jealous circlet pressed roped with the pearls of the northland and red with the gold of the west lead with her lands own opals live in hearted alive and the five start cross above them for the sign of the nations five so it was crowned in the presence in the whole of our thousand years in the face of the five free nations that have no peer but their peers and the young queen out of the south land kneeled down at the old queen's knee and asked for a mother's blessing on the excellent years to be and the old queen stillness where the jeweled head dropped low daughter no more but sister and doubly daughter so mother of many princes and child of the child I bore what good things shall I wish thee that I have not wished before shall I give thee delight in dominion in the sight of they sitting forth nay we be women together we know what that last is worth peace in the atmos borders and strength on the road untraught these are dealt who diminished at the secret will of God I have swayed troublesome councils I am wise in terrible things father and son and grandson I have known the heart of kings shall I give thee my sleepless wisdom or the gift all wisdom above I we be women together I give thee thy people's love tempered, aghast, abiding reluctant of prayers or vows eager in face of peril as thine for thy mother's house God require thee my sister through the wonderful years to be and make the people to love thee as thou hast loved me and of bone this recording is in the public domain remen by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Kelly Gahn duly with knees that feigned to quake, bent head, and shaded brow, yet once again for my father's sake in remen's house I bow the curtains part and the trumpet blares and the eunuchs howl aloud and the guilt swag-bellied idle glares insolent over the crowd this is remen, lord of the earth fear him and bow the knee and I watch my comrades hide their mirth that rode to the wars with me for we remember the sun and the sand and the rocks whereon we trod ere we came to a scorched and a scornful land that did not know our God as we remember the sacrifice dead men and hundred laid slain while they served his mysteries and that he would not aid not though we gashed ourselves and wept for the high priest bade us wait saying he went on a journey or slept or was drunk or had taken a mate praise ye remen, king of kings who ruleeth earth and sky and again I bow as the censor swings and the God enthroned goes by I we remember his sacred ark and the virtuous men that knelt to the dark in the hush behind the dark wherein we dreamed he dwelt until we entered to hail him out and found no more than an old uncleanly image girded about the loins with scarlet and gold him we or set with the butts of our spears him and his vast designs to be the scorn of our mula tears and the jest of our halted lines by the picket pins that the dogs defile and the dung and the dust he lay till the priests ran and chattered a while and wiped him and took him away hushing the matter before it was known they returned to our fathers afar and hastily set him afresh on his throne because he had won us the war wherefore with knees that feigned to quake bent head and shaded brow to this dead dog for my father's sake and remen's house I bow end of poem this recording is in the public domain end of the five nations volume one by Rudyard Kipling