Kipling Settings

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!

[ ... ]

II
We have fed our sea for a thousand years
And she calls us, still unfed,
Though there's never a wave of all her waves
But marks our English dead:
We have strawed our best to the weed's unrest,
To the shark and the sheering gull.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

There's never a flood goes shoreward now
But lifts a keel we manned;
There's never an ebb goes seaward now
But drops our dead on the sand --
But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,
From the Ducies to the Swin.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid it in!

We must feed our sea for a thousand years,
For that is our doom and pride,
As it was when they sailed with the Golden Hind,
Or the wreck that struck last tide --
Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef
Where the ghastly blue-lights flare.
If blood be tbe price of admiralty,
If blood be tbe price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' bought it fair!

Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah, heave her short again!
 Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full --
 Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
  Well, ah, fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love --
   Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
         For the wind has come to say:
         "You must take me while you may,
      If you'd go to Mother Carey
      (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
   Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!"
 
Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah, break it out o' that!
 Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear!
Port -- port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot,
 And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year!
  Well, ah, fare you well, for we've got to take her out again --
   Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.
      And it's time to clear and quit
      When the hawser grips the bitt,
   So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!
 
Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her!
 Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!
Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.
 Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!
  Well, ah, fare you well, for the Channel wind's took hold of us,
   Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.
      And it's blowing up for night,
      And she's dropping light on light,
   And she's snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea,
 
Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone to-night.
 Sick she is and harbour-sick -- Oh, sick to clear the land!
Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us --
 Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll stand!
  Well, ah, fare you well, and it's Ushant slams the door on us,
   Whirling like a windmill through the dirty scud to lee:
         Till the last, last flicker goes
         From the tumbling water-rows,
      And we're off to Mother Carey
      (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
   Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!

"Where have you been this while away,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?"
'Long with the rest on a picnic lay,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
They called us out of the barrack-yard
To Gawd knows where from Gosport Hard,
And you can't refuse when you get the card,
    And the Widow gives the party.
       (Bugle:  Ta--rara--ra-ra-rara!)
 
"What did you get to eat and drink,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?"
Standing water as thick as ink,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
A bit o' beef that were three year stored,
A bit o' mutton as tough as a board,
And a fowl we killed with a sergeant's sword,
    When the Widow give the party.
 
"What did you do for knives and forks,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?"
We carries 'em with us wherever we walks,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
And some was sliced and some was halved,
And some was crimped and some was carved,
And some was gutted and some was starved,
    When the Widow give the party.
 
"What ha' you done with half your mess,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?"
They couldn't do more and they wouldn't do less,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
They ate their whack and they drank their fill,
And I think the rations has made them ill,
For half my comp'ny's lying still
    Where the Widow give the party.
 
"How did you get away -- away,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?"
On the broad o' my back at the end o' the day,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
I comed away like a bleedin' toff,
For I got four niggers to carry me off,
As I lay in the bight of a canvas trough,
    When the Widow give the party.
 
"What was the end of all the show,
    Johnnie, Johnnie?"
Ask my Colonel, for I don't know,
    Johnnie, my Johnnie, aha!
We broke a King and we built a road --
A court-house stands where the reg'ment goed.
And the river's clean where the raw blood flowed
    When the Widow give the party.
       (Bugle:  Ta--rara--ra-ra-rara!)

The sea is a wicked old woman
 . . . . . . . . . .

— The rest of this text is not
currently in the database but will be
added as soon as we obtain it. —

Alone upon the housetops to the North
I turn and watch the lightning in the sky,
The glamour of thy footsteps in the North.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

Below my feet the still bazar is laid,
Far, far below the weary camels lie,
The camels and the captives of thy raid.
Come back, Beloved, or I die!

My father's wife is old and harsh with years,
And drudge of all my father's house am I.
My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears.
Come back to me, Beloved, or I die!

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
why don't you march with my true love?"
"We're fresh from off the ship 
an' 'e's maybe give the slip.
an' you'd best go look for a new love."

New love! True love!
Best go look for a new love.
The dead they cannot rise, 
an' you'd better dry your eyes,
an' you'd best go look for a new love.

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
do you bring no sign from my true love?"
"I bring a lock of 'air that
he allus used to wear,
an' you'd best go look for a new love."

"Soldier, soldier come from the wars,
O then I know it's true I've lost my true love!"
"An' I tell you truth again-
when you've lost the feel o' pain,
you'd best take me for your true love!"

True love! New love!
Best take 'im for a new love.
The dead they cannot rise,
an' you'd better dry your eyes,
an' you'd best take 'im for your true love.

There dwells a wife by the Northern Gate,
 And a wealthy wife is she;
She breeds a breed o' rovin' men
 And casts them over sea.
 
And some are drowned in deep water,
 And some in sight o' shore,
And word goes back to the weary wife
 And ever she sends more.
 
For since that wife had gate or gear,
 Or hearth or garth or bield,
She willed her sons to the white harvest,
 And that is a bitter yield.
 
She wills her sons to the wet ploughing,
 To ride the horse of tree,
And syne her sons come back again
 Far-spent from out the sea.
 
The good wife's sons come home again
 With little into their hands,
But the lore of men that ha' dealt with men
 In the new and naked lands;
 
But the faith of men that ha' brothered men
 By more than easy breath,
And the eyes o' men that ha' read wi' men
 In the open books of death.
 
Rich are they, rich in wonders seen,
 But poor in the goods o' men;
So what they ha' got by the skin o' their teeth
 They sell for their teeth again.
 
For whether they lose to the naked life
 Or win to their hearts' desire,
They tell it all to the weary wife
 That nods beside the fire.
 
Her hearth is wide to every wind
 That makes the white ash spin;
And tide and tide and 'tween the tides
 Her sons go out and in;
 
(Out with great mirth that do desire
 Hazard of trackless ways,
In with content to wait their watch
 And warm before the blaze);
 
And some return by failing light,
 And some in waking dream,
For she hears the heels of the dripping ghosts
 That ride the rough roof-beam.
 
Home, they come home from all the ports,
 The living and the dead;
The good wife's sons come home again
 For her blessing on their head!