Page:Departmental Ditties and Ballads and Barrack-Room Ballads, Kipling, 1899.djvu/141

Rh The dust that half a hundred kine

Before my window raise.

Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist

The seething city looms,

In place of Putney's golden gorse

The sickly babul blooms.

Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust

And bid the pie-dog yell,

Draw from the drain its typhoid germ,

From each bazar its smell;

Yea, suck the fever from the tank

And sap my strength therewith:

Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face

To little Kitty Smith!