Page:Rudyard Kipling's verse - Inclusive Edition 1885-1918.djvu/98

80 And shuttered up one doorway in the North.

I stand by those. You'll find that both will pay,

I pledged my Name on both—they're yours to-night.

Hold to them—they hold fame enough for two.

I'm old, but I shall live till Burma pays.

Men there—not German traders—Cr-sthw-te knows—

You'll find it in my papers. For the North

Guns always—quietly—but always guns.

You've seen your Council? Yes, they'll try to rule,

And prize their Reputations. Have you met

A grim lay-reader with a taste for coins,

And faith in Sin most men withhold from God?

He's gone to England. R-p-n knew his grip

And kicked. A Council always has its H-pes.

They look for nothing from the West but Death

Or Bath or Bournemouth. Here's their ground.

They fight.

Until the Middle Classes take them back,

One of ten millions plus a C.S.I.,

Or drop in harness. Legion of the Lost?

Not altogether. Earnest, narrow men,

But chiefly earnest, and they'll do your work,

And end by writing letters to the Times.

(Shall I write letters answering H-nt-r—fawn

With R-p-n on the Yorkshire grocers? Ugh!)

They have their Reputations. Look to one—

I work with him—the smallest of them all,

White-haired, red-faced, who sat the plunging horse

Out in the garden. He's your right hand man,

And dreams of tilting W-ls-y from the throne,

But while he dreams gives work we cannot buy;

He has his Reputation—wants the Lords

By way of Frontier Roads. Meantime, I think,

He values very much the hand that falls

Upon his shoulder at the Council table—

Hates cats and knows his business. Which is yours.

Your business! Twice a hundred million souls.