Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room Ballads. Rudyard KiplingЧитать онлайн книгу.

        That was seven years ago – and he still is there!

        It was an August evening and, in snowy garments clad,

        I paid a round of visits in the lines of Hezabad;

        When, presently, my Waler saw, and did not like at all,

        A Commissariat elephant careering down the Mall.

        I couldn’t see the driver, and across my mind it rushed

        That that Commissariat elephant had suddenly gone musth.

        I didn’t care to meet him, and I couldn’t well get down,

        So I let the Waler have it, and we headed for the town.

        The buggy was a new one and, praise Dykes, it stood the strain,

        Till the Waler jumped a bullock just above the City Drain;

        And the next that I remember was a hurricane of squeals,

        And the creature making toothpicks of my five-foot patent wheels.

        He seemed to want the owner, so I fled, distraught with fear,

        To the Main Drain sewage-outfall while he snorted in my ear —

        Reached the four-foot drain-head safely and, in darkness and despair,

        Felt the brute’s proboscis fingering my terror-stiffened hair.

        Heard it trumpet on my shoulder – tried to crawl a little higher —

        Found the Main Drain sewage outfall blocked, some eight feet up, with mire;

        And, for twenty reeking minutes, Sir, my very marrow froze,

        While the trunk was feeling blindly for a purchase on my toes!

        It missed me by a fraction, but my hair was turning grey

        Before they called the drivers up and dragged the brute away.

        Then I sought the City Elders, and my words were very plain.

        They flushed that four-foot drain-head and – it never choked again!

        You may hold with surface-drainage, and the sun-for-garbage cure,

        Till you’ve been a periwinkle shrinking coyly up a sewer.

        I believe in well-flushed culverts…

                                          This is why the death-rate’s small;

        And, if you don’t believe me, get shikarred yourself. That’s all.

        Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order,

        And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,

        To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught

        His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught.

        And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;

        So Cupid and Apollo linked, per heliograph, the pair.

        At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise —

        At e’en, the dying sunset bore her husband’s homilies.

        He warned her ‘gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold,

        As much as ‘gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;

        But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)

        That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.

        ‘Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way,

        When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.

        They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt —

        So stopped to take the message down – and this is what they learnt —

        “Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot” twice. The General swore.

        “Was ever General Officer addressed as ‘dear’ before?

        “‘My Love,’ i’ faith! ‘My Duck,’ Gadzooks! ‘My darling popsy-wop!’

        “Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?”

        The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still,

        As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill;

        For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband’s warning ran: —

        “Don’t dance or ride with General Bangs – a most immoral man.”

        [At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise —

        But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.]

        With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife

        Some interesting details of the General’s private life.

        The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still,

        And red and ever redder grew the General’s shaven gill.

        And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not): —

        “I think we’ve tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!”

        All honour unto Bangs, for ne’er did Jones thereafter know

        By word or act official who read off that helio.

        But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan

        They know the worthy General as “that most immoral man.”

        Twelve hundred million men are spread