THE BROKEN MEN

FOR things we never mention,
For Art misunderstood-

For excellent intention

That did not turn to good;

From ancient tales' renewing,

From clouds we would not clear

Beyond the Law's pursuing

We fled, and settled here.

We took no tearful leaving,

We bade no long good-byes; Men talked of crime and thieving, Men wrote of fraud and lies.

To save our injured feelings

'Twas time and time to goBehind was dock and Dartmoor,

Ahead lay Callao!

The widow and the orphan

That pray for ten per cent.,
They clapped their trailers on us
To spy 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 a home,
That ask no foolish questions,
But set him on his feet;

And save his wife and daughters

From the workhouse and the street!

On church and square and market
The noonday silence falls;
You'll hear the drowsy mutter
Of the fountain in our halls.

Asleep amid the yuccas

The city takes her ease-
Till twilight brings the land-wind

To our clicking jalousies.

THE BROKEN MEN

Day long the diamond weather,
The high, unaltered blue-
The smell of goats and incense
And the mule-bells tinkling through.

Day long the warder ocean

That keeps us from our kin,

And once a month our levee

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 o' nights to England

And join our smiling Boards;

Our wives go in with Viscounts
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.

Ah God! One sniff of EnglandTo greet our flesh and bloodTo hear the hansoms slurring

Once more through London mud! Our towns of wasted honourOur streets of lost delight!

How stands the old Lord Warden? Are Dover's cliffs still white?

THE FEET OF THE YOUNG MEN

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

ouananiche is waiting,

Or the sea-trout's jumping-crazy for the fly?

He must go-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 o'er you

And the Red Gods call for you!

Copyright, 1897, by Rudyard Kipling.