Departmental Ditties and Barrack Room Ballads. Rudyard Kipling

        I have eaten your bread and salt,

           I have drunk your water and wine,

        The deaths ye died I have watched beside,

           And the lives that ye led were mine.

        Was there aught that I did not share

           In vigil or toil or ease,

        One joy or woe that I did not know,

           Dear hearts across the seas?

        I have written the tale of our life

           For a sheltered people’s mirth,

        In jesting guise – but ye are wise,

        And ye know what the jest is worth.

        We are very slightly changed

        From the semi-apes who ranged

           India’s prehistoric clay;

        Whoso drew the longest bow,

        Ran his brother down, you know,

           As we run men down today.

        “Dowb,” the first of all his race,

        Met the Mammoth face to face

           On the lake or in the cave,

        Stole the steadiest canoe,

        Ate the quarry others slew,

           Died – and took the finest grave.

        When they scratched the reindeer-bone

        Someone made the sketch his own,

           Filched it from the artist – then,

        Even in those early days,

        Won a simple Viceroy’s praise

           Through the toil of other men.

        Ere they hewed the Sphinx’s visage

        Favoritism governed kissage,

        Even as it does in this age.

        Who shall doubt the secret hid

        Under Cheops’ pyramid

        Was that the contractor did

           Cheops out of several millions?

        Or that Joseph’s sudden rise

        To Comptroller of Supplies

        Was a fraud of monstrous size

           On King Pharoah’s swart Civilians?

        Thus, the artless songs I sing

        Do not deal with anything

           New or never said before.

        As it was in the beginning,

        Is today official sinning,

           And shall be forevermore.

        Old is the song that I sing —

           Old as my unpaid bills —

        Old as the chicken that kitmutgars bring

        Men at dak-bungalows – old as the Hills.

        Ahasuerus Jenkins of the “Operatic Own”

         Was dowered with a tenor voice of super-Santley tone.

        His views on equitation were, perhaps, a trifle queer;

        He had no seat worth mentioning, but oh! he had an ear.

        He clubbed his wretched company a dozen times a day,

        He used to quit his charger in a parabolic way,

        His method of saluting was the joy of all beholders,

        But Ahasuerus Jenkins had a head upon his shoulders.

        He took two months to Simla when the year was at the spring,

        And underneath the deodars eternally did sing.

        He warbled like a bulbul, but particularly at

        Cornelia Agrippina who was musical and fat.

        She controlled a humble husband, who, in turn, controlled a Dept.,

        Where Cornelia Agrippina’s human singing-birds were kept

        From April to October on a plump retaining fee,

        Supplied, of course, per mensem, by the Indian Treasury.

        Cornelia used to sing with him, and Jenkins used to play;

        He praised unblushingly her notes, for he was false as they:

        So when the winds of April turned the budding roses brown,

        Cornelia told her husband: “Tom, you mustn’t send him down.”

        They haled him from his regiment which didn’t much regret him;

        They found for him an office-stool, and on that stool they set him,

        To play with maps and catalogues three idle hours a day,

        And draw his plump retaining fee – which means his double pay.

        Now, ever after dinner, when the coffeecups are brought,

        Ahasuerus waileth o’er the grand pianoforte;

        And, thanks to fair Cornelia, his fame hath waxen great,

        And Ahasuerus Jenkins is a power in the State.

        This ditty is a string of lies.

        But – how the deuce did Gubbins rise?

        POTIPHAR GUBBINS, C. E.,

        Stands at the top of the tree;

        And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led

        To the hoisting of Potiphar G.

        Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,

        Is seven years junior to Me;

        Each bridge that he makes he either buckles or breaks,

        And his work is as rough as he.

        Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,

        Is coarse as a chimpanzee;

        And I can’t understand why you gave him your hand,

        Lovely Mehitabel Lee.

        Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,

        Is dear to the Powers that Be;

        For They bow and They smile in an affable style

        Which is seldom accorded to Me.

        Potiphar Gubbins, C. E.,

        Is certain as certain can be

        Of a highly-paid post which is claimed by a host

        Of seniors – including Me.

        Careless and lazy is he,

        Greatly inferior to Me.

        What is the spell that you manage so well,

        Commonplace Potiphar G.?

        Lovely Mehitabel Lee,

        Let me inquire of thee,