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Et Dona Ferentes - Rudyard Kipling

In extended observation of the ways and works of man,
From the Four-mile Radius roughly to the Plains of Hindustan:I have drunk with mixed assemblies, seen the racial ruction rise,And the men of half Creation damning half Creation's eyes.

I have watched them in their tantrums, all that Pentecostal crew,French, Italian, Arab, Spaniard, Dutch and Greek, and Russ and Jew,Celt and savage, buff and ochre, cream and yellow, mauve and white,But it never really mattered till the English grew polite;

Till the men with polished toppers, till the men in long frock-coats,Till the men who do not duel, till the men who war with votes,Till the breed that take their pleasures as Saint Lawrence took his grid,Began to "beg your pardon" and-the knowing croupier hid.

Then the bandsmen with their fiddles, and the girls that bring the beer,Felt the psychological moment, left the lit Casino clear;But the uninstructed alien, from the Teuton to the Gaul,Was entrapped, once more, my country, by that suave, deceptive drawl.

As it was in ancient Suez or 'neath wilder, milder skies,
I "observe with apprehension" how the racial ructions rise;
And with keener apprehension, if I read the times aright,
Hear the old Casino order: "Watch your man, but be polite.

“Keep your temper. Never answer (that was why they spat and swore).Don't hit first, but move together (there's no hurry) to the door.Back to back, and facing outward while the linguist tells 'em how -`Nous sommes allong ar notre batteau, nous ne voulong pas un row.'"

So the hard, pent rage ate inward, till some idiot went too far..."Let 'em have it!" and they had it, and the same was merry war - Fist, umbrella, cane, decanter, lamp and beer-mug, chair and boot - Till behind the fleeing legions rose the long, hoarse yell for loot.

Then the oil-cloth with its numbers, like a banner fluttered free;Then the grand piano cantered, on three castors, down the quay;White, and breathing through their nostrils, silent, systematic, swift - They removed, effaced, abolished all that man could heave or lift.

Oh, my country, bless the training that from cot to castle runs - The pitfall of the stranger but the bulwark of thy sons -Measured speech and ordered action, sluggish soul and un - perturbed,Till we wake our Island-Devil-nowise cool for being curbed!

When the heir of all the ages "has the honour to remain,"
When he will not hear an insult, though men make it ne'er so plain,When his lips are schooled to meekness, when his back is bowed to blows -Well the keen aas-vogels know it-well the waiting jackal knows.

Build on the flanks of Etna where the sullen smoke-puffs float - Or bathe in tropic waters where the lean fin dogs the boat - Cock the gun that is not loaded, cook the frozen dynamite - But oh, beware my Country, when my Country grows polite!

Kipling Rocks! Or, put another way, down here in Texas we keep smiling at you right friendly like right up to the point where we cock the shotgun.

Tommy
I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!