The Poetry Corner

MAndrews Hymn

By Rudyard Kipling

Lord, Thou hast made this world below the shadow of a dream, An, taught by time, I tak it so, exceptin always Steam. From coupler-flange to spindle-guide I see Thy Hand, O God, Predestination in the stride o yon connectin-rod. John Calvin might ha forged the same, enorrmous, certain, slow, Ay, wrought it in the furnace-flame, my Institutio. I cannot get my sleep to-night; old bones are hard to please; Ill stand the middle watch up here, alone wi God an these My engines, after ninety days o race an rack an strain Through all the seas of all Thy world, slam-bangin home again. Slam-bang too much, they knock a wee, the crosshead-gibs are loose; But thirty thousand mile o sea has gied them fair excuse. . . . Fine, clear an dark, a full-draught breeze, wi Ushant out o sight, An Ferguson relievin Hay. Old girl, yell walk to-night! His wifes at Plymouth. . . . Seventy, One, Two, Three since he began, Three turns for Mistress Ferguson. . .and whos to blame the man? Theres none at any port for me, by drivin fast or slow, Since Elsie Campbell went to Thee, Lord, thirty years ago. (The year the Sarah Sands was burned. Oh roads we used to tread, Fra Maryhill to Pollokshaws, fra Govan to Parkhead!) Not but theyre ceevil on the Board. Yell hear Sir Kenneth say: Good-morrn, MAndrew! Back again? An hows your bilge to-day? Miscallin technicalities but handin me my chair To drink Madeira wi three Earls, the auld Fleet Engineer, That started as a boiler-whelp, when steam and he were low. I mind the time we used to serve a broken pipe wi tow. Ten pound was all the pressure then, Eh! Eh!, a man wad drive; An here, our workin gauges give one hunder fifty-five! Were creepin on wi each new rig, less weight an larger power: Therell be the loco-boiler next an thirty knots an hour! Thirty an more. What I ha seen since ocean-steam began Leaves me no doot for the machine: but what about the man? The man that counts, wi all his runs, one million mile o sea: Four time the span from earth to moon. . . . How far, O Lord, from Thee? That wast beside him night an day. Ye mind my first typhoon? It scoughed the skipper on his way to jock wi the saloon. Three feet were on the stokehold-floor, just slappin to an fro, An cast me on a furnace-door. I have the marks to show. Marks! I ha marks o more than burns, deep in my soul an black, An times like this, when things go smooth, my wickudness comes back. The sins o four and forty years, all up an down the seas, Clack an repeat like valves half-fed. . . . Forgies our trespasses. Nights when Id come on deck to mark, wi envy in my gaze, The couples kittlin in the dark between the funnel stays; Years when I raked the ports wi pride to fill my cup o wrong, Judge not, O Lord, my steps aside at Gay Street in Hong-Kong! Blot out the wastrel hours of mine in sin when I abode, Jane Harrigans an Number Nine, The Reddick an Grant Road! An waur than all, my crownin sin, rank blasphemy an wild. I was not four and twenty then, Ye wadna judge a child? Id seen the Tropics first that run, new fruit, new smells, new air, How could I tell, blind-fou wi sun, the Deil was lurkin there? By day like playhouse-scenes the shore slid past our sleepy eyes; By night those soft, lasceevious stars leered from those velvet skies, In port (we used no cargo-steam) Id daunder down the streets, An ijjit grinnin in a dream, for shells an parrakeets, An walkin-sticks o carved bamboo an blowfish stuffed an dried, Fillin my bunk wi rubbishry the Chief put overside. Till, off Sambawa Head, Ye mind, I heard a land-breeze ca, Milk-warm wi breath o spice an bloom: MAndrew, come awa! Firm, clear an low, no haste, no hate, the ghostly whisper went, Just statin eevidential facts beyon all argument: Your mithers Gods a graspin deil, the shadow o yoursel, Got out o books by meenisters clean daft on Heaven an Hell. They mak Him in the Broomielaw, o Glasgie cold an dirt, A jealous, pridefu fetich, lad, thats only strong to hurt, Yell not go back to Him again an kiss His red-hot rod, But come wi Us (Now, who were They?) an know the Leevin God, That does not kipper souls for sport or break a life in jest, But swells the ripenin cocoanuts an ripes the womans breast. An there it stopped: cut off: no more; that quiet, certain voice, For me, six months o twenty-four, to leave or take at choice. Twas on me like a thunderclap, it racked me through an through, Temptation past the show o speech, unnameable an new, The Sin against the Holy Ghost? . . . An under all, our screw. That storm blew by but left behind her anchor-shiftin swell, Thou knowest all my heart an mind, Thou knowest, Lord, I fell. Third on the Mary Gloster then, and first that night in Hell! Yet was Thy hand beneath my head, about my feet Thy care, Fra Deli clear to Torres Strait, the trial o despair, But when we touched the Barrier Reef Thy answer to my prayer! We dared not run that sea by night but lay an held our fire, An I was drowsin on the hatch, sick, sick wi doubt an tire: Better the sight of eyes that see than wanderin o desire! Ye mind that word? Clear as our gongs, again, an once again, When rippin down through coral-trash ran out our moorin-chain; An by Thy Grace I had the Light to see my duty plain. Light on the engine-room, no more, bright as our carbons burn. Ive lost it since a thousand times, but never past return. . . . . . Obsairve. Per annum well have here two thousand souls aboard, Think not I dare to justify myself before the Lord, But, average fifteen hunder souls safe-borne fra port to port, I am o service to my kind. Ye wadna blame the thought? Maybe they steam from grace to wrath, to sin by folly led,, It isna mine to judge their path, their lives are on my head. Mine at the last, when all is done it all comes back to me, The fault that leaves six thousand ton a log upon the sea. Well tak one stretch, three weeks an odd by any road ye steer, Fra Cape Town east to Wellington, ye need an engineer. Fail there, yeve time to weld your shaft, ay, eat it, ere yere spoke; Or make Kerguelen under sail, three jiggers burned wi smoke! An home again, the Rio run: its no childs play to go Steamin to bell for fourteen days o snow an floe an blow, The bergs like kelpies overside that girn an turn an shift Whaur, grindin like the Mills o God, goes by the big South drift. (Hail, snow an ice that praise the Lord: Ive met them at their work, An wished we had anither route or they anither kirk.) Yons strain, hard strain, o head an hand, for though Thy Power brings All skill to naught, Yell understand a man must think o things. Then, at the last, well get to port an hoist their baggage clear, The passengers, wi gloves an canes, an this is what Ill hear: Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage. The tenders comin now. While I go testin follower-bolts an watch the skipper bow. Theyve words for every one but me, shake hands wi half the crew, Except the dour Scots engineer, the man they never knew. An yet I like the wark for all weve dam few pickins here, No pension, an the most we earns four hunder pound a year. Better myself abroad? Maybe. Id sooner starve than sail Wi such as call a snifter-rod ross. . .French for nightingale. Commeesion on my stores? Some do; but I can not afford To lie like stewards wi patty-pans, . Im older than the Board. A bonus on the coal I save? Ou ay, the Scots are close, But when I grudge the strength Ye gave Ill grudge their food to those. (Theres bricks that I might recommend, an clink the fire-bars cruel. No! Welsh, Wangarti at the worst, an damn all patent fuel!) Inventions? Ye must stay in port to mak a patent pay. My Deeferential Valve-Gear taught me how that business lay, I blame no chaps wi clearer head for aught they make or sell. I found that I could not invent an look to these, as well. So, wrestled wi Apollyon, Nah!, fretted like a bairn, But burned the workin-plans last run wi all I hoped to earn. Ye know how hard an Idol dies, an what that meant to me, Een tak it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee. . . . Below there! Oiler! Whats your wark? Ye find it runnin hard? Ye neednt swill the cap wi oil, this isnt the Cunard! Ye thought? Ye are not paid to think. Go, sweat that off again! Tck! Tck! Its deeficult to sweer nor tak The Name in vain! Men, ay an women, call me stern. Wi these to oversee Yell note Ive little time to burn on social repartee. The bairns see what their elders miss; theyll hunt me to an fro, Till for the sake of, well, a kiss, I tak em down below. That minds me of our Viscount loon, Sir Kenneths kin, the chap Wi Russia leather tennis-shoon an spar-decked yachtin-cap. I showed him round last week, oer all, an at the last says he: Mister MAndrew, dont you think steam spoils romance at sea? Damned ijjit! Id been doon that morn to see what ailed the throws, Manholin, on my back, the cranks three inches off my nose. Romance! Those first-class passengers they like it very well, Printed an bound in little books; but why dont poets tell? Im sick of all their quirks an turns, the loves an doves they dream, Lord, send a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o Steam! To match wi Scotias noblest speech yon orchestra sublime Whaurto, uplifted like the Just, the tail-rods mark the time. The crank-throws give the double-bass, the feed-pump sobs an heaves, An now the main eccentrics start their quarrel on the sheaves: Her time, her own appointed time, the rocking link-head bides, Till, hear that note?, the rods return whings glimmerin through the guides. Theyre all awa! True beat, full power, the clangin chorus goes Clear to the tunnel where they sit, my purrin dynamos. Interdependence absolute, foreseen, ordained, decreed, To work, Yell note, at any tilt an every rate o speed. Fra skylight-lift to furnace-bars, backed, bolted, braced an stayed, An singin like the Mornin Stars for joy that they are made; While, out o touch o vanity, the sweatin thrust-block says: Not unto us the praise, or man, not unto us the praise! Now, a together, hear them lift their lesson, theirs an mine: Law, Orrder, Duty an Restraint, Obedience, Discipline! Mill, forge an try-pit taught them that when roarin they arose, An whiles I wonder if a soul was gied them wi the blows. Oh for a man to weld it then, in one trip-hammer strain, Till even first-class passengers could tell the meanin plain! But no one cares except mysel that serve an understand My seven thousand horse-power here. Eh, Lord! Theyre grand, theyre grand! Uplift am I? When first in store the new-made beasties stood, Were Ye cast down that breathed the Word declarin all things good? Not so! O that warld-liftin joy no after-fall could vex, Yeve left a glimmer still to cheer the Man, the Arrtifex! That holds, in spite o knock and scale, o friction, waste an slip, An by that light, now, mark my word, well build the Perfect Ship. Ill never last to judge her lines or take her curve, not I. But I ha lived an I ha worked. Be thanks to Thee, Most High! An I ha done what I ha done, judge Thou if ill or well, Always Thy Grace preventin me. . . . Losh! Yons the Stand by bell. Pilot so soon? His flare it is. The mornin-watch is set. Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin, Im no Pelagian yet. Now Ill tak on. . . . Morrn, Ferguson. Man, have ye ever thought What your good leddy costs in coal? . . . Ill burn em down to port.