For our white and our excellent nights--for the nights of swift
running,
Fair ranging, far seeing, good hunting, sure cunning!
For the smells of the dawning, untainted, ere dew has departed!
For the rush through the mist, and the quarry blind-started!
For the cry of our mates when the sambhur has wheeled and is
standing at bay!
For the risk and the riot of night!
For the sleep at the lair-mouth by day!
It is met, and we go to the fight.
Bay! O bay!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Rudyard Kipling? He's my nip-ring! My little pip-pip-squeak, he diddles me quick, king! So I get off, but still he scoffs, and begs me to make that swing.