Cities and Thrones and Powers Stand in Time's eye, Almost as long as flowers, Which daily die:
It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world, Which you can read and care for just so long,
As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race, I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place. Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
Let it be clearly understood that the Russian is a delightful person till he tucks in his shirt. As an Oriental he is charming. It is only when he insists on being treated as the most easterly of western peoples instead of the most westerly of easterns that he becomes a racial anomaly extremely difficult to handle.
What is the moral? Who rides may read.
One may fall but he falls by himself— Falls by himself with himself to blame,
'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead? She 'as ships on the foam—she 'as millions at 'ome, An' she pays us poor beggars in red.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; And if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints.
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame, But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!
Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!