Departmental Ditties and other verses
| dc.contributor | Oxford Text Archive |
| dc.contributor.author | Kipling, Rudyard, 1865-1936 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2018-06-14 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2019-07-04T10:34:49Z |
| dc.date.available | 2019-07-04T10:34:49Z |
| dc.date.created | 1886 |
| dc.identifier | ota:3269 |
| dc.identifier.citation | http://purl.ox.ac.uk/ota/3269 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12024/3269 |
| dc.description.abstract | Resource deposited with the Oxford Text Archive. |
| dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
| dc.format.mimetype | text/xml |
| dc.language | English |
| dc.language.iso | eng |
| dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
| dc.relation.ispartof | Oxford Text Archive Core Collection |
| dc.relation.hasversion | http://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/k/kipling/rudyard/ditties/ |
| dc.rights | Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License |
| dc.rights.uri | http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ |
| dc.rights.label | PUB |
| dc.title | Departmental Ditties and other verses |
| dc.type | Text |
| has.files | yes |
| branding | Oxford Text Archive |
| files.size | 1362267 |
| files.count | 5 |
| otaterms.date.range | 1800-1899 |
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Departmental Ditties
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.
General Summary
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 T . . .
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