The Moral

 by Rudyard Kipling

The Moral 

You mustn't groom an Arab with a file.

You hadn't ought to tension-spring a mule.

You couldn't push a brumby fifty mile

And drop him in a boiler-shed to cool.

I'll sling you through six counties in a day.

I'll hike you up a grade of one in ten.

I am Duty, Law and Order under way,

I'm the Mentor of banana-fingered men! 

I will make you I know your left hand from your right.

I will teach you not to drink about your biz.

I'm the only temperance advocate in sight! 

I am all the Education Act there is! 

The Press 

The Soldier may forget his Sword,

The Sailorman the Sea,

The Mason may forget the Word

And the Priest his Litany:

The Maid may forget both jewel and gem,

And the Bride her wedding-dress--

But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem

Ere we forget the Press!

Who once hath stood through the loaded hour

Ere, roaring like the gale,

The Harrild and the Hoe devour

Their league-long paper-bale,

And has lit his pipe in the morning calm

That follows the midnight stress--

He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art

We call the daily Press.

Who once hath dealt in the widest game

That all of a man can play,

No later love, no larger fame

Will lure him long away.

As the war-horse snuffeth the battle afar,

The entered Soul, no less,

He saith: "Ha! Ha!" where the trumpets are

And the thunders of the Press!

Canst thou number the days that we fulfill,

Or the Times that we bring forth?

Canst thou send the lightnings to do thy will,

And cause them reign on earth?

Hast thou given a peacock goodly wings,

To please his foolishness?

Sit down at the heart of men and things,

Companion of the Press!

The Pope may launch his Interdict,

The Union its decree,

But the bubble is blown and the bubble is pricked

By Us and such as We.

Remember the battle and stand aside

While Thrones and Powers confess

That King over all the children of pride

Is the Press--the Press--the Press! 

The Land 

When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,

In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,

He called to him Hobdenius-a Briton of the Clay,

Saying: "What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?"

And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad

My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.

An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.

Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen."

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style--

Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,

And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,

We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,

And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.

Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main

And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat --well could Ogier wield his brand--

Much he knew of foaming waters--not so much of farming land.

So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,

Saying: "What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no good?"

And that aged Hobden answered "'Tain't for me not interfere.

But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.

Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on ' time,

If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!"

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,

And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.

And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't.--

Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English -- Anglo-Saxon was their name--

Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;

For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,

And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night 

And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.

So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:

"Hob, what about that River-bit--the Brook's got up no bounds? "

And that aged Hobden answered: "'Tain't my business to advise,

But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.

Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.

Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!"

They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,

And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.

And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away

You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.