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Rudyard Kipling - M`Andrew`s Hymn
Work rating: Medium

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;
I`ll 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, ye`ll walk to-night!
His wife`s at Plymouth. . . .  Seventy —
  One — Two — Three since he began —
Three turns for Mistress Ferguson. . .and who`s to blame the man?
There`s 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 they`re ceevil on the Board.  Ye`ll hear Sir Kenneth say:
"Good-morrn, M`Andrew!  Back again?  An` how`s 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!
We`re creepin` on wi` each new rig — less weight an` larger power:
There`ll 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. . . .  Forgie`s our trespasses.
Nights when I`d 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 Harrigan`s 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?
I`d 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) I`d 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:  "M`Andrew, come awa`!"
Firm, clear an` low — no haste, no hate — the ghostly whisper went,
Just statin` eevidential facts beyon` all argument:
"Your mither`s God`s 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, that`s only strong to hurt,
Ye`ll 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 woman`s 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.
I`ve lost it since a thousand times, but never past return.
 
Obsairve.  Per annum we`ll 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.
We`ll tak` one stretch — three weeks an` odd by any road ye steer —
Fra` Cape Town east to Wellington — ye need an engineer.
Fail there — ye`ve time to weld your shaft — ay, eat it, ere ye`re spoke;
Or make Kerguelen under sail — three jiggers burned wi` smoke!
An` home again, the Rio run:  it`s no child`s 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:  I`ve met them at their work,
An` wished we had anither route or they anither kirk.)
Yon`s strain, hard strain, o` head an` hand, for though Thy Power brings
All skill to naught, Ye`ll understand a man must think o` things.
Then, at the last, we`ll get to port an` hoist their baggage clear —
The passengers, wi` gloves an` canes — an` this is what I`ll hear:
"Well, thank ye for a pleasant voyage.  The tender`s comin` now."
While I go testin` follower-bolts an` watch the skipper bow.
They`ve 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 we`ve dam` few pickin`s here —
No pension, an` the most we earn`s four hunder pound a year.
Better myself abroad?  Maybe.  ~I`d~ 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 —.  I`m 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 I`ll grudge their food to ~those~.
(There`s 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 —
E`en tak` it for a sacrifice acceptable to Thee. . . .
~Below there!  Oiler!  What`s your wark?  Ye find it runnin` hard?
Ye needn`t swill the cap wi` oil — this isn`t the Cunard!
Ye thought?  Ye are not paid to think.  Go, sweat that off again!~
Tck!  Tck!  It`s deeficult to sweer nor tak` The Name in vain!
Men, ay an` women, call me stern.  Wi` these to oversee
Ye`ll note I`ve little time to burn on social repartee.
The bairns see what their elders miss; they`ll 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 Kenneth`s kin — the chap
Wi` Russia leather tennis-shoon an` spar-decked yachtin`-cap.
I showed him round last week, o`er all — an` at the last says he:
"Mister M`Andrew, don`t you think steam spoils romance at sea?"
Damned ijjit!  I`d 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 don`t poets tell?
I`m 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` Scotia`s 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 rod`s return
  whings glimmerin` through the guides.
They`re 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, Ye`ll 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!  They`re grand — they`re 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,
Ye`ve 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 — we`ll build the Perfect Ship.
I`ll 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!  Yon`s the "Stand by" bell.
Pilot so soon?  His flare it is.  The mornin`-watch is set.
Well, God be thanked, as I was sayin`, I`m no Pelagian yet.
Now I`ll tak` on. . . .
    ~`Morrn, Ferguson.  Man, have ye ever thought
What your good leddy costs in coal? . . .  I`ll burn `em down to port.
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