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Rudyard Kipling - The Return
Work rating: Low

Peace is declared, and I return
To `Ackneystadt, but not the same;
Things `ave transpired which made me learn
The size and meanin` of the game.
I did no more than others did,
I don`t know where the change began;
I started as a average kid,
I finished as a thinkin` man.

If England was what England seems
An` not the England of our dreams,
But only putty, brass, an` paint,
`Ow quick we`d drop `er! But she ain`t!

Before my gappin` mouth could speak
I `eard it in my comrade`s tone;
I saw it on my neighbour`s cheek
Before I felt it flush my own.
An` last it come to me—not pride,
Nor yet conceit, but on the `ole
(If such a term may be applied),
The makin`s of a bloomin` soul.

Rivers at night that cluck an` jeer,
Plains which the moonshine turns to sea,
Mountains that never let you near,
An` stars to all eternity;
An` the quick-breathin` dark that fills
The `ollows of the wilderness,
When the wind worries through the `ills—
These may `ave taught me more or less.

Towns without people, ten times took,
An` ten times left an` burned at last;
An` starvin` dogs that come to look
For owners when a column passed;
An` quiet, `omesick talks between
Men, met by night, you never knew
Until—`is face—by shellfire seen—
Once—an` struck off. They taught me, too.

The day`s lay-out—the mornin` sun
Beneath your `at-brim as you sight;
The dinner-`ush from noon till one,
An` the full roar that lasts till night;
An` the pore dead that look so old
An` was so young an hour ago,
An` legs tied down before they`re cold—
These are the things which make you know.

Also Time runnin` into years—
A thousand Places left be`ind—
An` Men from both two `emispheres
Discussin` things of every kind;
So much more near than I `ad known,
So much more great than I `ad guessed—
An` me, like all the rest, alone—
But reachin` out to all the rest!

So `ath it come to me—not pride,
Nor yet conceit, but on the `ole
(If such a term may be applied),
The makin`s of a bloomin` soul.
But now, discharged, I fall away
To do with little things again….
Gawd, `oo knows all I cannot say,
Look after me in Thamesfontein!

If England was what England seems
An` not the England of our dreams,
But only putty, brass, an` paint,
`Ow quick we`d chuck `er! But she ain`t!
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