I have done mostly
what most men do,
And pushed it out of my mind;
But I can’t forget, if I wanted to,
Four-Feet trotting behind.

Day after day,
the whole day through?
Wherever my road inclined?
Four-Feet said,
‘I am coming with you!’
And trotted along behind.

Now I must go
by some other round,?
Which I shall never find?
Somewhere that does not
carry the sound
Of Four-Feet trotting behind.

Publication

The first publication of this poem was in Limits and Renewals (1932), following “The Woman in His Life". It was collected in the Sussex Edition volume 11 page 69, and volume 34 page 403. It is reminiscent of Kipling’s verse "The Power of the Dog" , where he warns of the heart-break lying in wait for people who love their dogs, only to find that they have a relatively short life-span compared to themselves.

IT IS always a temptation to an armed and agile nation to call upon a neighbour and to say: –
"We invaded you last night – we are quite prepared to fight, unless you pay us cash to go away."

And that is called asking for Dane-geld, and the people who ask it explain
That you've only to pay 'em the Dane-geld and then you'll get rid of the Dane!

It is always a temptation for a rich and lazy nation, to puff and look important and to say: –
"Though we know we should defeat you, we have not the time to meet you, we will therefore pay you cash to go away."

And that is called paying the Dane-geld; But we've proved it again and again,
That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld you never get rid of the Dane.

It is wrong to put temptation in the path of any nation, for fear they should succumb and go astray;
So when you are requested to pay up or be molested, you will find it better policy to say: --

"We never pay any-one Dane-geld, no matter how trifling the cost;
For the end of that game is oppression and shame, and the nation that pays it is lost!

Publication History

First published in A School History of England (1911) by C.R.L.Fletcher and Rudyard Kipling, and in all subsequent editions of the book. Placed in Chapter II, ‘Saxon England,’ it is untitled, but accompanied in the right-hand margin by the description ‘What “Dane-geld” means’, which Harbord [ORG, Verse 1, 1969, No. 974 (d)] says is sometimes used as an alternative title for the poem. The poem shares with ‘The Pirates in England’, a closely-related poem in the same chapter, one of Henry Ford’s coloured plates called ‘The Landing of the Danes.’ The present title and subtitled dates were first used in I.V., 1919. The poem was then reprinted in D.V., 1940; the Sussex Edition, vol. 34; and the Burwash Edition, vol. 37. For the Sussex, all double quotation marks were changed to single quotation marks.

Background

The phrase ‘paying someone Dane-geld’ has become so associated with Kipling that it is often attributed to him, even in books of quotations. He is certainly responsible for its entry into everyday language, but he did not actually invent it. The phrase had long been used to describe anyone - especially a national leader - who chose to take an easy way out of a problem rather than face up to the more difficult task of solving it once and for all.

Asking for Dane-geld is a form of blackmail. Paying Dane-geld is a matter of giving in to the blackmailer. In the 1930s it was commonly evoked to describe Britain’s policy of appeasement to Germany, a curious example of Kipling’s prophetic gifts when it is considered that a barely hidden meaning of the original poem (1911) is that Britain should never allow itself to be bullied by the Germans as it was once bullied by the Danes.

"Dane-geld" can be taken as a striking example of what Kipling’s critics – unfortunately following, it has to be said, Kipling’s own example – like to think of as ‘verse’ rather than ‘poetry.’ It has one simple message, and Kipling’s poetic skills are given over entirely, and repetitively, to getting that message across. He uses two different, alternating verse forms, with the first, third, and fifth stanzas setting out a proposition (slightly varied but essentially the same), and the second, fourth, and sixth stanzas offering a response (always, of course, the same response).

The first stanza features the long swinging poetic line that Kipling so enjoyed using, with lines one and three dominated by strong internal rhymes. In the first line (of stanzas one, three and five ), the internal rhyme is always the same, with ‘temptation’ being echoed by ‘nation’, these being the two principal emotional appeals of the poem. In the third line of these stanzas, the internal rhyme is jauntily, or pompously, and thus almost comically, varied (i.e. ‘we should defeat you/the time to met you’).

In comparison, stanzas two, four, and six, are deliberately prosaic, stating plainly and decisively that no decent self-respecting nation should have anything to do with Dane-geld. In one final brilliant change to the general verse pattern, Kipling adds an internal rhyme to the penultimate line of the poem, reinforcing the simple central message with a characteristic tone of contempt for anyone who might dare to disagree with him.

"For the end of that game is oppression and shame, And the nation that plays it is lost!"

Of all the trees that grow so fair,
Old England to adorn,
Greater than none beneath the sun,
Than Oak and Ash, and Thorn.
Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs,
(All of a Midsummer morn!)
Surely we sing no lttle thing,
In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oak of the Clay lived many a day,
Or ever Aeneas began.
Ash of the Loam was a lady at home,
When Brut was an outlaw man.
Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town
(From which was London born);
Witness hereby the ancientry
Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Yew that is old in churchyard-mould,
He breedeth a mighty bow.
Alder for shoes do wise men choose,
And beech for cups also.
But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,
And your shoes are clean outworn,
Back ye must speed for all that ye need,
To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth
Till every gust be laid,
To drop a limb on the head of him
That anyway trusts her shade:
But whether a lad be sober or sad,
Or mellow with ale from the horn.
Hw will take no wrong when he lieth along
‘Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight,
Or he would call it a sin;
But—we have been out in the woods all night,
A-conjuring Summer in !
And we bring you news by word of mouth—
Good news for cattle and corn—
Now is the Sun come up from the South,
With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs
(All of a Midsummer morn!)
England shall bide till Judgement Tide,
By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

EDDI, priest of St. Wilfrid
In his chapel at Manhood End,
Ordered a midnight service
For such as cared to attend.

But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,
And the night was stormy as well.
Nobody came to service,
Though Eddi rang the bell.

'Wicked weather for walking,'
Said Eddi of Manhood End.
'But I must go on with the service
For such as care to attend.

The altar-lamps were lighted, –
An old marsh-donkey came,
Bold as a guest invited,
And stared at the guttering flame.

The storm beat on at the windows,
The water splashed on the floor,
And a wet, yoke-weary bullock
Pushed in through the open door.

How do I know what is greatest,
How do I know what is least?
That is My Father's business,'
Said Eddi, Wilfrid's priest.

'But – three are gathered together –
Listen to me and attend.
I bring good news, my brethren!'
Said Eddi of Manhood End.

And he told the Ox of a Manger
And a Stall in Bethlehem,
And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider,
That rode to Jerusalem.

They steamed and dripped in the chancel,
They listened and never stirred,
While, just as though they were Bishops,
Eddi preached them The Word,

Till the gale blew off on the marshes
And the windows showed the day,
And the Ox and the Ass together
Wheeled and clattered away.

And when the Saxons mocked him,
Said Eddi of Manhood End,
'I dare not shut His chapel
On such as care to attend.'

O LONG as memory, valour, and faith endure,
Let these stones witness, through the years to come,
How once there was a people fenced secure
Behind great waters girdling a far home.

Their own and their land's youth ran side by side
Heedless and headlong as their unyoked seas
Lavish o'er all, and set in stubborn pride
Of judgment, nurtured by accepted peace.

Thus, suddenly, war took them-seas and skies
Joined with the earth for slaughter. In a breath
They, scoffing at all talk of sacrifice,
Gave themselves without idle words to death.

Thronging as cities throng to watch a game
Or their own herds move southward with the year,
Secretly, swiftly, from their ports they came,
So that before half earth had heard their name
Half earth had learned to speak of them with fear;

Because of certain men who strove to reach,
Through the red surf, the crest no man might hold,
And gave their name for ever to a beach
Which shall outlive Troy's tale when Time is old;

Because of horsemen, gathered apart and hid-
Merciless riders whom Megiddo sent forth
When the outflanking hour struck, and bid
Them close and bar the drove-roads to the north;

And those who, when men feared the last March flood
Of Western war had risen beyond recall,
Stormed through the night from Amiens and made good,
At their glad cost, the breach that perilled all.

Then they returned to their desired land
The kindly cities and plains where they were bred
Having revealed their nation in earth's sight
So long as sacrifice and honour stand,
And their own sun at the hushed hour shall light
The shrine of these their dead!

BY THE old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay! "
Come you back to Mandalay, where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ?

On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!
'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat - jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o' mud; Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay...

When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak in the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay...

But that's all shove be'ind me - long ago an' fur away
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else; But them spicy garlic smells,
An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay...

I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and - Law! wot do they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay...

Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
O the road to Mandalay, where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay !

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre !
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget- lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard.
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast, and foolish word-
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

LAND of our Birth, we pledge to thee
Our love and toil in the years to be;
When we are grown and take our place
As men and women with our race.

Father in Heaven who lovest all,
Oh, help Thy children when they call;
That they may build from age to age
An undefiled heritage.

Teach us to bear the yoke in youth,
With steadfastness and careful truth;
That, in our time, Thy Grace may give
The Truth whereby the Nations live.

Teach us to rule ourselves alway,
Controlled and cleanly night and day;
That we may bring, if need arise,
No maimed or worthless sacrifice.

Teach us to look in all our ends
On Thee for judge, and not our friends;
That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed
By fear or favour of the crowd.

Teach us the Strength that cannot seek,
By deed or thought, to hurt the weak;
That, under Thee, we may possess
Man's strength to comfort man's distress.

Teach us Delight in simple things,
And Mirth that has no bitter springs;
Forgiveness free of evil done,
And Love to all men 'neath the sun!

Land of our Birth, our faith, our pride,
For whose dear sake our fathers died;
Oh, Motherland, we pledge to thee
Head, heart and hand through the years to be!

Udai Chand lay sick to death
In his hold by Gungra hill
All night we heard the death gongs ring
For the soul of the dying Rajput king
All night beat up from the womens wing
A cry that we could not still

All night the barons came and went
The Lords of the outer guard
All night the cressets glimmered pale
On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail
Mewrar headstall and Marwar mail
That clinked in the palace yard

In the Golden Room on the palace roof
All night he fought for air
And there were sobbings behind the screen
Rustle and whisper of women unseen
And the hungry eyes of the Boondi queen
On the death she might not share

He passed at dawn—the deathfire leaped
From ridge to riverhead
From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars
And wail upon wail went up to the stars
Behind the grim zenana-bars
When they knew that the King was dead

The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth
And robe him for the pyre
The Boondi queen beneath us cried
See now that we die as our mothers died
In the bridal bed by our masters side
Out women—to the fire

We drove the great gates home apace
White hands were on the sill
But ere the rush of the unseen feet
Had reached the turn to the open street
The bars shot down the guard-drum beat
We held the dovecot still

A face looked down in the gathering day
And laughing spoke from the wall
Ohe they mourn here let me by
Azizun the Lucknow nautch girl I
When the house is rotten the rats must fly
And I seek another thrall

For I ruled the King as neer did Queen
Tonight the Queens rule me
Guard them safely, but let me go
Or ever they pay the debt they owe
In scourge and torture, she leapt below
And the grim guard watched her flee

They knew that the King had spent his soul
On a Northbred dancing girl
That he prayed to a flat nosed Lucknow god
And kissed the ground where her feet had trod
And doomed to death at her drunken nod
And swore by her lightest curl

We bore the King to his fathers place
Where the tombs of the sunborn stand
Where the grey apes swing and the peacocks preen
On fretted pillar and jewelled screen
And the wild boar couch in the House of the Queen
On a drift of the desert sand

The herald read his titles forth
We set the logs aglow
Friend of the English, free from fear
Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer
Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer
King of the Jungle Go

All night the red flame stabbed the sky
With wavering wind tossed spears
And out of a shattered temple crept
A woman who veiled her head and wept
And called on the King but the great King slept
And turned not for her tears.

One watched, a bowshot from the blaze
The silent street between
Who had stood by the King in sport and fray
To blade in ambush and boar at bay
And he was a baron old and grey
And kin to the Boondi queen

Small thought had he to mark the strife
Cold fear with hot desire
When thrice she leapt from the leaping flame
And thrice she beat her breast for shame
And thrice like a wounded dove she came
And moaned about the fire

He said O shameless put aside
The veil upon thy brow
Who held the king and all his land
To the wanton will of a harlots hand
Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand
Stoop down and call him now

Then she “ by the faith of my tarnished soul
All things I did not well
I had hoped to clear ere the fire died
And lay me down by my masters side
To rule in Heaven his only bride
While the others howl in Hell”

But I have felt the fires breath
And hard it is to die
Yet if I may pray a Rajput lord
To sully the steel of a Thakurs sword
With the base born blood of a trade abhorred
And the Thakur answered Ay

He drew and struck the straight blade drank
The life beneath the breast
I had looked for the Queen to face the flame
But the harlot that dies for the Rajput dame
Sister of mine pass free from shame
Pass with thy King to rest

The black log crashed above the white
The little flames and lean
Red as slaughter and blue as steel
That whistled and fluttered from head to heel
Leaped up anew for they found their meal
On the heart of the Boondi Queen

There runs a road by Merrow Down –
A grassy track to-day it is-
An hour out of Guildford town,
Above the river Wey it is.

Here, when they heard the horse-bells ring,
The ancient Britons dressed and rode
To watch the dark Phoenicians bring
Their goods along the Western Road.

Yes, here, or thereabouts, they met
To hold their racial talks and such-
To barter beads for Whitby jet,
And tin for gay shell torques and such.

But long and long before that time
(When bison used to roam on it)
Did Taffy and her Daddy climb
That Down, and had their home on it.

Then beavers built in Broadstonebrook
And made a swamp where Bramley stands;
And bears from Shere would come and look
For Taffimai where Shamley stands.

The Wey, that Taffy called Wagai,
Was more than six times bigger then;
And all the Tribe of Tegumai
They cut a noble figure then!

Of all the Tribe of Tegumai
Who cut that figure, none remain,-
On Merrow Down the cuckoos cry-
The silence and the sun remain.

But as the faithful years return
And hearts unwounded sing again,
Comes Taffy dancing through the fern
To lead the Surrey spring again.

Her brows are bound with bracken-fronds,
And golden elf-locks fly above;
Her eyes are bright as diamonds
And bluer than the sky above.

In mocassins and deer-skin cloak,
Unfearing, free and fair she flits,
And lights her little damp-wood smoke
To show her Daddy where she flits.

For far—oh , very far behind,
So far she cannot call to him,
Comes Tegumai alone to find
The daughter that was all to him.

Jane went to Paradise:
That was only fair.
Good Sir Walter followed her,
And armed her up the stair.
Henry and Tobias,
And Miguel of Spain,
Stood with Shakespeare at the top
To welcome Jane -
Then the Three Archangels
Offered out of hand
Anything in Heaven's gift
That she might command.
Azrael's eyes upon her,
Raphael's wings above,
Michael's sword against her heart,
Jane said: "Love."
Instantly the under-
Standing Seraphim
Laid their fingers on their lips
And went to look for him.
Stole across the Zodiac,
Harnessed Charles's Wain,
And whispered round the Nebulae
"Who loved Jane?"
In a private limbo
Where none had thought to look,
Sat a Hampshire gentleman
Reading of a book.
It was called Persuasion
And it told the plain
Story of the love between
Him and Jane.
He heard the question,
Circle Heaven through -
Closed the book and answered: "I did - and do!"
Quietly but speedily
(As Captain Wentworth moved)
Entered into Paradise
The man Jane loved!
Jane lies in Winchester, blessed be her shade!
Praise the Lord for making her, and her for all she made.
And while the stones of Winchester
- or Milson Street - remain,
Glory, Love, and Honour unto England's Jane!

THERE is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find - it's your own affair, -
But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!),
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone - wherever it goes - for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent,
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long -
So why in - Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

OUR England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.
For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
You'll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dung-pits and the tanks,
The rollers, carts, and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.
And there you'll see the gardeners, the men and 'prentice boys
Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.
And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows ;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.
Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:-" Oh, how beautiful," and sitting in the shade
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.
There's not a pair of legs so thin, there's not a head so thick,
There's not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick
But it can find some needful job that's crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.
Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
If it's only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner In the Glory of the Garden.
Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener's work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!
And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away !