Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.

“As the Bell Clinks”

AS I left the Halls at Lumley, rose the vision of a comely

Maid last season worshipped dumbly, watched with fervour from afar;

And I wondered idly, blindly, if the maid would greet me kindly.

That was all—the rest was settled by the clinking tonga-bar.

Yea, my life and hers were coupled by the tonga coupling-bar.

For my misty meditation, at the second changing-station,

Suffered sudden dislocation, fled before the tuneless jar

Of a Wagner obbligato, scherzo, double-hand staccato,

Played on either pony’s saddle by the clacking tonga-bar—

Played with human speech, I fancied, by the jigging, jolting bar.

“She was sweet,” thought I, “last season, but ’twere surely wild unreason

“Such a tiny hope to freeze on as was offered by my Star,

“When she whispered, something sadly: ‘I—we feel your going badly!’”

“And you let the chance escape you?” rapped the rattling tonga-bar.

“What a chance and what an idiot!” clicked the vicious tonga-bar.

Heart of man—O heart of putty! Had I gone by Kakahutti,

On the old Hill-road and rutty, I had ’scaped that fatal car.

But his fortune each must bide by, so I watched the milestones slide by

To—“You call on Her to-morrow!” fugue with cymbals by the bar—

“You must call on Her to-morrow!”—post-horn gallop by the bar.

Yet a further stage my goal on—we were whirling down to Solon,

With a double lurch and roll on, best foot foremost, ganz und gar—

“She was very sweet,” I hinted. “If a kiss had been imprinted———?”

“’Would ha’ saved a world of trouble!” clashed the busy tonga-bar.

“’Been accepted or rejected!” banged and clanged the tonga-bar.

Then a notion wild and daring, ’spite the income-tax’s paring

And a hasty thought of sharing—less than many incomes are—

Made me put a question private, (you can guess what I would drive at.)

“You must work the sum to prove it,” clanked the careless tonga-bar.

“Simple Rule of Two will prove it,” lilted back the tonga-bar.

It was under Khyraghaut I mused:—“Suppose the maid be haughty—

“There are lovers rich—and forty; wait some wealthy Avatar?

“Answer, monitor untiring, ’twixt the ponies twain perspiring!”

“Faint heart never won fair lady,” creaked the straining tonga-bar.

“Can I tell you ere you ask Her?” pounded slow the tonga-bar.

Last, the Tara Devi turning showed the lights of Simla burning,

Lit my little lazy yearning to a fiercer flame by far.

As below the Mall we jingled, through my very heart it tingled—

Did the iterated order of the threshing tonga-bar:—

“Try your luck—you can’t do better!” twanged the loosened tonga-bar.