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Home  »  Rudyard Kipling’s Verse  »  Pagett, M.P.

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

Pagett, M.P.

  • The toad beneath the harrow knows
  • Exactly where each tooth-point goes;
  • The butterfly upon the road
  • Preaches contentment to that toad.

  • PAGETT, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith,—

    He spoke of the heat of India as “The Asian Solar Myth”;

    Came on a four months’ visit, to “study the East” in November,

    And I got him to make an agreement vowing to stay till September.

    March came in with the köil. Pagett was cool and gay,

    Called me a “bloated Brahmin,” talked of my “princely pay.”

    March went out with the roses. “Where is your heat?” said he.

    “Coming,” said I to Pagett. “Skittles!” said Pagett, M.P.

    April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat,—

    Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.

    He grew speckled and lumpy—hammered, I grieve to say,

    Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.

    May set in with a dust-storm,—Pagett went down with the sun.

    All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.

    Imprimis—ten days’ “liver”—due to his drinking beer;

    Later, a dose of fever—slight, but he called it severe.

    Dysent’ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat

    Lowered his portly person—made him yearn to depart.

    He didn’t call me a “Brahmin,” or “bloated,” or “overpaid,”

    But seemed to think it a wonder that any one ever stayed.

    July was a trifle unhealthy,—Pagett was ill with fear,

    Called it the “Cholera Morbus,” hinted that life was dear.

    He babbled of “Eastern exile,” and mentioned his home with tears;

    But I hadn’t seen my children for close upon seven years.

    We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon,

    [I’ve mentioned Pagett was portly] Pagett went off in a swoon.

    That was an end to the business. Pagett, the perjured, fled

    With a practical, working knowledge of “Solar Myths” in his head.

    And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips

    As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their “Eastern trips,”

    And the sneers of the travelled idiots who duly misgovern the land,

    And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.