Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
The Juggler’s Song
W
Down the street,
When the poles are fetched and guyed,
When the tight-rope’s stretched and tied,
When the dance-girls make salaam,
When the snake-bag wakes alarm,
When the pipes set up their drone,
When the sharp-edged knives are thrown,
When the red-hot coals are shown,
To be swallowed by-and-by—
Arré, Brethren, here come I!
Search me well and watch me close!
Tell me how my tricks are done—
Tell me how the mango grows?
To his trade
Swords to fling and catch again,
Coins to ring and snatch again,
Men to harm and cure again,
Snakes to charm and lure again—
He’ll be hurt by his own blade,
By his serpents disobeyed,
By his clumsiness bewrayed,
By the people laughed to scorn—
So ’tis not with juggler born!
Chance-flung nut or borrowed staff,
Serve his need and shore his power,
Bind the spell or loose the laugh!