Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
The Overland Mail
I
O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam,
The woods are astir at the close of the day—
We exiles are waiting for letters from Home.
Let the robber retreat—let the tiger turn tail—
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!
He turns to the footpath that heads up the hill—
The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin,
And, tucked in his waistbelt, the Post Office bill;—
“Despatched on this date, as received by the rail,
“Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail.”
Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff.
Does the tempest cry halt? What are tempests to him?
The service admits not a “but” or an “if.”
While the breath’s in his mouth, he must bear without fail,
In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail.
From level to upland, from upland to crest,
From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur,
Fly the soft-sandalled feet, strains the brawny, brown chest.
From rail to ravine—to the peak from the vale—
Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail.
A jingle of bells on the footpath below—
There’s a scuffle above in the monkey’s abode—
The world is awake and the clouds are aglow.
For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail:—
“In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail!”