Darzee’s Chaunt

     Singer and tailor am I—
       Doubled the joys that I know—
     Proud of my lilt to the sky,
     Proud of the house that I sew—
Over and under, so weave I my music–so weave I the house that I sew.

     Sing to your fledglings again,
       Mother, 0 lift up your head!
     Evil that plagued us is slain,
       Death in the garden lies dead.
Terror that hid in the roses is impotent—flung on the dung-hill and dead!

     Who hath delivered us, who?
       Tell me his nest and his name.
     Rikki, the valiant, the true,
        Tikki, with eyeballs of flame,
Rik-tikki-tikki, the ivory-fanged, the Hunter with eyeballs of flame.

     Give him the Thanks of the Birds,
       Bowing with tail-feathers spread!
     Praise him in nightingale-words—
       Nay, I will praise him instead.
Hear! I will sing you the praise of the bottle-tailed Rikki, with eyeballs of red!
(Here Rkki-tikki interrupted, and the rest of the song is lost.)