(Sung in honor of Rikki-tikki-tavi)
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,
oh 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 has delivered us,
who?
Tell
me his nest and his name.
Rikki, the valiant,
the true,
Tikki,
with eyeballs of flame,
Rikk-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 with 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 Rikki-tikki interrupted,
and the rest of the song is
lost.)
