A Tale of Two Cities by Rudyard Kipling

Where the sober-colored cultivator smilesOn his byles;Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crowCome and go;Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea,Hides and ghi;Where the Babu drops inflammatory hintsIn his prints;Stands a City⁠—Charnock chose it⁠—packed awayNear a Bay⁠—By the Sewage rendered fetid, by the sewerMade impure,By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swampMoist and damp;And the City and the Viceroy, as we see,Don't agree.

Once, two hundred years ago, the trader cameMeek and tame.

Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed,Till mere tradeGrew to Empire, and he sent his armies forthSouth and NorthTill the country from Peshawur to CeylonWas his own.

Thus the midday halt of Charnock⁠—more's the pity!Grew a City.

As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed,So it spread⁠—Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and builtOn the silt⁠—Palace, byre, hovel⁠—poverty and pride⁠—Side by side;And, above the packed and pestilential town,Death looked down.

But the Rulers in that City by the SeaTurned to flee⁠—Fled, with each returning spring-tide from its illsTo the Hills.

From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blazeOf old days,From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat,Beat retreat;For the country from Peshawur to CeylonWas their own.

But the Merchant risked the perils of the PlainFor his gain.

Now the resting-place of Charnock, 'neath the palms,Asks an alms,And the burden of its lamentation is,Briefly, this:“Because for certain months, we boil and stew,So should you.

“Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspireIn our fire!”And for answer to the argument, in vainWe explainThat an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot fry:“All must fry!”That the Merchant risks the perils of the PlainFor gain.

Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in,From its kitchen.

Let the Babu drop inflammatory hintsIn his prints;And mature⁠—consistent soul⁠—his plan for stealingTo Darjeeling:Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile,England's isle;Let the City Charnock pitched on⁠—evil day!Go Her way.

Though the argosies of Asia at Her doorsHeap their stores,Though Her enterprise and energy secureIncome sure,Though “out-station orders punctually obeyed”Swell Her trade⁠—Still, for rule, administration, and the rest,Simla's best.