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.)