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 I weave my music -- so I weave the house
  that I sew.

  Sing to your fledglings again,
  Mother, O 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 Rikki-tikki interrupted, and the rest of the song is lost.)