yad eht fo meop

WHITE NIGHT

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Mon, 24 May 2010 23:14:00 +0000

WHITE NIGHT

I see a distant past

And a house on the Petersburg Quai.

Daughter of a small landowner of the steppes,

You had come from Kursk to be a student.

You were beautiful, young men loved you.

Through that white night we two

Sat on your window-sill

Looking down from the skyscraper.

Like gas butterflies the street lamps,

Touched by the morning, trembled.

I talked to you softly

Like the sleeping distance.

And we, like Petersburg spreading away

Beyond the shoreless Neva,

Were held in timid fidelity

To a mystery.

Out there, far off, in the dense forest,

Of that white night of spring,

The nightingales filled the woods

With the thunder of their praisegiving.

The mad trilling rolled on,

The voice of the small insignificant bird

Roused a bustle of delight

In the depth of the spellbound forest.

Thither crept the night,

Hugging the fences like a barefoot tramp,

Trailing behind it, from the window-sill,

The wraith of that conversation.

Within the reach of its echo,

In fenced gardens,

The branches of apple and cherry

Put on white blossoms,

And white as ghosts, the trees

Crowded into the road

As though waving good-bye

To the white night which had seen so much.

Boris Pasternak

NOTE

This poem is from a group of poems titled “ ZHIVAGO’S POEMS “ which appear at the end of the novel “ DOCTOR ZHIVAGO “ as translated from the Russian by Manya Harari and Max Hayward and published in 1991 for Everyman’s Library by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 23:53:00 +0000

THE ABSENT-MINDED BEGGAR

When you've shouted “ Rule Britannia,”

When you've sung “ God save the Queen,”

When you've finished killing Kruger with your mouth,

Will you kindly drop a shilling

In my little tambourine

For a gentleman in khaki ordered South?

He’s an absent-minded beggar,

And his weaknesses are great -

But we and Paul must take him as we find him -

He is out on active service,

Wiping something off a slate

And he’s left a lot of little things behind him!

Duke’s son - cook’s son - son of a hundred kings

(Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay!)

Each of ‘ em doing his country’s work

(And who’s to look after their things?)

Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,

And pay - pay - pay !

There are girls he married secret,

Asking no permission to,

For he knew he wouldn’t get it if he did.

There is gas and coals and vittles,

And the house-rent falling due,

And its more than rather likely there’s a kid.

There are girls he’s walked with casual.

They’ ll be sorry now he’s gone,

For an absent-minded beggar they will find him,

But it ain’t the time for sermons with the winter coming on

We must help the girl that Tommy’s left behind him!

Cook’s son - Duke’s son - son of a belted Earl

Son of a Lambeth publican - it’s all the same to-day !

Each of ‘ em doing his country’s work

(And who’s to look after the girl?)

Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,

And pay - pay - pay !

There are families by thousands,

Far too proud to beg or speak,

And they’ ll put their sticks and bedding up the spout,

And they’ ll live on half o’ nothing,

Paid ‘ em punctual once a week,

‘ Cause the man that earns the wage is ordered out.

He’s an absent-minded beggar,

But he heard his country call,

And his reg’ ment didn’t need to send to find him!

He chucked his job and joined it -

So the job before us all

Is to help the home that Tommy’s left behind him !

Duke’s job - cook’s job - gardener, baronet, groom.

Mews or palace or paper-shop, there’s someone gone away!

Each of ‘ em doing his country’s work

(And who’s to look after the room?)

Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,

And pay - pay - pay !

Let us manage so as, later,

We can look him in the face,

And tell him - what he’d very much prefer

That, while he saved the Empire,

His employer saved his place,

And his mates (that’s you and me) looked out for her.

He’s an absent-minded beggar

And he may forget it all,

But we do not want his kiddies to remind him

That we sent ‘ em to the workhouse

While their daddy hammered Paul,

So we’ ll help the homes that Tommy left behind him !

Cook’s home - Duke’s home - home of a millionaire,

(Fifty thousand horse and foot going to Table Bay !)

Each of ‘ em doing his country’s work

(And what have you got to spare?)

Pass the hat for your credit’s sake,

And pay - pay - pay!

Rudyard Kipling

Note : This poem was written in 1899 to raise money for the families of English Soldiers fighting in the Boer War and is credited with raising 300,000 pounds (equal to 17 million pounds in today's money).

SAINT PATRICK'S DAY POEM

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 03:28:00 +0000

SAINT PATRICK’S DAY POEM

Saint Patrick was a gentleman,

Who through strategy and stealth

Drove all the snakes from Ireland,

Here's a drink to his health!

But not too many drinks,

Lest we lose ourselves and then

Forget the good Saint Patrick,

And see them snakes again!

Author Unknown

THE CREMATION OF SAM McGEE

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 03:36:00 +0000

THE CREMATION OF SAM McGEE

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,

Where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam

‘ Round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold

Seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he’d often say in his homely way

That he’d “ sooner live in hell ”.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way

Over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold

It stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze

Till sometimes we couldn’t see,

It wasn’t much fun, but the only one

To whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight

In our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead

Were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and “ Cap,” says he,

“ I’ ll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I’m asking that you

Won’t refuse my last request.”

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no;

Then he says with a sort of moan,

“ It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold

Till I’m chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet ‘ tain’t being dead - it’s my awful dread

Of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,

You’ ll cremate my last remains.”

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed,

So I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn;

But God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day

Of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all

That was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,

And I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid,

Because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:

“ You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it’s up to you

To cremate those last remains.”

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,

And the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,

In my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,

While the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -

O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay

Seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent

And the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,

But I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing,

And it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,

And a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice

It was called the “ Alice May ”.

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,

And I looked at my frozen chum;

Then “ Here,” said I, with a sudden cry,

“ Is my cre-ma-tor-eum.”

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,

And I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around,

And I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared –

Such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,

And I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’ t like

To hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,

And the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled

Down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak

Went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow

I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about

Ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:

“ I’ ll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked” . . .

Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,

In the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile,

And he said: “ Please close that door.

It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear

You’ ll let in the cold and storm -

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,

It’s the first time I've been warm.”

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Robert Service

THE BALLAD OF PIOUS PETE

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 01:50:00 +0000

THE BALLAD OF PIOUS PETE

“ The North has got him.” - Yukonism.

I tried to refine that neighbor of mine,

Honest to God, I did.

I grieved for his fate, and early and late

I watched over him like a kid.

I gave him excuse, I bore his abuse

In every way that I could;

I swore to prevail; I camped on his trail;

I plotted and planned for his good.

By day and by night I strove in men's sight

To gather him into the fold,

With precept and prayer, with hope and despair,

In hunger and hardship and cold.

I followed him into Gehennas of sin,

I sat where the sirens sit;

In the shade of the Pole, for the sake of his soul,

I strove with the powers of the Pit.

I shadowed him down to the scrofulous town;

I dragged him from dissolute brawls;

But I killed the galoot when he started to shoot

Electricity into my walls.

God knows what I did he should seek to be rid

Of one who would save him from shame.

God knows what I bore that night when he swore

And bade me make tracks from his claim.

I started to tell of the horrors of hell,

When sudden his eyes lit like coals;

And “Chuck it,” says he, “don't persecute me

With your cant and your saving of souls.”

I'll swear I was mild as I'd be with a child,

But he called me the son of a slut;

And, grabbing his gun with a leap and a run,

He threatened my face with the butt.

So what could I do (I leave it to you)?

With curses he harried me forth;

Then he was alone, and I was alone,

And over us menaced the North.

Our cabins were near; I could see, I could hear;

But between us there rippled the creek;

And all summer through, with a rancor that grew,

He would pass me and never would speak.

Then a shuddery breath like the coming of Death

Crept down from the peaks far away;

The water was still; the twilight was chill;

The sky was a tatter of gray.

Swift came the Big Cold, and opal and gold

The lights of the witches arose;

The frost-tyrant clinched, and the valley was cinched

By the stark and cadaverous snows.

The trees were like lace where the star-beams could chase,

Each leaf was a jewel agleam.

The soft white hush lapped the Northland and wrapped

Us round in a crystalline dream.

So still I could hear quite loud in my ear

The swish of the pinions of time;

So bright I could see, as plain as could be,

The wings of God's angels ashine.

I read in the Book I would oftentimes look

To that cabin just over the creek.

Ah me, it was sad and evil and bad,

Two neighbors who never would speak!

I knew that full well like a devil in hell

He was hatching out, early and late,

A system to bear through the frost-spangled air

The warm, crimson waves of his hate.

I only could peer and shudder and fear-

‘ Twas ever so ghastly and still;

But I knew over there in his lonely despair

He was plotting me terrible ill.

I knew that he nursed a malice accurst,

Like the blast of a winnowing flame;

I pleaded aloud for a shield, for a shroud-

Oh, God! then calamity came.

Mad! If I'm mad then you too are mad;

But it’s all in the point of view.

If you'd looked at them things gallivantin’ on wings,

all purple and green and blue.

If you'd noticed them twist, as they mounted and hissed

Like scorpions dim in the dark;

If you'd seen them rebound with a horrible sound,

And spitefully spitting a spark.

If you'd watched it with dread, as it hissed by your bed,

That thing with the feelers that crawls-

You’d have settled the brute that attempted to shoot

Electricity into your walls.

Oh, some, they were blue, and they slithered right through;

They were silent and squashy and round;

And some they were green; they were wriggly and lean;

They writhed with so hateful a sound.

My blood seemed to freeze; I fell on my knees;

My face was a white splash of dread.

Oh, the Green and the Blue, they were gruesome to view;

But the worst of them all were the Red.

They came through the door, they came through the floor,

They came through the moss-creviced logs.

They were savage and dire; they were whiskered with fire;

They bickered like malamute dogs.

They ravined in rings like iniquitous things;

They gulped down the Green and the Blue.

I crinkled with fear whene’er they drew near,

And nearer and nearer they drew.

And then came the crown of Horror's grim crown,

The monster so loathsomely red.

Each eye was a pin that shot out and in,

As, squidlike, it oozed to my bed.

So softly it crept with feelers that swept

And quivered like fine copper wire;

Its belly was white with a sulphurous light,

Its jaws were a-drooling with fire.

It came and it came; I could breathe of its flame,

But never a wink could I look.

I thrust in its maw the Fount of the Law;

I fended it off with the Book.

I was weak-oh, so weak-but I thrilled at its shriek,

As wildly it fled in the night;

And deathlike I lay till the dawn of the day.

(Was ever so welcome the light?)

I loaded my gun at the rise of the sun;

To his cabin so softly I slunk.

My neighbor was there in the frost-freighted air,

All wrapped in a robe in his bunk.

It muffled his moans; it outlined his bones,

As feebly he twisted about;

His gums were so black, and his lips seemed to crack,

And his teeth all were loosening out.

‘ Twas a death’s head that peered through the tangle of beard;

‘ Twas a face I will never forget;

Sunk eyes full of woe, and they troubled me so

With their pleadings and anguish, and yet

As I rested my gaze in a misty amaze

On the scurvy-degenerate wreck,

I thought of the Things with the dragon-fly wings,

Then laid I my gun on his neck.

He gave out a cry that was faint as a sigh,

Like a perishing malamute,

And he says unto me, “ I’m converted,” says he;

“ For Christ's sake, Peter, don't shoot!”

* * * * *

They're taking me out with an escort about,

And under a sergeant's care;

I am humbled indeed, for I'm ‘cuffed to a Swede

That thinks he’s a millionaire.

But it's all Gospel true what I'm telling to you-

up there where the Shadow falls-

That I settled Sam Noot when he started to shoot

Electricity into my walls.

Robert William Service

THE RHYME OF THE REMITTANCE MAN

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 23:42:00 +0000

THE RHYME OF THE REMITTANCE MAN

There's a four-pronged buck a-swinging

In the shadow of my cabin,

And it roamed the velvet valley till to-day;

But I tracked it by the river,

And I trailed it in the cover,

And I killed it on the mountain miles away.

Now I've had my lazy supper,

And the level sun is gleaming

On the water where the silver salmon play;

And I light my little corn-cob,

And I linger, softly dreaming,

In the twilight, of a land that's far away.

Far away, so faint and far,

Is flaming London, fevered Paris,

That I fancy I have gained another star;

Far away the din and hurry,

Far away the sin and worry,

Far away - God knows they cannot be too far.

Gilded galley-slaves of Mammon -

How my purse-proud brothers taunt me!

I might have been as well-to-do as they

Had I clutched like them my chances,

Learned their wisdom, crushed my fancies,

Starved my soul and gone to business every day.

Well, the cherry bends with blossom

And the vivid grass is springing,

And the star-like lily nestles in the green;

And the frogs their joys are singing,

And my heart in tune is ringing,

And it doesn't matter what I might have been.

While above the scented pine-gloom,

Piling heights of golden glory,

The sun-god paints his canvas in the west,

I can couch me deep in clover,

I can listen to the story

Of the lazy, lapping water - it is best.

While the trout leaps in the river,

And the blue grouse thrills the cover,

And the frozen snow betrays the panther's track,

And the robin greets the dayspring

With the rapture of a lover,

I am happy, and I’ ll nevermore go back.

For I know I'd just be longing

For the little old log cabin,

With the morning-glory clinging to the door,

Till I loathed the city places,

Cursed the care on all the faces,

Turned my back on lazar London evermore.

So send me far from Lombard Street,

And write me down a failure;

Put a little in my purse and leave me free.

Say: “He turned from Fortune's offering

To follow up a pale lure,

He is one of us no longer - let him be.”

I am one of you no longer;

by the trails my feet have broken,

The dizzy peaks I've scaled, the camp-fire's glow;

By the lonely seas I've sailed in -

Yea, the final word is spoken,

I am signed and sealed to nature. Be it so.

Robert Service

THE CALL OF THE WILD

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 19:59:00 +0000

THE CALL OF THE WILD

Have you gazed on naked grandeur

Where there's nothing else to gaze on,

Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore,

Big mountains heaved to heaven,

Which the blinding sunsets blazon,

Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar?

Have you swept the visioned valley

With the green stream streaking through it,

Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost?

Have you strung your soul to silence?

Then for God's sake go and do it;

Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost.

Have you wandered in the wilderness,

The sagebrush desolation,

The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze?

Have you whistled bits of rag-time

At the end of all creation,

And learned to know the desert's little ways?

Have you camped upon the foothills,

Have you galloped o’er the ranges,

Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through?

Have you chummed up with the mesa?

Do you know its moods and changes?

Then listen to the Wild - it's calling you.

Have you known the Great White Silence,

Not a snow-gemmed twig aquiver?

(Eternal truths that shame our soothing lies.)

Have you broken trail on snowshoes?

Mushed your huskies up the river,

Dared the unknown, led the way, and clutched the prize?

Have you marked the map's void spaces,

Mingled with the mongrel races,

Felt the savage strength of brute in every thew?

And though grim as hell the worst is,

Can you round it off with curses?

Then hearken to the Wild - it's wanting you.

Have you suffered, starved and triumphed,

Groveled down, yet grasped at glory,

Grown bigger in the bigness of the whole?

“Done things” just for the doing,

Letting babblers tell the story,

Seeing through the nice veneer the naked soul?

Have you seen God in His splendors,

Heard the text that nature renders?

(You'll never hear it in the family pew.)

The simple things, the true things,

The silent men who do things -

Then listen to the Wild - it's calling you.

They have cradled you in custom,

they have primed you with their preaching,

They have soaked you in convention through and through;

They have put you in a showcase;

You’re a credit to their teaching -

But can't you hear the Wild? - it's calling you.

Let us probe the silent places,

Let us seek what luck betide us;

Let us journey to a lonely land I know.

There's a whisper on the night-wind,

There's a star agleam to guide us,

And the Wild is calling, calling . . . let us go.

Robert Service

ANACREON ODE XXVI

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 05:22:00 +0000

ANACREON ODE XXVI

Thy harp may sing of Troy’s alarms,

Or tell the tale of Theban arms;

With other wars my song shall burn,

For other wounds my harp shall mourn.

‘ Twas not the crested warrior’s dart,

Which drank the current of my heart;

Nor naval arms, nor mailed steed,

Have made this vanquished bosom bleed;

No - from an eye of liquid blue,

A host of quiver’d Cupids flew;

And now my heart all bleeding lies

Beneath this army of the eyes !

Anacreon 507 - 488 BC

FACILITY

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Mon, 01 Mar 2010 14:41:00 +0000

FACILITY

So easy ‘tis to make a rhyme,

That did the world but know it,

Your coachman might Parnassus climb,

Your butler be a poet.

Then, oh, how charming it would be

If, when in haste hysteric

You called the page, you learned that he

Was grappling with a lyric.

Or else what rapture it would yield,

When cook sent up the salad,

To find within its depths concealed

A touching little ballad.

Or if for tea and toast you yearned,

What joy to find upon it

The chambermaid had coyly laid

A palpitating sonnet.

Your baker could the fashion set,

Your butcher might respond well,

With every tart a triolet,

With every chop a rondel.

Your tailor's bill . . . well, I’ll be blowed!

Dear chap! I never knowed him . . .

He's gone and written me an ode,

Instead of what I owed him.

So easy ‘tis to rhyme . . . yet stay!

Oh, terrible misgiving!

Please do not give the game away . . .

I've got to make my living.

Robert Service

NOTES

The above poem is from a collection of poems included under the title “ Ballads of a Bohemian “ written by Robert Service after he moved to Paris in 1913. He divided this collection into four books; “Spring,” “Early Summer,” “Late Summer,” and “Winter.” Along with the poems are diary entries describing his experiences while living in a garret room on Montparnasse under the persona of an American poet named Stephen Poore. The last diary entry is dated January 1919 and the collection was first published in 1921.

JOHNNY I HARDLY KNEW YE

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Sat, 27 Feb 2010 02:34:00 +0000

JOHNNY I HARDLY KNEW YE

While going the road to sweet Athy,

Hurroo! hurroo!

While going the road to sweet Athy,

Hurroo! hurroo!

While going the road to sweet Athy,

A stick in my hand and a drop in my eye,

A doleful damsel I heard cry,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With drums and guns, and guns and drums,

The enemy nearly slew ye,

My darling dear, you look so queer,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

Where are your eyes that looked so mild?

Hurroo! hurroo!

Where are your eyes that looked so mild?

Hurroo! hurroo!

Where are your eyes that looked so mild,

When my poor heart you first beguiled?

Why did you run from me and the child?

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With drums and guns, and guns and drums,

The enemy nearly slew ye,

My darling dear, you look so queer,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

Where are the legs with which you run?

Hurroo! hurroo!

Where are thy legs with which you run?

Hurroo! hurroo!

Where are the legs with which you run

When first you went to carry a gun?

Indeed, your dancing days are done!

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With drums and guns, and guns and drums,

The enemy nearly slew ye,

My darling dear, you look so queer,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

It grieved my heart to see you sail,

Hurroo! hurroo!

It grieved my heart to see you sail,

Hurroo! hurroo!

It grieved my heart to see you sail,

Though from my heart you took leg-bail,

Like a cod you’re doubled up head and tail,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With drums and guns, and guns and drums,

The enemy nearly slew ye,

My darling dear, you look so queer,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,

Hurroo! hurroo!

You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,

Hurroo! hurroo!

You haven’t an arm and you haven’t a leg,

You’re an eyeless, noseless, chickenless egg,

You’ll have to be put with a bowl to beg,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With drums and guns, and guns and drums,

The enemy nearly slew ye,

My darling dear, you look so queer,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

I’m happy for to see you home,

Hurroo! hurroo!

I’m happy for to see you home,

Hurroo! hurroo!

I’m happy for to see you home,

All from the Island of Sulloon,

So low in flesh, so high in bone,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With drums and guns, and guns and drums,

The enemy nearly slew ye,

My darling dear, you look so queer,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

But sad it is to see you so,

Hurroo! hurroo!

But sad it is to see you so,

Hurroo! hurroo!

But sad it is to see you so,

And to think of you now as an object of woe,

Your Peggy’ll still keep you on as her beau,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

With drums and guns, and guns and drums,

The enemy nearly slew ye,

My darling dear, you look so queer,

Och, Johnny, I hardly knew ye!

Author Unknown

Note

This street ballad dates from the early 1800's when regiments from the Irish town of Athy, in County Kildare, were raised to fight in Sulloon ( Sri-Lanka ) for the British East India Company.

DEAR LAND

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Fri, 26 Feb 2010 00:59:00 +0000

DEAR LAND

When comes the day all hearts to weigh,

f staunch they be, or vile,

Shall we forget the sacred debt

We owe our mother Isle?

My native heath is brown beneath,

My native waters blue,

But crimson red o'er both shall spread,

Ere I am false to you,

Dear Land -

Ere I am false to you.

When I behold your mountains bold -

Your noble lakes and streams -

A mingled tide of grief and pride

Within my bosom teems.

I think of all your long, dark thrall -

Your martyrs brave and true;

And dash apart the tears that start -

We must not weep for you,

Dear Land -

We must not weep for you.

My grandsire died his home beside;

They seized and hanged him there;

His only crime, in evil time,

Your hallowed green to wear.

Across the main his brothers twain

Were sent to pine and rue;

And still they turned, with hearts that burned,

In hopeless love to you,

Dear Land -

In hopeless love to you.

My boyish ear still clung to hear

Of Erin's pride of yore,

Ere Norman foot had dared pollute

Her independent shore;

Of chiefs, long dead, who rose to head

Some gallant patriot few;

Till all my aim on earth became

To strike one blow for you,

Dear Land -

To strike one blow for you.

What path is best your rights to wrest

Let other heads divine;

By work or word, with voice or sword,

To follow them be mine.

The breast that zeal and hatred steel,

No terrors can subdue;

If death should come, that martyrdom

Were sweet, endured for you,

Dear Land -

Were sweet, endured for you.

John O’Hagan

LITTLE BOY BLUE

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Thu, 25 Feb 2010 01:42:00 +0000

LITTLE BOY BLUE

The little toy dog is covered with dust,

But sturdy and stanch he stands;

And the little toy soldier is red with rust,

And his musket molds in his hands.

Time was when the little toy dog was new,

And the soldier was passing fair;

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue

Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don't you go till I come,” he said,

“And don't you make any noise!”

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed,

He dreamt of the pretty toys;

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song

Awakened our Little Boy Blue -

Oh! the years are many, the years are long,

But the little toy friends are true!

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,

Each in the same old place -

Awaiting the touch of a little hand,

The smile of a little face;

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through

In the dust of that little chair,

What has become of our Little Boy Blue,

Since he kissed them and put them there.

Eugene Fields 1850 - 1895

ROSE OF KNOCKMANY

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 22:41:00 +0000

ROSE OF KNOCKMANY

O sure ‘ tis some fairy

Has set me contrary!

No more blithe and airy I sing as I go;

No longer in clover,

A free-hearted rover,

I lilt a light ditty or shake a loose toe.

In Leinster and Ulster,

Through Connaught and Munster,

‘ Twas I made the fun stir wherever I strayed;

And a jovialler fellow,

While sober or mellow,

Ne'er tossed off a jorum or wooed a fair maid.

Till once in the May time,

The tuneful and gay time -

(Ah, I fear ‘ twas the fay time) - from eve to the dawn,

I played for a maiden,

With hair simply braiden,

With eyes of soft lustre and grace like the fawn.

Those eyes while she listened,

Through dewy drops glistened,

Or sparkled like gems in the light of the moon;

Some witchcraft was in it!

For since that blessed minute,

I’m like poor young Johnny who played but one tune.

For whether I’m strolling

Where billows are rolling,

Or sweet bells are tolling o'er Shannon or Lee;

My wild harp when sweeping,

Where fountains are leaping,

At lone Gougaune Barra or storied Lough Neagh -

To priest or to peasant,

No matter who's present,

In sad hours or pleasant, by mountain or stream,

To the careless or cannie,

To colleen or granny -

Young Rose of Knockmany is ever my theme.

Charles Kickham

1828-1882

OURSELVES ALONE

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Wed, 17 Feb 2010 23:18:00 +0000

OURSELVES ALONE

The work that should today be wrought,

Defer not to tomorrow;

The help that should within be sought,

Scorn from without to borrow.

Old maxims these - yet stout and true -

They speak in trumpet tone,

To do at once what is to do,

And trust Ourselves Alone.

Too long our Irish hearts we schooled

In patient hope to bide,

By dreams of English justice fooled

And English tongues that lied.

That hour of weak delusions past -

The empty dream has flown:

Our hope and strength, we find at last,

Is in Ourselves Alone.

Aye ! bitter hate or cold neglect,

Or lukewarm love at best,

Is all we’ve found, or can expect,

We aliens of the West.

No friend, beyond our own green shore,

Can Erin truly own;

Yet stronger is her trust, therefore,

In her brave Sons Alone.

Remember, when our lot was worse -

Sunk, trampled to the dust -

‘ Twas long our weakness and our curse

In stranger aid to trust.

And if, at length, we proudly trod

On bigot laws o’erthrown,

Who won that struggle ? Under God,

Ourselves - Ourselves Alone.

Oh ! let its memory be enshrined,

In Ireland’s heart for ever !

It proves a banded people’s mind

Must win in just endeavor;

It shows how wicked to despair,

How weak to idly groan -

If ills at other’s hand ye bear,

The cure is in Your Own.

The foolish word “impossible“

At once, for aye, disdain !

No power can bar a people’s will,

A people’s right to gain.

Be bold, united, firmly set,

Nor flinch in word or tone -

We’ll be a glorious nation yet,

Redeemed - Erect - Alone !

John O’Hagan 1822 - 1890

NOTES ON JOHN O’HAGAN

John O’Hagan was born on March 19, 1822 in Newry, Ireland.

He received his early education at the day school of the Jesuit Fathers in Dublin, and then attended Trinity College. After graduating in 1842, he became a lawyer on the Munster Circuit in southern Ireland. In 1861, when the English Education Act was applied to Ireland, he was appointed Commissioner of National Education. He achieved the position of Queen’s Counselor in 1865 and, later that same year on December 2, married Frances Mary O’Hagan daughter of First Lord Thomas O’Hagan of Belfast. Under Gladstone’s Land Act of 1881 he became the first Chairman of the Irish Land Commission making him a Judge of Her Majesty’s High Court of Justice.

John O’Hagan was held in high esteem by his countrymen not only for his political achievements but also for his writing. He is described in the Aeolus Episode of James Joyce’s novel “ Ulysses” as the “silvertongued O’Hagan”. He was an earnest Catholic, as shown in many of his writings, such as “ The Children’s Ballad Rosary”. His poems “Dear Land” and “ Ourselves Alone” were among the most influential features of the new Irish weekly newspaper The Nation. This Nationalist newspaper was founded by a group of Repeal Association members known as Young Ireland. He wrote for The Nation under the names “ Sliabh Cuilinn”, “O”, “J.O’H”, and “Carolina Wilhelmina Amelia” to conceal his identity as a Republican Agitator. In his last years he published the first English Translation of “ La Chanson de Roland” , recognized as a success by the Edinburg Review and all the critical journals. He died near Dublin on November 10, 1890 and is buried in the Garden Section of the Glasnevin Cemetery.

ON ANGELS

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 01:25:00 +0000

ON ANGELS

All was taken away from you: white dresses,

wings, even existence.

Yet I believe in you,

messengers.

There, where the world is turned inside out,

a heavy fabric embroidered with stars and beasts,

you stroll, inspecting the trustworthy seems.

Short is your stay here:

now and then at a matinal hour, if the sky is clear,

in a melody repeated by a bird,

or in the smell of apples at close of day

when the light makes the orchards magic.

They say somebody has invented you

but to me this does not sound convincing

for the humans invented themselves as well.

The voice - no doubt it is a valid proof,

as it can belong only to radiant creatures,

weightless and winged (after all, why not?),

girdled with the lightening.

I have heard that voice many a time when asleep

and, what is strange, I understood more or less

an order or an appeal in an unearthly tongue:

day draw near

another one

do what you can.

Czeslaw Milosz

MOON - LOVER

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 23:17:00 +0000

MOON - LOVER

The Moon is like a ping-pong ball;

I lean against the orchard wall,

And see it soar into the void,

A silky sphere of celluloid.

Then fairy fire enkindles it,

Like gossamer by taper lit,

Until it glows above the trees

s mellow as a Cheddar cheese.

And up and up I watch it press

Into appalling loneliness;

Like realms of ice without a stain,

A corpse Moon come to life again.

Ruthless it drowns a sturdy star

That seeks its regal way to bar;

Seeming with conscious power to grow,

And sweeter, purer, gladder glow.

Dreaming serenely up the sky,

Until exultantly on high,

It shimmers with superb delight,

The silver navel of the night.

I have a compact to commune

A monthly midnight with the Moon;

Into its face I stare and stare,

And find sweet understanding there.

As quiet as a toad I sit

And tell my tale of days to it;

The tessellated yarn I’ve spun

In thirty spells of star and sun.

And the Moon listens pensively,

As placid as a lamb to me;

Until I think there’s just us two

In silver world of mist and dew.

In all of spangled space, but I

To stare moon-struck into the sky;

Of billion beings I alone

To praise the Moon as still as stone,

And seal a bond between us two,

Closer than mortal ever knew;

For as mute masses I intone

The Moon is mine and mine alone.

III

To know the Moon as few men may,

One must be just a little fey;

And for our friendship’s sake I’m glad

That I am just a trifle mad,

And one with all the wild, wise things,

The furtive folk of fur and wings,

That hold the Moon within their eyes,

And make it nightly sacrifice.

O I will watch the maiden Moon

Dance on the sea with silver shoon;

But with the Queen Moon I will keep

My tryst when all the world’s asleep.

As I have kept by land and sea

That tryst for half a century;

Entranced in sibylline suspense

Beyond a world of common-sense.

Until one night the Moon alone

Will look upon a graven stone. . . .

I wonder will it miss me then,

Its lover more than other men?

Or will my wistful ghost be there,

Down ages dim to stare and stare,

On silver nights without a stir-

The Moon’s Eternal Worshipper?

Robert Service

MATERNITY

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 23:00:00 +0000

MATERNITY

There once was a Square,

Such a square little Square,

And he loved a trim Triangle;

But she was a flirt and around her skirt

Vainly she made him dangle.

Oh he wanted to wed and he had no dread

Of domestic woes and wrangles;

For he thought that his fate was to procreate

Cute little Squares and Triangles.

Now it happened one day

On that geometric way

There swaggered a big bold Cube,

With a haughty stare and he made that Square

Have the air of a perfect boob;

To his solid spell the Triangle fell,

And she thrilled with love’s sweet sickness,

For she took delight in his breadth and height -

But how she adored his thickness!

So that poor little Square

Just died of despair,

For his love he could not strangle;

While the bold Cube led to the bridal bed

That cute and acute Triangle.

The Square’s sad lot she has long forgot,

And his passionate pretensions ...

For she dotes on her kids - Oh such cute Pyramids

In a world of three dimensions.

Robert Service

TO THE CITY OF BOMBAY

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Sun, 31 Jan 2010 02:31:00 +0000

TO THE CITY OF BOMBAY

The Cities are full of pride,

Challenging each to each -

This from her mountain-side,

That from her burthened beach.

They count their ships full tale -

Their corn and oil and wine,

Derrick and loom and bale,

And rampart’s gun-flecked line;

City by City they hail:

“Hast aught to match with mine?”

And the men that breed from them

They traffic up and down,

But cling to their cities’ hem

As a child to their mother’s gown.

When they talk with the stranger bands,

Dazed and newly alone;

When they walk in the stranger lands,

By roaring streets unknown;

Blessing her where she stands

For strength above their own.

On high to hold her fame

That stands all fame beyond,

By oath to back the same,

Most faithful-foolish-fond;

Making her mere-breathed name

Their bond upon their bond.

So thank I God my birth

Fell not in isles aside -

Waste headlands of the earth,

Or warring tribes untried -

But that she lent me worth

And gave me right to pride.

Surely in toil or fray

Under an alien sky,

Comfort it is to say:

“Of no mean city am I!”

Neither by service nor fee

Come I to mine estate -

Mother of Cities to me,

But I was born in her gate,

Between the palms and the sea,

Where the world-end steamers wait.

Now for this debt I owe,

And for her far-borne cheer

Must I make haste and go

With tribute to her pier.

And she shall touch and remit

After the use of kings

Orderly, ancient, fit

My deep-sea plunderings,

And purchase in all lands.

And this we do for a sign

Her power is over mine,

And mine I hold at her hands!

Rudyard Kipling

LUCILLE

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 16:45:00 +0000

LUCILLE

Of course you’ve heard of the Nancy Lee,

And how she sailed away

On her famous quest of the Arctic flea,

To the wilds of Hudson's Bay?

For it was a foreign Prince's whim

To collect this tiny cuss,

And a golden quid was no more to him

Than a copper to coves like us.

So we sailed away and our hearts were gay

As we gazed on the gorgeous scene;

And we laughed with glee as we caught the flea

Of the wolf and the wolverine;

Yea, our hearts were light as the parasite

Of the ermine rat we slew,

And the great musk ox, and the silver fox,

And the moose and the caribou.

And we laughed with zest as the insect pest

Of the marmot crowned our zeal,

And the wary mink and the wily “link”,

And the walrus and the seal.

And with eyes aglow on the scornful snow

We danced a rigadoon,

Round the lonesome lair of the Arctic hare,

By the light of the silver moon.

But the time was nigh to homeward hie,

When, imagine our despair!

For the best of the lot we hadn’t got -

The flea of the polar bear.

Oh, his face was long and his breath was strong,

As the Skipper he says to me:

“I wants you to linger ‘ere, my lad,

y the shores of the Hartic Sea;

I wants you to ‘unt the polar bear

The perishin’ winter through,

And if flea ye find of its breed and kind,

There's a ‘undred quid for you.”

But I shook my head: “No, Cap,” I said;

“It's yourself I’d like to please,

But I tells ye flat I wouldn't do that

If ye went on yer bended knees.”

Then the Captain spat in the seething brine,

nd he says: “Good luck to you,

If it can't be did for a ‘undred quid,

Supposin’ we call it two?”

So that was why they said good-by,

And they sailed and left me there -

Alone, alone in the Arctic Zone

To hunt for the polar bear.

Oh, the days were slow and packed with woe,

Till I thought they would never end;

And I used to sit when the fire was lit,

With my pipe for my only friend.

And I tried to sing some rollicky thing,

But my song broke off in a prayer,

And I'd drowse and dream by the driftwood gleam;

I'd dream of a polar bear;

I'd dream of a cloudlike polar bear

That blotted the stars on high,

With ravenous jaws and flenzing claws,

And the flames of hell in his eye.

And I'd trap around on the frozen ground,

As a proper hunter ought,

And beasts I'd find of every kind,

But never the one I sought.

Never a track in the white ice-pack

That humped and heaved and flawed,

Till I came to think: “Why, strike me pink!

If the creature ain't a fraud.”

And then one night in the waning light,

As I hurried home to sup,

hears a roar by the cabin door,

And a great white hulk heaves up.

So my rifle flashed, and a bullet crashed;

Dead, dead as a stone fell he,

And I gave a cheer, for there in his ear -

Gosh ding me! - a tiny flea.

At last, at last! Oh, I clutched it fast,

And I gazed on it with pride;

And I thrust it into a biscuit-tin,

And I shut it safe inside;

With a lid of glass for the light to pass,

And space to leap and play;

Oh, it kept alive; yea, seemed to thrive,

As I watched it night and day.

And I used to sit and sing to it,

And I shielded it from harm,

And many a hearty feed it had

On the heft of my hairy arm.

For you'll never know in that land of snow

How lonesome a man can feel;

So I made a fuss of the little cuss,

And I christened it “Lucille”.

But the longest winter has its end,

And the ice went out to sea,

And I saw one day a ship in the bay,

And there was the Nancy Lee.

So a boat was lowered and I went aboard,

And they opened wide their eyes -

Yes, they gave a cheer when the truth was clear,

And they saw my precious prize.

And then it was all like a giddy dream;

But to cut my story short,

We sailed away on the fifth of May

To the foreign Prince's court;

To a palmy land and a palace grand,

And the little Prince was there,

And a fat Princess in a satin dress

With a crown of gold on her hair.

And they showed me into a shiny room,

Just him and her and me,

And the Prince he was pleased and friendly-like,

And he calls for drinks for three.

And I shows them my battered biscuit-tin,

And I makes my modest spiel,

And they laughed, they did, when I opened the lid,

And out there popped Lucille.

Oh, the Prince was glad, I could soon see that,

And the Princess she was too;

And Lucille waltzed round on the tablecloth

As she often used to do.

And the Prince pulled out a purse of gold,

And he put it in my hand;

And he says: “It was worth all that, I'm told,

To stay in that nasty land.”

And then he turned with a sudden cry,

And he clutched at his royal beard;

And the Princess screamed, and well she might -

For Lucille had disappeared.

“She must be here,” said his Noble Nibbs,

So we hunted all around;

Oh, we searched that place, but never a trace

Of the little beast we found.

So I shook my head, and I glumly said:

“Gol darn the saucy cuss!

It's mighty queer, but she isn't here;

So . . . she must be on one of us.

You'll pardon me if I make so free,

But - there's just one thing to do:

If you'll kindly go for a half a mo’

I'll search me garments through.”

Then all alone on the shiny throne

I stripped from head to heel;

In vain, in vain; it was very plain

That I hadn't got Lucille.

So I garbed again, and I told the Prince,

And he scratched his august head;

“I suppose if she hasn’t selected you,

It must be me,” he said.

So he retired; but he soon came back,

And his features showed distress:

“Oh, it isn't you and it isn't me.” . . .

Then we looked at the Princess.

So she retired; and we heard a scream,

And she opened wide the door;

And her fingers twain were pinched to pain,

But a radiant smile she wore:

“It's here,” she cries, “our precious prize.

Oh, I found it right away. . . .”

Then I ran to her with a shout of joy,

But I choked with a wild dismay.

I clutched the back of the golden throne,

And the room began to reel . . .

What she held to me was, ah yes! a flea,

But . . . it wasn't my Lucille.

Robert Service

THE OUTLAW

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 02:08:00 +0000

THE OUTLAW

A wild and woeful race he ran

Of lust and sin by land and sea;

Until, abhorred of God and man,

They swung him from the gallows-tree.

And then he climbed the Starry Stair,

And dumb and naked and alone,

With head unbowed and brazen glare,

He stood before the Judgment Throne.

The Keeper of the Records spoke:

“This man, O Lord, has mocked Thy Name.

The weak have wept beneath his yoke,

The strong have fled before his flame.

The blood of babes is on his sword;

His life is evil to the brim:

Look down, decree his doom, O Lord !

Lo ! there is none will speak for him.”

The golden trumpets blew a blast

That echoed in the crypts of Hell,

For there was Judgment to be passed,

And lips were hushed and silence fell.

The man was mute; he made no stir,

Erect before the Judgment Seat . . .

When all at once a mongrel cur

Crept out and cowered and licked his feet.

It licked his feet with whining cry.

Come Heav'n, come Hell, what did it care?

It leapt, it tried to catch his eye;

Its master, yea, its God was there.

Then, as a thrill of wonder sped

Through throngs of shining seraphim,

The Judge of All looked down and said:

“Lo ! here is ONE who pleads for him.”

“And who shall love of these the least,

And who by word or look or deed

Shall pity show to bird or beast,

By Me shall have a friend in need.

Aye, though his sin be black as night,

And though he stand ‘mid men alone,

He shall be softened in My sight,

And find a pleader by My Throne.”

“So let this man to glory win;

From life to life salvation glean;

By pain and sacrifice and sin,

Until he stand before Me - clean.

For he who loves the least of these

(And here I say and here repeat)

Shall win himself an angel's pleas

For Mercy at My Judgment Seat.”

Robert Service

AUTHOR’S NOTE

After old men and children I am greatly interested in dogs. I will go out of my way to caress one who shows any desire to be friendly. There is a very filthy fellow who collects cigarette stubs on the Boul’ Mich’ , and who is always followed by a starved yellow cur. The other day I came across them in a little side street. The man was stretched on the pavement brutishly drunk and dead to the world. The dog, lying by his side, seemed to look at me with sad, imploring eyes. Though all the world despise that man, I thought, this poor brute loves him and will be faithful unto death. From this incident I wrote the verses above.

I'M GOING TO BOMBAY

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 04:53:00 +0000

I'M GOING TO BOMBAY

“ Nothing venture, nothing have." - Old Proverb

.“ Every Indiaman has at least two mates." - Falconer’s Marine Guide

My hair is brown, my eyes are blue,

And reckoned rather bright ;

I 'm shapely, if they tell me true,

And just the proper height ;

My skin has been admired in verse,

And called as fair as day -

If I am fair, so much the worse,

I 'm going to Bombay !

At school I passed with some eclat ;

I learned my French in France ;

De Wint gave lessons how to draw,

And D'Egville how to dance -

Crevelli taught me how to sing,

And Cramer how to play-

It really is the strangest thing -

I 'm going to Bombay !

I 've been to Bath and Cheltenham Wells,

But not their springs to sip -

To Ramsgate - not to pick up shells -

To Brighton - not to dip.

I 've toured the Lakes, and scoured the coast

From Scarboro' to Torquay -

But tho' of time I 've made the most,

I 'm going to Bombay !

By Pa and Ma I 'm daily told

To marry now 's my time,

For though I 'm very far from old,

I 'm rather in my prime.

They say while we have any sun

We ought to make our hay -

And India has so hot an one,

I 'm going to Bombay !

My cousin writes from Hyderapot,

My only chance to snatch,

And says the climate is so hot,

It 's sure to light a match.

She 's married to a son of Mars,

With very handsome pay,

And swears I ought to thank my stars

I 'm going to Bombay !

She says that I shall much delight

To taste their Indian treats;

But what she likes may turn me quite,

Their strange outlandish meats.

If I can eat rupees, who knows ?

Or dine, the Indian way,

On doolies and on bungalows -

I 'm going to Bombay !

She says that I shall much enjoy -

I don't know what she means -

To take the air and buy some toy,

In my own palankeens -

I' like to drive my pony-chair,

Or ride our dapple gray -

But elephants are horses there -

I 'm going to Bombay !

Farewell, farewell, my parents dear,

My friends, farewell to them !

And oh, what costs a sadder tear,

Good-bye, to Mr. M. ! -

If I should find an Indian vault,

Or fall a tiger's prey,

Or steep in salt, it 's all his fault,

I 'm going to Bombay !

That fine new teak-built ship, The Fox,

A. I. - Commander Bird,

Now lying in the London Docks,

Will sail on May the third;

Apply for passage or for freight

To Nichol, Scott, & Gray -

Pa has applied and sealed my fate -

I’m going to Bombay !

My heart is full - my trunks as well;

My mind and caps made up,

My corsets, shaped by Mrs. Bell,

Are promised ere I sup;

With boots and shoes, Rivarta’s best

And dresses by Duce,

And a special licence in my chest -

I’m going to Bombay !

Thomas Hood 1799 - 1845

NOTES

THE MEMSAHIBS

During the reign of Queen Victoria, thousands of British women went out to India to live, work and to die, as wives, mothers and sisters and later as teachers, doctors or missionaries. Many were army wives, following their husbands to a land, which became for them a second home. Historians, like Correlli Barnett, have blamed these Memsahibs for exacerbating racial prejudices and dividing Indian society buy their failure to understand India's, speak any of their languages and by maintaining their inappropriate customs, arguing that 'in the early 19th century, Indian mistresses brought officers and men closer to Indian life: later stern Memsahibs, stiffly corseted with Victorian morality and etiquette, and resentful of the voluptuous competition of sari-clad brown bodies, stopped all this, with lasting damage to British relations with Indians. Writers, such as Rudyard Kipling who was born in Bombay in 1865, have written realistically of army life in India, portraying the typical memsahib as a snobbish and selfish butterfly, flirting, and flitting from bridge, tennis and garden parties to dinners and dances in the delightful hill stations, while her husband slaved at his job in the heat of the plains. 'From pedestals of sober respectability, Englishwomen have passed judgment on us', wrote Maude Diver. 'That have denounced us as idle, frivolous and luxury loving.' Nevertheless, many of these women, loyally and stoically accepted their share of the white man's burden and lightened it with their quiet humor, their grace and often with their youth.

THE FISHING FLEET

With the opening of the Suez Canal, officers were able to spend their year's leave in England and return with a wife or fiancée, instead of waiting for the arrival of the "fishing fleet", with its annual shipload of marriageable young girls, hoping to find husbands among the European civil servants and army officers. Those traveling alone were advised to stay in their cabins, Bible in hand, to avoid the temptations of the East and the shipboard romances-not for nothing was the British India Shipping Line known as the "bibi" line, the Hindustani word for "woman" or "mistress" coinciding with the Company's "B.B.' monogram. For a girl of Victorian England, without dowry, rich relations or beauty to make a suitable match, India offered, as soon as she landed, proposals of marriage 'from old and young, military and civil, nobles and commoners. She was counseled not to dance with anyone below a very senior civilian or a military officer with a staff appointment.' Thomas Hood satirized these ambitious husband-hunters with his poem “ I’m Going to Bombay”.

The arrival of a young lady in the station was likely to cause the uttermost excitement amongst officers and wives alike. 'No soon is it know that Miss So and So is coming to the station than everyone begins to speculate who she will accept', wrote Doctor Gilbert Hadlow/ 'For it is taken as a matter of course that all the bachelors will propose without loss of time (irrespective of suitability and antecedents). There is something very absurd in the race for a wife of here.' At least, while the race lasted, it helped to relieve the boring sameness of the days, and to provide a diversion for officers from pig-sticking and big game hunting in the foothills of the Himalayas or drinking and womanizing in the hill stations of Southern India.

The interest of the ladies was equally intense but for different reasons, as Lady Angela Falkland, wife of the Governor and a daughter of William IV and Mrs. Jordan noted in 1848:-"The arrival of a cargo of young damsels from England is one of the most exciting events that mark the advent of the cold season (in mid October) with its 4 months of concentrated gaiety of dances, balls and picnics. It can be well imagined that their age, height, features, dress and manners become topics of conversation, as they bring the latest fashions fro Europe, they are objects of interest to their own sex."

This note is from the book “ Judy O'Grady and the Colonel's Lady : The Army Wife and Camp Follower since 1660 “ by Noel St. John Williams

CASEY JONES

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 00:13:00 +0000

The only known authentic photograph of Casey in the cab of an engine. This is a detail from the photo of the 638 on the Illinois Central Rail Road.

CASEY JONES

Come all you rounders if you want to hear

a story about a brave Engineer;

Casey Jones was the Rounder's name,

On an six-eight wheeler, boys, he won his fame.

Caller called Casey at a half-past four,

He kissed his wife at the station door,

Mounted to the cabin with his orders in his hand

And he took his farewell trip to the promised land.

Casey Jones, mounted to the cabin,

Casey Jones, with his orders in his hand!

Casey Jones, mounted to the cabin,

And took his farewell trip into the promised land.

Put in your water and shovel in your coal,

Put your head out the window, watch them drivers roll,

I'll run her till she leaves the rail,

'Cause we're eight hours late with the western mail!

He looked at his watch and his watch was slow,

Looked at the water and the water was low,

Turned to his Fireman and then he said,

"We're going to reach 'Frisco, but we'll all be dead"

Casey Jones! going to reach Frisco,

Casey Jones, but we'll all be dead!

Casey Jones, going to reach Frisco,

we're going to reach Frisco but we'll all be dead!

Casey pulled up that Reno Hill,

Tooted for the crossing with a awful shrill,

The switchman knew by the engine's moan

That the man at the throttle was Casey Jones.

He pulled up short two miles of the place,

Number four stared him right in the face,

Turned to his Fireman, said, "you'd better jump,

'Cause there's two Locomotives thats a going to bump!"

Casey Jones! two locomotives,

Casey Jones, thats a going to bump!

Casey Jones, two locomotives,

There's two locomotives thats a going to bump!

Casey said, just before he died,

"There's two more roads that I'd like to ride."

Fireman said, "what could they be?"

"The Southern Pacific and the Santa Fe"

Mrs. Jones sat on her bed a-sighin',

Got a message that Casey was dyin',

Said, "go to bed children and hush your cryin',

'Cause you got another papa on the Salt Lake line."

Casey Jones! got another papa,

Casey Jones, on the Salt Lake Line,

Casey Jones, got another papa,

You got another Papa on the Salt Lake Line!

NOTES

On the night of April 29 1900,Casey and engine 382 with Sim Webb firing were listed out of Memphis on train #1 with six cars southbound for Canton. Conductor was J. C. Turner. The scheduled departure time was 11:15. Records indicate he left at 12:50; one hour and thirty-five minutes late. A good engine, a good fireman, a light train and away late; the perfect setting for a record run. He made that record run too, if the oft quoted departure time of 12:50 is correct, for Casey went to Goodman on time for a meet with #2. While Casey was rolling south, the stage was being set for his tragic wreck. Freights #72 and #83 were both in the passing track at Vaughan and there were more cars than the track would hold. It was necessary for these trains to move north or south to clear the main line switches in order to allow other trains to pass; this is known as a saw- by. Meanwhile, northbound local passenger #26 arrived from Canton and had to be sawed in on the house track west of the main line. As #83 and #72 sawed back south to clear the north passing track switch, an air house broke on #72 and he couldn't move. Several cars of #83's train were still out on the main line above the north switch. Engine 382 crashed through the caboose and several cars and came to rest on the right side pointing back north. Casey was fatally wounded in the throat. He was carried one-half mile to the depot were he died lying on a baggage wagon. The railroad's formal investigation concluded that "Engineer Jones was solely responsible for the accident as consequence of not having properly responded to flag signals."

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Fri, 22 Jan 2010 01:26:00 +0000

PAUL REVERE’S RIDE

Listen, my children, and you shall hear

Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,

On the eighteenth of April, in 'Seventy-five;

Hardly a man is now alive

Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night,

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

Of the North Church tower as a signal light -

One, if by land, and two, if by sea;

And I on the opposite shore will be,

Ready to ride and spread the alarm

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

The somerset, British man-of-war;

A phantom ship, with each mast and spar

Across the moon like a prison bar,

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,

Wanders and watches with eager ears,

Till in the silence around him he hears

The muster of men at the barrack door,

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,

And the measured tread of the grenadiers,

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

To the belfry-chamber overhead,

And startled the pigeons from their perch

On the sombre rafters, that round him made

Masses and moving shapes of shade -

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

To the highest window in the wall,

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town,

And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,

In their night-encampment on the hill,

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,

The watchful night-wind, as it went

Creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"

A moment only he feels the spell

Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread

Of the lonely belfry and the dead;

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

On a shadowy something far away,

Where the river widens to meet the bay -

A line of black that bends and floats

On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,

Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride,

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse's side,

Now gazed at the landscape far and near,

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,

And turned and tightened his saddle-girth;

But mostly he watched with eager search

The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,

As it rose above the graves on the hill,

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! As he looks, on the belfry's height

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;

That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,

The fate of a nation was riding that night;

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,

Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders, that skirt its edge,

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.

He heard the crowing of the cock,

And the barking of the farmer's dog,

And felt the damp of the river fog,

That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,

When he galloped into Lexington.

He saw the gilded weathercock

Swim in the moonlight as he passed,

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,

Gaze at him with a spectral glare,

As if they already stood aghast

At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

He heard the bleating of the flock,

And the twitter of birds among the trees,

And felt the breath of the morning breeze

Blowing over the meadows brown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Who that day would be lying dead,

Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,

How the British Regulars fired and fled -

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,

Chasing the redcoats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Under the trees at the turn of the road,

And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;

And so through the night went his cry of alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm -

A cry of defiance and not of fear,

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo forevermore!

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last,

In the hour of darkness and peril and need,

The people will waken and listen to hear

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed

And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

THE CONQUEROR WORM

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 18:55:00 +0000

THE CONQUEROR WORM

Lo! 'tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!

An angel throng, bewinged, bedight

In veils, and drowned in tears,

Sit in a theatre, to see

A play of hopes and fears,

While the orchestra breathes fitfully

The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,

Mutter and mumble low,

And hither and thither fly-

Mere puppets they, who come and go

At bidding of vast formless things

That shift the scenery to and fro,

Flapping from out their Condor wings

Invisible Woe!

That motley drama! - oh, be sure

It shall not be forgot!

With its Phantom chased for evermore,

By a crowd that seize it not,

Through a circle that ever returneth in

To the self-same spot,

And much of Madness, and more of Sin,

And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,

A crawling shape intrude!

A blood-red thing that writhes from out

The scenic solitude!

It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs

The mimes become its food,

And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs

In human gore imbued.

Out - out are the lights - out all!

And over each quivering form,

The curtain, a funeral pall,

Comes down with the rush of a storm,

While the angels, all pallid and wan,

Uprising, unveiling, affirm

That the play is the tragedy, " Man,"

And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Edgar Allan Poe

NOTE

“ The Conqueror Worm ” first published as a separate poem in 1843, and later in 1845, was incorporated into the text of Poe’s short story “ Ligeia.” The poem seems to imply that all life is a worthless drama that inevitably leads to death.

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD

noreply@blogger.com (reklaw nevets) — Wed, 20 Jan 2010 02:12:00 +0000

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD

Thy soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy:

Be silent in that solitude,

Which is not loneliness - for then

The spirits of the dead, who stood

In life before thee, are again

In death around thee, and their will

Shall overshadow thee: be still.

The night - tho’ clear - shall frown -

And the stars shall not look down,

From their high thrones in the Heaven,

With light like hope to mortals given -

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish -

Now are visions ne'er to vanish -

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more - like dewdrop from the grass.

The breeze - the breath of God - is still -

And the mist upon the hill

Shadowy - shadowy - yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token -

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries !

Edgar Allan Poe 1809 - 1849