The Young British Soldier
By Rudyard Kipling
Born 1865
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When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier OF the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

my favorite Kipling, "for it's Tommy this, and Tommy that, and chuck 'im out the brute. But it's thin red line of 'eroes when the guns begin to shoot...". I can relate to that on a personal level.

Rich
DRSS
G/Co 75th Inf

"When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier."

Kipling told it like it was....

There's no end of good Kipling poems.

If

The 1000th Man

Tommy

The Ballad of East & West

Chant Pagan

Gunga Din

The Return

The Ladies

Then of course there's all the many other great poets such as Omah Kyham, Robert Service, William Blake, Brian Brooke, C. Emily Dibb, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, Yeats, Byron, Swift, Dryden, Okri, Tennyson, Poe Houseman, Rice....... my list of favourites goes on and on and on.

I've got a shit internet connection just now, but if I can fix it, I'll post some of my favourites.

I don't know if I can stay online long enough to get this done, but I'll give it a try.

I haven't taken a book on safari for many years because I don't ever seem to have time to get into one but over the years I've put together a leather bound volume of my own making with all my favourite poems & quotes etc and I try to make a point of being first up in the mornings so I can spend a few minutes at least reading my poetry collection before anyone stirs. For me, it's the very best part of th day.

This is probably gonna be the longest post in the history of AR.

Sooooo, here's some of my favourites:

The Thousandth Man by Rudyard Kipling

One man in a thousand, Solomon says,
Will stick more close than a brother.
And it's worth while seeking him half your days
If you find him before the other.
Nine nundred and ninety-nine depend
On what the world sees in you,
But the Thousandth man will stand your friend
With the whole round world agin you.

'Tis neither promise nor prayer nor show
Will settle the finding for 'ee.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em go
By your looks, or your acts, or your glory.
But if he finds you and you find him.
The rest of the world don't matter;
For the Thousandth Man will sink or swim
With you in any water.

You can use his purse with no more talk
Than he uses yours for his spendings,
And laugh and meet in your daily walk
As though there had been no lendings.
Nine hundred and ninety-nine of 'em call
For silver and gold in their dealings;
But the Thousandth Man h's worth 'em all,
Because you can show him your feelings.

His wrong's your wrong, and his right's your right,
In season or out of season.
Stand up and back it in all men's sight --
With that for your only reason!
Nine hundred and ninety-nine can't bide
The shame or mocking or laughter,
But the Thousandth Man will stand by your side
To the gallows-foot -- and after!


By Rudyard Kipling

IF YOU CAN KEEP YOUR HEAD WHEN ALL ABOUT YOU
ARE LOSING THEIRS AND BLAMING IT ON YOU,
IF YOU CAN TRUST YOURSELF WHEN ALL MEN DOUBT YOU,
BUT MAKE ALLOWANCE FOR THEIR DOUBTING TOO;
IF YOU CAN WAIT AND NOT BE TIRED BY WAITING,
OR BEING LIED ABOUT, - DON’T DEAL IN LIES,
OR BEING HATED, DON’T GIVE WAY TO HATING,
AND YET DON’T LOOK TOO GOOD, NOR WALK TOO WISE;

IF YOU CAN DREAM – AND NOT MAKE DREAMS YOUR MASTER;
IF YOU CAN THINK – AND NOT MAKE THOUGHTS YOUR AIM;
IF YOU CAN MEET WITH TRIUMPH AND DISASTER,
AND TREAT THOSE TWO IMPOSTERS JUST THE SAME;
IF YOU CAN BEAR TO HEAR THE TRUTH YOU’VE SPOKEN
TWISTED BY KNAVES TO MAKE A TRAP FOR FOOLS,
OR WATCH THE THINGS YOU GAVE YOUR LIFE YOUR LIFE TO, BROKEN,
AND STOOP AND BUILD ‘EM UP WITH WORN OUT TOOLS;

IF YOU CAN MAKE ONE HEAP OF ALL YOUR WINNINGS,
AND RISK IT ALL ON ONE TURN OF PITCH AND TOSS,
AND LOSE, AND START AGAIN AT YOUR BEGINNINGS,
AND NEVER BREATHE A WORD ABOUT YOUR LOSS;
IF YOU CAN FORCE YOUR HEART AND NERVE AND SINEW,
TO SERVE THEIR TURN LONG AFTER THEY ARE GONE,
AND SO HOLD ON WHEN THERE IS NOTHING IN YOU,
EXCEPT THE WILL, WHICH SAYS TO THEM, HOLD ON!

IF YOU CAN TALK WITH CROWDS AND KEEP YOUR VIRTUE,
OR WALK WITH KINGS – NOR LOSE THE COMMON TOUCH,
IF NEITHER FOES NOR LOVING FRIENDS CAN HURT YOU,
IF ALL MEN COUNT WITH YOU, BUT NONE TOO MUCH;
IF YOU CAN FILL THE UNFORGIVING MINUTE
WITH SIXTY SECONDS WORTH OF DISTANCE RUN,
YOURS IS THE EARTH AND EVERYTHING THAT’S IN IT,
AND – WHICH IS MORE – YOU’LL BE A MAN, MY SON.

Arundati Roy

THE ONLY DREAM WORTH HAVING IS TO DREAM THAT YOU’LL LIVE WHILE YOU’RE ALIVE AND DIE ONLY WHEN YOU’RE DEAD.
WHICH MEANS TO LOVE.
TO BE LOVED.
TO NEVER FORGET YOUR OWN INSIGNIFICANCE.
TO NEVER GET USED TO THE UNSPEAKABLE VIOLENCE AND VULGAR.
DISPARITY OF LIFE AROUND YOU.
TO SEEK JOY IN THE SADDEST PLACES.
TO PURSUE BEAUTY TO IT’S LAIR.
TO NEVER SIMPLIFY WHAT IS COMPLICATED OR COMPLICATE WHAT IS SIMPLE.
TO RESPECT STRENGTH NEVER POWER.
ABOVE ALL, TO WATCH.
TO TRY AND UNDERSTAND.
TO NEVER LOOK AWAY.
AND NEVER, NEVER TO FORGET.

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To do is to be. - Descartes
To be is to do. - Voltaire
Do be do be do. - Frank Sinatra


THE HUNTER
By Brian Brooke

I will tell you of the hunter, if ye listen for a while,
For their lives are worth the telling now and then;
There is much behind the curtain, which would make you raise a smile,
In the lives of these hard safari men.
For his life is full of changes – there are no two weeks the same,
And he’s not so free as hunters were of yore;
But his days are surely numbered; he must trek with all the game,
And ye’ll never see the hunter any more.
Out in the tropical forest, and out in the great dry plain,
Always under the scorching sun and oft in the drenching rain,
Where he has led his safaris, there he will lead again,
Till the hunter’s gone for ever, and the hunted all are slain.

Ye have pity for the soldier, who is fighting at the Front,
Ye have pity for the girl he left behind;
But the man who makes your countries and who stands the foremost brunt,
Ye have none for him – but still he doesn’t mind !
And if he should be married, well it makes no blooming odds,
He must trek away and leave his lonely wife;
One farewell kiss, one murmured word, one oath by all his gods,
And then off amongst the tusks he takes his life.
And there she alone awaits him, awaits for months on end;
To none can she tell her worries; on none can she e’er depend;
For she is more than a hunter’s wife – she is also the hunter’s friend.

The big-game shooter comes from home and the hunter takes him out,
With his countless loads of patent food and drink;
And the shootist in the Norfolk, he has nought to think about,
Which is just as well as p’raps he couldn’t think;
Then when ev’rything is ready, and at last they start away,
The shootist weighted down with belts and knives,
They have such a kit collected that a tenderfoot would say,
They were going out to camp for all their lives.
Pork butcher, millionaire by rights – Sir Patrick de John de Jones,
Well armed with musical boxes and loaded with gramophones,
Butterfly nets for beetles and bugs, and tins for the precious stones,
While under his stacks of rifles the black man sweats and groans.

And the hunter he must manage ev’ry detail of the trip;
For the present let us simply call him Jim,
James Dougal was his proper name – his horse’s name was “Gip,”
But plain Jim was always good enough for him.
Now what these big game sportsmen of the hunter and his work?
And what care they what the hell he has to do?
So long as he will shoot their game and do the part they shirk,
And so long as he will keep their secrets too,
They oft complain safari life is wearisome and tame;
When posho’s short and the boys desert it’s always much the same;
They never know when the horse is sick, and the one sound mule goes lame;
What odds are these if they’ve lots to eat and someone to shoot their game?

One morning when the eggs run out and the bacon isn’t cooked,
He at once begins to talk of starting home;
He swears that he’s been swindled, cheated, blackguarded and rooked,
And he’ll wish to God he’d never even come.
When he misses twenty shots per day he swears his rifles wrong,
And curses maker, cartridges and buck;
And everything is murmured to the one eternal song;
Oh it’s just the same – it always was my luck !
Now he’s tired out with trekking, and he’s bored when he’s in camp;
Then he’s burnt his mouth with smoking and he cannot taste his “champ”;
He declares enamelled dishes would not satisfy a tramp,
And the man who made his groundsheet is a rascal and a scamp.

But all is well that ends well, and De Jones is home once more
With his trophies hung about on ev’ry wall;
From the Lion on the carpet to the tusk behind the door
He can tell you diff’rent stories of them all.
And if you press him gently, you will hear with bated breath
All the roughing and the hardships he has known;
How he killed those many trophies, all his risks with life and death,
How he hunted, trapped and caught them all alone;
How he led his own safari into dangers fierce and rife,
How he quelled a native rising, lurid yarns of blood and strife,
How he mesmerised a Lion, how he saved his hunter’s life;
Press him once more very gently – how he bought and sold a wife.

But the hunter, he is out again on such another trip;
- For the present let us simply call him Jim,
James Dougal was his proper name – his horse’s name was “Gip” –
And plain Jim was always good enough for him.
And De Jones need never worry, that his secrets shall be known,
Though he feels a tremor now and then, of course,
For the honour of a hunter is a password of his own,
And you cannot draw a secret from a horse.
Now he’s smiling by his fire, and his smile is hard and grim;
He knows that Rowland Ward’s is full with his heads to the brim.
Yes, Rowland has his records, but he does not mention him;
They’re shot by Butcher, Jones and Co., - and not by Hunter Jim!


The Two-Sided Man
By Rudyard Kipling

Much I owe to the Lands that grew--
More to the Lives that fed--
But most to Allah Who gave me two
Separate sides to my head.

Much I reflect on the Good and the True
In the Faiths beneath the sun,
But most to Allah Who gave me two
Sides to my head, not one.

Wesley's following, Calvin's flock,
White or yellow or bronze,
Shaman, Ju-ju or Angekok,
Minister, Mukamuk, Bonze--

Here is a health, my brothers, to you,
However your prayers are said,
And praised be Allah Who gave me two
Separate sides to my head!

I would go without shirt or shoe,
Friend, tobacco or bread,
Sooner than lose for a minute the two
Separate sides of my head!

Freedom’s Fool
By Robert Service

To hell with Government I say;
I'm sick of all the piddling pack.
I'd like to scram, get clean away,
And never, nevermore come back.
With heart of hope I long to go
To some lost island of the sea,
And there get drunk with joy to know
No one on earth is over me.

There will be none to say me nay,
So from my lexicon I can
Obliterate the word "obey",
And mock the meddling laws of man.
The laws of Nature and of God
Are good enough for guys like me,
Who scorn to kiss the scarlet rod
Of office and authority.

No Stars and Stripes nor Union Jack,
Nor tri-colour nor crimson rag
Shall claim my love, I'll turn my back
On every land, on every flag.
My banner shall be stainless white,
An emblem of the Golden Rule,
Yet for its freedom I will fight
And die - like any other fool.

Oh Government's a bitter pill!
No force or fear shall forge my fate;
I'll bow to no communal will,
For I myself shall be the State.
Uncurst by man-curb and control,
my Isle shall be emparadised,
And I will re-possess my soul . . .
Mad Anarchist! - Well, wasn't Christ?

Selected from the Rubiat of Omar Khayam

Awake for morning in the bowl of night,
Has flung the stars that put the stars to flight,
And lo! The hunter of the east has caught,
The sultan’s turret in a noose of light.


Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough,
A flask of wine, a book of verse – and thou,
Beside me singing in the wilderness-
And wilderness is paradise enow.


Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into dust descend:
Dust into dust, and under dust to lie,
Sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and – sans end!


The moving finger writes, and having writ,
Moves on, nor all thy piety nor wit,
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.


The Call of Africa
By C. Emily Dibb

When you've acquired a taste for dust,
The scent of our first rain,
You're hooked for life on Africa
And you'll not be right again
Till you can watch the setting moon
And hear the jackals bark
And know that they're around you,
Waiting in the dark.

When you long to see the elephants,
Or to hear the coucal's song,
When the moonrise sets your blood on fire,
You've been away too long
It's time to cut the traces loose
And let your heart go free
Beyond that far horizon,
Where your spirit yearns to be

Africa is waiting - come!
Since you've touched the open sky
And learned to love the rustling grass,
The wild fish-eagles cry.
You'll always hunger for the bush,
For the lion's rasping roar,
To camp at last beneath the stars
And to be at peace once more

The Exile
By C. Emily Dibb

I miss the earth of Africa,
The hot dry stones, the sand,
The friendly feel of sun warmed rock,
Beneath my outspread hand.

I miss the smell of Africa,
The fragrance of the grass,
At dewfall in the evening.
In the glades where leopards pass.

I miss the light of Africa,
The glare that hurts the eyes,
The shock of blinding brilliance,
In noonday’s cloud-massed skies.

I miss the sounds of Africa,
The barking of baboon,
And the thunder of the lion’s roar,
That greets the rising moon.


I miss the wind of Africa,
That blows before the rain,
The warm, wet wind of heaven,
I must breathe it once again.

Oh I long to sleep in Africa,
Through a velvet summer night,
And there to dream of days gone by,
Until my soul takes flight.

Then should I wake in Africa,
I’ll hear the bulbul’s song,
And know that I am home at last,
Back home where I belong.


I love to drink martinis,
Two at the very most,
Three, I’m under the table,
Four, I’m under the host!


The Men That Don't Fit In
By Robert Service

There's a race of men that don't fit in,
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.

If they just went straight they might go far;
They are strong and brave and true;
But they're always tired of the things that are,
And they want the strange and new.
They say: "Could I find my proper groove,
What a deep mark I would make!"
So they chop and change, and each fresh move
Is only a fresh mistake.

And each forgets, as he strips and runs
With a brilliant, fitful pace,
It's the steady, quiet, plodding ones
Who win in the lifelong race.
And each forgets that his youth has fled,
Forgets that his prime is past,
Till he stands one day, with a hope that's dead,
In the glare of the truth at last.

He has failed, he has failed; he has missed his chance;
He has just done things by half.
Life's been a jolly good joke on him,
And now is the time to laugh.
Ha, ha! He is one of the Legion Lost;
He was never meant to win;
He's a rolling stone, and it's bred in the bone;
He's a man who won't fit in.

The New Year
By Brian Brooke

The sun is sinking in the west, like one great brazen orb of light,
Till poised upon the mountain crest, it seems to halt before its flight;
Of all God’s gifts, by far the best, of all his blessings, far most blest,
Then swiftly sinks before our sight; the day is dead, God bless the night!

So dies the year, and who would hold it back if even power he had?
The New Year comes, farewell the old! Why stand and mourn in accents sad?
Some plunge ahead with spirits bold, and some may stand with conscience cold;
But each and all his share may add, there’s none too good and none too bad.

Some sit alone this New Year’s eve, and some within a crowded place;
To some the old year seems to leave of joy and gladness not a trace.
But joy and sadness interweave, and if you laugh, you fain must grieve;
Death is a thing we all must face, and time is of unaltered pace.

The old man feels the time go fast, he knows his years are growing few;
The cloak of youth from him is cast – ah, if the young man only knew!
But do not think your time is past; your heart is young until the last;
Where’er there’s youth there’s work for you; let each year start your youth anew.

For you, East Africa, I trust this coming year with joys may fill;
May this year ever further thrust you up the steep and stony hill.
Then, to your sons, it is but just success should come; for come it must!
And to officials all goodwill; may improve a little still!

We all have friends in other lands, friends whom we love to call our own;
We may not grasp them by the hands, - but are our wishes thither blown?
The lonely settler silent stands, the night breeze fans the firebrands;
There’s much on earth which is unknown; I fancy he is not alone!
The sun is rising in the East, the morning light is cold and clear;
The lion leaves his midnight feast, the jackal slinks away in fear;
The sky with golden lines is creased; good luck to all, both man and beast;
To all our friends, both far and near, a prosp’rous, happy, bright New Year!


Zulu Song

The beautiful death who puts on a spotted robe,
When he goes to his victim.
The playful killer,
Whose loving embrace,
Splits the antelope’s heart.


Walt Whitman

I think I could turn and live with animals,
They are so placid and self contained.
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not swear and whine about their condition,
They do not lie awake and weep for their sins.
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God,
Not one is dissatisfied.
Not one is demented with the mania of owning things,
Not one kneels to another.
Nor to his kind that lived a thousand years ago,
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole world.


The Land of Beyond
Have you ever heard of the Land of Beyond,
That dream at the gates of the day?
Alluring it lies at the skirts of the skies,
And ever so far away;
Alluring it calls: O ye yoke of galls,
And ye of the trails overfond,
With saddle and pack, by paddle and track,
Let’s go to the Land of Beyond!

Have ever you stood where the silences brood,
And vast the horizons begin,
At the dawn of the day to behold far away
The goal you would strive for and win?
Yet ah! in the night when you gain to the height,
With the vast pool of heaven star-spawned,
Afar and agleam, like a valley of dream,
Still mocks you the Land of Beyond.

Thank God! there is always the Land of Beyond
For us who are true to the trail;
A vision to seek, a beckoning peak,
A fairness that never will fail;
A proud in our soul that mocks at a goal,
A manhood that irks at a bond,
And try how we will, unattainable still,
Behold it, our Land of Beyond!


When You Are Old


When you are old and gray and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And his face amid a crowd of stars.

W. B. Yeats (1865-1939)


The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
She Walks in Beauty
By Byron, Lord George Byron
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

The Vagabond
By Robert Louis Steveson


Give to me the life I love,
Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above
And the byway night me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,
Bread I dip in the river --
There's the life for a man like me,
There's the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around
And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,
Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above
And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me
Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,
Biting the blue finger;
White as meal the frosty field --
Warm the fireside haven --
Not to autumn will I yield,
Not to winter even!


Let the blow fall soon or late,
Let what will be o'er me;
Give the face of earth around,
And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope, nor love,
Nor a friend to know me.
All I ask, the heaven above
And the road below me.


When We Two Parted
By Byron, Lord George Gordon
WHEN we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow —
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me —
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well: —
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met —
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? —
With silence and tears.

Upon the Nipples of Julia’s Breast
By Robert Herrick.

Have you beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry (double graced)
Within a lily? (double graced)
Or ever marked the pretty beam
A strawberry shows half drowned in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl, and orient too?
So like all this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.

The Place of the Damned
By Jonathan Swift

All folks who pretend to religion and grace,
Allow there's a HELL, but dispute of the place:
But, if HELL may by logical rules be defined
The place of the damned -I'll tell you my mind.
Wherever the damned do chiefly abound,
Most certainly there is HELL to be found:
Damned poets, damned critics, damned blockheads, damned knaves,
Damned senators bribed, damned prostitute slaves;
Damned lawyers and judges, damned lords and damned squires;
Damned spies and informers, damned friends and damned liars;
Damned villains, corrupted in every station;
Damned time-serving priests all over the nation;
And into the bargain I'll readily give you
Damned ignorant prelates, and counsellors privy.
Then let us no longer by parsons be flammed,
For we know by these marks the place of the damned:
And HELL to be sure is at Paris or Rome.
How happy for us that it is not at home!

From Tryst with Tigers by Sher Jung

The jungle is the place to test one’s mettle and one’s skill. It is a place for personal and individual adventure. To tackle the adversary on the ground of it’s own choosing and to outwit it in it’s own game of woodcraft is the real joy and thrill of hunting. Always remember that hunting is not just killing animals, it is much more than killing; Killing is the least important part of it.

The rhyme of the Restless Ones
By Robert Service


We couldn't sit and study for the law;
The stagnation of a bank we couldn't stand;
For our riot blood was surging, and we didn't need much urging
To excitements and excesses that are banned.
So we took to wine and drink and other things,
And the devil in us struggled to be free;
Till our friends rose up in wrath, and they pointed out the path,
And they paid our debts and packed us o'er the sea.

Oh, they shook us off and shipped us o'er the foam,
To the larger lands that lure a man to roam;
And we took the chance they gave
Of a far and foreign grave,
And we bade good-by for evermore to home.

And some of us are climbing on the peak,
And some of us are camping on the plain;
By pine and palm you'll find us, with never claim to bind us,
By track and trail you'll meet us once again.

We are the fated serfs to freedom -- sky and sea;
We have failed where slummy cities overflow;
But the stranger ways of earth know our pride and know our worth,
And we go into the dark as fighters go.

Yes, we go into the night as brave men go,
Though our faces they be often streaked with woe;
Yet we're hard as cats to kill,
And our hearts are reckless still,
And we've danced with death a dozen times or so.

And you'll find us in Alaska after gold,
And you'll find us herding cattle in the South.
We like strong drink and fun, and, when the race is run,
We often die with curses in our mouth.
We are wild as colts unbroke, but never mean.
Of our sins we've shoulders broad to bear the blame;
But we'll never stay in town and we'll never settle down,
And we'll never have an object or an aim.

No, there's that in us that time can never tame;
And life will always seem a careless game;
And they'd better far forget --
Those who say they love us yet --
Forget, blot out with bitterness our name

The Mother's Son
By Rudyard Kipling

I have a dream -- a dreadful dream --
A dream that is never done.
I watch a man go out of his mind,
And he is My Mother's Son.


They pushed him into a Mental Home,
And that is like the grave:
For they do not let you sleep upstairs,
And you aren't allowed to shave.

And it was not disease or crime
Which got him landed there,
But because They laid on My Mother's Son
More than a man could bear.

What with noise, and fear of death,
Waking, and wounds and cold,
They filled the Cup for My Mother's Son
Fuller than it could hold.

They broke his body and his mind
And yet They made him live,
And They asked more of My Mother's Son
Than any man could give.

For, just because he had not died,
Nor been discharged nor sick,
They dragged it out with My Mother's Son
Longer than he could stick....

And no one knows when he'll get well --
So, there he'll have to be:
And, 'spite of the beard in the looking-glass,
I know that man is me!


There were no dogs of war.
The earth was theirs.
And song and colour held them for their own.
They could bestride the stars –
yet not disown their kinship with the lowly.
They were heirs to all ages.
Deeds they wrought alone,
And no-one knew –so softly were they done.

The simple things they loved –
like children’s laughter –
Watching the patchwork scene, or on some height.
To stand alone with nature.
Theirs by right –
Prosperity –they never knew.
But after they were gone the paths that others tread
Burned with their footprints – But chivalry was dead.


Carry On!
It’s easy to fight when everything’s right,
And you’re mad with thrill and the glory;
It’s easy to cheer when victory’s near,
And wallow in fields that are gory.
It’s a different song when everything’s wrong,
When you’re feeling infernally mortal;
When it’s ten against one, and hope there is none,
Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:

Carry on! Carry on!
There isn’t much punch in your blow.
You are glaring and staring and hitting out blind;
You are muddy and bloody, but never you mind.
Carry on! Carry on!
You haven’t the ghost of a show.
It’s looking like death, but while you’ve a breath,
Carry on, my son! Carry on!

And so in the strife of the battle of life
It’s easy to fight when you’re winning;
It’s easy to slave, and starve and be brave,
When the dawn of success is beginning.
But the man who can meet despair and defeat
With a cheer, there’s the man of God’s choosing;
The man who can fight to Heaven’s own height
Is the man who can fight when he’s losing.

Carry on! Carry on!
Thing never were looming so black.
But show that you haven’t a cowardly streak,
And though you’re unlucky you never are weak.
Carry on! Carry on!
Brace up for another attack.
It’s looking like hell, but – you never tell.
Carry on, old man! Carry on!

There are some who drift out in the desert of doubt
And some who in brutishness wallow;
There are others, I know, who in piety go
Because of a Heaven to follow.
But to labor with zest, and to give of your best,
For the sweetness and joy of the giving;
To help folks along with a hand and a song;
Why, there’s the real sunshine of living.

Carry on! Carry on!
Fight the good fight and true;
Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer;
There’s big work to do, and that’s why you are here.
Carry on! Carry on!
Let the world be the better for you;
And at last when you die, let this be your cry!
Carry on, my soul! Carry on!



Nature
By Brian Brooke

It is strange to think of, but I never cared for flowers,
With their tints of pink and purple, blue and red,
For their bloom is short and fragile, it as most can last for hours,
And they’re hideously ugly when they’re dead.

I would rather see a snowflake falling softly on the land,
Though it’s life may last a minute and it’s o’er
And to see the snowdrifts whirling is a sight that’s really grand,
Though their strength and beauty passes in the thaw.


But the things I love in nature are the height, the depth the length,
Of the mountains and the ocean, and the plain,
All the things that tell so wondrously, the magnitude and strength
Of the hand that made the things, which will remain.

Oh I love to see the mountains with their everlasting snow,
And the things too big and fine to understand,
Like the huge and mighty cataracts where the waters ever flow,
And the limitless expanse of desert sand.

And I like the clear bright sunlight, and the snow, the hail, the rain,
And the thunderstorms where the lightnings fork and flash;
And the forests and the jungles and the desert and the plain;
Where the colours always mix and never clash.

For there’s nothing bad in nature, nothing ever small or mean,
Ev’rything is always good and square and strong;
And there’s nothing looks untidy, ev’ry place is pure and clean,
And there’s no mistakes, and nothings ever wrong.

Oh I love to lie at midnight in the clear and open veldt,
And to watch the stars above me in the sky;
That’s the time I do my thinking, and at times I’ve often felt
That’s the sort of time and place I’d like to die.

It is good to be out somewhere all alone in nature’s arms,
When one lays one’s blanket down and goes to rest;
And I’ve often thought of all her gifts, of all of Nature’s charms,
That the glory of her silence is the best.

Astronomers and scientists can name each star they see.
And can reckon out their distances and speed;
But to lie awake and watch them, that is good enough for me,
And as good as any novel you can read.

First the clear and ashen moon light stealing out across the plain,
And the first dim grayish colouring of morn;
Then the fading of the starlight as the moon begins to wane,
And the blood-red golden triumph of the dawn.

Oh no atheist can really be an atheist at heart,
Who has lived alone with Nature in the bush,
Who has heard the desert calling and has seen the night depart,
And has slumbered ‘neath that awe-inspiring hush.

Where the mountains pierce the heavens and the plains stretch far and wide,
Whether desert sand or rich and fertile sod;
Where the raging, roaring torrents cleave the cliffs on either side,
There is nature and there surely is a God.

And it’s not the God we worship or the God that other’s do,
We must always be the one and only thought;
For with Christian, Mohammedan, the Buddhist and the Jew,
It’s the God whom each in childhood has been taught.

If he hopes for resurrection, or he trusts alone to fate,
If he plays the game and plays it fair and square,
Whatever his religion is, as long as he is straight,
The God who made the mountains will not care.



But I moralise and weary you with fancies such as these,
And such tales from me I know are out of place;
But it’s hard to live with Nature long and see the things one sees,
And not to look religion in the face;

When you lie awake at midnight, half awake and half asleep,
And you see the silver moon afloat on high,
Or from some lonely Kopje see the early sunbeams creep,
Like streams of golden liquid o’er the sky.

I have no books of science by the clever and the wise,
So I only know the nature that I see;
But I glory in her power, and her strength I realise,
And – well Nature seems to hit it off with me.

When I lie me down at twilight ‘neath some wide and spreading tree,
She will whisper as the night breeze gently hums,
Oh that boy, he gets my meaning, and he understands me,
And I calculate that boy and me are chums.



THE BOTTLE
By Robert Service

When first into this life I burst,
My infant wails to throttle,
My Mother gratified my thirst,
By giving me a bottle,
T’was milk of course, but how I made,
It gush to my subsistence;
And ever since, the bottles played a part in my existence.

It’s never done me any ill’ –
Least, none that I’m aware of;
But if it does, I have the will,
Immediately to swear off.
So in my cellar, cool and dark
Are wines my heart to kindle,
And ‘ere I lose this living spark,
I hope to make them dwindle.

If Ma had fed me at the breast,
I might have been teetotal.
Poor dear! She knew what was best,
And raised me on the bottle.
Let water from my board be banned,
And though my nose it mottle,
Here’s to wine’s jolly sunshine and
The boon that’s in the bottle.

THE CALL OF THE WILD
By Robert Service

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.


HAPPY THE MAN
By John Dryden

Happy the man and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own;
He who secure within, can say
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine,
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not heaven itself upon the past has power;
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.


THE LONE TRAIL
By Robert Service

Ye who know the Lone Trail fain would follow it,
Though it lead to glory or the darkness of the pit.
Ye who take the Lone Trail, bid your love good-by;
The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow till you die.
The trails of the world be countless, and most of the trails be tried;
You tread on the heels of the many, till you come where the ways divide;
And one lies safe in the sunlight, and the other is dreary and wan,
Yet you look aslant at the Lone Trail, and the Lone Trail lures you on.
And somehow you're sick of the highway, with its noise and its easy needs,
And you seek the risk of the by-way, and you reck not where it leads.
And sometimes it leads to the desert, and the togue swells out of the mouth,
And you stagger blind to the mirage, to die in the mocking drouth.
And sometimes it leads to the mountain, to the light of the lone camp-fire,
And you gnaw your belt in the anguish of hunger-goded desire.
And sometimes it leads to the Southland, to the swamp where the orchid glows,
And you rave to your grave with the fever, and they rob the corpse for its clothes.
And sometimes it leads to the Northland, and the scurvy softens your bones,
And your flesh dints in like putty, and you spit out your teeth like stones.
And sometimes it leads to a coral reef in the wash of a weedy sea,
And you sit and stare at the empty glare where the gulls wait greedily.
And sometimes it leads to an Arctic trail, and the snows where your torn feet freeze,
And you whittle away the useless clay, and crawl on your hands and knees.
Often it leads to the dead-pit; always it leads to pain;
By the bones of your brothers ye know it, but oh, to follow you're fain.
By your bones they will follow behind you, till the ways of the world are made plain.
Bid good-by to sweetheart, bid good-by to friend;
The Lone Trail, the Lone Trail follow to the end.
Tarry not, and fear not, chosen of the true;
Lover of the Lone Trail, the Lone Trail waits for you.


BUTCHERED TO MAKE A DUTCHMAN’S HOLIDAY
By Breaker Morant


In prison cell I sadly sit,
A d__d crest-fallen chappie!
And own to you I feel a bit-
A little bit - unhappy!


It really ain't the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction -
But yet we'll write a final rhyme
Whilst waiting cru-ci-fixion!


No matter what "end" they decide -
Quick-lime or "b'iling ile," sir?
We'll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir!


But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men,
Who come across in transport ship
To polish off the Dutchmen!


If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot 'em!
And if you wish to leave these shores,
For pity's sake, DON'T SHOOT 'EM!!


And if you'd earn a D.S.O.,
Why every British sinner
Should know the proper way to go
Is: "ASK THE BOER TO DINNER!"


Let's toss a bumper down our throat, -
Before we pass to Heaven,
And toast: "The trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon."



To an English Friend in Africa
By Ben Okri
Be grateful for freedom
To see other dreams.
Bless your loneliness as much as you drank
Of your former companionships.
All that you are experiencing now
Will become moods of future joys
So bless it all.
Do not think your ways superior
To another's
Do not venture to judge
But see things with fresh and open eyes
Do not condemn
But praise what you can
And when you can't be silent.
Time is now a gift for you
A gift of freedom
To think and remember and understand
The ever perplexing past
And to re-create yourself anew
In order to transform time.
Live while you are alive.
Learn the ways of silence and wisdom
Learn to act, learn a new speech
Learn to be what you are in the seed of your spirit
Learn to free yourself from all things that have moulded you
And which limit your secret and undiscovered road.
Remember that all things which happen
To you are raw materials
Endlessly fertile
Endlessly yielding of thoughts that could change
Your life and go on doing for ever.
Never forget to pray and be thankful
For all the things good or bad on the rich road;
For everything is changeable
So long as you live while you are alive.
Fear not, but be full of light and love;
Fear not but be alert and receptive;
Fear not but act decisively when you should;
Fear not, but know when to stop;
Fear not for you are loved by me;
Fear not, for death is not the real terror,
But life -magically - is.
Be joyful in your silence
Be strong in your patience
Do not try to wrestle with the universe
But be sometimes like water or air
Sometimes like fire
Live slowly, think slowly, for time is a mystery.
Never forget that love
Requires that you be
The greatest person you are capable of being,
Self-generating and strong and gentle-
Your own hero and star.
Love demands the best in us
To always and in time overcome the worst
And lowest in our souls.
Love the world wisely.
It is love alone that is the greatest weapon
And the deepest and hardest secret.
So fear not, my friend.
The darkness is gentler than you think.
Be grateful for the manifold
Dreams of creation
And the many ways of unnumbered peoples.
Be grateful for life as you live it.
And may a wonderful light
Always guide you on the unfolding road.


To taste the danger, to view the pure hatred in the rheumy eyes of the ill tempered old Buffalo bull, and to know that in a few seconds one of you will no longer exist on this earth. That is truly to have lived and in the living to have savoured the true essence of life.

MY FANCY
by: Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)
PAINTED her a gushing thing,
With years perhaps a score;
A little thought to find they were
At least a dozen more;
My fancy gave her eyes of blue,
A curly, auburn head;
I came to find the blue a green
The auburn turned to red.

She boxed my ears this morning--
They tingled very much;
I own that I could wish her
A somewhat lighter touch;
And if you were to ask me how
Her charms might be improved,
I would not have them added to,
But just a few removed!

She has the bear's ethereal grace,
The bland hyena's laugh,
The footstep of the elephant,
The neck of the giraffe.
I love her still, believe me,
Though my heart its passion hides;
"She is all my fancy painted her,"
But, oh, how much besides!



THE INVITATION
By Oriah Mountain Dreamer, Indian Elder
It doesn't interest me what you do for a living
I want to know what you ache for
and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
for love
for your dreams
for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon...
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow
if you have been opened by life's betrayals
or have become shrivelled and closed
from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain
mine or your own
without moving to hide it
or fade it
or fix it.


I want to know if you can be with joy
mine or your own
if you can dance with wildness
and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your
fingers and toes
without cautioning us to
be careful
be realistic
to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you are telling me
is true.
I want to know if you can
disappoint another
to be true to yourself.
If you can bear the accusation of betrayal
and not betray your own soul.
If you can be faithless
and therefore trustworthy.
I want to know if you can see Beauty
even when it is not pretty
every day.
And if you can source your own life
from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure
yours and mine
and still stand on the edge of the lake
and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes."

It doesn't interest me
to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up
after a night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children.

It doesn't interest me who you know
or how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
in the center of the fire
with me
and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom
you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
from the inside
when all else falls away.
I want to know if you can be alone
with yourself
and if you truly like the company you keep
in the empty moments.

The Lure of Little Voices
By Robert Service
There's a cry from out the loneliness -- oh, listen, Honey, listen!
Do you hear it, do you fear it, you're a-holding of me so?
You're a-sobbing in your sleep, dear, and your lashes, how they glisten --
Do you hear the Little Voices all a-begging me to go?
All a-begging me to leave you. Day and night they're pleading, praying,
On the North-wind, on the West-wind, from the peak and from the plain;
Night and day they never leave me -- do you know what they are saying?
"He was ours before you got him, and we want him once again."
Yes, they're wanting me, they're haunting me, the awful lonely places;
They're whining and they're whimpering as if each had a soul;
They're calling from the wilderness, the vast and God-like spaces,
The stark and sullen solitudes that sentinel the Pole.
They miss my little camp-fires, ever brightly, bravely gleaming
In the womb of desolation, where was never man before;
As comradeless I sought them, lion

Steve,
That's a lot of poetry!

Thank goodness you included "The Bottle" and "My Fancy". Otherwise Breaker Morant was the comedy relief!

hope you enjoyed it!...... it's about half of what's in my 'leather collection'

I also like this

Upon the Nipples of Julia’s Breast
By Robert Herrick.

Have you beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry (double graced)
Within a lily? (double graced)
Or ever marked the pretty beam
A strawberry shows half drowned in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl, and orient too?
So like all this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.


And also

I love to drink martinis,
Two at the very most,
Three, I'm under the table,
Four, I'm under the host!

All this talk of Kipling, reminds me of a story a friend of mine tells and swears is true.

He was in a bar at the conventions chatting up a blonde and was talking to her about poetry. He said, I love Kipling, do you. She replied, I don't know, how do you Kipple?

Selected from the Rubiat of Omar Khayam

Awake for morning in the bowl of night,
Has flung the stars that put the stars to flight,
And lo! The hunter of the east has caught,
The sultan’s turret in a noose of light.


Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough,
A flask of wine, a book of verse – and thou,
Beside me singing in the wilderness-
And wilderness is paradise enow.


Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,
Before we too into dust descend:
Dust into dust, and under dust to lie,
Sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and – sans end!


The moving finger writes, and having writ,
Moves on, nor all thy piety nor wit,
Shall lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it.
-----------------

Talk about nostalgia!!! I'd guess that was the all-time best seducer of nubile young co-eds which was ever penned. At least I found it so... A jug (or two) of wine, a loaf of bread, a VW bus, a private thicket...And he SCORES!!

WRT The verse that starts 'Awake for morning in the bowl of light' etc........ I've used that verse to wake clients and others whenever necessary for umpteen years........... most comment favourably, but if I use it to wake Mama Shakari up, she bites my head off!

I know what you mean though. I love good poetry for many reasons, but have to agree it was also always a good elastic loosener!

Good stuff. Thanks for taking the time to post. I'm inspired to dig out some of my favorites. Too "busy".