Posted: 9/5/2016 10:53:16 PM EDT
|
Just waxing poetic,y tonight inbetween WiFi outages and thought I'd share some of my favorites:
The Ballad of East and West OH, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth! Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side, 5 And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the Colonel’s pride: He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a troop of the Guides: “Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?” 10 Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar, “If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. At dusk he harries the Abazai—at dawn he is into Bonair, But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, 15 By the favor of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai, But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men. There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.” 20 The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, and the head of the gallows-tree. The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat— Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. He ’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, 25 Till he was aware of his father’s mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, Till he was aware of his father’s mare with Kamal upon her back, And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. “Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “Show now if ye can ride.” 30 It ’s up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go, The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, 35 And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho’ never a man was seen. They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. The dun he fell at a water-course—in a woful heap fell he, And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. 40 He has knocked the pistol out of his hand—small room was there to strive, “’T was only by favor of mine,” quoth he, “ye rode so long alive: There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, 45 The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting all in a row: If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.” Lightly answered the Colonel’s son:—“Do good to bird and beast, But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. 50 If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, Belike the price of a jackal’s meal were more than a thief could pay. They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain, The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. But if thou thinkest the price be fair,—thy brethren wait to sup, 55 The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,—howl, dog, and call them up! And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, Give me my father’s mare again, and I ’ll fight my own way back!” Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. “No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf and gray wolf meet. 60 May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?” Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “I hold by the blood of my clan: Take up the mare for my father’s gift—by God, she has carried a man!” The red mare ran to the Colonel’s son, and nuzzled against his breast, 65 “We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but she loveth the younger best. So she shall go with a lifter’s dower, my turquoise-studded rein, My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.” The Colonel’s son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, “Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he; “will ye take the mate from a friend?” 70 “A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight; “a limb for the risk of a limb. Thy father has sent his son to me, I ’ll send my son to him!” With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest— He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. “Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads a troop of the Guides, 75 And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, Thy life is his—thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. So thou must eat the White Queen’s meat, and all her foes are thine, And thou must harry thy father’s hold for the peace of the border-line. 80 And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power— Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.” They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, 85 On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God. The Colonel’s son he rides the mare and Kamal’s boy the dun, And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear— There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. 90 “Ha’ done! ha’ done!” said the Colonel’s son. “Put up the steel at your sides! Last night ye had struck at a Border thief—to-night ’t is a man of the Guides!” Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the two shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, 95 When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they come from the ends of the earth. -Rudyard Kipling-1895 White Man's Burden Take up the White Man's burden-- Send forth the best ye breed-- Go bind your sons to exile To serve your captives' need; To wait in heavy harness, On fluttered folk and wild-- Your new-caught, sullen peoples, Half-devil and half-child. Take up the White Man's burden-- In patience to abide, To veil the threat of terror And check the show of pride; By open speech and simple, An hundred times made plain To seek another's profit, And work another's gain. Take up the White Man's burden-- The savage wars of peace-- Fill full the mouth of Famine And bid the sickness cease; And when your goal is nearest The end for others sought, Watch sloth and heathen Folly Bring all your hopes to nought. Take up the White Man's burden-- No tawdry rule of kings, But toil of serf and sweeper-- The tale of common things. The ports ye shall not enter, The roads ye shall not tread, Go mark them with your living, And mark them with your dead. Take up the White Man's burden-- And reap his old reward: The blame of those ye better, The hate of those ye guard-- The cry of hosts ye humour (Ah, slowly!) toward the light:-- "Why brought he us from bondage, Our loved Egyptian night?" Take up the White Man's burden-- Ye dare not stoop to less-- Nor call too loud on Freedom To cloke (1) your weariness; By all ye cry or whisper, By all ye leave or do, The silent, sullen peoples Shall weigh your gods and you. Take up the White Man's burden-- Have done with childish days-- The lightly proferred laurel, (2) The easy, ungrudged praise. Comes now, to search your manhood Through all the thankless years Cold, edged with dear-bought wisdom, The judgment of your peers! -Rudyard Kipling-1899 Soudan Expeditionary Force (Fuzzy Wuzzy) WE ’VE fought with many men acrost the seas, An’ some of ’em was brave an’ some was not, The Paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese; But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot. We never got a ha’porth’s change of ’im: 5 ’E squatted in the scrub an’ ’ocked our ’orses, ’E cut our sentries up at Suakim, An’ ’e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces. So ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Soudan; You ’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man; 10 We gives you your certificate, an’ if you want it signed We ’ll come an’ ’ave a romp with you whenever you ’re inclined. We took our chanst among the Kyber ’ills, The Boers knocked us silly at a mile, The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills, 15 An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style: But all we ever got from such as they Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller; We ’eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say, But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ’oller. 20 Then ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid; Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went an’ did. We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it was n’t ’ardly fair; But for all the odds agin’ you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square. ’E ’as n’t got no papers of ’is own, 25 ’E ’as n’t got no medals nor rewards, So we must certify the skill ’e ’s shown In usin’ of ’is long two-’anded swords: When ’e ’s ’oppin’ in an’ out among the bush With ’is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear, 30 An ’appy day with Fuzzy on the rush Will last an ’ealthy Tommy for a year. So ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which are no more, If we ’ad n’t lost some messmates we would ’elp you to deplore; But give an’ take ’s the gospel, an’ we ’ll call the bargain fair, 35 For if you ’ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square! ’E rushes at the smoke when we let drive, An’, before we know, ’e ’s ’ackin’ at our ’ead; ’E ’s all ’ot sand an’ ginger when alive, An’ ’e ’s generally shammin’ when ’e ’s dead. 40 ’E ’s a daisy, ’e ’s a ducky, ’e ’s a lamb! ’E ’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree, ’E ’s the on’y thing that does n’t give a damn For a Regiment o’ British Infantree! So ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Soudan; 45 You ’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man; An’ ’ere ’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ’ayrick ’ead of ’air— You big black boundin’ beggar—for you broke a British square! -Rudyard Kipling-1892 Boots
(Infantry Columns) WE’RE foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin’ over Africa! Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin’ over Africa— (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!) There’s no discharge in the war! Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an’-twenty mile to-day— 5 Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before— (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!) There’s no discharge in the war! Don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t—look at what’s in front of you. (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again!) 10 Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin’ ’em, And there’s no discharge in the war! Try—try—try—try—to think o’ something different— Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin’ lunatic! (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again!) 15 There’s no discharge in the war! Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers. If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o’ you (Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!) There’s no discharge in the war! 20 We—can—stick—out—’unger, thirst, an’ weariness, But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of ’em— Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again! An’ there’s no discharge in the war! ’Tain’t—so—bad—by—day because o’ company, 25 But—night—brings—long—strings—o’ forty thousand million Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again. There’s no discharge in the war! I—’ave—marched—six—weeks in ’Ell an’ certify It—is—not—fire—devils—dark or anything, 30 But boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again, An’ there’s no discharge in the war! -Rudyard Kipling-1922 |
|
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! Oh and... 
I would very much like to have bought the man several drinks and had a conversations about life. |
|
Quoted:
Oh and... http://orig10.deviantart.net/4fea/f/2016/181/9/6/sithvamp_reviews__rikki_tikki_tavi_by_sithvampiremaster27-da88e3k.jpg I would very much like to have bought the man several drinks and had a conversations about life. Quoted:
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! Oh and... http://orig10.deviantart.net/4fea/f/2016/181/9/6/sithvamp_reviews__rikki_tikki_tavi_by_sithvampiremaster27-da88e3k.jpg I would very much like to have bought the man several drinks and had a conversations about life. "The Young British Soldier" was written out on a piece of plywood at the ECP to our COP in '09. |
|
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! This is worth quoting in full: The Young British Soldier
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! |
|
If
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 talk 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 impostors 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 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 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 your 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! |
|
The Gods of the Copybook Headings:
AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race, I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place. Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all. We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn: But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind, So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind. We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace, Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place, But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome. With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch, They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch; They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings; So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things. When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace. They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease. But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know. "On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life (Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife) Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death." In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all, By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul; But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die." Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more. As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man There are only four things certain since Social Progress began. That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire, And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire; And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins, As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn, The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return! |
|
Quoted:
"The Grave of the Hundred Head" - The solution to third world insurgencies was written in 15 stanzas of poetry from 1888 and we still can't seem to figure it out... Quoted:
"The Grave of the Hundred Head" - The solution to third world insurgencies was written in 15 stanzas of poetry from 1888 and we still can't seem to figure it out... The Grave of the Hundred Head
There's a widow in sleepy Chester Who weeps for her only son; There's a grave on the Pabeng River, A grave that the Burmans shun; And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri Who tells how the work was done. A Snider squibbed in the jungle, Somebody laughed and fled, And the men of the First Shikaris Picked up their Subaltern dead, With a big blue mark in his forehead And the back blown out of his head. Subadar Prag Tewarri, Jemadar Hira Lal, Took command of the party, Twenty rifles in all, Marched them down to the river As the day was beginning to fall. They buried the boy by the river, A blanket over his face— They wept for their dead Lieutenant, The men of an alien race— They made a samadh in his honor, A mark for his resting-place. For they swore by the Holy Water, They swore by the salt they ate, That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib Should go to his God in state, With fifty file of Burmans To open him Heaven's gate. The men of the First Shikaris Marched till the break of day, Till they came to the rebel village, The village of Pabengmay— A jingal covered the clearing, Calthrops hampered the way. Subadar Prag Tewarri, Bidding them load with ball, Halted a dozen rifles Under the village wall; Sent out a flanking-party With Jemadar Hira Lal. The men of the First Shikaris Shouted and smote and slew, Turning the grinning jingal On to the howling crew. The Jemadar's flanking-party Butchered the folk who flew. Long was the morn of slaughter, Long was the list of slain, Five score heads were taken, Five score heads and twain; And the men of the First Shikaris Went back to their grave again, Each man bearing a basket Red as his palms that day, Red as the blazing village - The village of Pabengmay, And the "drip-drip-drip" from the baskets Reddened the grass by the way. They made a pile of their trophies High as a tall man's chin, Head upon head distorted, Set in a sightless grin, Anger and pain and terror Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin. Subadar Prag Tewarri Put the head of the Boh On the top of the mound of triumph, The head of his son below— With the sword and the peacock-banner That the world might behold and know. Thus the samadh was perfect, Thus was the lesson plain Of the wrath of the First Shikaris - The price of a white man slain; And the men of the First Shikaris Went back into camp again. Then a silence came to the river, A hush fell over the shore, And Bohs that were brave departed, And Sniders squibbed no more; For the Burmans said That a white man's head Must be paid for with heads five-score. There's a widow in sleepy Chester Who weeps for her only son; There's a grave on the Pabeng River, A grave that the Burmans shun; And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri Who tells how the work was done. -Rudyard Kipling-1888 |
|
THE WRATH OF THE AWAKENED SAXON
by Rudyard Kipling It was not part of their blood, It came to them very late, With long arrears to make good, When the Saxon began to hate. They were not easily moved, They were icy -- willing to wait Till every count should be proved, Ere the Saxon began to hate. Their voices were even and low. Their eyes were level and straight. There was neither sign nor show When the Saxon began to hate. It was not preached to the crowd. It was not taught by the state. No man spoke it aloud When the Saxon began to hate. It was not suddently bred. It will not swiftly abate. Through the chilled years ahead, When Time shall count from the date That the Saxon began to hate. |
|
If-- is by far my favorite poem ever.
And this version isn't terrible: 
But, I'm shocked at any Kipling thread on this forum that doesn't mention The Mother Hive |
|
Quoted:
The Gods of the Copybook Headings: AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race, I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place. Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all. We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn: But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind, So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind. We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace, Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place, But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome. With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch, They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch; They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings; So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things. When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace. They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease. But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know. "On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life (Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife) Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death." In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all, By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul; But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy, And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die." Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more. As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man There are only four things certain since Social Progress began. That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire, And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire; And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins, As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn, The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return! There is much wisdom in this poem we seem to have or gotten. And I fear we will be reminded soon. 
|
