Night gathers, and now my watch begins.
It shall not end until my death.
I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children.
I shall wear no crowns and win no glory.
I shall live and die at my post.
I am the sword in the darkness.
I am the watcher on the walls.
I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men.
I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.
GRR Martin
About Me
- Miss Pancake Taylor
- I am Miss Pancake Taylor. I have come from very far away to take care of my family Craig and Zita and Niamh and Emmet. Sometimes I have helpers; my friends the Blackthorn-Badgers. They are very old Scotsmen. I am very glad to meet you.
Monday, 30 May 2011
Our Story - as much of it that can be told that is...
Story One - Chapter Three
The Rescue Mission
It was a wonderfully sunny Saturday, and the young Rhinosasauris was still half asleep when he arrived downstairs.
Everyone else was spread around the living room, knee deep in bagels, coffee, raspberry jam and several newspapers. The Dragons were over by the window, practicing signing their names by holding a pen in their coiled tails. They were going to apply for American Express cards they said.
Hearing the hubbub the Rhinosasauris slowly stuck his head around the corner and peered into the living room. ArchiBold McOinqle nudged Zita’s leg. She looked up and asked their latest guest if he wanted anything special for breakfast, “A small cup of black coffee would be quite nice, and the bagels look quite scrumptious.” he said.
“Well if you go into the kitchen and pick out a coffee cup for yourself you will find the coffee maker is on the counter the cream is in the fridge, make yourself at home.” said Craig.
He returned with a large mug with a big handle - Rhinosasauris don’t have small dainty hands as you might have guessed. When he was settled and the tray of bagels had been passed round several times, introductions were made all round.
When Dugal was introduced Colonel, The Honourable, Dugal Blackthorn-Badger, late of the 79th Regiment of Foot, the small Rhinosasauris said, “Oh you must be THE Blackthorn-Badger - who single-handedly cleaned out the old bazaar in upper Aden! You might remember my older brother. He was stationed there at that time.”
“Why of course I remember him, big laddie. Quite a nice fellow, a fine sense of humour, could throw a grenade sixty feet while doing his daily practice on The Pipes. Haven’t heard from him in a while. Have you?”
The young Rhinosasauris took a long sip of his coffee and said quite softly, but with certain resolution, “I am very sorry to have to be the one to tell you this - my brother has been held captive for near two years now, by the most despicable sort of Burbary Pyrates. I have tracked down their address, in Algeciras, but I have been unable to find anyone audacious enough to help me intervene in that cauldron of intrigue. Now I am thousands of miles away; in a place of strangers, and I really don’t know what to do. I must admit to being very, very troubled about his future you see.”
The Colonel stomped over and tapped the Rhinosasauris’s knee with his walking stick and said softly, “Hardly strangers laddie. Hardly Strangers. I’ve known your big brother near on 50 years and Craiglellachie-liath (The Colonel always called everyone by their Gaelic names, if they were fortunate enough to have one), has already given me permission to mount a rescue mission”
A RESCUE MISSION! shouted everyone at the same time. The dragons dropped their pens, Zita dropped her bagel, the Queen’s Own and the TBears came tumbling down the stairs. A RESCUE MISSION? A RESCUE MISSION! they all shouted and began to look for the Abercrombie and Fitch catalogues.
Oh dear God! thought Craig.
Much fervent discussion and two tubs of Hagan Däs “Swiss Vanilla Burnt-Almond” later they settled on a strategy; the Colonel would call on all his bygone colleagues to get some facts about exactly where his old friend, the Rhinosasauris might be held and what were the chances of changing the situation.
Zita kept muttering about flying columns, Michael Collins, her great uncle Joe, and the Black and Tans, but it was to no avail.
Chapter Four
The Book Store Assault
Two weeks later Dugal carefully strolled into the living room. He looked behind the chairs and under the end tables. He reached up and plucked a small paper note which had been tucked under the brim of his tam and said in his softest voice, “Andreis NicoNikolovitch has given me the code, and we have sent a counterfeit telegram to that address the wee lad gave us. They will soon be transferring him to that grimy bookstore with the trashy novels.”
(If the truth were to be told, for the previous few weeks Colonel Dugal had been very difficult to live with and Craig did not even want to guess who Andreis NicoNikolovitch was, or where he came from; much less why he gave Dugal any codes, much less secret ones.)
A few days later while on the highway, coming home from the Research Centre in Montreal, the phone rang. It was the Rhinosasauris.
“My brother has arrived! And he is locked-up in that dreadful bookstore! The staff is getting very suspicious, as they have no record of his being ordered and the seven dollars of duty and the GST on him has yet to be paid!
Now the Colonel and the Queen’s Own Pigs are planning to conduct a cutting-out raid this very evening, after evensong.; while I don’t really want to express my apprehension; some of them really have not had much experience in this sort of work before - though to their great credit, they have studiously watched all your John Wayne movies, and read each of the Hornblower books - twice - to just see how it should be carried out, but I am just a wee bit concerned, the Colonel has been retired for some years now, you know.”
He knew only too well, “Pass on these orders please. Take all The Queen’s Own and establish a forward picket in the upstairs porch. Stock up on the ice cream and cold Tonic Water, better add some Scotch for the Colonel I guess. Boil some water and make bandages—and don’t rip up any of the sheets or it will take more than his friends in the GRU to save Dugal from Zita. Wait for further orders” and he hung up.
Craig lay down the phone. “I should have listened to Zita and contracted all of this foolishness out to her relatives.” he thought to himself. He told the Blue Car to keep a close lookout for the Provincial Police, and wondered why General Motors thought if the speedometer only went up to 140km. you would stop there, after all there was lots of room left on the tachometer - but not for long.
He reached the terrorist’s bookstore ten minutes before closing. His great uncle Austin’s pistol felt suddenly inconsequential in his jacket’s pocket, but it would never have bothered “The Duke” so he mentally re-played the all the important bits from “She Wore A Yellow Ribbon”. Buoyed-up he entered the store. He carried the cardboard box of Esso receipts he kept in the car - at 14 miles to the gallon there were many of them.
Approaching the front counter, with his back to the staff he fired twice into big front windows - as they shattered and crashed to the floor he threw the box of receipts on the counter.
“Oh my God! The despicable capitalist swine are trying to sell all my complimentary tickets to The Kamsack National Ukrainian Folk Dancing Festival and Plenary Rally - for a profit! Help me!”
Their training held true. The staff immediately began to eat the pieces of paper. Craig raced for the Harlequin Romance section. There tethered to a box of publishers clearances was a large, rather bedraggled and bewildered Rhinosasauris. In spite of his condition, he was furiously trying to saw through his shackles with the rough edge of his belt buckle. His pith helmet, was planted precisely four square on his head. (You see Rhinosasauri are all very well brought up, and never have been known to give up hope, or neglect their personal appearance.)
Craig shouted “Colonel Blackthorn-Badger has sent me! Stand back please!” The gun fired twice more; the chains crumbled.
“Jump!” he cried and the Rhinosasauris sort of staggered over the ledge and rather inelegantly fell to the floor. The two raced for the far doors. As they turned down the corner to freedom, three ex-librarian types tried to stop them, but he yelled “Bankers are Xeroxing the dictionary in the back room.”
The hulks screamed “Copyright!”, grabbed fire axes and raced to the rear.
The Blue Car was waiting, exhaust rumbling, transmission in low, door open, and Stan Rogers in the tape deck. Craig helped the stumbling Rhinosasauris through the open roof and scrambled in after him.
The scene behind them was apocalyptic - axe brandishing turncoat bibliophiles marching down the street, advancing on the Royal Bank Headquarters - being met by hoards of grim faced accountants - fresh from evicting Saskatchewan farmers by mail. It was truly fearful. He was glad they had escaped, though rather ashamed at the cost; but it was in a good cause - and all his relatives out west would most certainly approve.
By the time they reached home, all was quite calm - aside from the roar of the fire engines and the noise the RCMP’s Musical Ride made as they rushed to quell the riot downtown.
They pulled into the back yard, to be greeted by the entire Animeaux population, carrying “Welcome To The Royal Ottawa Winter Fair” and “God Save Good King George” banners. (It was all they could find on such short notice.) There was a babble of conversation, in English, Gaelic, and Rhini.
Profuse thanks were delivered and not a few tears shed. Dugal and his old comrade stood apart and fondly shook hands. Two glasses of the Colonel’s “Special Reserve Stock” appeared, and a toast to “True Friends and Far Places” was drunk. (The glasses were not thrown into the fireplace. Dugal being a Scot, and the glasses were his great-uncle Angus’s after all.)
(The two Rhinosasaurises phoned home – collect - to tell their parents that the rescue had come off without a hitch, and to request that their Stately Security Service should be informed and should take the appropriate measures against the cowardly fiends who had initiated the shabby scheme - and by the way if they wouldn’t mind just giving a quick call to inform the Second Cultural Attaché at the Israeli embassy of their safe return.)
The Dragons and the Queen’s Own, and the entire company of TeddyBears were all introduced, and hands shaken all around. There was a fair amount of stammering and “Might you like a fresh dish of ice cream? or, Would you like to borrow my nearly best tartan dressing gown?” going on.
Obviously there had never been a real knock-em-down, shoot-em-up rescue conducted by the household before, and there was no real precedent for either Craig or the Animeaux to fall back on. So they decided to celebrate the glorious occasion by the issuing of Honours. Craig called for order (many times), and presided over the handing out of Courageous Campaign Commendations and the dishing out of more ice cream. Everyone got medals, even more got ice cream.
When Zita arrived home she was introduced to the new Rhinosasauris, while the TeddyBears and the Queen’s Own tried in vain to clean up the living room.
Later while sitting around the living room they all decided to order out to Mrs. Mitzi’s for Chinese food, except for the Queen’s Own who wanted to go to McDonalds for triple McHagis Burgers. Zita stopped the argument in its tracks. She closed the kitchen door behind her, removed the thermos of tea from under her arm, “No one is leaving the house until I know what is going on - or I run out of tea....” (If this had been a soap opera - a commercial would have now have begun.)
Saturday, 28 May 2011
Kubla Khan
IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that done in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834)
IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced;
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail:
And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
That with music loud and long,
I would build that done in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834)
Destroyers in the Arctic
Camouflaged, they detach lengths of sea and sky
When they move; offset, speed and direction are a lie.
Everything is grey anyway; ships, water, snow, faces.
Flanking the convoy, we rarely go through our paces.
But sometimes on tightening waves at night they wheel
Drawing white moons on strings from dripping keel.
Cold cases them, like ships in glass; they are formal,
Not real, except in adversity. Then, too, have to seem normal.
At dusk they intensify, strung out, non-committal:
Waves spill from our wake, crêpe paper magnetized by gun metal.
They breathe silence, less solid than ghosts, ruminative
As the Arctic breaks up on their sides and they sieve
Moisture into mess-decks. Heat is cold-lined there,
Where we wait for a torpedo and lack air.
Repititive of each other, imitating the sea's lift and fall,
On the wings of the convoy they indicate rehearsal.
Merchantmen move sideways, with the gait of crustaceans,
Round whom like eels escorts take up their stations.
Landfall, Murmansk; but starboard now a lead-coloured
Island, Jan Mayen. Days identical, hoisted like sails, blurred.
Counters moved on an Admiralty map, snow like confetti
Covers the real us. We dream we are counterfeits tied to our jetty.
But cannot dream long; the sea curdles and sprawls,
Liverishly real, and merciless all else away from us falls.
Alan Ross
Camouflaged, they detach lengths of sea and sky
When they move; offset, speed and direction are a lie.
Everything is grey anyway; ships, water, snow, faces.
Flanking the convoy, we rarely go through our paces.
But sometimes on tightening waves at night they wheel
Drawing white moons on strings from dripping keel.
Cold cases them, like ships in glass; they are formal,
Not real, except in adversity. Then, too, have to seem normal.
At dusk they intensify, strung out, non-committal:
Waves spill from our wake, crêpe paper magnetized by gun metal.
They breathe silence, less solid than ghosts, ruminative
As the Arctic breaks up on their sides and they sieve
Moisture into mess-decks. Heat is cold-lined there,
Where we wait for a torpedo and lack air.
Repititive of each other, imitating the sea's lift and fall,
On the wings of the convoy they indicate rehearsal.
Merchantmen move sideways, with the gait of crustaceans,
Round whom like eels escorts take up their stations.
Landfall, Murmansk; but starboard now a lead-coloured
Island, Jan Mayen. Days identical, hoisted like sails, blurred.
Counters moved on an Admiralty map, snow like confetti
Covers the real us. We dream we are counterfeits tied to our jetty.
But cannot dream long; the sea curdles and sprawls,
Liverishly real, and merciless all else away from us falls.
Alan Ross
Wednesday, 25 May 2011
Agincourt
Fair stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort,
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopp'd his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power.
Which, in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
Unto him sending;
Which he neglects the while
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
'Though they to one be ten
Be not amazed:
Yet have we well begun;
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raised.
'And for myself (quoth he)
This my full rest shall be:
England ne'er mourn for me
Nor more esteem me:
Victor I will remain
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
'Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell:
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopp'd the French lilies.'
The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped
Among his henchmen.
Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there;
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake:
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces!
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts
Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbos drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went--
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding
As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.
Gloster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's Day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
Michael Drayton (1563-1631)
Fair stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train
Landed King Harry.
And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort,
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopp'd his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power.
Which, in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
Unto him sending;
Which he neglects the while
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending.
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
'Though they to one be ten
Be not amazed:
Yet have we well begun;
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raised.
'And for myself (quoth he)
This my full rest shall be:
England ne'er mourn for me
Nor more esteem me:
Victor I will remain
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.
'Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell:
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat
Lopp'd the French lilies.'
The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped
Among his henchmen.
Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there;
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!
They now to fight are gone,
Armour on armour shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake:
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces!
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.
With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts
Stuck close together.
When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbos drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went--
Our men were hardy.
This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding
As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.
Gloster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.
Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.
Upon Saint Crispin's Day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry.
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?
Michael Drayton (1563-1631)
Our Story - as much of it that can be told that is...
Story One - Chapter Two
The Rhinosasauri Appear
The very next night Zita arrived home, loaded down with her regular accumulation of parcels. Pounds of silk from here, bolts of cotton from there, a lump of velvet found somewhere, in addition, peeking out over her shoulder, from inside her knapsack, was, what could only have been a Rhinosasauris; looking a bit bedraggled, and perhaps just a tad apprehensive.
It was dressed in a much smudged, creased turquoise safari jacket, and had an often dented pith helmet tied onto its head with a short pieces of frayed, knotted twine. Zita gently lowered the knapsack on to the living room floor.
The Colonel dropped his newest acquisition - a not too used copy of McPherson’s “Battle Cry of Freedom” and quickly climbed down from his chair.
“Damnation! - This here’s only a bairn. Great Goodness what is happening over there?” He shook his head in a fashion that suggested that the fall of The Empire was not altogether an advance for either Animeaux or Peoples, the hiding his concern behind regimental formality, he picked up his walking stick and marching into the living room, rested against the wicker end table.
“And now wha’s been happening t’ya laddie?” he asked in his best official voice.
(The Rhinosasauris had long since climbed out of the knapsack a stood fore-square facing the household. He was not overly large, but like all of his kind he was wonderfully graceful. He had a rather silvery gray coat and most specifically blue eyes; his two horns were a complementary muted blue-gray, a short tail protruded from under his jacket; it seemed to wave in tempo with his conversation. All-in-all the Rhinosasauris cut quite a stylish figure, though it was clear to all that even with the assistance of extremely well tailored ensembles, he would always be described as “robust”.)
He stood up straight, stretched his arms, shook both legs, straightened out his jacket (as best he could), and adjusted the rake of his hat.
Rubbing his eyes he looked around at the multitude who had gathered in the living room. He held up his head and turning towards the question, replied, “And now who might be asking?”
Dugal stepped back, bowed slightly, “I say. Do beg your pardon. ‘Most forgot myself. Silly of me. The name’s Dugal; of the Blackthorn-Badgers of fair Glenfinnan. Up north of Loch Eil,”
He reached out his hand, “....and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I welcome you to our domicile. First Dragon Dragoons and The Pig Irregulars over there.” He said with a wide sweep of his knobby walking stick in their general direction. The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars all promptly nodded, while the Dragons brushed the air with their wings in the traditional Dragoon welcome.
“The two Peoples here are our friends; Mister Craiglellachie and the lady of the house, Ms. NíChaomhaigh. To be sure it was herself who ransomed you from that decidedly common retail outlet.”
Zita interrupted, “In spite of all the Colonel’s hopes, I am really not that formal, and I’d be pleased if you would call me Zita, or Mrs. Taylor if you must.”
She leaned over to Craig and whispered, “When I got to the book store all were gone, except for this one. He was lying just under the shambles of the Third World Revolutionary Diets section. I guess he was overlooked. To say the least, his condition is a bit rough, but he is cute - in sort of a blocky way. I am afraid that they were only asking $14.29, which is a bit of a disgrace, but I didn’t tell him so. I’m sorry I missed the others.”
Craig went over to their guest and extended his hand, “I’m pleased to meet you, and glad that we could be of help. Naturally any colleague of Dugal’s is welcome here. Everyone, aside from the Colonel, just calls me Craig; I really wish you’d do the same.”
The Rhinosasauris, with some difficulty, undid various knots and removed his helmet. He shook Craig’s hand and bowed to all four corners of the room.
“I would most certainly like to thank you for my rescue. The last several months have all been a terrible bout of confusion, and I must ask for your forgiveness if I have misplaced some of my manners, you see I really don’t know where I am, or actually how I got here.”
Zita was horrified and promptly went off to the kitchen to make him some weak tea, while he continued with his story.
“You see, one foul day, I don’t really know how long ago, while I was tarrying at the Ritz-intercontinental, making my annual visit to the crusader castles in the vicinity of Amman. Have you ever seen the Karak Des Chevaliers, it’s so wonderful! Oh yes, so wonderful. ” His eyes unfocused and he stared out the dark window for several seconds.
“Ahhh.... well. I suspect someone unknown put a sleeping drought in my good-morning Coca-Cola float. The next thing I knew I was tied to the top of a huge bookshelf, in a rather grimy book store; where I didn’t know anybody or recognize anything.”
He suddenly placed his hand against the wall to brace himself. Craig said, “Quick, get him some porridge!” Two of the Queen’s Own rushed into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later he was on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, munching on a tremendous mound of cheese Ritz, warming his hands on the cup of tea. (Zita had cancelled the porridge.) He was explaining that throughout this adventure, though he was sometimes very confused and often even quite upset, we should all understand that he was never in the least bit frightened. (He had been brought up properly and Rhinosasaurises were never, ever frightened.)
Zita said she was sure that he was not in the least bit afraid, but perhaps he would like to have a bit more to eat and then a small sleep. We could discuss it all in the morning, giving a pointed glance at Dugal.
“Why yes thank you. That would be really quite nice; as long as it does not put any of you to any trouble.” As he said this, he toppled over quite asleep and was carried upstairs to the den by the two Dragons. One of the better behaved of the Queen’s Own was asked to keep watch over him, just in case he awoke and could not remember where he was.
Zita then asked the TeddyBears to have someone bring down the Safari Jacket so that she could wash and mend it before their guest awoke.
(All Animeaux are very neat and tidy, and since they have never been known to go out visiting in un-pressed clothes or less than perfect socks, they all realized that the new guest would be needlessly agitated if he had to appear for breakfast in the disheveled state he had arrived in. As a small aid The Queen’s Own had left some of their favourite French bath talc, a lint brush, some new red and green argyle socks, a mirror and the Dust Buster - on the floor beside the sofa.)
The Tale of The Rhinosasauri
Downstairs Craig and Dugal were lounging in the living room. The Colonel had put one of his Edgar discs on the stereo and brought out some vintage Tonic Water for Craig. He had poured himself a large dram of his currently favoured layaway. They were about to discuss Rhinosasauri.
“They are a noble nation, The Rhinosasauri. ‘Patently they live somewhere up ‘round Lake Tanganyika; hidden far up the reaches of the Blue Nile. Been there since them Angles painted themselves blue. The family first ran into them when they captured a full brigade of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers - some little time after Victoria was crowned - must have been somewhere round the late 40’s, I would hazard for a guess. Now by the time the Rhinosasauri released them poor buggers, the silly Book-Wallahs in high command had given them all up for lost; but one day, marching down Cairo High Street, comes the whole covey of them - singing what was later to become the Triumphal March from Aida.
It was quite a sight to be sure, albeit just a tad strange. It seems that their Colonel had promised the King of the Rhinosasauri the freedom of the Empire - in the name of the young Queen. What was to be done? Couldn’t let the side down ya’see. So there we were, treaty bound to a Nation who looked like rhinoceroses, spoke like a cold dawn in the Kirk, had more pride then a stew of Highland chefs, and were more stubborn then a bag full of hammers.”
Dugal leaned back and loosened his shoes, “Grandfather used to talk about these happenings all the time - when the distaff side was out opening the summer fêtes. He said that he was damned if they didn’t take to wearing our service pith helmets, and carrying on like so many members of The Lords on bath day. Made a real nuisance of themselves for a while. Great-grand Uncle Austin, who was in command of the Scots Grays at the time, ran off with twin gyppo belly dancers just to have some peace and quiet. Well, as I understand, they finally left Cairo - but from then on they kept showing up unannounced on Active Service. In the midst of some desperate skirmish with The Awful Woggoes; you’d look up, and there, coming through the fog of battle would be a Horde of pith-helmeted Rhinosasauri Foot singing “Men of Harlech” in a soaring baritone chorus, as they were about to rudely dispatch some of the numerous heathens whose lands we were pinching. ‘Tis no a surprise that they and our Gurkhas got along like two Kings on vacation.
Can’t ‘member how many times we heard the story ‘bout how they showed up at the very last moment - and with a quick flanking charge, drove off those Zulu fellows, saving all those poor buggers at Rourke’s Drift. Part of their old bargain with the Welsh they said. Never did take any credit for it. That’s the Rhinosasauri for you though; just get on with it, and don’t say it ‘gain.
Took terrible casualties at the Somme and Verdun. Fought ‘longside your poor fellows at that “Wipers” fiasco. Big investigations! Fired half the General Staff. Not nearly ‘nuff mind you.... Left that awful fellow Haig around - blended Scotch - What on earth did they expect! Silly-Bloody-Sassenachs.”
At this point Dugal poured some more of his Glenmorangie into his big brass cup, and Craig got a couple more pillows. It always took Dugal a while to tell his stories.
“Years later; in the next war, they ended up bored to tears in Alex. They and some crazy New Zealanders. Now it has often troubled me, how does one really know if an Australian is crazy or is really a New Zealander. Ahhh... we spent many an hour in the Mess over that one. Where was I? Oh yes! ....all of them, and that mad man Bagnold started racing round and round in their little trucks, generally making a prime nuisance of themselves, but I’ll tell you, them Rhinosasauri knew the Libyan Desert as well as any heathen, so they played bloody hell with the Boche supply lines. ‘Named them the Long Range Dessert Group - generally made more trouble for Jerry then for us. Though the Royal Nursing Corps might have argued the point. Ahhh well.... A wee bit later they all up and followed that terrible lunatic fellow Stirling when he ‘cided to form up a bunch of the lads for a spot of danger, cheap thrills, and worse scotch. Y’see I was his 2-I-C at the time. Called us the Special Air Services. ‘Parently some silly bugger in White Hall thought that it might do some good if we were confused with the Scandinavian Airline Services from time to time. From then on the Rhinosasauri have always had a few of their fellows assigned to the regiment. Great success they made of themselves from one end of the big red map to’other.”
Dugal paused and looked around, “To tell the truth, they seem to have got it all mixed up. Always seemed to be off having assignations with Scandinavians. They ‘peared to think it was part of their duties. No matter how often we tried to explain that The S.A.S. and the SAS were completely different organizations, the Rhinosasauri kept showing up at regimental dances draped with tall blonde stewardesses, named Brijit and Sonja or Ingrid. Sort of a tradition with them by then I would think. Ahhh well.
Those were the.... Ahhh…. Away away…. it was at one of these regimental dances, up in Cromarty, where I met my friend the Commander Rhinosasauris and his “friend” - Miss Tanya. Now you see we never could pronounce the Rhinosasauri names, so we called them by rank; Sergeant-Major Rhinosasauris, Commodore Rhinosasauris etc, etc.... Worked fine, never more than a couple of dozen in at a time Y’see. Well we, the Commander and I, were out together - doing some extended sunbathing in The Malay campaign - also in that unpleasantness out in Aden. Good man the Commander, didn’t talk much, hung around with the politicos. Always scheming an awkward surprise for some of the benighted.”
He hick-upped as he laughed and apologized, “They were very good times don’t you know, me the Commander and - well others - Last time I heard of him he had got himself into a spot of trouble in the near east - doing a bit of liaison work with the Mossad. He was lent to them after that dashed unfortunate episode with his brother-in-law the Crown Prince. I’m sure you heard of it. Was in all the papers. Now I have had word that he has been trapped and interned by some of the scoundrels that seem to thrive over there. ‘Should like to help if we could - ‘know both the Dragon Dragoons and the Queen’s Own are ready to volunteer.”
“Ahh Ha!” thought Craig. Dugal wants permission to rescue his old friend, and has been buttering me up for the last couple of hours.
“Well....” he said, “you don’t know where your friend is at the moment do you?”
“Achhh well - not yet; but if you give me leave, I’ll make some discrete phone calls, and we will find him soon; if it is not already too late.” Dugal said looking sadly off into the distance.
What could he do? The chances of finding this Rhinosasauris were rather small so he might as well give the Colonel permission. It would be easier in the long run he guessed.
“Well Dugal, I’ll write out the orders tonight, and don’t worry about the phone bill. We might as well do it right. If by some mischance you happen to tell Zita, make a point of saying it’s a rescue mission. She is not partial to military endeavours you know, what with all the fuss in the Post Office, not to overlook the guns hidden under her gran’dad’s front hall, the Twelve Apostles and all.”
“Mums The Word” said Dugal as he went to get paper and pen.
The Rhinosasauri Appear
The very next night Zita arrived home, loaded down with her regular accumulation of parcels. Pounds of silk from here, bolts of cotton from there, a lump of velvet found somewhere, in addition, peeking out over her shoulder, from inside her knapsack, was, what could only have been a Rhinosasauris; looking a bit bedraggled, and perhaps just a tad apprehensive.
It was dressed in a much smudged, creased turquoise safari jacket, and had an often dented pith helmet tied onto its head with a short pieces of frayed, knotted twine. Zita gently lowered the knapsack on to the living room floor.
The Colonel dropped his newest acquisition - a not too used copy of McPherson’s “Battle Cry of Freedom” and quickly climbed down from his chair.
“Damnation! - This here’s only a bairn. Great Goodness what is happening over there?” He shook his head in a fashion that suggested that the fall of The Empire was not altogether an advance for either Animeaux or Peoples, the hiding his concern behind regimental formality, he picked up his walking stick and marching into the living room, rested against the wicker end table.
“And now wha’s been happening t’ya laddie?” he asked in his best official voice.
(The Rhinosasauris had long since climbed out of the knapsack a stood fore-square facing the household. He was not overly large, but like all of his kind he was wonderfully graceful. He had a rather silvery gray coat and most specifically blue eyes; his two horns were a complementary muted blue-gray, a short tail protruded from under his jacket; it seemed to wave in tempo with his conversation. All-in-all the Rhinosasauris cut quite a stylish figure, though it was clear to all that even with the assistance of extremely well tailored ensembles, he would always be described as “robust”.)
He stood up straight, stretched his arms, shook both legs, straightened out his jacket (as best he could), and adjusted the rake of his hat.
Rubbing his eyes he looked around at the multitude who had gathered in the living room. He held up his head and turning towards the question, replied, “And now who might be asking?”
Dugal stepped back, bowed slightly, “I say. Do beg your pardon. ‘Most forgot myself. Silly of me. The name’s Dugal; of the Blackthorn-Badgers of fair Glenfinnan. Up north of Loch Eil,”
He reached out his hand, “....and I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I welcome you to our domicile. First Dragon Dragoons and The Pig Irregulars over there.” He said with a wide sweep of his knobby walking stick in their general direction. The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars all promptly nodded, while the Dragons brushed the air with their wings in the traditional Dragoon welcome.
“The two Peoples here are our friends; Mister Craiglellachie and the lady of the house, Ms. NíChaomhaigh. To be sure it was herself who ransomed you from that decidedly common retail outlet.”
Zita interrupted, “In spite of all the Colonel’s hopes, I am really not that formal, and I’d be pleased if you would call me Zita, or Mrs. Taylor if you must.”
She leaned over to Craig and whispered, “When I got to the book store all were gone, except for this one. He was lying just under the shambles of the Third World Revolutionary Diets section. I guess he was overlooked. To say the least, his condition is a bit rough, but he is cute - in sort of a blocky way. I am afraid that they were only asking $14.29, which is a bit of a disgrace, but I didn’t tell him so. I’m sorry I missed the others.”
Craig went over to their guest and extended his hand, “I’m pleased to meet you, and glad that we could be of help. Naturally any colleague of Dugal’s is welcome here. Everyone, aside from the Colonel, just calls me Craig; I really wish you’d do the same.”
The Rhinosasauris, with some difficulty, undid various knots and removed his helmet. He shook Craig’s hand and bowed to all four corners of the room.
“I would most certainly like to thank you for my rescue. The last several months have all been a terrible bout of confusion, and I must ask for your forgiveness if I have misplaced some of my manners, you see I really don’t know where I am, or actually how I got here.”
Zita was horrified and promptly went off to the kitchen to make him some weak tea, while he continued with his story.
“You see, one foul day, I don’t really know how long ago, while I was tarrying at the Ritz-intercontinental, making my annual visit to the crusader castles in the vicinity of Amman. Have you ever seen the Karak Des Chevaliers, it’s so wonderful! Oh yes, so wonderful. ” His eyes unfocused and he stared out the dark window for several seconds.
“Ahhh.... well. I suspect someone unknown put a sleeping drought in my good-morning Coca-Cola float. The next thing I knew I was tied to the top of a huge bookshelf, in a rather grimy book store; where I didn’t know anybody or recognize anything.”
He suddenly placed his hand against the wall to brace himself. Craig said, “Quick, get him some porridge!” Two of the Queen’s Own rushed into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later he was on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, munching on a tremendous mound of cheese Ritz, warming his hands on the cup of tea. (Zita had cancelled the porridge.) He was explaining that throughout this adventure, though he was sometimes very confused and often even quite upset, we should all understand that he was never in the least bit frightened. (He had been brought up properly and Rhinosasaurises were never, ever frightened.)
Zita said she was sure that he was not in the least bit afraid, but perhaps he would like to have a bit more to eat and then a small sleep. We could discuss it all in the morning, giving a pointed glance at Dugal.
“Why yes thank you. That would be really quite nice; as long as it does not put any of you to any trouble.” As he said this, he toppled over quite asleep and was carried upstairs to the den by the two Dragons. One of the better behaved of the Queen’s Own was asked to keep watch over him, just in case he awoke and could not remember where he was.
Zita then asked the TeddyBears to have someone bring down the Safari Jacket so that she could wash and mend it before their guest awoke.
(All Animeaux are very neat and tidy, and since they have never been known to go out visiting in un-pressed clothes or less than perfect socks, they all realized that the new guest would be needlessly agitated if he had to appear for breakfast in the disheveled state he had arrived in. As a small aid The Queen’s Own had left some of their favourite French bath talc, a lint brush, some new red and green argyle socks, a mirror and the Dust Buster - on the floor beside the sofa.)
The Tale of The Rhinosasauri
Downstairs Craig and Dugal were lounging in the living room. The Colonel had put one of his Edgar discs on the stereo and brought out some vintage Tonic Water for Craig. He had poured himself a large dram of his currently favoured layaway. They were about to discuss Rhinosasauri.
“They are a noble nation, The Rhinosasauri. ‘Patently they live somewhere up ‘round Lake Tanganyika; hidden far up the reaches of the Blue Nile. Been there since them Angles painted themselves blue. The family first ran into them when they captured a full brigade of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers - some little time after Victoria was crowned - must have been somewhere round the late 40’s, I would hazard for a guess. Now by the time the Rhinosasauri released them poor buggers, the silly Book-Wallahs in high command had given them all up for lost; but one day, marching down Cairo High Street, comes the whole covey of them - singing what was later to become the Triumphal March from Aida.
It was quite a sight to be sure, albeit just a tad strange. It seems that their Colonel had promised the King of the Rhinosasauri the freedom of the Empire - in the name of the young Queen. What was to be done? Couldn’t let the side down ya’see. So there we were, treaty bound to a Nation who looked like rhinoceroses, spoke like a cold dawn in the Kirk, had more pride then a stew of Highland chefs, and were more stubborn then a bag full of hammers.”
Dugal leaned back and loosened his shoes, “Grandfather used to talk about these happenings all the time - when the distaff side was out opening the summer fêtes. He said that he was damned if they didn’t take to wearing our service pith helmets, and carrying on like so many members of The Lords on bath day. Made a real nuisance of themselves for a while. Great-grand Uncle Austin, who was in command of the Scots Grays at the time, ran off with twin gyppo belly dancers just to have some peace and quiet. Well, as I understand, they finally left Cairo - but from then on they kept showing up unannounced on Active Service. In the midst of some desperate skirmish with The Awful Woggoes; you’d look up, and there, coming through the fog of battle would be a Horde of pith-helmeted Rhinosasauri Foot singing “Men of Harlech” in a soaring baritone chorus, as they were about to rudely dispatch some of the numerous heathens whose lands we were pinching. ‘Tis no a surprise that they and our Gurkhas got along like two Kings on vacation.
Can’t ‘member how many times we heard the story ‘bout how they showed up at the very last moment - and with a quick flanking charge, drove off those Zulu fellows, saving all those poor buggers at Rourke’s Drift. Part of their old bargain with the Welsh they said. Never did take any credit for it. That’s the Rhinosasauri for you though; just get on with it, and don’t say it ‘gain.
Took terrible casualties at the Somme and Verdun. Fought ‘longside your poor fellows at that “Wipers” fiasco. Big investigations! Fired half the General Staff. Not nearly ‘nuff mind you.... Left that awful fellow Haig around - blended Scotch - What on earth did they expect! Silly-Bloody-Sassenachs.”
At this point Dugal poured some more of his Glenmorangie into his big brass cup, and Craig got a couple more pillows. It always took Dugal a while to tell his stories.
“Years later; in the next war, they ended up bored to tears in Alex. They and some crazy New Zealanders. Now it has often troubled me, how does one really know if an Australian is crazy or is really a New Zealander. Ahhh... we spent many an hour in the Mess over that one. Where was I? Oh yes! ....all of them, and that mad man Bagnold started racing round and round in their little trucks, generally making a prime nuisance of themselves, but I’ll tell you, them Rhinosasauri knew the Libyan Desert as well as any heathen, so they played bloody hell with the Boche supply lines. ‘Named them the Long Range Dessert Group - generally made more trouble for Jerry then for us. Though the Royal Nursing Corps might have argued the point. Ahhh well.... A wee bit later they all up and followed that terrible lunatic fellow Stirling when he ‘cided to form up a bunch of the lads for a spot of danger, cheap thrills, and worse scotch. Y’see I was his 2-I-C at the time. Called us the Special Air Services. ‘Parently some silly bugger in White Hall thought that it might do some good if we were confused with the Scandinavian Airline Services from time to time. From then on the Rhinosasauri have always had a few of their fellows assigned to the regiment. Great success they made of themselves from one end of the big red map to’other.”
Dugal paused and looked around, “To tell the truth, they seem to have got it all mixed up. Always seemed to be off having assignations with Scandinavians. They ‘peared to think it was part of their duties. No matter how often we tried to explain that The S.A.S. and the SAS were completely different organizations, the Rhinosasauri kept showing up at regimental dances draped with tall blonde stewardesses, named Brijit and Sonja or Ingrid. Sort of a tradition with them by then I would think. Ahhh well.
Those were the.... Ahhh…. Away away…. it was at one of these regimental dances, up in Cromarty, where I met my friend the Commander Rhinosasauris and his “friend” - Miss Tanya. Now you see we never could pronounce the Rhinosasauri names, so we called them by rank; Sergeant-Major Rhinosasauris, Commodore Rhinosasauris etc, etc.... Worked fine, never more than a couple of dozen in at a time Y’see. Well we, the Commander and I, were out together - doing some extended sunbathing in The Malay campaign - also in that unpleasantness out in Aden. Good man the Commander, didn’t talk much, hung around with the politicos. Always scheming an awkward surprise for some of the benighted.”
He hick-upped as he laughed and apologized, “They were very good times don’t you know, me the Commander and - well others - Last time I heard of him he had got himself into a spot of trouble in the near east - doing a bit of liaison work with the Mossad. He was lent to them after that dashed unfortunate episode with his brother-in-law the Crown Prince. I’m sure you heard of it. Was in all the papers. Now I have had word that he has been trapped and interned by some of the scoundrels that seem to thrive over there. ‘Should like to help if we could - ‘know both the Dragon Dragoons and the Queen’s Own are ready to volunteer.”
“Ahh Ha!” thought Craig. Dugal wants permission to rescue his old friend, and has been buttering me up for the last couple of hours.
“Well....” he said, “you don’t know where your friend is at the moment do you?”
“Achhh well - not yet; but if you give me leave, I’ll make some discrete phone calls, and we will find him soon; if it is not already too late.” Dugal said looking sadly off into the distance.
What could he do? The chances of finding this Rhinosasauris were rather small so he might as well give the Colonel permission. It would be easier in the long run he guessed.
“Well Dugal, I’ll write out the orders tonight, and don’t worry about the phone bill. We might as well do it right. If by some mischance you happen to tell Zita, make a point of saying it’s a rescue mission. She is not partial to military endeavours you know, what with all the fuss in the Post Office, not to overlook the guns hidden under her gran’dad’s front hall, the Twelve Apostles and all.”
“Mums The Word” said Dugal as he went to get paper and pen.
Tuesday, 24 May 2011
Our Story - as much of it that can be told that is...
Story One - Chapter One
The Beginnings - One of Many Possible
It was a deep gray depressing October afternoon. Winter was busy forecasting itself overhead. To hide from its onset he had been browsing, as was his habit, in some of Ottawa’s many bookstores. As the day closed he approached one exceptionally decrepit example. It was festooned with hand-written announcements taped to the huge front windows and carelessly stapled too much stained and splintered counters. He entered anyway.
As he meandered his way past mashed cardboard boxes of obscure Macedonian poetry, and frayed Saskatchewan cookbooks he came upon a small group of bedraggled Animeaux in a tall wooden pen. High above them, in badly scrawled block letters, a sign had been hung from the dusty rafters, “PRETTY GOOD STUFFD ANIMALS FOR SALE -- CHEEP”.
From their battered and disheveled appearance he knew at once that they were some unfortunates captured by the increasingly desperate and despicable Pyrates, and interned in that infamous “L’Animeaux Perdu” depot, in French South-by-North East Africa.
Fortuitously he was quite knowledgeable where Animeaux were concerned, having witnessed the endless extravagances of “Dragon Dragoon Guards”, “The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars”; a rather motley crew of Bears, and Colonel Blackthorn-Badger for several years now. Therefore it was with an abiding sadness that he looked across the deeply bowed and grimy shelves at the small huddled and dejected group. He would consult with the Colonel and the Dragoon Guards as soon as he got home. Perhaps together they could right this all too common scandal.
That night, over dinner, he told Zita about the small herd of hostage Animeaux. Naturally she was appalled. As she had often said, “Living amid shelves of tawdry third-rate romances and worse biographies was a poor fate for any self-respecting Animeaux.”
(And all the Animeaux that they were acquainted with, were quite respectable, -- well most of the time anyway, and that was usually all that could be said for anyone of us.)
As they continued with their dessert, Colonel Dugal arrived. He had just climbed the stairs from the basement, where he had been checking on the state of his “supplies”. He stopped by the dining room doorway and listened intently.
Now Dugal was usually found with his long black nose pushed far into some new book; trying to re-fight Gettysburg or defend the lost residence in Kabul, but fortunately for all, this time he was not too preoccupied or polite, to eavesdrop.
After a few silent moments, he strode into the dining room, and took to one of the side chairs and said, “Craiglellachie, we must have a powwow. I seem to have misplaced an old friend of mine. Careless I know; but did you perhaps see a tolerably stocky, closely cropped, rather natty looking Rhinosasauris in that crowd of unfortunates?”
Craig said “Well no. Actually I don’t know what a Rhinosasauris is. A relative of the rhinoceros I assume?”
The Colonel was appalled. He grasped his walking stick and gasped, “By the Great Gods in all the Heavens. Ahhh.... No wonder the wee Animeaux are disappearing at such a rate, when not even fine Peoples like you ken The Rhinosasauri! ‘Is no right. No right t’all!”
He rocked back and forth for a few moments, bracing himself on his graying tail. He stopped and looked off into the distance and said, “Now whist a while and listen to your betters for a change; for your information The Rhinosasauri are one of the most majestic creatures on the once beautiful Earth. Along with Badgers – naturally - the formidable Great FuryBears, the Vainful Lions, the Whimsical Wolves, and their extremely dangerous friends, the Worrisome Wolverines, Various sundry Whales and some of our very peculiar Porcine friends, and, and.... well Others!”
Dugal shook his head several times, and then turned away and looked out the dining room window with a sad, wistful and slightly older look on his checkered face.
“Oh, I am sorry. I really didn’t know.” Craig said softly, not wishing to upset his old friend any further. Then Zita said that she would be off work the following day, and would risk sneaking into the bookstore to see if there were any Rhinosasauris matching Dugal’s description held captive.
He thanked her, and using his ever-present briar walking stick slowly got down from the chair, climbed over the sofa and onto the walnut cabinet. He rummaged around for a moment until he found one of his discs of “The Tannahall Weavers”. With some difficulty he placed the headphones atop of his ears and then withdrew into the familiar pipes and Bodhrán of his Caledonian home.
Craig and Zita were more than a little distressed, and a bit ashamed that they had let their old friend down. They decided never to let this happen again.
The Beginnings - One of Many Possible
It was a deep gray depressing October afternoon. Winter was busy forecasting itself overhead. To hide from its onset he had been browsing, as was his habit, in some of Ottawa’s many bookstores. As the day closed he approached one exceptionally decrepit example. It was festooned with hand-written announcements taped to the huge front windows and carelessly stapled too much stained and splintered counters. He entered anyway.
As he meandered his way past mashed cardboard boxes of obscure Macedonian poetry, and frayed Saskatchewan cookbooks he came upon a small group of bedraggled Animeaux in a tall wooden pen. High above them, in badly scrawled block letters, a sign had been hung from the dusty rafters, “PRETTY GOOD STUFFD ANIMALS FOR SALE -- CHEEP”.
From their battered and disheveled appearance he knew at once that they were some unfortunates captured by the increasingly desperate and despicable Pyrates, and interned in that infamous “L’Animeaux Perdu” depot, in French South-by-North East Africa.
Fortuitously he was quite knowledgeable where Animeaux were concerned, having witnessed the endless extravagances of “Dragon Dragoon Guards”, “The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars”; a rather motley crew of Bears, and Colonel Blackthorn-Badger for several years now. Therefore it was with an abiding sadness that he looked across the deeply bowed and grimy shelves at the small huddled and dejected group. He would consult with the Colonel and the Dragoon Guards as soon as he got home. Perhaps together they could right this all too common scandal.
That night, over dinner, he told Zita about the small herd of hostage Animeaux. Naturally she was appalled. As she had often said, “Living amid shelves of tawdry third-rate romances and worse biographies was a poor fate for any self-respecting Animeaux.”
(And all the Animeaux that they were acquainted with, were quite respectable, -- well most of the time anyway, and that was usually all that could be said for anyone of us.)
As they continued with their dessert, Colonel Dugal arrived. He had just climbed the stairs from the basement, where he had been checking on the state of his “supplies”. He stopped by the dining room doorway and listened intently.
Now Dugal was usually found with his long black nose pushed far into some new book; trying to re-fight Gettysburg or defend the lost residence in Kabul, but fortunately for all, this time he was not too preoccupied or polite, to eavesdrop.
After a few silent moments, he strode into the dining room, and took to one of the side chairs and said, “Craiglellachie, we must have a powwow. I seem to have misplaced an old friend of mine. Careless I know; but did you perhaps see a tolerably stocky, closely cropped, rather natty looking Rhinosasauris in that crowd of unfortunates?”
Craig said “Well no. Actually I don’t know what a Rhinosasauris is. A relative of the rhinoceros I assume?”
The Colonel was appalled. He grasped his walking stick and gasped, “By the Great Gods in all the Heavens. Ahhh.... No wonder the wee Animeaux are disappearing at such a rate, when not even fine Peoples like you ken The Rhinosasauri! ‘Is no right. No right t’all!”
He rocked back and forth for a few moments, bracing himself on his graying tail. He stopped and looked off into the distance and said, “Now whist a while and listen to your betters for a change; for your information The Rhinosasauri are one of the most majestic creatures on the once beautiful Earth. Along with Badgers – naturally - the formidable Great FuryBears, the Vainful Lions, the Whimsical Wolves, and their extremely dangerous friends, the Worrisome Wolverines, Various sundry Whales and some of our very peculiar Porcine friends, and, and.... well Others!”
Dugal shook his head several times, and then turned away and looked out the dining room window with a sad, wistful and slightly older look on his checkered face.
“Oh, I am sorry. I really didn’t know.” Craig said softly, not wishing to upset his old friend any further. Then Zita said that she would be off work the following day, and would risk sneaking into the bookstore to see if there were any Rhinosasauris matching Dugal’s description held captive.
He thanked her, and using his ever-present briar walking stick slowly got down from the chair, climbed over the sofa and onto the walnut cabinet. He rummaged around for a moment until he found one of his discs of “The Tannahall Weavers”. With some difficulty he placed the headphones atop of his ears and then withdrew into the familiar pipes and Bodhrán of his Caledonian home.
Craig and Zita were more than a little distressed, and a bit ashamed that they had let their old friend down. They decided never to let this happen again.
Monday, 23 May 2011
Happy Victoria Day... even to those poor ones without a Queen to honour
Soldiers of the Queen
It's the Soldiers of the Queen, my lads,
Who've been my lads,
Who're seen my lads,
In the fight for England's glory, lads,
When we have to show them what we mean:
And when we say we've always won
And when they ask us how it's done,
We'll proudly point to ev'ry one
Of England's soldiers of the Queen!
War clouds gather over ev'ry land,
Our flag is threaten'd east and west . .
Nations that we've shaken by the hand
Our bold resources try to test.
They thought they found us sleeping -
Thought us unprepar'd,
Because we have our party wars.
But English men unite -
When they're called to fight
The battle for Old England's common cause,
The battle for Old England's common cause.
So when we say that England's master,
Remember who has made her so -
It's the Soldiers of the Queen, my lads,
Who've been my lads,
Who're seen my lads,
In the fight for England's glory, lads,
When we have to show them what we mean:
And when we say we've always won
And when they ask us how it's done,
We'll proudly point to ev'ry one
Of England's soldiers of the Queen!
Now we're rous'd we've buckled on our swords,
We've done with diplomatic lingo.
We'll do deeds to follow on our words,
We'll show we're something more than "jingo".
And though Old England's laws do not her sons compel
To military duties do,
We'll play them at their game -
And show them all the same,
An Englishman can be a soldier too,
An Englishman can be a soldier too.
So when we say that England's master,
Remember who has made her so -
It's the Soldiers of the Queen, my lads,
Who've been my lads,
Who're seen my lads,
In the fight for England's glory, lads,
When we have to show them what we mean:
And when we say we've always won
And when they ask us how it's done,
We'll proudly point to ev'ry one
Of England's soldiers of the Queen!
It's the Soldiers of the Queen, my lads,
Who've been my lads,
Who're seen my lads,
In the fight for England's glory, lads,
When we have to show them what we mean:
And when we say we've always won
And when they ask us how it's done,
We'll proudly point to ev'ry one
Of England's soldiers of the Queen!
War clouds gather over ev'ry land,
Our flag is threaten'd east and west . .
Nations that we've shaken by the hand
Our bold resources try to test.
They thought they found us sleeping -
Thought us unprepar'd,
Because we have our party wars.
But English men unite -
When they're called to fight
The battle for Old England's common cause,
The battle for Old England's common cause.
So when we say that England's master,
Remember who has made her so -
It's the Soldiers of the Queen, my lads,
Who've been my lads,
Who're seen my lads,
In the fight for England's glory, lads,
When we have to show them what we mean:
And when we say we've always won
And when they ask us how it's done,
We'll proudly point to ev'ry one
Of England's soldiers of the Queen!
Now we're rous'd we've buckled on our swords,
We've done with diplomatic lingo.
We'll do deeds to follow on our words,
We'll show we're something more than "jingo".
And though Old England's laws do not her sons compel
To military duties do,
We'll play them at their game -
And show them all the same,
An Englishman can be a soldier too,
An Englishman can be a soldier too.
So when we say that England's master,
Remember who has made her so -
It's the Soldiers of the Queen, my lads,
Who've been my lads,
Who're seen my lads,
In the fight for England's glory, lads,
When we have to show them what we mean:
And when we say we've always won
And when they ask us how it's done,
We'll proudly point to ev'ry one
Of England's soldiers of the Queen!
Sunday, 22 May 2011
The Irish Guards
WE'RE not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so young at our trade.
For we had the honour at Fontenoy
Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.
'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,
And Lee that led us then,
And after a hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,
And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
The fashion's all for khaki now,
But once through France we went
Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,
The English - left at Ghent.
They're fighting on our side today
But, before they changed their clothes,
The half of Europe knew our fame,
As all of Ireland knows!
Old Days! The wild geese are flying,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's memory undying.
And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,
From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,
The ancient days come back no more
Than water under the bridge.
But the bridge it stands and the water runs
As red as yesterday,
And the Irish move to the sound of the guns
Like salmon to the sea.
Old Days! The wild geese are ranging .
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,
And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
We're not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so new in the ring,
For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe
When Louis was our King.
But Douglas Haig's our Marshal now
And we're King George's men,
And after one hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Ah, France! And did we stand by you,
When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?
Ah, France! And will we deny you
In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting,
And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
WE'RE not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so young at our trade.
For we had the honour at Fontenoy
Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.
'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,
And Lee that led us then,
And after a hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,
And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
The fashion's all for khaki now,
But once through France we went
Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,
The English - left at Ghent.
They're fighting on our side today
But, before they changed their clothes,
The half of Europe knew our fame,
As all of Ireland knows!
Old Days! The wild geese are flying,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's memory undying.
And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,
From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,
The ancient days come back no more
Than water under the bridge.
But the bridge it stands and the water runs
As red as yesterday,
And the Irish move to the sound of the guns
Like salmon to the sea.
Old Days! The wild geese are ranging .
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,
And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
We're not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so new in the ring,
For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe
When Louis was our King.
But Douglas Haig's our Marshal now
And we're King George's men,
And after one hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Ah, France! And did we stand by you,
When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?
Ah, France! And will we deny you
In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting,
And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!
Not to Keep
THEY sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying ... And she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hiddin ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight,
Living. They gave him back to her alive--
How else? They are not known to send the dead--
And not disfigured visibly. His face?
His hands? She had to look, to ask,
"What is it, dear?" And she had given all
And still she had all--_they_ had--they the lucky!
Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissible ease.
She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"
"Enough,
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest, and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again." The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.
by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)
THEY sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying ... And she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hiddin ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight,
Living. They gave him back to her alive--
How else? They are not known to send the dead--
And not disfigured visibly. His face?
His hands? She had to look, to ask,
"What is it, dear?" And she had given all
And still she had all--_they_ had--they the lucky!
Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissible ease.
She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"
"Enough,
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest, and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again." The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.
by: Robert Frost (1874-1963)
Friday, 20 May 2011
Play up! Play up! And play the game!
There's a breathless hush in the close to-night
Ten to make and the match to win
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play, and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat.
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red-
Red with the wreck of the square that broke
The gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed its banks,
And England's far and Honor a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks-
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with joyful mind
And bear through life Eke a torch in flame,
falling fling to the host behind-
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
Sir Henry Newbolt
There's a breathless hush in the close to-night
Ten to make and the match to win
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play, and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat.
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red-
Red with the wreck of the square that broke
The gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed its banks,
And England's far and Honor a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks-
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with joyful mind
And bear through life Eke a torch in flame,
falling fling to the host behind-
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
Sir Henry Newbolt
Thursday, 19 May 2011
Easter 1916
I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
W B Yates
I HAVE met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces
From counter or desk among grey
Eighteenth-century houses.
I have passed with a nod of the head
Or polite meaningless words,
Or have lingered awhile and said
Polite meaningless words,
And thought before I had done
Of a mocking tale or a gibe
To please a companion
Around the fire at the club,
Being certain that they and I
But lived where motley is worn:
All changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
That woman's days were spent
In ignorant good-will,
Her nights in argument
Until her voice grew shrill.
What voice more sweet than hers
When, young and beautiful,
She rode to harriers?
This man had kept a school
And rode our winged horse;
This other his helper and friend
Was coming into his force;
He might have won fame in the end,
So sensitive his nature seemed,
So daring and sweet his thought.
This other man I had dreamed
A drunken, vainglorious lout.
He had done most bitter wrong
To some who are near my heart,
Yet I number him in the song;
He, too, has resigned his part
In the casual comedy;
He, too, has been changed in his turn,
Transformed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
Hearts with one purpose alone
Through summer and winter seem
Enchanted to a stone
To trouble the living stream.
The horse that comes from the road.
The rider, the birds that range
From cloud to tumbling cloud,
Minute by minute they change;
A shadow of cloud on the stream
Changes minute by minute;
A horse-hoof slides on the brim,
And a horse plashes within it;
The long-legged moor-hens dive,
And hens to moor-cocks call;
Minute by minute they live:
The stone's in the midst of all.
Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart.
O when may it suffice?
That is Heaven's part, our part
To murmur name upon name,
As a mother names her child
When sleep at last has come
On limbs that had run wild.
What is it but nightfall?
No, no, not night but death;
Was it needless death after all?
For England may keep faith
For all that is done and said.
We know their dream; enough
To know they dreamed and are dead;
And what if excess of love
Bewildered them till they died?
I write it out in a verse -
MacDonagh and MacBride
And Connolly and Pearse
Now and in time to be,
Wherever green is worn,
Are changed, changed utterly:
A terrible beauty is born.
W B Yates
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
The Destruction of Sennacherib
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on the Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are load in thier wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Lord Byron, (George Gordon)
THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on the Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still!
And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are load in thier wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Lord Byron, (George Gordon)
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
The Connaught Rangers
I SAW the Connaught Rangers when they were passing by,
On a spring day, a good day, with gold rifts in the sky.
Themselves were marching steadily along the Liffey quay
An' I see the young proud look of them as if it were to-day!
The bright lads, the right lads, I have them in my mind,
With the green flags on their bayonets all fluttering in the wind.
A last look at old Ireland, a last good-bye maybe,
Then the gray sea, the wide sea, my grief upon the sea!
And when will they come home, says I, when will they see once more
The dear blue hills of Wicklow and Wexford's dim gray shore?
The brave lads of Ireland, no better lads you'll find,
With the green flags on their bayonets all fluttering in the wind!
Three years have passed since that spring day, sad years for them and me.
Green graves there are in Serbia and in Gallipoli.
And many who went by that day along the muddy street
Will never hear the roadway ring to their triumphant feet.
But when they march before Him, God's welcome will be kind,
And the green flags on their bayonets will flutter in the wind.
Winifred Mary Letts
I SAW the Connaught Rangers when they were passing by,
On a spring day, a good day, with gold rifts in the sky.
Themselves were marching steadily along the Liffey quay
An' I see the young proud look of them as if it were to-day!
The bright lads, the right lads, I have them in my mind,
With the green flags on their bayonets all fluttering in the wind.
A last look at old Ireland, a last good-bye maybe,
Then the gray sea, the wide sea, my grief upon the sea!
And when will they come home, says I, when will they see once more
The dear blue hills of Wicklow and Wexford's dim gray shore?
The brave lads of Ireland, no better lads you'll find,
With the green flags on their bayonets all fluttering in the wind!
Three years have passed since that spring day, sad years for them and me.
Green graves there are in Serbia and in Gallipoli.
And many who went by that day along the muddy street
Will never hear the roadway ring to their triumphant feet.
But when they march before Him, God's welcome will be kind,
And the green flags on their bayonets will flutter in the wind.
Winifred Mary Letts
Danny Deever
"WHAT are the bugles blowin' for? " said Files-on-Parade.
"To turn you out, to turn you out," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes you look so white, so white? " said Files-on-Parade.
"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play
The regiment's in 'ollow square - they're hangin' him to-day;
They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard? " said Files-on-Parade.
"It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes that front-rank man fall down? " said Files-on-Parade.
"A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun," the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,
They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;
An' e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound
0 they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!
" 'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade.
" 'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade.
" 'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,
For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' - you must look 'im in the face;
Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the Regiment's disgrace,
While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
"What's that so black agin the sun? " said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What's that that whimpers over'ead? " said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play
The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day,
After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
R. Kippling
"WHAT are the bugles blowin' for? " said Files-on-Parade.
"To turn you out, to turn you out," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes you look so white, so white? " said Files-on-Parade.
"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play
The regiment's in 'ollow square - they're hangin' him to-day;
They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard? " said Files-on-Parade.
"It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes that front-rank man fall down? " said Files-on-Parade.
"A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun," the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,
They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;
An' e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound
0 they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!
" 'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade.
" 'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade.
" 'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,
For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' - you must look 'im in the face;
Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the Regiment's disgrace,
While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
"What's that so black agin the sun? " said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What's that that whimpers over'ead? " said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play
The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day,
After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
R. Kippling
Monday, 16 May 2011
The Horses
Barely a twelvemonth after
The seven days war that put the world to sleep,
Late in the evening the strange horses came.
By then we had made our covenant with silence,
But in the first few days it was so still
We listened to our breathing and were afraid.
On the second day
The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer.
On the third day a warship passed us, heading north,
Dead bodies piled on the deck. On the sixth day
A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter
Nothing. The radios dumb;
And still they stand in corners of our kitchens,
And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a million rooms
All over the world. But now if they should speak,
If on a sudden they should speak again,
If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak,
We would not listn, we would not let it bring
That old bad world that swallowed its children quick
At one great gulp. We would not have it again.
Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep,
Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow,
And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness.
The tractors lie about our fields; at evening
They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting.
We leave them where they are and let them rust:
"They'll molder away and be like other loam."
We make our oxen drag our rusty plows,
Long laid aside. We have gone back
Far past our fathers' land.
And then, that evening
Late in the summer the strange horses came.
We heard a distant tapping on the road,
A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again
And at the corner changed to hollow thunder.
We saw the heads
Like a wild wave charging and were afraid.
We had sold our horses in our fathers' time
To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us
As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield.
Or illustrations in a book of knights.
We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited,
Stubborn and shy, as if they had been sent
By an old command to find our whereabouts
And that long-lost archaic companionship.
In the first moment we had never a thought
That they were creatures to be owned and used.
Among them were some half a dozen colts
Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world,
Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.
Since then they have pulled our plows and borne our loads,
But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.
Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.
Edwin Muir
Barely a twelvemonth after
The seven days war that put the world to sleep,
Late in the evening the strange horses came.
By then we had made our covenant with silence,
But in the first few days it was so still
We listened to our breathing and were afraid.
On the second day
The radios failed; we turned the knobs; no answer.
On the third day a warship passed us, heading north,
Dead bodies piled on the deck. On the sixth day
A plane plunged over us into the sea. Thereafter
Nothing. The radios dumb;
And still they stand in corners of our kitchens,
And stand, perhaps, turned on, in a million rooms
All over the world. But now if they should speak,
If on a sudden they should speak again,
If on the stroke of noon a voice should speak,
We would not listn, we would not let it bring
That old bad world that swallowed its children quick
At one great gulp. We would not have it again.
Sometimes we think of the nations lying asleep,
Curled blindly in impenetrable sorrow,
And then the thought confounds us with its strangeness.
The tractors lie about our fields; at evening
They look like dank sea-monsters couched and waiting.
We leave them where they are and let them rust:
"They'll molder away and be like other loam."
We make our oxen drag our rusty plows,
Long laid aside. We have gone back
Far past our fathers' land.
And then, that evening
Late in the summer the strange horses came.
We heard a distant tapping on the road,
A deepening drumming; it stopped, went on again
And at the corner changed to hollow thunder.
We saw the heads
Like a wild wave charging and were afraid.
We had sold our horses in our fathers' time
To buy new tractors. Now they were strange to us
As fabulous steeds set on an ancient shield.
Or illustrations in a book of knights.
We did not dare go near them. Yet they waited,
Stubborn and shy, as if they had been sent
By an old command to find our whereabouts
And that long-lost archaic companionship.
In the first moment we had never a thought
That they were creatures to be owned and used.
Among them were some half a dozen colts
Dropped in some wilderness of the broken world,
Yet new as if they had come from their own Eden.
Since then they have pulled our plows and borne our loads,
But that free servitude still can pierce our hearts.
Our life is changed; their coming our beginning.
Edwin Muir
The Castle
All through that summer at ease we lay,
And daily from the turret wall
We watched the mowers in the hay
And the enemy half a mile away
They seemed no threat to us at all.
For what, we thought, had we to fear
With our arms and provender, load on load,
Our towering battlements, tier on tier,
And friendly allies drawing near
On every leafy summer road.
Our gates were strong, our walls were thick,
So smooth and high, no man could win
A foothold there, no clever trick
Could take us, have us dead or quick.
Only a bird could have got in.
What could they offer us for bait?
Our captain was brave and we were true....
There was a little private gate,
A little wicked wicket gate.
The wizened warder let them through.
Oh then our maze of tunneled stone
Grew thin and treacherous as air.
The cause was lost without a groan,
The famous citadel overthrown,
And all its secret galleries bare.
How can this shameful tale be told?
I will maintain until my death
We could do nothing, being sold;
Our only enemy was gold,
And we had no arms to fight it with.
Edwin Muir
All through that summer at ease we lay,
And daily from the turret wall
We watched the mowers in the hay
And the enemy half a mile away
They seemed no threat to us at all.
For what, we thought, had we to fear
With our arms and provender, load on load,
Our towering battlements, tier on tier,
And friendly allies drawing near
On every leafy summer road.
Our gates were strong, our walls were thick,
So smooth and high, no man could win
A foothold there, no clever trick
Could take us, have us dead or quick.
Only a bird could have got in.
What could they offer us for bait?
Our captain was brave and we were true....
There was a little private gate,
A little wicked wicket gate.
The wizened warder let them through.
Oh then our maze of tunneled stone
Grew thin and treacherous as air.
The cause was lost without a groan,
The famous citadel overthrown,
And all its secret galleries bare.
How can this shameful tale be told?
I will maintain until my death
We could do nothing, being sold;
Our only enemy was gold,
And we had no arms to fight it with.
Edwin Muir
Quotes
I believe that imagination is stronger than knowledge.
That myth is more potent than history.
That dreams are more powerful than facts.
That hope always triumphs over experience.
That laughter is the only cure for grief.
And I believe that love is stronger than death.
Robert Fulghum
That myth is more potent than history.
That dreams are more powerful than facts.
That hope always triumphs over experience.
That laughter is the only cure for grief.
And I believe that love is stronger than death.
Robert Fulghum
Don Quixote
Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek
Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a battered book into his hand
Standing like a prophet bold
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout no more
I have come o'er moor and mountain
Like the hawk upon the wing
I was once a shining knight
Who was the guardian of a king
I have searched the whole world over
Looking for a place to sleep
I have seen the strong survive
And I have seen the lean grown weak
See the children of the earth
Who wake to find the table bare
See the gentry in the country
Riding off to take the air
Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a rusty sword into his hand
Then striking up a knightly pose
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout no more
See the jailor with his key
Who locks away all trace of sin
See the judge upon the bench
Who tries the case as best he can
See the wise and wicked ones
Who feed upon life's sacred fire
See the soldier with his gun
Who must be dead to be admired
See the man who tips the needle
See the man who buys and sells
See the man who puts the collar
On the ones who dare not tell
See the drunkard in the tavern
Stemming gold to make ends meet
See the youth in ghetto black
Condemned to life upon the street
Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a tarnished cross into his hand
Then standing like a preacher now
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Then in a blaze of tangled hooves
He gallops off across the dusty plain
In vain to search again
Where no one will hear
Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek.
By Gordon Lightfoot
Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek
Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a battered book into his hand
Standing like a prophet bold
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout no more
I have come o'er moor and mountain
Like the hawk upon the wing
I was once a shining knight
Who was the guardian of a king
I have searched the whole world over
Looking for a place to sleep
I have seen the strong survive
And I have seen the lean grown weak
See the children of the earth
Who wake to find the table bare
See the gentry in the country
Riding off to take the air
Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a rusty sword into his hand
Then striking up a knightly pose
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Till he can shout no more
See the jailor with his key
Who locks away all trace of sin
See the judge upon the bench
Who tries the case as best he can
See the wise and wicked ones
Who feed upon life's sacred fire
See the soldier with his gun
Who must be dead to be admired
See the man who tips the needle
See the man who buys and sells
See the man who puts the collar
On the ones who dare not tell
See the drunkard in the tavern
Stemming gold to make ends meet
See the youth in ghetto black
Condemned to life upon the street
Reaching for his saddlebag
He takes a tarnished cross into his hand
Then standing like a preacher now
He shouts across the ocean to the shore
Then in a blaze of tangled hooves
He gallops off across the dusty plain
In vain to search again
Where no one will hear
Through the woodland, through the valley
Comes a horseman wild and free
Tilting at the windmills passing
Who can the brave young horseman be
He is wild but he is mellow
He is strong but he is weak
He is cruel but he is gentle
He is wise but he is meek.
By Gordon Lightfoot
Sunday, 8 May 2011
'The Combat'
It was not meant for human eyes,
That combat on the shabby patch
Of clods and trampled turf that lies
Somewhere beneath the sodden skies
For eye of toad or adder to catch.
And having seen it I accuse
The crested animal in his pride,
Arrayed in all the royal hues
Which hide the claws he well can use
To tear the heart out of the side.
Body of leopard, eagle's head
And whetted beak, and lion's mane,
And frost-grey hedge of feathers spread
Behind -- he seemed of all things bred.
I shall not see his like again.
As for his enemy there came in
A soft round beast as brown as clay;
All rent and patched his wretched skin;
A battered bag he might have been,
Some old used thing to throw away.
Yet he awaited face to face
The furious beast and the swift attack.
Soon over and done. That was no place
Or time for chivalry or for grace.
The fury had him on his back.
And two small paws like hands flew out
To right and left as the trees stood by.
One would have said beyond a doubt
That was the very end of the bout,
But that the creature would not die.
For ere the death-stroke he was gone,
Writhed, whirled, into his den,
Safe somehow there. The fight was done,
And he had lost who had all but won.
But oh his deadly fury then.
A while the place lay blank, forlorn,
Drowsing as in relief from pain.
The cricket chirped, the grating thorn
Stirred, and a little sound was born.
The champions took their posts again.
And all began. The stealthy paw
Slashed out and in. Could nothing save
These rags and tatters from the claw?
Nothing. And yet I never saw
A beast so helpless and so brave.
And now, while the trees stand watching, still
The unequal battle rages there.
The killing beast that cannot kill
Swells and swells in his fury till
You'd almost think it was despair.
It was not meant for human eyes,
That combat on the shabby patch
Of clods and trampled turf that lies
Somewhere beneath the sodden skies
For eye of toad or adder to catch.
And having seen it I accuse
The crested animal in his pride,
Arrayed in all the royal hues
Which hide the claws he well can use
To tear the heart out of the side.
Body of leopard, eagle's head
And whetted beak, and lion's mane,
And frost-grey hedge of feathers spread
Behind -- he seemed of all things bred.
I shall not see his like again.
As for his enemy there came in
A soft round beast as brown as clay;
All rent and patched his wretched skin;
A battered bag he might have been,
Some old used thing to throw away.
Yet he awaited face to face
The furious beast and the swift attack.
Soon over and done. That was no place
Or time for chivalry or for grace.
The fury had him on his back.
And two small paws like hands flew out
To right and left as the trees stood by.
One would have said beyond a doubt
That was the very end of the bout,
But that the creature would not die.
For ere the death-stroke he was gone,
Writhed, whirled, into his den,
Safe somehow there. The fight was done,
And he had lost who had all but won.
But oh his deadly fury then.
A while the place lay blank, forlorn,
Drowsing as in relief from pain.
The cricket chirped, the grating thorn
Stirred, and a little sound was born.
The champions took their posts again.
And all began. The stealthy paw
Slashed out and in. Could nothing save
These rags and tatters from the claw?
Nothing. And yet I never saw
A beast so helpless and so brave.
And now, while the trees stand watching, still
The unequal battle rages there.
The killing beast that cannot kill
Swells and swells in his fury till
You'd almost think it was despair.
Friday, 6 May 2011
Up date
All of us are busy packing... 100 kilos of scones and 200 kilos of Auntie Jean's perserves to sneak past customs.. Home by Sunday..
Recieved a note from a gentleman thanking me for placing a poem on this place. He had been looking for it for 40 years he said... Glad to help... Miss Niamh will be pleased also I am sure. Tir Na nOg is closer than we think she says as she dances down the street (followed by that great black lump Poppy StormBringer)
Recieved a note from a gentleman thanking me for placing a poem on this place. He had been looking for it for 40 years he said... Glad to help... Miss Niamh will be pleased also I am sure. Tir Na nOg is closer than we think she says as she dances down the street (followed by that great black lump Poppy StormBringer)
Monday, 2 May 2011
Re: My Apploogies but I will be away for a while...
To all our friends at home... out of bed...make your coffee, warm up the sticky buns.. shoo the flight attendants away.. It is time to vote...
Vote, Vote, Vote again if you can.. We all all voted Rhino... Well what did you expect? The Royal Rhinosasauris Resplendant Redoubtables would be heart-broken if we didn't. Now who would want that? We could say -- but it might sway the democratic process...
RSM McGruph wants to be remembered to Miss Niamh... says there is no one dancing around the castle and it is far too quiet... and cant wait to get home. That assumes we can stuff him on to the plane... a surfitt of clotted cream and honey scones... as you might have expected... what with Miss Kate taking him to Claridges for tea... ahhh well
Vote, Vote, Vote again if you can.. We all all voted Rhino... Well what did you expect? The Royal Rhinosasauris Resplendant Redoubtables would be heart-broken if we didn't. Now who would want that? We could say -- but it might sway the democratic process...
RSM McGruph wants to be remembered to Miss Niamh... says there is no one dancing around the castle and it is far too quiet... and cant wait to get home. That assumes we can stuff him on to the plane... a surfitt of clotted cream and honey scones... as you might have expected... what with Miss Kate taking him to Claridges for tea... ahhh well
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