Lament for Flodden



I’VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day;
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—
For the Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;
Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har’st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie—
The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,
The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.

Jane Elliot (1727–1805)

Hold the Line


We were farmboys in the spring of 'fourteen
A few miles from mother's door the furthest I'd ever been.
One short month of training and we're off to foreign shores to hold the line.

And now a year's gone by and I've never let my mind count the minutes of these murders, the brothers now behind.

"We'll all go home by Christmas. The weather will be kind. Will you hold the line?"

"Your mask protects you from the poison yellow smoke."
"They will time their charge to take you when they think the line has broken."
"None of them expecting that we got their trenches mined."
"And we'll hold the line."

They sent us out to murder on the empty foreign fields.
There is crimson in the umber of a kind that doesn't yield.
Our youth gave in to anger, our shoulder to the toil.
A million names and faces in a mile of bloody soil.

Have I been here a lifetime or just these thousand horrid days?
Will the guns ever go silent?
Will the winds of time erase the scars upon the battlefield?
The would within our mind while we hold the line?

And of all the faces that have come and gone (while in this tomb I've grown),
The one I've come to like the least's the one that is my own.
For within this bloodied hero a murderer you find and you hold the line.
Hold the line.

(Nathan Rogers)

To The RAF

Never since English ships went out
To singe the beard of Spain,
Or English sea-dogs hunted death
Along the Spanish Main,
Never since Drake and Raleigh won
Our freedom of the seas,
Have sons of Britain dared and done
More valiantly than these.

Whether at midnight or at noon,
Through mist or open sky,
Eagles of freedom, all our hearts
Are up with you on high;
While Britain's mighty ghosts look down
From realms beyond the sun
And whisper, as their record pales,
Their breathless, deep, Well Done!

Alfred Noyes

Our Story - as much of it that can be told that is... (Part five)

Story — Two


Chapter One


The Great Electoral Campaign – Callum Runs for Office

It was only just becoming morning. Both Craig and Zita had been fast asleep when the speakers on the bedroom’s bookshelf announced that the Prime Minister had finally called an election.

It was only a few minutes later that the sound of muffled voices and not so subtle pounding proved to Craig that sleep was out of the question, so with understandable reluctance he tried to awake.

He found the bookshelf atumble with activity. Two of the Queen’s Own Pigs were tacking up large posters of Rhinosasaurises. In his rather fuzzy early morning mind they looked suspiciously like the advertisements for Armstrong Tires.

He raised his head. The Rhinosasaurises were over in the far corner of the room with Beauregard Clayton-Lyon and Big TeddyBear McGruph. BT-McG had acquired a large, red white and blue, hand-painted bow tie. To his right, stood Beauregard, a large chocolate éclair stuck in the side of his mouth. He was waving his arms about in an alarming fashion. Craig rubbed his eyes and decided that it would be far wiser to go to sleep again.

Just then one of the Pigs leaned out from the book shelf and asked, “Now how do you spell — Integrity.” Since spelling had never being one of his strong points he pretended not to hear. The question was repeated - louder.

Zita said “I-N-T-E-G-R-I-T-Y.” The dapper LB Pig doffed his hat and grinned. He scampered back up the shelf to where the rest of the Queen’s Own were gathered. Small pieces of paper seemed to be seeping rapidly from their midst. Grasping the inevitable Craig said, “All right, what’s going on here?” He was ignored.

Beauregard marched over, climbed onto the bed, sat on one of the night’s discarded pillows and said, “We are having a nominating convention to see who is going to be elected to your Parliament for the faithful Rhino Party. Actually it really is between the two Rhinosasaurises as you may well have guessed. Callum wants Haemish to run because of his experience, and ah... Mmm... Well it’s like this; Haemish doesn’t want to run for that exact same reason. He feels that some of his past would not stand up to serious media scrutiny, and he wants to be judged on his opinions and native good nature, not some of his famous past deeds and amazing adventures. He feels that they would overwhelm the public and raise expectations to an unreasonable level. He is of the opinion that Callum would make a far better candidate, after all he is going to medical school and that would look good on posters, “Vote for Callum McCallum - Nearly a Doctor”. But then you see Callum is afraid that if he is elected that being a Member of Parliament will seriously interfere with his studies, what with having to go to court and commissions of inquiry all the time. So they want your opinion.”

“Well I think that Haemish is right, and remember, we are not certain that this terrorist society or whatever, has given up on doing away with him. It would probably be safer if he laid low for a while, and Callum should not think that since that the membership of the present parliament has spent a lot of their time before various judges and special councils that it is normal. Perhaps that next government will be better behaved. All in all I think that Callum would make a fine candidate for the local Rhino Party. By the way, and just out of interest, why does McG. have a bow tie on; and why are you holding the chocolate éclair in your mouth like that?”

Beauregard looked embarrassed and replied, “I am going to be the campaign manager and I want to look the part, but I couldn’t find a real cigar, and anyway they aren’t very good for you, you know. I really want a bowler hat though. Mizz Zita do you think you could make me a bowler hat?”

“What about the Pigs? What are they doing? They and the TBears are no doubt in this ‘event’ I assume.”

“Of course - The Queen’s Own are in charge of the media campaign and the Bears have graciously volunteered to be our campaign workers, going from door to door - to explain about the Socialist Hordes and the mealy-mouthed policies of the other mainline parties - We are ordering some flags to wrap them up in. Pretty organized for only three hours work....”

Sometimes Beauregard’s Louisiana background came through in the most unfortunate fashion Craig had noticed. Just what we need - Huey Long as a role model. He probably wants to turn the whole province into bayou country he said to himself, as he put on his fresh socks.

Craig and Zita left the room, leaving the whole lot of them apparently plotting the overthrow of Democracy-As-We-Know-It.

Downstairs, while they were deciding what to use on the bagels, cream cheese or peanut butter, the Colonel came over to replace a book in the bookshelf.

“What’s good to read Dugal?” Craig asked.

“Well I am still on volume two of ‘Lee’s Lieutenants’ but find it hard slogging.... Think I’d prefer something lighter during the fall; save the heavy stuff for winter y’see. ‘Haps I’ll re-read Blake’s ‘Disraeli’ to put myself in the mood for the forthcoming shenanigans.”

“So you heard about the PM calling an election too; and what are you doing in the Campaign?”

Dugal replied somewhat stuffily, “Don’have any truck with that sort of foolishness myself. Never understood politicians. They never understood me and it was better that way - they wanted to know when, and I wanted to know why. But Haemish now, he knows how it all works. I’member.... One time he bribed us all the long way from Dar-Es-Salaam to Montevideo - just in time to meet an incoming Lufthansa flight! Went through three months back pay that week-end.

Zita coughed on her coffee, she was appalled, “You mean our Haemish?”

“Achhh yes Lassie, Haemish, wonderful keen eye he has.... Nothing like that up in Invergary. That’s where I was born, just to the right of the biggest holly hedge in all of the Strathclyde.”

(It was always difficult to keep up with Dugal’s long conversations, much less keep him on topic.)

“But it was many years ago, far to many for me to remember with any diligence. So is his brother going to represent the Rhino Party for this riding?”

Zita replied “Well they think so. They are all upstairs at the moment looking at the maps and assigning tasks. Beauregard is going to be campaign manager, and BT-McG is going to be in charge of raising money, all The Queen’s Own are writing speeches and The TeddyBears are arranging for a neighbourhood picnic to introduce everyone to Callum, though it is a bit cold for a picnic I think.

Dugal turned around, a canny gleam in his black eyes..., “Achhh, nuu. We’ll serve whus’ky souffle, and some o’McG’s chutney au whus’ky. That will warm them up proper—and win them over. Those who have doubts, we’ll pay them a quarter - ah! - it will be a gran’ time, “

“Thought that you didn’t have anything to do with politics” said Craig, “I don’t” said Dugal “Ooo, but a Scotch tasting picnic—now there’s another thing entirely. I must go up stairs and offer to help. How much money has BT-McG raised, ‘nough for a case, or can we order by the tun? I have a small keg of ‘37 Auchentoshan - it comes from my second cousin Ranald’s own wee still. Far up fair Glen Freuchie. It’s well hidden downstairs ye see?”

Chapter Two

The Police Pay Another Visit

The campaign had progressed most efficiently - until one Saturday afternoon three weeks into the election.

Craig, Callum and a few of the TBears had been out putting up campaign signs around the neighbourhood. It had only taken the Queen’s Own about three days to learn how to use the computer to make the posters and signs, but they were all too shy to go around asking if they could put the results up on people’s front lawns or in their windows. Callum was still nervous about not using his Rhinosasauris name on the nominating forms, and all the TeddyBears were still new to the neighbourhood - so they convinced Craig to help out. (Actually they offered to make him Clark of Her Majesty’s Privy Council, if they won.)

So they all plied into the car and went around the riding. Naturally almost everyone wanted a Rhino poster for the lawn or a window, except for some fractious university professor who asked about Callum’s credentials—which were obvious. Did the professor have a real horn and a snazzy safari jacket? - He then wanted to know about the ‘social grounding’ of their Platform.

Callum told him that it was far too cold to build any platforms on the ground in Canada. The TeddyBear with the GreenFeet was appalled and spoke up “T’is sure back in the County Meath only the very poor builds anyt’ing on the open ground and t’be sure that’s why I left my own dear home and ‘migrated here; to be rich, happy and marry Linda Evangelista.”

He then asked to see the receipt for the professor’s degree. He had the door slammed in his face.

“Quasi-Neo-Trotskyite-Revisionist!” they all shouted, and the Bear with the RedTuque put their secret mark on the middle of his front door - so that no self respecting Bear would ever drop in for tea, or offer to shovel off the steps after a snow storm.

Now quite favourably impressed with themselves they drove home.

When they reached Holmwood, the street was covered by police cars! The Nova immediately shifted into first gear, put on its emergency brake and did a 180 degree turn. It had almost reached third gear before Craig could assure it that all the parking tickets were paid, and that they all had better get home to see what was going on.

They returned just in time to see Beauregard Clayton-Lyon being conducted into the house by two be-coated policemen.

They turned into the back yard where BT-McG was waiting for them. He stood there trembling. He threw his arms about, kicked the remains of their asparagus patch, and flung a rock into the pond, “They t’rew poor Beauregard in the Glass House for putt’ng trut’ serum into one of the ‘ponnent’s mor’nen coffees. Now f’sure, Miss Zita is’n there right now; putt’ng on her best Wes’Country accent - Policemens always trusts Irish accents y’a know, ‘cause of all those Barry O’Sullivan and Paddy O’Brien movies on the Saturday morn’en TV.”

Craig almost fled.

By the time he got parked, and read the riot act to the rest of the assembled Animeaux, the six policemen were all sitting around the dining room table drinking tea and waiting for their scones. Beauregard was sitting by himself in the living room looking very down cast. He was folding his hat into artistic shapes.

The Inspector was apologizing for all the fuss when Craig entered, “I know that your Monsieur Beauregard did this all with the best of intentions, but just think of the chaos that would occur if all the professionals running the various political campaigns started to tell the truth.... Now we knew something was amiss when the Other Gentleman confessed that the great confusion in his party was all his fault - and well since finding him accepting blame is unusual and actively searching it out is unique, so we knew that something was well amiss. When we looked at the list of suspects your Monsieur Lyon was the only one who had not been a campaign manager before. To his credit, he confessed right away. If it had not been for your friend Doyle’s intervention we might have had to put him away as a clear and present danger to the state.”

“What has he have to do with all this?” Craig asked with some astonishment.

“Ah well, Pat, the Arch-Bishop and some of us lads get together for lunch and practice our Latin every couple of weeks. Pat was down at the Club when all these untoward events took place. It seems that your Monsieur Lyon has relatives in the Curia, and Pat recognized the name, and the Archdiocese vouched for his behaviour. As you know Pat has a certain sympathy with obfuscation and your friend was doing his best — apparently there was some kind of a vote and nearly half the campaign funds were used to buy yourself and your good wife an anniversary bouquet. Monsieur Lyon seemed to feel that if everyone told the truth it would even things out.”

BT-McG strolled slowly downcast into the dining room and explained, “We didn’ really have ‘nough money t’buy even half hour of the TV. Even though our Queen’s Own have come up with a super show. They discovered lots of mainly true facts and ‘normously big figures on how Callum could buy huge model Helicopters for $8.00 each retail - So wit’ only $80,000,000 we could buy one for nearly whole country, saving kabillions of dollars.

He’ll take som’o’ d’extra money and rents the French Foreign Legions to guard whales from those pesky Japanese and Norwegian folks. Rest he’ll invest in show’n the House of Commons to all the ex-Commies in Eastern Europe. The figures say that d’def’cit would dissolve on reruns alone. Sadly we had only $73.00, - $54.00 if I forget Christmas present cash, and that wer’nt enough to get us on the TV - even in Newfoundland’. We then voted and ‘cided to buy Zita loads of pretty flowers for the anniversary, since we knows Craig would forget. So then we had only $41.79 and I ‘pose it was this unusual poverty that drove poor Beauregard to crime - un-used as he is to a lack of the ‘ready’.”

Beauregard swung himself over the brown sofa, and sat on the long white bookshelf, between it and the dining room. He didn’t want to get too close to the police. He said that he was very sorry to Callum and BT-McG.

“I was getting quite upset you see — all the other parties would not let us take part in the important debates - and the dumb TV cameras never see Callum and me, because..... well perhaps we ar’nt as tall as some of the other candidates and, and - its not fair. I’ve written the CRTC but they referred me to the CBC and then they sent me to someone else, who redirected me to another department..... and well it is MY job to get us on the television so that we are very well known and can show up the numerous failings of the other parties, and I am not doing a very good job of it and I am so very sorry..... and..... and.....”

Beauregard looked away lest his emotions got the best of him.

All the policemen nodded knowing only too well what it’s like to deal with the media, especially the CBC. The Inspector stood up brushing the crumbs from his lap and said that they must get back to work, but he took out his wallet and put $10 dollars on the table “A campaign donation.” he said. He shook hands with Beauregard and Callum and told them not to be depressed, and that he would personally lose all traces of this “misunderstanding” from the files. All the other policemen put their folding donations into Callum’s helmet as they left and wished them all good luck.

This left them with a total of $77.38 (after they paid Beauregard’s contribution to the Policeman’s National Canasta Soiree Fund). Not enough to match the major parties and barely enough to by a keg of Scotch, even with Dugal’s bulk discount.

So instead of having a picnic, as it was getting quite cold and Zita had not finished all their new winter clothes yet, they got out Dugal’s second best pewter flask, filled it with some of his 33-year-old Auchentoshan, and took it around with them as they went campaigning, as a “convincer”. It was this tactic that led them astray.

An Over Indulgence.... or Two

One night just before the election Craig had gone to Montreal to pick a returning Zita up. Beauregard had accompanied him to the airport. He was in a small panic. He thought the discomfort of a long car ride was well worth the opportunity to deliver his version of why he had tried to get Mademoiselle Marie-Ellen to give him a good-night kiss before any less amusing version reached Zita’s ear.

You see when Zita was off in Ireland, visiting her family; the woman who had tried to teach Craig French, came over for dinner. Naturally she had been presented to Dugal and the Dragons. When she went upstairs to be introduced to all the others, Beauregard looked up from behind his copy of ‘The Picayune Times’ and had asked for a good-night kiss, less he was tempted to mentioned to Mizz Zita that they-all had been entertaining women in her absence.

Poor Marie-Ellen was scandalized. Callum and Haemish had to use their considerable powers of persuasion to prevent her from crying.

Naturally Beauregard was mortified by the outcome, and apologized many times. He said that it was her French accent that reminded him of all the young demoiselles from Ste. Margarine Parish back home. They had always kissed him good-night (and some times good-morning, we have no doubt) and it was the memories that had caused him to lose his composure. That and the stress of being arrested had undermined his natural better instincts.

(With this in mind he thought it best if he met Zita at the airport, and made his explanations before the Q-O Pigs spilled the beans, or mentioned silk teddies and the mirrors.)

It was late and rainy when he and Craig reached the new Montreal airport. They waited for Zita in silence, when she arrived she was desperately tired from the long flight, and the awful coffee. In spite of this she said that she was very glad to see both of them. As they sat in the car, Beauregard told her his sad tale, with a certain amount of elegant embroidery, so she forgave him right away - it was easier she knew - and they both fell asleep as soon as they reached the highway, and didn’t awake until Craig announced that they had once again reached home.

When they entered the house they found it unusually quiet - even the stereo was off, and Dugal was fast asleep, rather oddly curled up under the dinner table. When they got upstairs there was a whole lot of un-suppressed giggling going on.

Across the doorway to the den a banner had been strung, which read, “Welcome Home - what did you bring us? Love from us.”

When they entered the bedroom and turned on the lights there arose the most pitiful moan from both the bookcase and the dresser. BT-McG was propped up, half sitting on the dresser, with his hat covering his face, Callum and Haemish were resting face down - on the stereo receiver, breathing very slowly and very quietly.

The TeddyBear with GreenFeet spoke up, “Now dey’ve been a bit into d’poteen, Y’err honour.

T’be sure it was all fault to Colonel and Mr. Haemish. It was themselves who decided that as its’ only t’ree days to the election, it was the time to get everyones to vote for Mister Callum. They broke out bottles of the Colonel’s Special Stock, them bottles that he keeps hidden under the rug in the back room of the basement.”

Obviously not too well hidden thought Craig.

“And y’see it was himself over there,” pointing at BT-McG “who was sick on the lawn and didn’t go to Mass at all.” The little TBear was quite indignant.

BT-McG said in a very quiet and hoarse voice, “It was the six Black Russians I had at the Doctor’s house that did it, I’m slorry to say.” He then slipped down onto his side and fell asleep.

Callum whispered slowly that they had being going door-to-door all evening explaining how they would run the country; with truth and humour. They had gone to the Bowen’s house last because Callum knew that they had the best chocolate cake in the world always ready, just for guests.

He and the Reverend Dr. Bowen had been arguing about what to do about North Africa and they drank all the Scotch in Dugal’s flask and then Desmond brought out the Jamison’s and they finished that. By the time the Tia Maria was found, Haemish, Dugal and Mrs. Bowen had rearranged the living room into the second battle of the Somme and were discussing the subtle points of General Haig’s failure.

When the fist World War had been re-fought in the living room and Callum had argued Dr. Bowen into insensibility in the den, all the Animeaux, and Desmond had too much to drink, and the Reverend Dr. Bowen had to bid them a fair-thee-well holding on to the front door, and the rest of them had to walk home arm in arm - so that none would fall down. BT-McG was quite ill, and the others were relying on Dugal’s walking stick to get them back.

It seams that the Dragoon Guards heard the noise a block away and went out to guide them. They were all quite embarrassed by their behaviour.

By the time Craig and Zita arrived home they were all feeling quite awful and the Q-O Pigs and the other TBears were not about to give them any sympathy at all and had hidden all the aspirin and the 222’s.

Election Night

The day of the election had turned out to be very busy for Craig; he had to pick up a rather nifty model 1897 Winchester pump and get it registered at the Police station, have a coffee with Bill - who wanted to know how Beauregard was settling in, go to the liquor store for the Colonel and Zita. Then as a favour to Haemish he had picked-up Miss Tanya at her school and delivered her home so she could vote. On the way they had discussed the impact of the free trade negotiations on imported French silk lounging robes, brocaded halter tops and the other complex necessities of a young and fashionable life.

As she got out of the car she asked if Haemish had got his new ski boots yet, as downhill season was not too far away and she wanted Craig to make sure that Haemish wore his new scarf as she was quite concerned that he was not used to the cold weather, having come from the middle east and all.

As he was wondering about all this, especially the ski boots and new scarf the Nova burbled up “I knew it was never too late to have an exciting life - old guns, young blondes and foreign intrigue - it’s a lot better then taking dull trips to the IGA and motoring over to aunt Jessie’s Sunday pot luck lunches - I knew my life would get better - it really doesn’t matter if I am a little old and my paint doesn’t quite match does it? It’s what’s in your heart that counts. I knew it wasn’t too late for me to be a credit to The General. Will our life always be like this?”

“I well, not always this exciting, and don’t pay too much attention to Callum and Haemish’s stories about the terrorists. They are much exaggerated.” He did not want to scare the little Nova into a nervous fit, or a radiator hose collapse.

“Anyway we are much too busy just now for things like that, Zita and you have to take Callum’s supporters to the polls tonight.”

When they got home everyone was in a high state of agitation; Callum was watching “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance”, since it was about getting Jimmy Stewart elected in spite of scandalous behaviour on the part of his opponents, he thought it was appropriate. It also took his mind off the fact that other parties had decided to take this election so seriously that they had resorted to lying and making rude faces at each other on the Television.

He had privately asserted, “All in all; I would rather be polite than be Prime Minister.”

(That didn’t mean that he had given up - no he just wanted to represent a real protest vote - for those people who thought that leading a country was far too important a job to be taken that seriously. If they achieved only that Callum and all the cronies would consider it a great campaign and declare themselves elected in the hearts of Canadians, where it really counted anyway.)

Zita, Haemish and BT-McG had to leave the house early as they were electoral officials and had to ensure that everything stayed on the up and up. The rest of them had dragged the other two Televisions into the den, then settled down to watch the results. They had placed 16 tubs of Hagan Däs ice cream in the freezer and the Asti Spumante in the refrigerator.

(Asti floats were the favoured and traditional drink for all official Rhinosasauris celebrations you see.)

Craig warned both the TBears and the Queen’s Own that it was probably going to be a long and forlorn night, since he thought it very unlikely that Callum would win. Privately he thought that they had all toiled enormously hard, and he was very proud of them all; especially of Callum who never got discouraged, nor had false hopes.

The TeddyBear with GreenFeet spoke up, breaking his thoughts, “I went to Mass first thing this morning, and prayed and prayed and prayed that we pulverize whoever that bog-hopping, skin-flint hardhearted professor - the one who wanted us to build houses for poor peoples in the dirt - voted for, and then every t’ing will be fine with me. And I lit t’ree candles too. The TeddyBear with the RedTuque helped me find some spare coins for the collection, and then he went over to the government farm - to the old oak grove and prayed for a very out-of-sorts FuryBear to come and pay that rotten man a visit in the very middle of a moon-less night.”

From across room, Colonel Dugal looked up from his book and smiled, “We appreciate all the assistance, moral and otherwise, that you two have sent Callum’s way. I am sure that your brother the Bishop will be pleased to pieces with how well you are fitting in over here.” The two smallish bears beamed.

The three returned about 10 o’clock, and came upstairs to the den, looking quite dispirited. BT-McG and Beauregard went off to the far corner shook hands. Zita went over and the three of them wiped each others’ eyes. Haemish went into the back bedroom with Callum; Dugal wandered in with them, trying to cover his second best flask with his tam. About 10 minutes later the three of them came into the den - where everyone was waiting. Callum walked over and climbed up on the old wooden wheelchair, and thanked everyone for their efforts.

“They have said ‘It is not if you win or lose, its how you play....’ Friends we have had the very best innings I ever saw. I wouldn’t change an iota for all the world. I have just been told that Beauregard and BT-McG. feel that they have somehow let us all down. That just couldn’t be true. They are the truest friends Haemish and I have ever had. We just now phoned home and I have been fortunate enough to have just spoken to the High King of the Rhinosasauri. He has awarded both Monsieur Beauregard Clayton-Lyon; late of the Ville de Nouvelle Orleans, and Master Bruin Theodore McGruph (which was BT-McG’s real name), late of the County of Lanark, with - The Most Royal Order of the Gladdened Heart; For Actions far above the Constraints of Prudence or the Demands of Fear. Now bring on the haggis chutneys and the Asti-Floats!”

With that Dugal and Haemish piped the Haggis in. The Dragoons pushed in the wicker laundry basket full of Hagan Däs ice cream, Asti Spumante - some Coke Classic for Craig - and many double handled crystal mugs from Dugal’s great-grand father’s wedding. Then they all, everyone of them, got onto the sofa, turned off the election and put Candice Bergen and Sean Connery in “The Wind and The Lion” on all three televisions. They made numerous toasts, pulled the red and white diamond quilt over themselves and after a while fell asleep.

A while later Craig heard Callum telling Zita, please not to cry, it was really only a movie.

Sleeping Buffalo

He lives an hour outside of Billings
The distant hills are brown and sere
The wind plays tricks outside your hearing
And whispers lies into your ears

He's got a station at a crossroads
He's got war medals in his den
He's got a wife in the county hospice
She's not coming home again

He filled my tank and cleaned the windshield
He popped the hood and checked the oil
He wiped his hands upon his chinos
His eyes were as dark as prairie soil

He said, "Do you know of the Sleeping Buffalo?
They're about a half an hour away
A ring of sacred stones upon a hilltop
That's what the Indians say

The Indians gathered in the springtime
Bearing gifts for the Buffalo
The white men set the stones in concrete
Behind a fence beside the road

I used to go when I was younger
Before I fought in Hitler's war
Now it's a park for the goddam tourists
I won't go there anymore"
He said, "Son I ain't no Indian
You can look at me and tell
But bastards like Custer had it coming
I hope he's burning still in hell"

I left him at that windy crossroads
The shades of night began to fall
I thought I'd drive toward the sunset
And pay the Buffalo a call

The sun was just below the hilltops
The night wind pulled me by my shirt
I walked toward the granite figures
Behind the fence, set in the dirt

They loomed dull grey in the gathering twilight
I saw faded paint of red and blue
Some ancient hand had chiseled markings
Now a graven image for a roadside zoo

But I drew near I saw the flowers
Tobacco and fresh cartridges lay near
And so, for some faithful unseen wanderers
The Buffalo's spirit lingers here

Garnet Rogers

The Soldier Of Fortune

"Deny your God!" they ringed me with their spears;
Blood-crazed were they, and reeking from the strife;
Hell-hot their hate, and venom-fanged their sneers,
And one man spat on me and nursed a knife.
And there was I, sore wounded and alone,
I, the last living of my slaughtered band.
Oh sinister the sky, and cold as stone!
In one red laugh of horror reeled the land.
And dazed and desperate I faced their spears,
And like a flame out-leaped that naked knife,
And like a serpent stung their bitter jeers:
"Deny your God, and we will give you life."

Deny my God! Oh life was very sweet!
And it is hard in youth and hope to die;
And there my comrades dear lay at my feet,
And in that blear of blood soon must I lie.
And yet . . . I almost laughed -- it seemed so odd,
For long and long had I not vainly tried
To reason out and body forth my God,
And prayed for light, and doubted -- and denied:
Denied the Being I could not conceive,
Denied a life-to-be beyond the grave. . . .
And now they ask me, who do not believe,
Just to deny, to voice my doubt, to save
This life of mine that sings so in the sun,
The bloom of youth yet red upon my cheek,
My only life! -- O fools! 'tis easy done,
I will deny . . . and yet I do not speak.

"Deny your God!" their spears are all agleam,
And I can see their eyes with blood-lust shine;
Their snarling voices shrill into a scream,
And, mad to slay, they quiver for the sign.
Deny my God! yes, I could do it well;
Yet if I did, what of my race, my name?
How they would spit on me, these dogs of hell!
Spurn me, and put on me the brand of shame.
A white man's honour! what of that, I say?
Shall these black curs cry "Coward" in my face?
They who would perish for their gods of clay --
Shall I defile my country and my race?
My country! what's my country to me now?
Soldier of Fortune, free and far I roam;
All men are brothers in my heart, I vow;
The wide and wondrous world is all my home.
My country! reverent of her splendid Dead,
Her heroes proud, her martyrs pierced with pain:
For me her puissant blood was vainly shed;
For me her drums of battle beat in vain,
And free I fare, half-heedless of her fate:
No faith, no flag I owe -- then why not seek
This last loop-hole of life? Why hesitate?
I will deny . . . and yet I do not speak.

"Deny your God!" their spears are poised on high,
And tense and terrible they wait the word;
And dark and darker glooms the dreary sky,
And in that hush of horror no thing stirred.
Then, through the ringing terror and sheer hate
Leaped there a vision to me -- Oh, how far!
A face, Her face . . . through all my stormy fate
A joy, a strength, a glory and a star.
Beneath the pines, where lonely camp-fires gleam,
In seas forlorn, amid the deserts drear,
How I had gladdened to that face of dream!
And never, never had it seemed so dear.
O silken hair that veils the sunny brow!
O eyes of grey, so tender and so true!
O lips of smiling sweetness! must I now
For ever and for ever go from you?
Ah, yes, I must . . . for if I do this thing,
How can I look into your face again?
Knowing you think me more than half a king,
I with my craven heart, my honour slain.

No! no! my mind's made up. I gaze above,
Into that sky insensate as a stone;
Not for my creed, my country, but my Love
Will I stand up and meet my death alone.
Then though it be to utter dark I sink,
The God that dwells in me is not denied;
"Best" triumphs over "Beast", -- and so I think
Humanity itself is glorified. . . .

"And now, my butchers, I embrace my fate.
Come! let my heart's blood slake the thirsty sod.
Curst be the life you offer! Glut your hate!
Strike! Strike, you dogs! I'll not deny my God."

I saw the spears that seemed a-leap to slay,
All quiver earthward at the headman's nod;
And in a daze of dream I heard him say:
"Go, set him free who serves so well his God!"


by Robert William Service

Incident of the French Camp


You know, we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms locked behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver a yonder wall," --
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect --
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through)
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace
We've got you Ratisbon!
The Marshal's in the market-place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes:
"You're wounded!" "Nay", the soldier's pride
Touched to quick, he said:
"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
Smiling the boy fell dead.


-- Robert Browning

Quotes

"You think my life is such a precious thing to me, that I would trade my honour for a few more years...of what?"

- Ned Stark"

Quotes

“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”

- Albert Einstein

The Law of the Yukon

This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain:
"Send not your foolish and feeble; send me your strong and your sane --
Strong for the red rage of battle; sane for I harry them sore;
Send me men girt for the combat, men who are grit to the core;
Swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in defeat,
Sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat.
Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones;
Them will I take to my bosom, them will I call my sons;
Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat;
But the others -- the misfits, the failures -- I trample under my feet.
Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain,
Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters -- Go! take back your spawn again.

"Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway;
From my ruthless throne I have ruled alone for a million years and a day;
Hugging my mighty treasure, waiting for man to come,
Till he swept like a turbid torrent, and after him swept -- the scum.
The pallid pimp of the dead-line, the enervate of the pen,
One by one I weeded them out, for all that I sought was -- Men.
One by one I dismayed them, frighting them sore with my glooms;
One by one I betrayed them unto my manifold dooms.
Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains,
Rotted the flesh that was left them, poisoned the blood in their veins;
Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight,
Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night;

Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through the snow,
Frozen stiff in the ice-pack, brittle and bent like a bow;
Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight,
Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white;
Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair,
Crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer;
Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam,
Writing a cheque for a million, driveling feebly of home;
Lost like a louse in the burning. . .or else in the tented town
Seeking a drunkard's solace, sinking and sinking down;
Steeped in the slime at the bottom, dead to a decent world,
Lost 'mid the human flotsam, far on the frontier hurled;
In the camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare,
Its gambling dens ariot, its gramophones all ablare;
Crimped with the crimes of a city, sin-ridden and bridled with lies,
In the hush of my mountained vastness, in the flush of my midnight skies.
Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive,
Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive.

"But the others, the men of my mettle, the men who would 'stablish my fame
Unto its ultimate issue, winning me honor, not shame;
Searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they go,
Shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling my ramparts of snow;
Ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my creeks,
Them will I take to my bosom, and speak as a mother speaks.
I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods;
Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods.
Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accurst,
Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the first;
Visioning camp-fires at twilight, sad with a longing forlorn,
Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn.
Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway,
And I wait for the men who will win me -- and I will not be won in a day;
And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild,
But by men with the hearts of Vikings, and the simple faith of a child;
Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by fear or defeat,
Them will I gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat.

"Lofty I stand from each sister land, patient and wearily wise,
With the weight of a world of sadness in my quiet, passionless eyes;
Dreaming alone of a people, dreaming alone of a day,
When men shall not rape my riches, and curse me and go away;
Making a bawd of my bounty, fouling the hand that gave --
Till I rise in my wrath and I sweep on their path and I stamp them into a grave.
Dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me good,
Of children born in my borders of radiant motherhood,
Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled,
As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap of the world."

This is the Law of the Yukon, that only the Strong shall thrive;
That surely the Weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive.
Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain,
This is the Will of the Yukon, -- Lo, how she makes it plain!

-- Robert Service

Young Willie

Young Willie died a peaceful death: I shot him in his bed.
And the teen-aged whore with the blackened eye
Watched him as he bled.
She smiled a strange half-smile at me,
Shook her tangled hair.
"Best bury that one deep, he won't rest easy."

We piled the rocks on Willie's grave the morning of that day.
"Should have left him for the dogs." I heard somebody say.
While on the hill above the town
Stood the girl from the night before.
She crossed herself and she watched us
At our labour.

Willie was the golden boy; he was the chosen one.
Where fortune showed a generous hand
He was the favoured son.
Willie he turned rotten in a strange and ugly way.
So I put an end to him and all his workings.

I saw Willie's handiwork on the road to Taneytown.
And in the border-wars in Mexico
We mowed those peasants down.
And in the hills of Nicaragua
Where the gunships hold their sway.
He'd smile and say "my duty is my honour."

Willie was the golden boy, he was the chosen one.
Where fortune showed a generous hand
He was the favoured son.
Willie he turned rotten in some secret ugly way.
Now I look in children's faces
I see Willie.

Yes I'm the man shot Willie; at that range I couldn't miss
You know I've spent my nights since then
With a bottle in my fist.
And on nights when whiskey fails me
I leave my sleepless bed
And I pile another stone
On his marker.

Willie was the golden boy; possessed of style and grace.
And where another man might fold his hand
Willie found the extra ace.
Willie he turned rotten in a secret ugly way.
And now I look into the mirror
I see Willie.

Garnet Rogers

The Song Of The Dead


Hear now the Song of the Dead -- in the North by the torn berg-edges --
They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Song of the Dead in the South -- in the sun by their skeleton horses,
Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust of the sear
river-courses.

Song of the Dead in the East -- in the heat-rotted jungle hollows,
Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof --
in the brake of the buffalo-wallows.
Song of the Dead in the West --
in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them,
Where the wolverene tumbles their packs
from the camp and the grave-mound they made them;
Hear now the Song of the Dead!


I

We were dreamers, dreaming greatly, in the man-stifled town;
We yearned beyond the sky-line where the strange roads go down.
Came the Whisper, came the Vision, came the Power with the Need,
Till the Soul that is not man's soul was lent us to lead.
As the deer breaks -- as the steer breaks -- from the herd where they graze,
In the faith of little children we went on our ways.
Then the wood failed -- then the food failed -- then the last water dried --
In the faith of little children we lay down and died.
On the sand-drift -- on the veldt-side -- in the fern-scrub we lay,
That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way.
Follow after -- follow after! We have watered the root,
And the bud has come to blossom that ripens for fruit!
Follow after -- we are waiting, by the trails that we lost,
For the sounds of many footsteps, for the tread of a host.
Follow after -- follow after -- for the harvest is sown:
By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own!

When Drake went down to the Horn
And England was crowned thereby,
'Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed
Our Lodge -- our Lodge was born
(And England was crowned thereby!)

Which never shall close again
By day nor yet by night,
While man shall take his life to stake
At risk of shoal or main
(By day nor yet by night).

But standeth even so
As now we witness here,
While men depart, of joyful heart,
Adventure for to know
(As now bear witness here!)


II

We have fed our sea for a thousand years
And she calls us, still unfed,
Though there's never a wave of all her waves
But marks our English dead:
We have strawed our best to the weed's unrest,
To the shark and the sheering gull.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

There's never a flood goes shoreward now
But lifts a keel we manned;
There's never an ebb goes seaward now
But drops our dead on the sand --
But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,
From the Ducies to the Swin.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid it in!

We must feed our sea for a thousand years,
For that is our doom and pride,
As it was when they sailed with the 'Golden Hind',
Or the wreck that struck last tide --
Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef
Where the ghastly blue-lights flare.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' bought it fair!

-- Rudyard Kipling

The Donkey.



When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

Pagett, M.P.


The toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where each tooth-point goes.
The butterfly upon the road
Preaches contentment to that toad.

Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith -
He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth";
Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November,
And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September.

March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay,
Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay."
March went out with the roses. "Where is your heat?" said he.
"Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.P.

April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat, -
Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat.
He grew speckled and mumpy-hammered, I grieve to say,
Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way.

May set in with a dust-storm, - Pagett went down with the sun.
All the delights of the season tickled him one by one.
Imprimis - ten day's "liver" - due to his drinking beer;
Later, a dose of fever - slight, but he called it severe.

Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat -
Lowered his portly person - made him yearn to depart.
He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid,"
But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed.

July was a trifle unhealthy, - Pagett was ill with fear.
'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear.
He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears;
But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years.

We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon,
(I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon.
That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled
With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head.

And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips
As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips,"
And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land,
And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand.

Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition

Down went the gunner, a bullet was his fate
Down went the gunner, and then the gunner's mate
Up jumped the sky pilot, gave the boys a look
And manned the gun himself as he laid aside the Book, shouting

{Refrain}
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
And we'll all stay free

Praise the Lord and swing into position
Can't afford to sit around a-wishin'
Praise the Lord, we're all between perdition
And the deep blue sea

Yes the sky pilot said it
Ya gotta give him credit
For a sonofagun of a gunner was he, shouting

Praise the Lord, we're on a mighty mission
All aboard, we're not a-goin' fishin'
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
And we'll all stay free


Frank Loesser

Chevy Chase



Fytte I



THE PERCY out of Northumberland,
An avow to God made he
That he would hunt in the mountains
Of Cheviot within days three,
In the maugre of doughty Douglas,
And all that e'er with him be.


The fattest harts in all Cheviot
He would kill and carry away.-
'By my faith,' said the doughty Douglas again,
'I will let that hunting if I may!'

III

Then the Percy out of Banborowe came,
With him a mighty meinye,
With fifteen hundred archers bold
Chosen out of shirès three.

IV

This began on a Monday at morn,
In Cheviot the hills so hye;
The child may rue that is unborn,
It was the more pitye.

V

The drivers through the woodès went
[All] for to raise the deer,
Bowmen bicker'd upon the bent
With their broad arrows clear.

VI

Then the wild thoro' the woodès went
On every sidè shear;
Grayhounds thoro' the grevès glent
For to kill their deer.

VII

This began on Cheviot the hills abune
Early on a Monenday;
By that it drew to the hour of noon
A hundred fat harts dead there lay.

VIII

They blew a mort upon the bent,
They 'sembled on sidès shear;
To the quarry then the Percy went
To the brittling of the deer.

IX

He said, 'It was the Douglas' promise
This day to meet me here;
But I wist he would fail, verament!'
-A great oath the Percy sware.

X

At the last a squire of Northumberland
Lookèd at his hand full nigh;
He was ware o' the doughty Douglas coming,
With him a great meinye.

XI

Both with speär, bill and brand,-
Twas a mighty sight to see;
Hardier men both of heart nor hand
Were not in Christiantè.

XII

They were twenty hundred spearmen good,
Withouten any fail:
They were born along by the water o' Tweed
I' the boun's o' Teviotdale.

XIII

'Leave off the brittling of deer,' he said;
'To your bows look ye take good heed,
For sith ye were on your mothers born
Had ye never so mickle need.'

XIV

The doughty Douglas on a steed
Rode all his men beforn;
His armour glitter'd as did a gleed,
Bolder bairn was never born.

XV

'Tell me whose men ye are,' he says,
'Or whose men that ye be;
Who gave you leave in this Cheviot chase
In the spite of mine and of me?'

XVI

The first man that him answer made
It was the good Lord Percye:
We will not tell thee whose men we are,
Nor whose men that we be;
But we will hunt here in this chase
In the spite of thine and of thee.

XVII

'The fattest harts in all Cheviot
We have kill'd, to carry away.'-
'By my troth,' said the doughty Douglas again,
'The one of us dies this day.

XVIII

'[Yet] to kill allè these guiltless men
Alas, it were great pitye!
But, Percy, thou art a lord of land,
I an earl in my countrye-
Let all our men on a party stand,
And do battle of thee and me!'

XIX

'Christ's curse on his crown,' said the lord Percye,
'Whosoever thereto says nay!
By my troth, thou doughty Douglas,' he says,
'Thou shalt never see that day-

XX

-'Neither in England, Scotland nor France,
Nor for no man of woman born,
But, that (and fortune be my chance)
I dare meet him, one man for one.'

XXI

Then bespake a squire of Northumberland,
Richard Witherington was his name;
'It shall never be told in South England
To King Harry the Fourth for shame.

XXII

'I wot you bin great lordès two,
I am a poor squire of land;
[Yet] I'll ne'er see my captain fight on a field
And stand myself and look on.
But while that I may my weapon wield
I'll not fail, both heart and hand.'

XXIII

That day, that day, that dreadful day!-
The first fytte here I find:
An you'll hear any more o' the hunting of Cheviot,
Yet there is more behind.

Fytte II

XXIV

The Englishmen had their bows y-bent,
Their hearts were good enow;
The first of arrows that they shot off
Seven score spearmen they slew.

XXV

Yet bides the Earl Douglas upon the bent,
A captain good enoghe;
And that was seenè verament,
For he wrought them both woe and wouche.

XXVI

The Douglas parted his host in three,
Like a chief chieftain of pride;
With surè spears of mighty tree
They came in on every side;

XXVII

-Throughè our English archery
Gave many a woond full wide;
Many a doughty they gar'd to dye,
Which gainèd them no pride.

XXVIII

The Englishmen let their bowès be,
And pull'd out brands that were bright;
It was a heavy sight to see
Bright swords on basnets light.

XXIX

Thoro' rich mail and manoplie
Many stern they struck down straight;
Many a freyke that was full free
There under foot did light.

XXX

At last the Douglas and the Percy met,
Like to captains of might and of main;
They swapt together till they both swat
With swordès of fine Milan.

XXXI

These worthy freykès for to fight
Thereto they were full fain,
Till the blood out of their basnets sprent
As ever did hail or rain.

XXXII

'Yield thee, Percy,' said the Douglas,
'And i' faith I shall thee bring
Where thou shalt have an Earl's wages
Of Jamie our Scottish king.

XXXIII

'Thou shaltè have thy ransom free,
-I hight thee here this thing;
For the manfullest man thou art that e'er
I conquer'd in field fighting.'

XXXIV

But 'Nay', then said the lord Percye,
'I told it thee beforn
That I would never yielded be
To man of a woman born.'

XXXV

With that an arrow came hastily
Forth of a mighty wane;
And it hath stricken the Earl Douglas
In at the breastè-bane.

XXXVI

Thoro' liver and lungès both
The sharp arròw is gone,
That never after in his life-days
He spake mo words but one:
'Twas, 'Fight ye, my merry men, whiles ye may,
For my life-days bin gone!'

XXXVII

The Percy leanèd on his brand
And saw the Douglas dee;
He took the dead man by the hand,
And said, 'Woe is me for thee!

XXXVIII

'To have sav'd thy life I'd have parted with
My lands for yearès three,
For a better man of heart nor of hand
Was not in the north countrye.'

XXXIX

[All this there saw] a Scottish knight,
Sir Hugh the Montgomerye:
When he saw Douglas to the death was dight,
Through a hundred archerye
He never stint nor he never blint
Till he came to the lord Percye.

XL

He set upon the lord Percy
A dint that was full sore;
With a surè spear of a mighty tree
Thro' the body him he bore,
O' the t'other side that a man might see
A large cloth-yard and more.


XLI

An archer of Northumberland
Saw slain was the lord Percye:
He bare a bent bow in his hand,
Was made of a trusty tree.

XLII

An arrow that was a cloth-yard long
To the hard steel halèd he,
A dint that was both sad and sair
He set on Montgomerye.


XLIII

The dint it was both sad and sair
That he on Montgomerye set;
The swan-feathers that his arrow bare
With his heart-blood they were wet.

XLIV

There was never a freykè one foot would flee,
But still in stoure did stand;
Hewing on each other, while they might dree,
With many a baleful brand.

XLV

This battle began in Cheviot
An hour before the noon,
And when the even-song bell was rung
The battle was not half done.

XLVI

They took [their stand] on either hand
By the [lee] light of the moon;
Many had no strength for to stand
In Cheviot the hills abune.


XLVII

Of fifteen hundred archers of England
Went away but seventy-and-three;
Of twenty hundred spearmen of Scotland
But even five-and-fifty.

XLVIII

There was slain with the bold Percye
Sir John of Agerstoune,
Sir Roger, the hendè Hartley,
Sir William, the bold Herone.

XLIX

Sir George, the worthy Loumlye,
A knight of great renown,
Sir Ralph, the richè Rabye,
With dints were beaten down.


L

For Witherington my heart was woe
That ever he slain should be:
For when both his legs were hewn in two
Yet he kneel'd and fought on his knee.

LI

There was slayn with the doughty Douglas
Sir Hugh the Montgomerye,
Sir Davy Lambwell, that worthy was,
His sister's son was he.


LII

Sir Charles a Murray in that place,
That never a foot would flee:
Sir Hew Maxwell, a lord he was,
With the Douglas did he dee.

LIII

So on the morrow they made them biers
Of birch and hazel so gray;
Many widows with weeping tears
Came to fetch their makes away.

LIV

Teviotdale may carp of care,
Northumberland may make moan,
For two such captains as slain were there
On the March-parts shall never be none.

LV

Word is come to Edinboro',
To Jamie the Scottish King,
Earl Douglas, lieutenant of the Marches,
Lay slain Cheviot within.


LVI

His hands the King did weal and wring,
Said, 'Alas! and woe is me!
Such another captain Scotland within
I' faith shall never be!'


LVII

Word is come to lovely London
To the fourth Harry, our King,
Lord Percy, lieutenant of the Marches,
Lay slain Cheviot within.


LVIII

'God have mercy on his soul,' said King Harry,
'Good Lord, if thy will it be!
I've a hundred captains in England,' he said,
'As good as ever was he:
But Percy an I brook my life,
Thy death well quit shall be.'


LIX

And as our King made his avow
Like a noble prince of renown,
For Percy he did it well perform
After, on Homble-down;


LX

Where six-and-thirty Scottish knights
On a day were beaten down;
Glendale glitter'd on their armour bright
Over castle, tower and town.

LXI

This was the Hunting of the Cheviot;
That e'er began this spurn!
Old men, that knowen the ground well,
Call it of Otterburn.

LXII

There was never a time on the Marche-partès
Since the Douglas and Percy met,
But 'tis marvel an the red blood run not
As the reane does in the street.

LXIII

Jesu Christ! our balès bete,
And to the bliss us bring!
This was the Hunting of the Cheviot:
God send us all good endìng!

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

-- Dylan Thomas

Gunga Din


You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere,
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
He was "Din! Din! Din!
You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
Hi! slippery ~hitherao~!
Water, get it! ~Panee lao~!
You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din."

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted "Harry By!"
Till our throats were bricky-dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
You put some ~juldee~ in it
Or I'll ~marrow~ you this minute
If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!"

'E would dot an' carry one
Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
If we charged or broke or cut,
You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
With 'is ~mussick~ on 'is back,
'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire",
An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
It was "Din! Din! Din!"
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
When the cartridges ran out,
You could hear the front-files shout,
"Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!"

I shan't forgit the night
When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
I was chokin' mad with thirst,
An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
'E lifted up my 'ead,
An' he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
It was crawlin' and it stunk,
But of all the drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
It was "Din! Din! Din!
'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen;
'E's chawin' up the ground,
An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!"

'E carried me away
To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
'E put me safe inside,
An' just before 'e died,
"I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din.
So I'll meet 'im later on
At the place where 'e is gone --
Where it's always double drill and no canteen;
'E'll be squattin' on the coals
Givin' drink to poor damned souls,
An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!
Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
Though I've belted you and flayed you,
By the livin' Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!


by Rudyard Kipling

Fleurette


(The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

My leg? It's off at the knee.
Do I miss it? Well, some. You see
I've had it since I was born;
And lately a devilish corn.
(I rather chuckle with glee
To think how I've fooled that corn.)

But I'll hobble around all right.
It isn't that, it's my face.
Oh I know I'm a hideous sight,
Hardly a thing in place;
Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.
Nurse won't give me a glass,
But I see the folks as they pass
Shudder and turn away;
Turn away in distress . . .
Mirror enough, I guess.

I'm gay! You bet I AM gay;
But I wasn't a while ago.
If you'd seen me even to-day,
The darndest picture of woe,
With this Caliban mug of mine,
So ravaged and raw and red,
Turned to the wall -- in fine,
Wishing that I was dead. . . .
What has happened since then,
Since I lay with my face to the wall,
The most despairing of men?
Listen! I'll tell you all.

That poilu across the way,
With the shrapnel wound in his head,
Has a sister: she came to-day
To sit awhile by his bed.
All morning I heard him fret:
"Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

Then sudden, a joyous cry;
The tripping of little feet,
The softest, tenderest sigh,
A voice so fresh and sweet;
Clear as a silver bell,
Fresh as the morning dews:
"C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!
Mon fre^re, comme je suis heureuse!"

So over the blanket's rim
I raised my terrible face,
And I saw -- how I envied him!
A girl of such delicate grace;
Sixteen, all laughter and love;
As gay as a linnet, and yet
As tenderly sweet as a dove;
Half woman, half child -- Fleurette.

Then I turned to the wall again.
(I was awfully blue, you see),
And I thought with a bitter pain:
"Such visions are not for me."
So there like a log I lay,
All hidden, I thought, from view,
When sudden I heard her say:
"Ah! Who is that malheureux?"
Then briefly I heard him tell
(However he came to know)
How I'd smothered a bomb that fell
Into the trench, and so
None of my men were hit,
Though it busted me up a bit.

Well, I didn't quiver an eye,
And he chattered and there she sat;
And I fancied I heard her sigh --
But I wouldn't just swear to that.
And maybe she wasn't so bright,
Though she talked in a merry strain,
And I closed my eyes ever so tight,
Yet I saw her ever so plain:
Her dear little tilted nose,
Her delicate, dimpled chin,
Her mouth like a budding rose,
And the glistening pearls within;
Her eyes like the violet:
Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette.

And at last when she rose to go,
The light was a little dim,
And I ventured to peep, and so
I saw her, graceful and slim,
And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh
How I envied and envied him!

So when she was gone I said
In rather a dreary voice
To him of the opposite bed:
"Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!
But me, I'm a thing of dread.
For me nevermore the bliss,
The thrill of a woman's kiss."

Then I stopped, for lo! she was there,
And a great light shone in her eyes;
And me! I could only stare,
I was taken so by surprise,
When gently she bent her head:
"May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said.

Then she kissed my burning lips
With her mouth like a scented flower,
And I thrilled to the finger-tips,
And I hadn't even the power
To say: "God bless you, dear!"
And I felt such a precious tear
Fall on my withered cheek,
And darn it! I couldn't speak.

And so she went sadly away,
And I knew that my eyes were wet.
Ah, not to my dying day
Will I forget, forget!
Can you wonder now I am gay?
God bless her, that little Fleurette!

Robert Service

Crucifixion


And the night comes again to the circle studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in loneliness they lie
'Till the universe expodes as a falling star is raised
Planets are paralyzed, mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the briliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity, then he dies.

In the green fields a turnin', a baby is born
His cries crease the wind and mingle with the morn
An assault upon the order, the changing of the guard
Chosen for a challenge that is hopelessly hard
And the only single sound is the sighing of the stars
But to the silence and distance they are sworn


So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Images of innocence charge him go on
But the decadence of destiny is looking for a pawn
To a nightmare of knowledge he opens up the gate
And a blinding revelation is laid upon his plate
That beneath the greatest love is a hurricane of hate
And God help the critic of the dawn.

So he stands on the sea and shouts to the shore,
But the louder that he screams the longer he's ignored
For the wine of oblivion is drunk to the dregs
And the merchants of the masses almost have to be begged
'Till the giant is aware, someone's pulling at his leg,
And someone is tapping at the door.

To dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Then his message gathers meaning and it spreads accross the land
The rewarding of his pain is the following of the man
But ignorance is everywhere and people have their way
Success is an enemy to the losers of the day
In the shadows of the churches, who knows what they pray
For blood is the language of the band.

The Spanish bulls are beaten; the crowd is soon beguiled,
The matador is beautiful, a symphony of style
Excitement is estatic, passion places bets
Gracefully he bows to ovations that he gets
But the hands that are applauding are slippery with sweat
And saliva is falling from their smiles

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Then this overflow of life is crushed into a liar
The gentle soul is ripped apart and tossed into the fire.
First a smile of rejection at the nearness of the night
Truth becomes a tragedy limping from the light
All the (canons|heavens) are horrified, they stagger from the sight
As the cross is trembling with desire.

They say they can't believe it, it's a sacreligious shame
Now, who would want to hurt such a hero of the game?
But you know I predicted it; I knew he had to fall
How did it happen? I hope his suffering was small.
Tell me every detail, I've got to know it all,
And do you have a picture of the pain?

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Time takes her toll and the memory fades
but his glory is broken, in the magic that he made.
Reality is ruined; it's the freeing from the fear
The drama is distorted, to what they want to hear
Swimming in their sorrow, in the twisting of a tear
As they wait for a new thrill parade.

The eyes of the rebel have been branded by the blind
To the safety of sterility, the threat has been refined
The child was created to the slaughterhouse he's led
So good to be alive when the eulogy is read
The climax of emotion, the worship of the dead
And the cycle of sacrifice unwinds.

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

And the night comes again to the circle studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in loneliness they lie
'Till the universe expodes as a falling star is raised
Planets are paralyzed, mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the briliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity, then he died.


By Phil Ochs

Lochinvar

OH! young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none.
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none,
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,—
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,—
‘Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’—

‘I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.’

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup,
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,—
‘Now tread we a measure!’ said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whispered ‘’Twere better by far
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.’

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

Sir Walter Scott (1771–1832)

School's in...

Ahhhhh School has started. The house is ours again.

Now the Queen's Own are insisting that The Great Black Lump "is the best pillow ever.." Sounds like dereliction of duty to me... Now I shall be off to find the secret scone supply...

PS GBL is now 32 kilos Hmmmm when will this madness stop..

PPS. I have been told her name is not The Great Black Lump.. It is Poppy LongWatch StormBringer.. Seems I might have slightly appalled Miss Niamh.. Sorry lass.