The Defence of Lucknow
I
Banner of England, not for a season, O banner of Britain, hast thou
Floated in conquering battle or flapt to the battle-cry!
Never with mightier glory than when we had rear’d thee on high
Flying at top of the roofs in the ghastly siege of Lucknow—
Shot thro’ the staff or the halyard, but ever we raised thee anew,
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
II
Frail were the works that defended the hold that we held with our lives—
Women and children among us, God help them, our children and wives!
Hold it we might—and for fifteen days or for twenty at most.
‘Never surrender, I charge you, but every man die at his post!’
Voice of the dead whom we loved, our Lawrence the best of the brave:
Cold were his brows when we kiss’d him—we laid him that night in his grave.
‘Every man die at his post!’ and there hail’d on our houses and halls
Death from their rifle-bullets, and death from their cannon-balls,
Death in our innermost chamber, and death at our slight barricade,
Death while we stood with the musket, and death while we stoopt to the spade,
Death to the dying, and wounds to the wounded, for often there fell,
Striking the hospital wall, crashing thro’ it, their shot and their shell,
Death—for their spies were among us, their marksmen were told of our best,
So that the brute bullet broke thro’ the brain that could think for the rest;
Bullets would sing by our foreheads, and bullets would rain at our feet—
Fire from ten thousand at once of the rebels that girdled us round—
Death at the glimpse of a finger from over the breadth of a street,
Death from the heights of the mosque and the palace, and death in the ground!
Mine? yes, a mine! Countermine! down, down! and creep thro’ the hole!
Keep the revolver in hand! you can hear him—the murderous mole!
Quiet, ah! quiet—wait till the point of the pickaxe be thro’!
Click with the pick, coming nearer and nearer again than before—
Now let it speak, and you fire, and the dark pioneer is no more;
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew!
III
Ay, but the foe sprung his mine many times, and it chanced on a day
Soon as the blast of that underground thunderclap echo ‘d away,
Dark thro’ the smoke and the sulphur like so many fiends in their hell—
Cannon-shot, musket-shot, volley on volley, and yell upon yell—
Fiercely on all the defences our myriad enemy fell.
What have they done? where is it? Out yonder. Guard the Redan!
Storm at the Water-gate! storm at the Bailey-gate! storm, and it ran
Surging and swaying all round us, as ocean on every side
Plunges and heaves at a bank that is daily devour’d by the tide—
So many thousands that if they be bold enough, who shall escape?
Kill or be kill’d, live or die, they shall know we are soldiers and men
Ready! take aim at their leaders—their masses are gapp’d with our grape—
Backward they reel like the wave, like the wave flinging forward again,
Flying and foil’d at the last by the handful they could not subdue;
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
IV
Handful of men as we were, we were English in heart and in limb,
Strong with the strength of the race to command, to obey, to endure,
Each of us fought as if hope for the garrison hung but on him;
Still—could we watch at all points? we were every day fewer and fewer.
There was a whisper among us, but only a whisper that past
‘Children and wives—if the tigers leap into the fold unawares—
Every man die at his post—and the foe may outlive us at last—
Better to fall by the hands that they love, than to fall into theirs!’
Roar upon roar in a moment two mines by the enemy sprung
Clove into perilous chasms our walls and our poor palisades.
Rifleman, true is your heart, but be sure that your hand be as true!
Sharp is the fire of assault, better aimed are your flank fusillades—
Twice do we hurl them to earth from the ladders to which they had clung,
Twice from the ditch where they shelter we drive them with hand-grenades;
And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
V
Then on another wild morning another wild earthquake out-tore
Clean from our lines of defence ten or twelve good paces or more.
Rifleman, high on the roof, hidden there from the light of the sun—
One has leapt up on the breach, crying out: ‘Follow me, follow me!’—
Mark him—he falls! then another, and him too, and down goes he.
Had they been bold enough then, who can tell but the traitors had won?
Boardings and rafters and doors—an embrasure I make way for the gun!
Now double-charge it with grape! It is charged and we fire, and they run.
Praise to our Indian brothers, and let the dark face have his due!
Thanks to the kindly dark faces who fought with us, faithful and few,
Fought with the bravest among us, and drove them, and smote them, and slew,
That ever upon the topmost roof our banner in India blew.
VI
Men will forget what we suffer and not what we do. We can fight!
But to be soldier all day and be sentinel all thro’ the night—
Ever the mine and assault, our sallies, their lying alarms,
Bugles and drums in the darkness, and shoutings and soundings to arms,
Ever the labour of fifty that had to be done by five,
Ever the marvel among us that one should be left alive,
Ever the day with its traitorous death from the loopholes around,
Ever the night with its coffinless corpse to be laid in the ground,
Heat like the mouth of a hell, or a deluge of cataract skies,
Stench of old offal decaying, and infinite torment of flies.
Thoughts of the breezes of May blowing over an English field,
Cholera, scurvy, and fever, the wound that would not be heal’d,
Lopping away of the limb by the pitiful-pitiless knife,—
Torture and trouble in vain,—for it never could save us a life.
Valour of delicate women who tended the hospital bed,
Horror of women in travail among the dying and dead,
Grief for our perishing children, and never a moment for grief,
Toil and ineffable weariness, faltering hopes of relief,
Havelock baffled, or beaten, or butcher’d for all that we knew—
Then day and night, day and night, coming down on the still-shatter’d walls
Millions of musket-bullets, and thousands of cannon-balls—
But ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew.
VII
Hark cannonade, fusillade! is it true what was told by the scout,
Outram and Havelock breaking their way through the fell mutineers?
Surely the pibroch of Europe is ringing again in our ears!
All on a sudden the garrison utter a jubilant shout,
Havelock’s glorious Highlanders answer with conquering cheers,
Sick from the hospital echo them, women and children come out,
Blessing the wholesome white faces of Havelock’s good fusileers,
Kissing the war-harden’d hand of the Highlander wet with their tears!
Dance to the pibroch!—saved! we are saved!—is it you? is it you?
Saved by the valour of Havelock, saved by the blessing of Heaven!
‘Hold it for fifteen days!’ we have held it for eighty-seven!
And ever aloft on the palace roof the old banner of England blew.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
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.
Friday, 31 August 2012
The Last Redoubt
I
KACELVEVO'S slope still felt
The cannon's bolt and the rifles' pelt;
For a last redoubt up the hill remained,
By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained.
II
Mehemet Ali stroked his beard;
His lips were clinched and his look was weird;
Round him were ranks of his ragged folk,
Their faces blackened with blood and smoke.
III
"Clear me the Muscovite out!" he cried,
Then the name of "Allah!" resounded wide,
And the rifles were clutched and the bayonets lowered,
And on to the last redoubt they poured.
IV
One fell, and a second quickly stopped
The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped;
The second--a third straight filled his place;
The third--and a fourth kept up the race.
V
Many a fez in the mud was crushed,
Many a throat that cheered was hushed,
Many a heart that sought the crest
Found Allah's throne and a houri's breast.
VI
Over their corpses the living sprang,
And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang,
Till the faces that lined the last redoubt
Could see their faces and hear their shout.
VII
In the redoubt a fair form towered,
That cheered up the brave and chid the coward;
Brandishing blade with a gallant air,
His head erect and his temples bare.
VIII
"Fly! they are on us!" his men implored;
But he waved them on with his waving sword.
"It cannot be held; 'tis no shame to go!"
But he stood with his face set hard to the foe.
IX
Then clung they about him, and tugged, and knelt.
He drew a pistol out from his belt,
And fired it blank at the first that set
Foot on the edge of the parapet.
X
Over, that first one toppled; but on
Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone,
As hurriedly fled his men dismayed,
Not a bayonet's length from the length of his blade.
XI
"Yield!" But aloft his steel he flashed,
And down on their steel it ringing clashed;
Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt,
His honour full, but his life-blood spilt.
XII
Mehemet Ali came and saw
The riddled breast and the tender jaw.
"Make him a bier of your arms," he said,
"And daintily bury this dainty dead!"
XIII
They lifted him up from the dabbled ground;
His limbs were shapely, and soft, and round.
No down on his lip, and his cheek no shade:--
"Bismillah!" they cried, "'tis an Infidel maid!"
XIV
"Dig her a grave where she stood and fell,
'Gainst the jackal's scratch and the vulture's smell.
Did the Muscovite men like their maidens fight,
In their lines we had scarcely support tonight."
XV
So a deeper trench 'mong the trenches there
Was dug, for the form as brave as fair;
And none, till the Judgment trump and shout,
Shall drive her out of the Last Redoubt.
Alfred Austin
I
KACELVEVO'S slope still felt
The cannon's bolt and the rifles' pelt;
For a last redoubt up the hill remained,
By the Russ yet held, by the Turk not gained.
II
Mehemet Ali stroked his beard;
His lips were clinched and his look was weird;
Round him were ranks of his ragged folk,
Their faces blackened with blood and smoke.
III
"Clear me the Muscovite out!" he cried,
Then the name of "Allah!" resounded wide,
And the rifles were clutched and the bayonets lowered,
And on to the last redoubt they poured.
IV
One fell, and a second quickly stopped
The gap that he left when he reeled and dropped;
The second--a third straight filled his place;
The third--and a fourth kept up the race.
V
Many a fez in the mud was crushed,
Many a throat that cheered was hushed,
Many a heart that sought the crest
Found Allah's throne and a houri's breast.
VI
Over their corpses the living sprang,
And the ridge with their musket-rattle rang,
Till the faces that lined the last redoubt
Could see their faces and hear their shout.
VII
In the redoubt a fair form towered,
That cheered up the brave and chid the coward;
Brandishing blade with a gallant air,
His head erect and his temples bare.
VIII
"Fly! they are on us!" his men implored;
But he waved them on with his waving sword.
"It cannot be held; 'tis no shame to go!"
But he stood with his face set hard to the foe.
IX
Then clung they about him, and tugged, and knelt.
He drew a pistol out from his belt,
And fired it blank at the first that set
Foot on the edge of the parapet.
X
Over, that first one toppled; but on
Clambered the rest till their bayonets shone,
As hurriedly fled his men dismayed,
Not a bayonet's length from the length of his blade.
XI
"Yield!" But aloft his steel he flashed,
And down on their steel it ringing clashed;
Then back he reeled with a bladeless hilt,
His honour full, but his life-blood spilt.
XII
Mehemet Ali came and saw
The riddled breast and the tender jaw.
"Make him a bier of your arms," he said,
"And daintily bury this dainty dead!"
XIII
They lifted him up from the dabbled ground;
His limbs were shapely, and soft, and round.
No down on his lip, and his cheek no shade:--
"Bismillah!" they cried, "'tis an Infidel maid!"
XIV
"Dig her a grave where she stood and fell,
'Gainst the jackal's scratch and the vulture's smell.
Did the Muscovite men like their maidens fight,
In their lines we had scarcely support tonight."
XV
So a deeper trench 'mong the trenches there
Was dug, for the form as brave as fair;
And none, till the Judgment trump and shout,
Shall drive her out of the Last Redoubt.
Alfred Austin
The Chariots Go Forth to War
Chariots rumble and roll: horses whinny and neigh.
footmen at their girdle bows and arrows display.
Fathers, mothers, wives, and children by them go--
'Tis not the choking dust alone that strangles what they say!
Their clothes they clutch; their feet they stamp; their crush blocks up the way.
The sounds of weeping mount above the clouds that gloom the day.
The passers-by inquire of them, "But whither do you go?"
They only say: "We're mustering--do not disturb us so."
These fifteen years and upwards, the Northern Pass defend;
And still at forty years of age their service does not end.
All young they left their villages--just registered were they--
The war they quitted sees again the same men worn and gray.
And all along the boundary their blood has made a sea.
But never till the World is his, will Wu Huang happy be!
Have you not heard--in Shantung there two hundred districts lie.
All overgrown with briar and weed and wasted utterly?
The stouter women swing and hoe and guide the stubborn plough,
The fields have lost their boundaries--the corn grows wildly now.
And routed bands with hunger grim come down in disarray
To rob and rend and outrage them, and treat them as a prey.
Although the leaders question them, the soldiers' plaints resound.
And winter has not stopped the war upon the western bound.
And war needs funds; the Magistrates for taxes press each day.
The land tax and the duties--Ah! how shall these be found?
In times like this stout sons to bear is sorrow and dismay.
Far better girls--to marry, to a home not far away.
But sons!--are buried in the grass!--yon Tsaidam's waste survey!
The bones of those who fell before are bleaching on the plain.
Their spirits weep our ghosts to hear lamenting all their pain.
Beneath the gloomy sky there runs a wailing in the rain.
Du Fu - translated by W. J. B. Fletcher
Chariots rumble and roll: horses whinny and neigh.
footmen at their girdle bows and arrows display.
Fathers, mothers, wives, and children by them go--
'Tis not the choking dust alone that strangles what they say!
Their clothes they clutch; their feet they stamp; their crush blocks up the way.
The sounds of weeping mount above the clouds that gloom the day.
The passers-by inquire of them, "But whither do you go?"
They only say: "We're mustering--do not disturb us so."
These fifteen years and upwards, the Northern Pass defend;
And still at forty years of age their service does not end.
All young they left their villages--just registered were they--
The war they quitted sees again the same men worn and gray.
And all along the boundary their blood has made a sea.
But never till the World is his, will Wu Huang happy be!
Have you not heard--in Shantung there two hundred districts lie.
All overgrown with briar and weed and wasted utterly?
The stouter women swing and hoe and guide the stubborn plough,
The fields have lost their boundaries--the corn grows wildly now.
And routed bands with hunger grim come down in disarray
To rob and rend and outrage them, and treat them as a prey.
Although the leaders question them, the soldiers' plaints resound.
And winter has not stopped the war upon the western bound.
And war needs funds; the Magistrates for taxes press each day.
The land tax and the duties--Ah! how shall these be found?
In times like this stout sons to bear is sorrow and dismay.
Far better girls--to marry, to a home not far away.
But sons!--are buried in the grass!--yon Tsaidam's waste survey!
The bones of those who fell before are bleaching on the plain.
Their spirits weep our ghosts to hear lamenting all their pain.
Beneath the gloomy sky there runs a wailing in the rain.
Du Fu - translated by W. J. B. Fletcher
1915: The Trenches
I
All night long, it has seemed for many years,
We have heard the terrible sound of guns,
All night long we have lain and watched the calm stars.
We cannot sleep, though we are tired,
The sound of guns is in our ears,
We are growing old and grey,
We have forgotten many simple things.
Is this you? Is this I?
Will the word come to charge today?...
All night long, all night long,
We listen and cannot close our eyes,
We see the ring of violet flashes
Endlessly darting against the skies,
We feel the firm earth shake beneath us,
And all the world we have walked upon
Crumbles to nothing, crumbles to chaos,
Crumbles to incoherent dust;
Till it seems we can never walk again,
That it is foolish to have feet, foolish to be men,
Foolish to think, foolish to have such brains,
And useless to remember
The world we came from,
The world we never shall see again ...
All night long we lie this way,
We cannot talk, I look to see what you are thinking,
And you, and you,--
We are all thinking, 'Will it come to-day?'
Get your bayonets ready, then--
See that they are sharp and bright,
See that they h ave thirsty edges,
Remember that we are savage men,
Motherless men who have no past ...
Nothing of beauty to call to mind,
No tenderness to stay our hands ...
... We are tired, we have thought all this before,
We have seen it all and thought it all,
Our thumbs are calloused with feeling the bayonet's edge,
We have known it all and felt it all
Till we can know no more.
II
All night long we lie
Stupidly watching the smoke puff over the sky,
Stupidly watching the interminable stars
Come out again, peaceful and cold and high,
Swim into the smoke again, or melt in a flare of red ...
All night long, all night long,
Hearing the terrible battle of guns,
We think we shall soon be dead,
We sleep for a second, and wake again,
We dream we are filling pans and baking bread,
Or hoeing the witch-grass out of the wheat,
We dream we are turning lathes,
Or open our shops, in the early morning,
And look for a moment along the quiet street ...
And we do not laugh, though it is strange
In a harrowing second of time
To traverse so many worlds, so many ages,
And come to this chaos again,
This vast symphonic dance of death,
This incoherent dust.
III
We are growing old, we are older than the stars:
You whom I knew a moment ago
Have walked through ages of silence since then,
Memory is forsaking me,
I no longer know
If we are one or two or the blades of grass ...
All night long, lying together,
We think in caverns of dreadful sound,
We grope among falling boulders,
We are overtaken and crushed, we rise once more,
Performing, wearily,
The senseless things we have performed so often before.
Yesterday is coming again,
Yesterday and the day before,
And a million others, all alike, one by one,
Sulphurous clouds and a red sun,
Sulphurous clouds and a yellow moon,
And a cold drizzle of endless rain
Driving across them, wetting the barrels of guns,
Dripping, soaking, pattering, slipping,
Chilling our hands, numbing our feet,
Glistening on our chins.
And then, all over again, after grey ages,
Sulphurous clouds and a red sun,
Sulphurous clouds and a yellow moon ...
I had my childhood once, now I have children,
A boy who is learning to read, a girl who is learning to sew,
And my wife has brown hair and blue eyes ...
Our parapet is blown away,
Blown away by a gust of sound,
Dust is falling upon us, blood is dripping upon us,
We are standing somewhere between earth and stars,
Not knowing if we are alive or dead ...
All night long it is so,
All night long we hear the guns, and do not know
If the word will come to charge to-day.
IV
It will be like that other charge--
We will climb out and run
Yelling like madmen in the sun
Running stiffly on the scorched dust
Hardly hearing our voices
Running after the man who points with his hand
At a certain shattered tree,
Running through sheets of fire like idiots,
Sometimes falling, sometimes rising.
I will not remember, then,
How I walked by a hedge of wild roses,
And shook the dew off, with my sleeve,
I will not remember
The shape of my sweetheart's mouth, but with other things
Ringing like anvils in my brain
I will run, I will die, I will forget.
I will hear nothing, and forget ...
I will remember that we are savage men,
Motherless men who have no past,
Nothing of beauty to call to mind
No tenderness to stay our hands ...
V
We are tired, we have thought all this before,
We have seen it all, and thought it all.
We have tried to forget, we have tried to change,
We have struggled to climb an invisible wall,
But if we should climb it, could we ever return?
We have known it all, and felt it all
Till we can know no more ...
Let us climb out and end it, then,
Lest it become immortal.
Let us climb out and end it, then,
Just for the change ...
This is the same night, still, and you, and I,
Struggling to keep our feet in a chaos of sound.
And the same puff of smoke
Passes, to leave the same stars in the sky.
VI
Out there, in the moonlight,
How still in the grass they lie,
Those who panted beside us, or stumbled before us,
Those who yelled like madmen and ran at the sun,
Flinging their guns before them.
One of them stares all day at the sky
As if he had seen some strange thing there,
One of them tightly holds his gun
As if he dreaded a danger there,
One of them stoops above his friend,
By moon and sun we see him there.
One of them saw white cottage walls
With purple clematis flowers and leaves,
And heard through trees his waterfalls
And whistled under the eaves;
One of them walked on yellow sand
And watched a young girl gathering shells--
Once, a white wave caught her hand ...
One of them heard how certain bells
Chimed in a valley, mellow and slow,
Just as he turned to go ...
VII
All night long, all night long,
We see them and do not remember them,
We hear the terrible sounds of guns,
We see the white rays darting and darting,
We are beaten down and crawl to our feet,
We wipe the dirt from mouths and eyes,
Dust-coloured animals creeping in dust,
Animals stupefied by sound;
We are beaten down, and some of us rise,
And some become a part of the ground,
But what do we care? We never knew them,
Or if we did it was long ago ...
Night will end in a year or so,
We look at each other as if to say,
Across the void of time between us,
'Will the word come to-day?'
Conrad Aiken
I
All night long, it has seemed for many years,
We have heard the terrible sound of guns,
All night long we have lain and watched the calm stars.
We cannot sleep, though we are tired,
The sound of guns is in our ears,
We are growing old and grey,
We have forgotten many simple things.
Is this you? Is this I?
Will the word come to charge today?...
All night long, all night long,
We listen and cannot close our eyes,
We see the ring of violet flashes
Endlessly darting against the skies,
We feel the firm earth shake beneath us,
And all the world we have walked upon
Crumbles to nothing, crumbles to chaos,
Crumbles to incoherent dust;
Till it seems we can never walk again,
That it is foolish to have feet, foolish to be men,
Foolish to think, foolish to have such brains,
And useless to remember
The world we came from,
The world we never shall see again ...
All night long we lie this way,
We cannot talk, I look to see what you are thinking,
And you, and you,--
We are all thinking, 'Will it come to-day?'
Get your bayonets ready, then--
See that they are sharp and bright,
See that they h ave thirsty edges,
Remember that we are savage men,
Motherless men who have no past ...
Nothing of beauty to call to mind,
No tenderness to stay our hands ...
... We are tired, we have thought all this before,
We have seen it all and thought it all,
Our thumbs are calloused with feeling the bayonet's edge,
We have known it all and felt it all
Till we can know no more.
II
All night long we lie
Stupidly watching the smoke puff over the sky,
Stupidly watching the interminable stars
Come out again, peaceful and cold and high,
Swim into the smoke again, or melt in a flare of red ...
All night long, all night long,
Hearing the terrible battle of guns,
We think we shall soon be dead,
We sleep for a second, and wake again,
We dream we are filling pans and baking bread,
Or hoeing the witch-grass out of the wheat,
We dream we are turning lathes,
Or open our shops, in the early morning,
And look for a moment along the quiet street ...
And we do not laugh, though it is strange
In a harrowing second of time
To traverse so many worlds, so many ages,
And come to this chaos again,
This vast symphonic dance of death,
This incoherent dust.
III
We are growing old, we are older than the stars:
You whom I knew a moment ago
Have walked through ages of silence since then,
Memory is forsaking me,
I no longer know
If we are one or two or the blades of grass ...
All night long, lying together,
We think in caverns of dreadful sound,
We grope among falling boulders,
We are overtaken and crushed, we rise once more,
Performing, wearily,
The senseless things we have performed so often before.
Yesterday is coming again,
Yesterday and the day before,
And a million others, all alike, one by one,
Sulphurous clouds and a red sun,
Sulphurous clouds and a yellow moon,
And a cold drizzle of endless rain
Driving across them, wetting the barrels of guns,
Dripping, soaking, pattering, slipping,
Chilling our hands, numbing our feet,
Glistening on our chins.
And then, all over again, after grey ages,
Sulphurous clouds and a red sun,
Sulphurous clouds and a yellow moon ...
I had my childhood once, now I have children,
A boy who is learning to read, a girl who is learning to sew,
And my wife has brown hair and blue eyes ...
Our parapet is blown away,
Blown away by a gust of sound,
Dust is falling upon us, blood is dripping upon us,
We are standing somewhere between earth and stars,
Not knowing if we are alive or dead ...
All night long it is so,
All night long we hear the guns, and do not know
If the word will come to charge to-day.
IV
It will be like that other charge--
We will climb out and run
Yelling like madmen in the sun
Running stiffly on the scorched dust
Hardly hearing our voices
Running after the man who points with his hand
At a certain shattered tree,
Running through sheets of fire like idiots,
Sometimes falling, sometimes rising.
I will not remember, then,
How I walked by a hedge of wild roses,
And shook the dew off, with my sleeve,
I will not remember
The shape of my sweetheart's mouth, but with other things
Ringing like anvils in my brain
I will run, I will die, I will forget.
I will hear nothing, and forget ...
I will remember that we are savage men,
Motherless men who have no past,
Nothing of beauty to call to mind
No tenderness to stay our hands ...
V
We are tired, we have thought all this before,
We have seen it all, and thought it all.
We have tried to forget, we have tried to change,
We have struggled to climb an invisible wall,
But if we should climb it, could we ever return?
We have known it all, and felt it all
Till we can know no more ...
Let us climb out and end it, then,
Lest it become immortal.
Let us climb out and end it, then,
Just for the change ...
This is the same night, still, and you, and I,
Struggling to keep our feet in a chaos of sound.
And the same puff of smoke
Passes, to leave the same stars in the sky.
VI
Out there, in the moonlight,
How still in the grass they lie,
Those who panted beside us, or stumbled before us,
Those who yelled like madmen and ran at the sun,
Flinging their guns before them.
One of them stares all day at the sky
As if he had seen some strange thing there,
One of them tightly holds his gun
As if he dreaded a danger there,
One of them stoops above his friend,
By moon and sun we see him there.
One of them saw white cottage walls
With purple clematis flowers and leaves,
And heard through trees his waterfalls
And whistled under the eaves;
One of them walked on yellow sand
And watched a young girl gathering shells--
Once, a white wave caught her hand ...
One of them heard how certain bells
Chimed in a valley, mellow and slow,
Just as he turned to go ...
VII
All night long, all night long,
We see them and do not remember them,
We hear the terrible sounds of guns,
We see the white rays darting and darting,
We are beaten down and crawl to our feet,
We wipe the dirt from mouths and eyes,
Dust-coloured animals creeping in dust,
Animals stupefied by sound;
We are beaten down, and some of us rise,
And some become a part of the ground,
But what do we care? We never knew them,
Or if we did it was long ago ...
Night will end in a year or so,
We look at each other as if to say,
Across the void of time between us,
'Will the word come to-day?'
Conrad Aiken
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
Thursday, 30 August 2012
Iron
Guns,
Long, steel guns,
Pointed from war ships
In the name of the war god.
Straight, shining, polished guns,
Clambered over with jackies in white blouses,
Glory of tan faces, tousled hair, white teeth,
Laughing lithe jackies in white blouses,
Sitting on the guns singing war songs, war chanties.
Shovels,
Broad, iron shovels,
Scooping out oblong vaults,
Loosening turf and leveling sod.
I ask you
To witness--
The shovel is brother to the gun.
Carl Sandburg
The Battle of Otterburn
It fell about the Lammas tide,
When the muir-men win their hay,
The doughty Douglas bound him to ride
Into England, to drive a prey.
He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,
With them the Lindesays, light and gay;
But the Jardines wald nor with him ride,
And they rue it to this day.
And he has burn'd the dales of Tyne,
And part of Bambrough shire:
And three good towers on Reidswire fells,
He left them all on fire.
And he march'd up to Newcastle,
And rode it round about:
"O wha's the lord of this castle?
Or wha's the lady o't ?"
But up spake proud Lord Percy then,
And O but he spake hie!
"I am the lord of this castle,
My wife's the lady gaye."
"If thou'rt the lord of this castle,
Sae weel it pleases me!
For, ere I cross the Border fells,
The tane of us sall die."
He took a lang spear in his hand,
Shod with the metal free,
And for to meet the Douglas there,
He rode right furiouslie.
But O how pale his lady look'd,
Frae aff the castle wa',
When down, before the Scottish spear,
She saw proud Percy fa'.
"Had we twa been upon the green,
And never an eye to see,
I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;
But your sword sall gae wi' mee."
"But gae ye up to Otterbourne,
And wait there dayis three;
And, if I come not ere three day is end,
A fause knight ca' ye me."
"The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn;
'Tis pleasant there to be;
But there is nought at Otterbourne,
To feed my men and me.
"The deer rins wild on hill and dale,
The birds fly wild from tree to tree;
But there is neither bread nor kale,
To feed my men and me.
"Yet I will stay it Otterbourne,
Where you shall welcome be;
And, if ye come not at three day is end,
A fause lord I'll ca' thee."
"Thither will I come," proud Percy said,
"By the might of Our Ladye!" -
"There will I bide thee," said the Douglas,
"My troth I plight to thee."
They lighted high on Otterbourne,
Upon the bent sae brown;
They lighted high on Otterbourne,
And threw their pallions down.
And he that had a bonnie boy,
Sent out his horse to grass,
And he that had not a bonnie boy,
His ain servant he was.
But up then spake a little page,
Before the peep of dawn:
"O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,
For Percy's hard at hand."
"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud!
Sae loud I hear ye lie;
For Percy had not men yestreen,
To fight my men and me.
"But I have dream'd a dreary dream,
Beyond the Isle of Skye;
I saw a dead man win a fight,
And I think that man was I."
He belted on his guid braid sword,
And to the field he ran;
But he forgot the helmet good,
That should have kept his brain.
When Percy wi the Douglas met,
I wat he was fu fain!
They swakked their swords, till sair they swat,
And the blood ran down like rain.
But Percy with his good broad sword,
That could so sharply wound,
Has wounded Douglas on the brow,
Till he fell to the ground.
Then he calld on his little foot-page,
And said - "Run speedilie,
And fetch my ain dear sister's son,
Sir Hugh Montgomery.
"My nephew good," the Douglas said,
"What recks the death of ane!
Last night I dreamd a dreary dream,
And I ken the day's thy ain.
"My wound is deep; I fain would sleep;
Take thou the vanguard of the three,
And hide me by the braken bush,
That grows on yonder lilye lee.
"O bury me by the braken-bush,
Beneath the blooming brier;
Let never living mortal ken
That ere a kindly Scot lies here."
He lifted up that noble lord,
Wi the saut tear in his e'e;
He hid him in the braken bush,
That his merrie men might not see.
The moon was clear, the day drew near,
The spears in flinders flew,
But mony a gallant Englishman
Ere day the Scotsmen slew.
The Gordons good, in English blood,
They steepd their hose and shoon;
The Lindesays flew like fire about,
Till all the fray was done.
The Percy and Montgomery met,
That either of other were fain;
They swapped swords, and they twa swat,
And aye the blood ran down between.
"Yield thee, now yield thee, Percy," he said,
"Or else I vow I'll lay thee low!"
"To whom must I yield," quoth Earl Percy,
"Now that I see it must be so ?"
"Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,
Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;
But yield thee to the braken-bush,
That grows upon yon lilye lee!"
"I will not yield to a braken-bush,
Nor yet will I yield to a brier;
But I would yield to Earl Douglas,
Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here."
As soon as he knew it was Montgomery,
He stuck his sword's point in the gronde;
The Montgomery was a courteous knight,
And quickly took him by the honde.
This deed was done at Otterbourne,
About the breaking of the day;
Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush,
And the Percy led captive away.
Anonymous
The Battle Flag at Shenandoah
The tented field wore a wrinkled frown,
And the emptied church from the hill looked down
On the emptied road and the emptied town,
That summer Sunday morning.
And here was the blue, and there was the gray;
And a wide green valley rolled away
Between where the battling armies lay,
That sacred Sunday morning.
And Custer sat, with impatient will,
His restless horse, 'mid his troopers still,
As he watched with glass from the oak-set hill,
That silent Sunday morning.
Then fast he began to chafe and to fret;
"There's a battle flag on a bayonet
Too close to my own true soldiers set
For peace this Sunday morning!"
"Ride over, some one," he haughtily said,
"And bring it to me! Why, in bars blood red
And in stars I will stain it, and overhead
Will flaunt it this Sunday morning!"
Then a West-born lad, pale-faced and slim,
Rode out, and touching his cap to him,
Swept down, swept swift as Spring swallows swim,
That anxious Sunday morning.
On, on through the valley! up, up anywhere!
That pale-faced lad like a bird through the air
Kept on till he climbed to the banner there
That bravest Sunday morning!
And he caught up the flag, and around his waist
He wound it tight, and he turned in haste,
And swift his perilous route retraced
That daring Sunday morning.
All honor and praise to the trusty steed!
Ah! boy, and banner, and all, God speed!
God's pity for you in your hour of need
This deadly Sunday morning.
O deadly shot! and O shower of lead!
O iron rain on the brave, bare head!
Why, even the leaves from the tree fall dead
This dreadful Sunday morning!
But he gains the oaks! Men cheer in their might!
Brave Custer is laughing in his delight!
Why, he is embracing the boy outright
This glorious Sunday morning!
But, soft! Not a word has the pale boy said.
He unwinds the flag. It is starred, striped, red
With his heart's best blood; and he falls down dead,
In God's still Sunday morning.
So wrap this flag to his soldier's breast;
Into the stars and stripes it is stained and blest;
And under the oaks let him rest and rest
Till God's great Sunday morning.
Joaquin Miller
By the Great Wall
I
Came the barbarian horde with the autumn;
Out went the imperial army from the House of Han.
The general has divided the tiger tallies,
And the dunes of White Dragon are now
The camping ground of the brave.
The moon in the wilderness
Follows the movement of his bow,
And upon his sword the desert frost blossoms.
He has not even entered this side of the Jewel Gate Pass.
But do not heave a long sigh, O little wife!
II
He rides his white charger by the Fortalice of Gold,
She wanders in dreams amid the desert cloud and sand.
It is a season of sorrow that she scarce can endure,
Thinking of her soldier lover at the border fort.
The fireflies, flitting about, swarm at her window,
While the moon slowly passes over her solitary bower.
The leaves of the green paulonia are tattered;
And the branches of the sha-tung blasted and sere.
There is not an hour but she, alone, unseen,
Weeps--only to learn how futile all her tears are.
Li Bai (translated by Shigeyoshi Obata)
To Lucasta, Going to the Wars
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As thou too shalt adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.
Richard Lovelace
Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.
True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.
Yet this inconstancy is such
As thou too shalt adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honour more.
Richard Lovelace
Battle Of Fontenoy
By our camp-fires rose a murmur
At the dawning of the day,
And the tread of many footsteps
Spoke the advent of the fray;
And as we took our places,
Few and stern were our words,
While some were tightening horse-girths,
And some were girding swords.
The trumpet-blast has sounded
Our footmen to array--
The willing steed has bounded,
Impatient for the fray--
The green flag is unfolded,
While rose the cry of joy--
"Heaven speed dear Ireland's banner
To-day at Fontenoy!"
We looked upon that banner,
And the memory arose
Of our homes and perish'd kindred
Where the Lee or Shannon flows;
We look'd upon that banner,
And we swore to God on high,
To smite to-day the Saxon's might--
To conquer or to die.
Loud swells the charging trumpet--
'Tis a voice from our own land--
God of battles! God of vengeance!
Guide to-day the patriot's brand;
There are stains to wash away,
There are memories to destroy,
In the best blood of the Briton
To-day at Fontenoy.
Plunge deep the fiery rowels
In a thousand reeking flanks--
Down, chivalry of Ireland,
Down on the British ranks!
Now shall their serried columns
Beneath our sabres reel--
Through the ranks, then, with the war-horse--
Through their bosoms with the steel.
With one shout for good King Louis,
And the fair land of the vine,
Like the wrathful Alpine tempest,
We swept upon their line--
Then rang along the battle-field
Triumphant our hurrah,
And we smote them down, still cheering,
"Erin, shanthagal go bragh."
As prized as is the blessing
From an aged father's lip--
As welcome as the haven
To the tempest-driven ship--
As dear as to the lover
The smile of gentle maid--
Is this day of long-sought vengeance
To the swords of the Brigade.
See their shatter'd forces flying,
A broken, routed line--
See, England, what brave laurels
For your brow to-day we twine.
Oh, thrice bless'd the hour that witness'd
The Briton turn to flee
From the chivalry of Erin
And France's "fleur de lis."
As we lay beside our camp-fires,
When the sun had pass'd away,
And thought upon our brethren
Who had perished in the fray,
We prayed to God to grant us,
And then we'd die with joy,
One day upon our own dear land
Like this of Fontenoy.
Bartholomew Dowling
To A Dead Soldier
Through all the primrose paths of morning called
Your feet to follow them, and all the winds
Of all the hills of earth, with plucking hands
Wooed you to slopes that shone like emerald,
You might not go. The thin green grass that binds
Your feet had Earth and Death to forge its bands.
The rain's wet kiss is on your lips, where lay
Once the live pulses of a woman's soul;
Your eyes give back unto the quiet sky
Only the sheen of stars, the glare of day,
Or darkness when the kindly shadows roll
Up from the sea to hide you where you lie.
No woman's whisper holds your strong heart spent
And breathless. All the silver horns that blew
While legions cheered, are still. These things are done,
But these you have: a death for monument,
And peace you died to buy, and after you
The laughing play of children in the sun.
Kendall Harrison
Through all the primrose paths of morning called
Your feet to follow them, and all the winds
Of all the hills of earth, with plucking hands
Wooed you to slopes that shone like emerald,
You might not go. The thin green grass that binds
Your feet had Earth and Death to forge its bands.
The rain's wet kiss is on your lips, where lay
Once the live pulses of a woman's soul;
Your eyes give back unto the quiet sky
Only the sheen of stars, the glare of day,
Or darkness when the kindly shadows roll
Up from the sea to hide you where you lie.
No woman's whisper holds your strong heart spent
And breathless. All the silver horns that blew
While legions cheered, are still. These things are done,
But these you have: a death for monument,
And peace you died to buy, and after you
The laughing play of children in the sun.
Kendall Harrison
Exhortation to Battle
How long will ye slumber? when will ye take heart
And fear the reproach of your neighbors at hand?
Fie! comrades, to think ye have peace for your part,
Whilst the sword and the arrow are wasting our land!
Shame! grasp the shield close! cover well the bold breast!
Aloft raise the spear as ye march on your foe!
With no thought of retreat, with no terror confessed,
Hurl your last dart in dying, or strike your last blow.
Oh, 't is noble and glorious to fight for our all,--
For our country, our children, the wife of our love!
Death comes not the sooner; no soldier shall fall,
Ere his thread is spun out by the sisters above.
Once to die is man's doom; rush, rush to the fight!
He cannot escape, though his blood were Jove's own.
For a while let him cheat the shrill arrow by flight;
Fate will catch him at last in his chamber alone.
Unlamented he dies; -- unregretted. Not so,
When, the tower of his country, in death falls the brave;
Thrice hallowed his name amongst all, high or low,
As with blessings alive, so with tears in the grave.
Callinus
How long will ye slumber? when will ye take heart
And fear the reproach of your neighbors at hand?
Fie! comrades, to think ye have peace for your part,
Whilst the sword and the arrow are wasting our land!
Shame! grasp the shield close! cover well the bold breast!
Aloft raise the spear as ye march on your foe!
With no thought of retreat, with no terror confessed,
Hurl your last dart in dying, or strike your last blow.
Oh, 't is noble and glorious to fight for our all,--
For our country, our children, the wife of our love!
Death comes not the sooner; no soldier shall fall,
Ere his thread is spun out by the sisters above.
Once to die is man's doom; rush, rush to the fight!
He cannot escape, though his blood were Jove's own.
For a while let him cheat the shrill arrow by flight;
Fate will catch him at last in his chamber alone.
Unlamented he dies; -- unregretted. Not so,
When, the tower of his country, in death falls the brave;
Thrice hallowed his name amongst all, high or low,
As with blessings alive, so with tears in the grave.
Callinus
Fredericksburg
The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed,
And on the churchyard by the road, I know
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. . . .
'T was such a night two weary summers fled;
The stars, as now, were waning overhead.
Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow
Where the swift currents of the river flow
Past Fredericksburg; far off the heavens are red
With sudden conflagration; on yon height,
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath;
A signal rocket pierces the dense night,
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath:
Hark!--the artillery massing on the right,
Hark!--the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
The increasing moonlight drifts across my bed,
And on the churchyard by the road, I know
It falls as white and noiselessly as snow. . . .
'T was such a night two weary summers fled;
The stars, as now, were waning overhead.
Listen! Again the shrill-lipped bugles blow
Where the swift currents of the river flow
Past Fredericksburg; far off the heavens are red
With sudden conflagration; on yon height,
Linstock in hand, the gunners hold their breath;
A signal rocket pierces the dense night,
Flings its spent stars upon the town beneath:
Hark!--the artillery massing on the right,
Hark!--the black squadrons wheeling down to Death!
Thomas Bailey Aldrich
The Eve of Waterloo
Here was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it? -- No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
But hark! -- that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before;
Arm! arm! it is -- it is -- the cannon's opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hall
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
That sound the first amidst the festival,
And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;
And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well
Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness.
And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
Which ne'er might be repeated; who would guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste; the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips -- "The foe! they come! they come!"
Lord Byron
The Battle of the Baltic
Of Nelson and the north
Sing the glorious day's renown,
When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shone;
By each gun the lighted brand
In a bold, determined hand,
And the prince of all the land
Led them on.
Like leviathans afloat
Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line--
It was ten of April morn by the chime.
As they drifted on their path
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.
But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between.
"Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun
From its adamantine lips
Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.
Again! again! again!
And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back;
Their shots along the deep slowly boom--
Then ceased -- and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail,
Or in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o'er the wave:
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save;
So peace instead of death let us bring;
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king."
Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,
As death withdrew his shades from the day.
While the sun looked smiling bright
O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.
Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep
Full many a fathom deep,
By the wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,
With the gallant, good Riou --
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!
Thomas Campbell
Ivry
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France!
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,
Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.
Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.
The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord the King!"
"And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may,
For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."
Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies, -- upon them with the lance.
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guilding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein.
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
"Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man.
But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe:
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."
Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?
Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;
And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.
But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;
And the good Lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white.
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.
Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know
How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe.
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war,
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth neat for Henry of Navarre.
Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne;
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return.
Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls.
Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright;
Ho! burghers of Saint Geneviève, keep watch and ward to-night.
For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave,
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;
And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.
Thomas Babbington Macaulay
The Cumberland
T anchor in Hampton Roads we lay,
On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war;
And at times from the fortress across the bay
The alarum of drums swept past,
Or a bugle blast
From the camp on the shore.
Then far away to the south uprose
A little feather of snow-white smoke,
And we knew that the iron ship of our foes
Was steadily steering its course
To try the force
Of our ribs of oak.
Down upon us heavily runs,
Silent and sullen, the floating fort;
Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns,
And leaps the terrible death,
With fiery breath,
From each open port.
We are not idle, but send her straight
Defiance back in a full broadside!
As hail rebounds from a roof of slate,
Rebounds our heavier hail
From each iron scale
Of the monster's hide.
"Strike your flag!" the rebel cries,
In his arrogant old plantation strain.
"Never!" our gallant Morris replies;
"It is better to sink than to yield!"
And the whole air pealed
With the cheers of our men.
Then, like a kraken huge and black,
She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp!
Down went the Cumberland all a wrack,
With a sudden shudder of death,
And the cannon's breath
For her dying gasp.
Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay,
Still floated our flag at the mainmast head.
Lord, how beautiful was Thy day!
Every waft of the air
Was a whisper of prayer,
Or a dirge for the dead.
Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas!
Ye are at peace in the troubled stream;
Ho! brave land! with hearts like these,
Thy flag, that is rent in twain,
Shall be one again,
And without a seam!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Naseby
H! wherefore come ye forth in triumph from the north,
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread?
Oh! evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,
And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod;
For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong,
Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June,
That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine,
And the man of blood was there, with his long essenced hair,
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.
Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword,
The general rode along us to form us for the fight;
When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.
And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging line:
For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the laws!
For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the Rhine!
The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall;
They are bursting on our flanks! Grasp your pikes! Close your ranks!
For Rupert never comes, but to conquer or to fall.
They are here -- they rush on -- we are broken -- we are gone --
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast.
O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right!
Stand back to back, in God's name! and fight it to the last!
Stout Skippen hath a wound -- the centre hath given ground.
Hark! Hark! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear?
Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he! thank God! 'tis he, boys!
Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here!
Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row:
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the accurst,
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.
Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar;
And he -- he turns! he flies! shame on those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war!
Ho, comrades! scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain,
First give another stab to make your search secure;
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and lockets,
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.
Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;
And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.
Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven, and hell, and fate?
And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades?
Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths?
Your stage plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?
Down! down! forever down, with the mitre and the crown!
With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope!
There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's stalls;
The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends his cope.
And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword;
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear
What the hand of God hath wrought for the houses and the word!
Thomas Babbington Macaulay
Casabianca
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The flames rolled on -- he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud -- "Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound--
The boy -- oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!--
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair
That well had borne their part--
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.
The flames rolled on -- he would not go
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud -- "Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
"Speak, father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still, yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
"My father! must I stay?"
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendor wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound--
The boy -- oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!--
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair
That well had borne their part--
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young, faithful heart.
Felicia Dorothea Hemans
The Battle of Salamis - (from "The Persians")
HE night was passing, and the Grecian host
By no means sought to issue forth unseen.
But when indeed the day with her white steeds
Held all the earth, resplendent to behold,
First from the Greeks the loud-resounding din
Of song triumphant came; and shrill at once
Echo responded from the island rock.
Then upon all barbarians terror fell,
Thus disappointed; for not as for flight
The Hellenes sang the holy pæan then,
But setting forth to battle valiantly.
The bugle with its note inflamed them all;
And straightway with the dip of plashing oars
They smote the deep sea water at command,
And quickly all were plainly to be seen.
Their right wing first in orderly array
Led on, and second all the armament
Followed them forth; and meanwhile there was heard
A mighty shout: "Come, O ye sons of Greeks,
Make free your country, make your children free,
Your wives, and fanes of your ancestral gods,
And your sires' tombs! For all we now contend!"
And from our side the rush of Persian speech
Replied. No longer might the crisis wait.
At once ship smote on ship with brazen beak;
A vessel of the Greeks began the attack,
Crushing the stem of a Phoenician ship.
Each on a different vessel turned its prow.
At first the current of the Persian host
Withstood; but when within the strait the throng
Of ships was gathered, and they could not aid
Each other, but by their own brazen bows
Were struck, they shattered all our naval host.
The Grecian vessels not unskillfully
Were smiting round about; the hulls of ships
Were overset; the sea was hid from sight,
Covered with wreckage and the death of men;
The reefs and headlands were with corpses filled,
And in disordered flight each ship was rowed,
As many as were of the Persian host.
But they, like tunnies or some shoal of fish,
With broken oars and fragments of the wrecks
Struck us and clove us; and at once a cry
Of lamentation filled the briny sea,
Till the black darkness' eye did rescue us.
The number of our griefs, not though ten days
I talked together, could I fully tell;
But this know well, that never in one day
Perished so great a multitude of men.
Aeschylus
HE night was passing, and the Grecian host
By no means sought to issue forth unseen.
But when indeed the day with her white steeds
Held all the earth, resplendent to behold,
First from the Greeks the loud-resounding din
Of song triumphant came; and shrill at once
Echo responded from the island rock.
Then upon all barbarians terror fell,
Thus disappointed; for not as for flight
The Hellenes sang the holy pæan then,
But setting forth to battle valiantly.
The bugle with its note inflamed them all;
And straightway with the dip of plashing oars
They smote the deep sea water at command,
And quickly all were plainly to be seen.
Their right wing first in orderly array
Led on, and second all the armament
Followed them forth; and meanwhile there was heard
A mighty shout: "Come, O ye sons of Greeks,
Make free your country, make your children free,
Your wives, and fanes of your ancestral gods,
And your sires' tombs! For all we now contend!"
And from our side the rush of Persian speech
Replied. No longer might the crisis wait.
At once ship smote on ship with brazen beak;
A vessel of the Greeks began the attack,
Crushing the stem of a Phoenician ship.
Each on a different vessel turned its prow.
At first the current of the Persian host
Withstood; but when within the strait the throng
Of ships was gathered, and they could not aid
Each other, but by their own brazen bows
Were struck, they shattered all our naval host.
The Grecian vessels not unskillfully
Were smiting round about; the hulls of ships
Were overset; the sea was hid from sight,
Covered with wreckage and the death of men;
The reefs and headlands were with corpses filled,
And in disordered flight each ship was rowed,
As many as were of the Persian host.
But they, like tunnies or some shoal of fish,
With broken oars and fragments of the wrecks
Struck us and clove us; and at once a cry
Of lamentation filled the briny sea,
Till the black darkness' eye did rescue us.
The number of our griefs, not though ten days
I talked together, could I fully tell;
But this know well, that never in one day
Perished so great a multitude of men.
Aeschylus
La Marseillaise
Allons enfants de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé
Contre nous de la tyrannie
L'étendard sanglant est levé
Entendez vous dans les campagnes,
Mugir ces féroces soldats?
Ils viennent jusque dans nos bras
Egorger nos fils, nos compagnes!
Refrain
Aux armes, citoyens!
Formez vos bataillons!
Marchons! Marchons!
Qu'un sang impur
Abreuve nos sillons!
Amour sacré de la patrie,
Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs!
Liberté, Liberté cherie,
Combats avec tes defenseurs!
Sous nos drapeaux, que la victoire
Accoure à tes males accents!
Que tes ennemis expirants
Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire!
Refrain
Nous entrerons dans la carrière
Quand nos ainés n'y seront plus;
Nous y trouverons leur poussière
Et la trace de leurs vertus.
Bien moins jaloux de leur survivre
Que de partager leur cercueil,
Nous aurons le sublime orgueil
De les venger ou de les suivre!
Sunday, 19 August 2012
The Mary Ellen Carter
She went down last October in a pouring driving rain.
The skipper, he'd been drinking and the Mate, he felt no pain.
Too close to Three Mile Rock, and she was dealt her mortal blow,
And the Mary Ellen Carter settled low.
There were five of us aboard her when she finally was awash.
We'd worked like hell to save her, all heedless of the cost.
And the groan she gave as she went down, it caused us to proclaim
That the Mary Ellen Carter would rise again.
Well, the owners wrote her off; not a nickel would they spend.
She gave twenty years of service, boys, then met her sorry end.
But insurance paid the loss to them, they let her rest below.
Then they laughed at us and said we had to go.
But we talked of her all winter, some days around the clock,
For she's worth a quarter million, afloat and at the dock.
And with every jar that hit the bar, we swore we would remain
And make the Mary Ellen Carter rise again.
Rise again, rise again, that her name not be lost
To the knowledge of men.
Those who loved her best and were with her till the end
Will make the Mary Ellen Carter rise again.
All spring, now, we've been with her on a barge lent by a friend.
Three dives a day in hard hat suit and twice I've had the bends.
Thank God it's only sixty feet and the currents here are slow
Or I'd never have the strength to go below.
But we've patched her rents, stopped her vents, dogged hatch and
Porthole down.
Put cables to her, 'fore and aft and birded her around.
Tomorrow, noon, we hit the air and then take up the strain.
And watch the Mary Ellen Carter Rise Again.
For we couldn't leave her there, you see, to crumble into scale.
She'd saved our lives so many times, living through the gale
And the laughing, drunken rats who left her to a sorry grave
They won't be laughing in another day. . .
And you, to whom adversity has dealt the final blow
With smiling bastards lying to you everywhere you go
Turn to, and put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain
And like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again.
Rise again, rise again - though your heart it be broken
And life about to end
No matter what you've lost, be it a home, a love, a friend.
Like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again.
Stan Rogers
She went down last October in a pouring driving rain.
The skipper, he'd been drinking and the Mate, he felt no pain.
Too close to Three Mile Rock, and she was dealt her mortal blow,
And the Mary Ellen Carter settled low.
There were five of us aboard her when she finally was awash.
We'd worked like hell to save her, all heedless of the cost.
And the groan she gave as she went down, it caused us to proclaim
That the Mary Ellen Carter would rise again.
Well, the owners wrote her off; not a nickel would they spend.
She gave twenty years of service, boys, then met her sorry end.
But insurance paid the loss to them, they let her rest below.
Then they laughed at us and said we had to go.
But we talked of her all winter, some days around the clock,
For she's worth a quarter million, afloat and at the dock.
And with every jar that hit the bar, we swore we would remain
And make the Mary Ellen Carter rise again.
Rise again, rise again, that her name not be lost
To the knowledge of men.
Those who loved her best and were with her till the end
Will make the Mary Ellen Carter rise again.
All spring, now, we've been with her on a barge lent by a friend.
Three dives a day in hard hat suit and twice I've had the bends.
Thank God it's only sixty feet and the currents here are slow
Or I'd never have the strength to go below.
But we've patched her rents, stopped her vents, dogged hatch and
Porthole down.
Put cables to her, 'fore and aft and birded her around.
Tomorrow, noon, we hit the air and then take up the strain.
And watch the Mary Ellen Carter Rise Again.
For we couldn't leave her there, you see, to crumble into scale.
She'd saved our lives so many times, living through the gale
And the laughing, drunken rats who left her to a sorry grave
They won't be laughing in another day. . .
And you, to whom adversity has dealt the final blow
With smiling bastards lying to you everywhere you go
Turn to, and put out all your strength of arm and heart and brain
And like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again.
Rise again, rise again - though your heart it be broken
And life about to end
No matter what you've lost, be it a home, a love, a friend.
Like the Mary Ellen Carter, rise again.
Stan Rogers
The Last Watch
They dragged her down, dead, from Tobermory,
Too cheap to spare her one last head of steam,
Deep in diesel fumes embraced,
Rust and soot upon the face of one who was so clean.
They brought me here to watch her in the boneyard,
Just two old wrecks to spend the night alone.
It's the dark inside this evil place.
Clouds on the moon hide her disgrace;
This whiskey hides my own.
CHORUS
It's the last watch on the Midland,
The last watch alone,
One last night to love her,
The last night she's whole.
My guess is that we were young together.
Like her's, my strength was young and hard as steel.
And like her too, I knew my ground;
I scarcely felt the years go round
In answer to the wheel.
But then they quenched the fire beneath the boiler,
Gave me a watch and showed me out the door.
At sixty-four, you're still the best;
One year more, and then you're less
Than dust upon the floor.
CHORUS
So here's to useless superannuation
And us old relics of the days of steam.
In the morning, Lord, I would prefer
WHen men with torches come for her,
Let angels come for me.
It's the last watch on the Midland,
The last watch alone,
One last night to love her,
The last might she's whole.
Stan Rogers
They dragged her down, dead, from Tobermory,
Too cheap to spare her one last head of steam,
Deep in diesel fumes embraced,
Rust and soot upon the face of one who was so clean.
They brought me here to watch her in the boneyard,
Just two old wrecks to spend the night alone.
It's the dark inside this evil place.
Clouds on the moon hide her disgrace;
This whiskey hides my own.
CHORUS
It's the last watch on the Midland,
The last watch alone,
One last night to love her,
The last night she's whole.
My guess is that we were young together.
Like her's, my strength was young and hard as steel.
And like her too, I knew my ground;
I scarcely felt the years go round
In answer to the wheel.
But then they quenched the fire beneath the boiler,
Gave me a watch and showed me out the door.
At sixty-four, you're still the best;
One year more, and then you're less
Than dust upon the floor.
CHORUS
So here's to useless superannuation
And us old relics of the days of steam.
In the morning, Lord, I would prefer
WHen men with torches come for her,
Let angels come for me.
It's the last watch on the Midland,
The last watch alone,
One last night to love her,
The last might she's whole.
Stan Rogers
Friday, 17 August 2012
The Power And The Glory
Come and take a walk with me thru this green and growing land
Walk thru the meadows and the mountains and the sand
Walk thru the valleys and the rivers and the plains
Walk thru the sun and walk thru the rain
Here is a land full of power and glory
Beauty that words cannot recall
Oh her power shall rest on the strength of her freedom
Her glory shall rest on us all (on us all)
From Colorado, Kansas, and the Carolinas too
Virginia and Alaska, from the old to the new
Texas and Ohio and the California shore
Tell me, who could ask for more?
Yet she's only as rich as the poorest of her poor
Only as free as the padlocked prison door
Only as strong as our love for this land
Only as tall as we stand
But our land is troubled by men who have to hate
They twist away our freedom & they twist away our fate
Fear is their weapon and treason is their cry
We can only stop them if we try.
Phil Ochs
Come and take a walk with me thru this green and growing land
Walk thru the meadows and the mountains and the sand
Walk thru the valleys and the rivers and the plains
Walk thru the sun and walk thru the rain
Here is a land full of power and glory
Beauty that words cannot recall
Oh her power shall rest on the strength of her freedom
Her glory shall rest on us all (on us all)
From Colorado, Kansas, and the Carolinas too
Virginia and Alaska, from the old to the new
Texas and Ohio and the California shore
Tell me, who could ask for more?
Yet she's only as rich as the poorest of her poor
Only as free as the padlocked prison door
Only as strong as our love for this land
Only as tall as we stand
But our land is troubled by men who have to hate
They twist away our freedom & they twist away our fate
Fear is their weapon and treason is their cry
We can only stop them if we try.
Phil Ochs
Men Behind The Guns
Let's drink a toast to the admiral,
and here's to the captain bold,
and glory more for the commodore,
when the deeds of might are told.
They stand to the deck with the battle's wreck,
when the great shells roar and pound,
and never they fear when the foe is near
to lay their orders down--
But off with your hats and three times three
for every sailor's son,
for the men below who fight the foe,
the men behind the guns:
oh, the men behind the guns.
Their hearts a-pounding heavy when
they swing to port once more --
with never enough of the greenback stuff,
they start for the leave ashore.
And you'd think perhaps the blue-blouse chaps
had better clothes to wear,
for the uniforms of officers
could hardly be compared:
Warriors bold with straps of gold
that dazzle like the sun
outshine the common sailor boys,
the lads who serve the guns:
oh, the men behind the guns.
Say not a word till the shot is heard
that tells the fight is on,
and the angry sound of another round
that says one must be gone.
Over the deep and the deadly sweep,
the fire and the bursting shell,
where the very air is a mad despair,
the throes of a living hell.
But down and deep in a mighty ship
unseen by the midday sun
you'll find the boys who make the noise,
the lads who serve the guns:
oh, the men behind the guns.
And well they know the cyclone blow
loose from the cannon's steel.
The know the hull of the enemy ship
will quiver with the peal.
And the decks will rock with the lightning shock
and shake with the great recoil
while the sea grows red with the blood of the dead
and swallows up her spoil.
But not until the final ship
has made her final run
can we give their rest to the very best:
to the lads who serve the guns --
oh, the men behind the guns.
Let's drink a toast to the admiral,
and here's to the captain bold,
and glory more for the commodore,
when the deeds of might are told.
They stand to the deck with the battle's wreck,
when the great shells roar and pound,
and never they fear when the foe is near
to lay their orders down--
But off with your hats and three times three
for every sailor's son,
for the men below who fight the foe,
the men behind the guns:
oh, the man behind the gun.
Phil Ochs
Let's drink a toast to the admiral,
and here's to the captain bold,
and glory more for the commodore,
when the deeds of might are told.
They stand to the deck with the battle's wreck,
when the great shells roar and pound,
and never they fear when the foe is near
to lay their orders down--
But off with your hats and three times three
for every sailor's son,
for the men below who fight the foe,
the men behind the guns:
oh, the men behind the guns.
Their hearts a-pounding heavy when
they swing to port once more --
with never enough of the greenback stuff,
they start for the leave ashore.
And you'd think perhaps the blue-blouse chaps
had better clothes to wear,
for the uniforms of officers
could hardly be compared:
Warriors bold with straps of gold
that dazzle like the sun
outshine the common sailor boys,
the lads who serve the guns:
oh, the men behind the guns.
Say not a word till the shot is heard
that tells the fight is on,
and the angry sound of another round
that says one must be gone.
Over the deep and the deadly sweep,
the fire and the bursting shell,
where the very air is a mad despair,
the throes of a living hell.
But down and deep in a mighty ship
unseen by the midday sun
you'll find the boys who make the noise,
the lads who serve the guns:
oh, the men behind the guns.
And well they know the cyclone blow
loose from the cannon's steel.
The know the hull of the enemy ship
will quiver with the peal.
And the decks will rock with the lightning shock
and shake with the great recoil
while the sea grows red with the blood of the dead
and swallows up her spoil.
But not until the final ship
has made her final run
can we give their rest to the very best:
to the lads who serve the guns --
oh, the men behind the guns.
Let's drink a toast to the admiral,
and here's to the captain bold,
and glory more for the commodore,
when the deeds of might are told.
They stand to the deck with the battle's wreck,
when the great shells roar and pound,
and never they fear when the foe is near
to lay their orders down--
But off with your hats and three times three
for every sailor's son,
for the men below who fight the foe,
the men behind the guns:
oh, the man behind the gun.
Phil Ochs
The Ballad Of The Carpenter
Jesus was a working man,
A hero as you shall hear.
Born in the slums of Bethlehem
At the turning of the year,
Yes, the turning of the year.
When Jesus was a little lad.
The streets rang with his name,
For he argued with the aldermen
And he put them all to shame.
He became a wandering journeyman
And he wandered far and wide,
And he saw how wealth and poverty
Lived always side by side,
He said, "Come all you working men,
You farmers and weavers, too.
If you will only organize,
This world belongs to you,
When the rich men heard what the carpenter had done,
To the Roman troops they ran.
Saying "Put this rebel Jesus down,
He's a menace to god and man,
Jesus walked among the poor
For the poor were his own kind,
And they wouldn't let the cops get near enough
To take him from behind,
So they hired one of the traitor's trade
And a stool-pigeon was he
And he sold his brother to the butcher's men
For a fistful of silver money.
When Jesus lay in the prisoner's cell,
They beat him and offered him bribes
To desert the cause of his own dear folk
And work for the rich men's tribe,
The commander of the occupying troops
He laughed and then he said,
"There's a cross to spare on Calvary Hill,
By the weekend he'll be dead,
The sweat stood out upon his brow
And the blood was in his eye,
And they nailed his body to the Roman cross
And they laughed as they watched him die,
Two thousand years have passed and gone,
And many a hero too,
But the dream of this poor carpenter
At last it is coming true,
Ewan MacColl
Jesus was a working man,
A hero as you shall hear.
Born in the slums of Bethlehem
At the turning of the year,
Yes, the turning of the year.
When Jesus was a little lad.
The streets rang with his name,
For he argued with the aldermen
And he put them all to shame.
He became a wandering journeyman
And he wandered far and wide,
And he saw how wealth and poverty
Lived always side by side,
He said, "Come all you working men,
You farmers and weavers, too.
If you will only organize,
This world belongs to you,
When the rich men heard what the carpenter had done,
To the Roman troops they ran.
Saying "Put this rebel Jesus down,
He's a menace to god and man,
Jesus walked among the poor
For the poor were his own kind,
And they wouldn't let the cops get near enough
To take him from behind,
So they hired one of the traitor's trade
And a stool-pigeon was he
And he sold his brother to the butcher's men
For a fistful of silver money.
When Jesus lay in the prisoner's cell,
They beat him and offered him bribes
To desert the cause of his own dear folk
And work for the rich men's tribe,
The commander of the occupying troops
He laughed and then he said,
"There's a cross to spare on Calvary Hill,
By the weekend he'll be dead,
The sweat stood out upon his brow
And the blood was in his eye,
And they nailed his body to the Roman cross
And they laughed as they watched him die,
Two thousand years have passed and gone,
And many a hero too,
But the dream of this poor carpenter
At last it is coming true,
Ewan MacColl
Bach, Beethoven, Mozart & Me
Every morning at the dawn dust is in the air.
Karen rises early, runs brushes through her hair.
Then she buys the paper, I lay on my back,
Then she feeds the monkey, then she feeds the cat.
Chorus:
I'll talk, I'll talk they live by the sea
Surrounded by a cemetery.
If you get tired come up for some tea
With Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and me.
Frances is the next to rise
Powders up her nose.
She's working for the tailor
Makes the western clothes.
Andy drives a sports car
To the Warner Brothers ghost
He used to live in England
Now he loves the coast
Some times a friend comes by
To sing the latest song,
But David fights with Susan
Nobody gets along.
Every other Sunday
It's time to make a call.
Judy has a barbecue
Play the volleyball.
In the evening When the sun goes down
The streets are all aglow.
We walk out on the hillside
City shines below.
We sit down for our supper
The news begins to play.
Walter he is speechless
Eric speaks cliches.
Andy plays a cricket game.
Frances holds a glass.
Karen reads and darns a dress.
I dream of the past.
Dark is spreading up now
Good evening, good night.
Karen turns the bed sheet.
She's turning out the light.
Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and me.
Phil Ochs
Every morning at the dawn dust is in the air.
Karen rises early, runs brushes through her hair.
Then she buys the paper, I lay on my back,
Then she feeds the monkey, then she feeds the cat.
Chorus:
I'll talk, I'll talk they live by the sea
Surrounded by a cemetery.
If you get tired come up for some tea
With Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and me.
Frances is the next to rise
Powders up her nose.
She's working for the tailor
Makes the western clothes.
Andy drives a sports car
To the Warner Brothers ghost
He used to live in England
Now he loves the coast
Some times a friend comes by
To sing the latest song,
But David fights with Susan
Nobody gets along.
Every other Sunday
It's time to make a call.
Judy has a barbecue
Play the volleyball.
In the evening When the sun goes down
The streets are all aglow.
We walk out on the hillside
City shines below.
We sit down for our supper
The news begins to play.
Walter he is speechless
Eric speaks cliches.
Andy plays a cricket game.
Frances holds a glass.
Karen reads and darns a dress.
I dream of the past.
Dark is spreading up now
Good evening, good night.
Karen turns the bed sheet.
She's turning out the light.
Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and me.
Phil Ochs
Mon Pays
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Mon jardin ce n'est pas un jardin, c'est la plaine
Mon chemin ce n'est pas un chemin, c'est la neige
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Dans la blanche cérémonie où la neige au vent se marie
Dans ce pays de poudrerie mon père a fait bâtir maison
Et je m'en vais être fidèle à sa manière à son modèle
La chambre d'amis sera telle qu'on viendra des autres saisons pour se bâtir à côté d'elle
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Mon refrain ce n'est pas un refrain, c'est rafale
Ma maison ce n'est pas ma maison, c'est froidure
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
De ce grand pays solitaire je crie avant que de me taire
A tous les hommes de la terre ma maison c'est votre maison
Entre mes quatre murs de glace je mets mon temps et mon espace
À préparer le feu, la place pour les humains de l'horizon
Et les humains sont de ma race
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Mon jardin ce n'est pas un jardin, c'est la plaine
Mon chemin ce n'est pas un chemin, c'est la neige
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'envers
D'un pays qui n'était ni pays ni patrie
Ma chanson ce n'est pas une chanson, c'est ma vie
C'est pour toi que je veux posséder mes hivers
Gilles Vigneault
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Mon jardin ce n'est pas un jardin, c'est la plaine
Mon chemin ce n'est pas un chemin, c'est la neige
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Dans la blanche cérémonie où la neige au vent se marie
Dans ce pays de poudrerie mon père a fait bâtir maison
Et je m'en vais être fidèle à sa manière à son modèle
La chambre d'amis sera telle qu'on viendra des autres saisons pour se bâtir à côté d'elle
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Mon refrain ce n'est pas un refrain, c'est rafale
Ma maison ce n'est pas ma maison, c'est froidure
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
De ce grand pays solitaire je crie avant que de me taire
A tous les hommes de la terre ma maison c'est votre maison
Entre mes quatre murs de glace je mets mon temps et mon espace
À préparer le feu, la place pour les humains de l'horizon
Et les humains sont de ma race
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Mon jardin ce n'est pas un jardin, c'est la plaine
Mon chemin ce n'est pas un chemin, c'est la neige
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'hiver
Mon pays ce n'est pas un pays, c'est l'envers
D'un pays qui n'était ni pays ni patrie
Ma chanson ce n'est pas une chanson, c'est ma vie
C'est pour toi que je veux posséder mes hivers
Gilles Vigneault
Wednesday, 15 August 2012
Lundy's Lane
Three-quarters of a century
Have passed away like snow,
Since Drummond and Riall stood firm
And fought the furious foe;
When round our gallant fellows
The bullets hissed like rain,
And heaped with dead and dying men
The field of Lundy's Lane.
The twilight of the summer eve
Was hovering in the sky,
When rose upon the listening air
The British battle-cry;
Then through the trembling heavens surged
The roar of giant strife,
For thrice two thousand armed men
Were battling there for life.
Yet still above that fearful din
Of battle's mad career
Was heard from throbbing British throats
The British battle cheer.
All through that night till midnight's hour
Was on Time's trembling lip,
Our gallant fellows at the cup
Of bitter death did sip.
They cared not if each moment drained
The drops of faltering life,
They fought for home and native land,
For mother, child and wife.
Not theirs the fight for conquest,
Not theirs the fight for gold,
But theirs the fight for freedom's right
Their fathers gained of old.
Thus with stern hearts and steady hands
They marched into the fray,
And there our bloodiest battle
Was fought and won that day.
Bloodiest! aye, six thousand men
At dusk stood on the field:
Two thousand dead or dying fell
Before the day was sealed.
Yes, o'er their grave let banners wave,
Let trumpets moan their funeral note;
God in His might looked down that night B
Looked, and the wrong he smote.
They fought for home and native land,
For mother, child and wife,
And recked not if each moment drained
The dregs of faltering life.
They fought for home and native land,
They held the foe at bay;
They fell, but though they fell, they stand
In honor's ranks today.
They gave their blood to save the flag,
To keep the land from shame;
To God be praise for victory,
To them eternal fame!
And though we hope that ne'er again
Such strife may shake our land,
But pray these sister nations may
Give each a friendly hand;
Yet while one drop of British blood
Swells a Canadian vein,
Our hearts must thrill when we recall
The fight of Lundy's Lane.
James Alexander Tucker
The Maple Leaf Forever
In days of yore, from Britain's shore,
Wolfe, the dauntless hero, came
And planted firm Britannia's flag
On Canada's fair domain.
Long may it wave, our boast our pride
And, joined in love together,
The thistle, shamrock, rose entwine
The Maple Leaf forever!
Chorus:
The Maple Leaf, our emblem dear,
The Maple Leaf forever!
God save our Queen and Heaven bless
The Maple Leaf forever!
At Queenston Heights and Lundy's Lane,
Our brave fathers, side by side,
For freedom, homes and loved ones dear,
Firmly stood and nobly died;
And those dear rights which they maintained,
We swear to yield them never!
Our watchword evermore shall be
"The Maple Leaf forever!"
Chorus
Our fair Dominion now extends
From Cape Race to Nootka Sound;
May peace forever be our lot,
And plenteous store abound:
And may those ties of love be ours
Which discord cannot sever,
And flourish green o'er freedom's home
The Maple Leaf forever!
Chorus
On merry England's far famed land
May kind heaven sweetly smile,
God bless old Scotland evermore
and Ireland's Em'rald Isle!
And swell the song both loud and long
Till rocks and forest quiver!
God save our Queen and Heaven bless
The Maple Leaf forever!
Farewell to Nova Scotia
The sun was setting in the west,
The birds were singing on every tree.
All nature seemed inclined to rest
But still there was no rest for me.
Chorus:
Farewell to Nova Scotia, the sea-bound coast,
Let your mountains dark and dreary be.
For when I am far away on the briny ocean tossed,
Will you ever heave a sigh or a wish for me?
I grieve to leave my native land,
I grieve to leave my comrades all,
And my parents whom I love so dear,
And the bonnie, bonnie lass/lad that I do adore.
Chorus
The drums they do beat and the wars to alarm,
The captain calls, and I must obey.
So farewell, farewell to Nova Scotia's charms,
For it's early in the morning and I'm far, far away.
Chorus
I have two brothers and they are at rest,
Their arms are folded on their chest.
But a poor simple sailor just like me,
Must be tossed and turned on the deep dark sea.
The Streets of Laredo
As I walked out in the streets of Laredo
As I walked out in Laredo one day
I spied a young cowboy wrapped up in white linen
All wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay
"I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy."
These words he did say, as I boldly stepped by.
"Come sit here beside me and hear my sad story,
For I'm shot in the heart and I surely will die."
"Well, sir, once in the saddle I used to go dashing.
Yes, sir, once in the saddle I was a young brave.
But today I got dressed up. Today I went gambling.
And today I will die and be laid in my grave.
"So send six sturdy cowboys to carry my coffin,
And let six lovely ladies come sing me a song.
And beat the drum slowly. And play the fife lowly.
For I'm a young cowboy what knows he done wrong.
"My friend, could you get me a taste of cool water?
For my lips they are parched and I'm terrible dry."
But before I could fetch him that dipper of water,
His spirit departed. That cowboy, he died.
So we beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly.
And we wept in our grief, as we carried him along.
For we all loved that cowboy, so brave and so handsome.
Yes, we loved that young cowboy, although he done wrong.
As I walked out in the streets of Laredo
As I walked out in Laredo one day
I spied a young cowboy wrapped up in white linen
All wrapped in white linen as cold as the clay
"I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy."
These words he did say, as I boldly stepped by.
"Come sit here beside me and hear my sad story,
For I'm shot in the heart and I surely will die."
"Well, sir, once in the saddle I used to go dashing.
Yes, sir, once in the saddle I was a young brave.
But today I got dressed up. Today I went gambling.
And today I will die and be laid in my grave.
"So send six sturdy cowboys to carry my coffin,
And let six lovely ladies come sing me a song.
And beat the drum slowly. And play the fife lowly.
For I'm a young cowboy what knows he done wrong.
"My friend, could you get me a taste of cool water?
For my lips they are parched and I'm terrible dry."
But before I could fetch him that dipper of water,
His spirit departed. That cowboy, he died.
So we beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly.
And we wept in our grief, as we carried him along.
For we all loved that cowboy, so brave and so handsome.
Yes, we loved that young cowboy, although he done wrong.
Tuesday, 14 August 2012
Mother Country
There was a story in the San Francisco Chronicle that of course I forgot to save
But it was about a lady who lived in the 'good old days'
When a century was born and a century had died
And about these 'good old days' the old lady replied
"Why they were just a lot of people doing the best they could"
"Just a lot of people doing the best they could"
And then the lady said that they did it, "pretty up and walking good"
What ever happened to those faces in the old photographs
I mean, the little boys…….
Boys? . . . . . Hell they were men
Who stood knee deep in the Johnstown mud
In the time of that terrible flood
And they listened to the water, that awful noise
And then they put away the dreams that belonged to little boys
And the sun is going down for Mister Bouie
As he's singing with his class of nineteen-two
Oh, mother country, I do love you
Oh, mother country, I do love you
I knew a man named E.A.Stuart, spelled S.T.U.A.R.T.
And he owned some of the finest horses that I think I've ever seen
And he had one favorite, a champion, the old Campaigner
And he called her "Sweetheart On Parade"
And she was easily the finest horse that the good Lord ever made
But old E.A.Stuart, he was going blind
And he said "Before I go, I gotta drive her one more time"
So people came from miles around, and they stood around the ring
No one said a word
You know, no one said a thing
Then here they come, E.A. Stuart in the wagon right behind
Sitting straight and proud and he's driving her stone blind
And would you look at her
Oh, she never looked finer or went better than today
It's E.A. Stuart and the old Campaigner, "Sweetheart On Parade"
And the people cheered
Why I even saw a grown man break right down and cry
And you know it was just a little while later that old E.A. Stuart died
And the sun it is going down for Mister Bouie
As he's singing with his class of nineteen-two
Oh mother country, I do love you
Oh mother country, I do love you
John Stewart
Les Animeaux Part VIII
Chapter Three
Excavations for Fun or Profit?
For the next few weeks the house was a complete hubbub of activity. Right across from the house there was a small body of water called Brown’s Inlet. It was surrounded on three sides by houses, and a narrow piece of park land that spread out at the far end, right across from their living room window. It was in this park that the search commenced. Under the protective cover of night they snuck out across the street and for a week— with their collectors copy of “The Boys Own Guide To Surveying” — proceeded to map and grid the entire area.
At the Friday they had a complete representation of the “Loch”, its surrounding park and some very interesting stories of the mating habits of their younger neighbours, complete with illustrations made by moonlight.
Albert and Horatio ‘Potomus, being the most aquatic of them all, had donned green garbage bags—as protection from the questionable contents of the water—and had explored the depths of the pond. No wreckage of Pyrate ships was found and they gave up hope for the easy solution to finding the lost horde. Actually they would have all been sorely disappointed if they had discovered it so easily. As you know there is no honour in the easy victory.
The next stage now commenced. First of all they went out and bought Wellington’s—black with red trim, then they got Zita to taxi them all out to the big Lee Valley store where they bought excavating tools, the nice ones, nickel-plated with rosewood handles. On the way home they stopped at a chip wagon and bought Zita lunch and offered her 3% of the projected loot, which seemed fair, since she had lent them the money for their new boots and the digging equipment—and her lunch.
Naturally BT-McG apologized for the oversight, “’Fraid we must have left our wallets at home.”
(Zita had heard this excuse before. Whenever they ran out of money while waiting for the next dividend cheque, or pension, or disability payments, they were always too embarrassed to admit the unfortunate condition, and took to misplacing their wallets to disguise the fact. Zita understood and always professed to believe them. It was a small price to pay to sustain their pride, and they more than repaid it by always having the time to make the tea and to sit quietly and listen to whatever was on her mind. And then to tell her, “It will always be all-right. That under All The Great Heavens, there is no obstacle too enormous, no fear too deep, no enemy too strong that a good heart, true friends, a nice cup of hot chocolate with buttered scones, and three or four skillfully placed kilos of plastic explosive can’t put to rights.”)
One morning, a few days after the shopping expedition Craig questioned Haemish and Dugal about the all too obvious excess. Their common reply was “....if you have a task that requires you to be quite splendid; best not scrimp on the tools.” They said they had learned this lesson during their secondment to the Teheran rescue attempt.
So most mornings Craig went off to work, Zita went to the hospital for therapy and the rest of the household busily went about the task of decrypting the maps and finding the extravagant treasure.
They had tried to be inconspicuous about their interest in the area, and had bought a big basket and under the guise of picnicking intended to dig a series of exploratory trenches. This had caused problems, not the least of which was how to get the picnic basket across the street, down the cliff, and over to the far side of the water, safely, without curdling the cream dip or deflating BT-McG’s chutney soufflé surprise. One day as he drove home with the roof off, appreciating the wonderful summer sky, Craig saw, with no small concern two of the smaller Imperious TeddyBears astride a large hamper, which was suspended from a rope running from their second story balcony, across the street to the big elm tree where it was looped over a limb and tethered to a rock at the edge of the water.
They both waved.
When he got in the house and noticed another hamper being lowered down from upstairs he said to no-one in particular, “I am sure there is an explanation for all this, though I despair of a reasonable outcome.”
“We had need to transport the comestibles and the beach paraphernalia from here to there with some degree of regularity and circumspection—the overhead trolley seemed like a reasonable solution.”
“Well I knew that there would be an answer Haemish. How about an explanation?”
“Achhh weel nooo — y’see, each morning we bring over the willow picnic hampers and the subtlety coloured Coca-Cola Beach umbrellas, that my cousins in Toronto sent us. Said they had enough. Then we break out the silver service — the plate not the Sterling—set up the ‘brollies and spread out the blanket — pinning it securely to the ground with tent pegs. This takes quite a time. Then we break for the picnic — must keep up the cover y’see and then those of us still awake slide under the blanket. Safely hidden from curious eyes and passing sunbathers we dig our exploratory pits, searching for clues of the treasure’s true location.”
“There are so many distractions,” said the Big White TeddyBear, who was in charge of the logistics, “Big noisy black dogs come around and scare Ms. Lou and Osgoode Small as they try to keep track of all the explorations on the maps. Young women come over and spread their blankets close by, and ask Beauregard and BT-McG to help them open their Perrier bottles, and then both of them are gone for the rest of the day and don’t help a smidgen with the digging — they say they are protecting our flanks — if its true it’s at the expense of other flanks I must say!; and where to put the tailings?
We have watched “The Great Escape” many times but we don’t seem to be able to let the dirt dribble out our pant legs—as most of us don’t wear pants and well our legs are a little short if we are to be brutally honest, so we pack the dirt in the picnic hamper from underneath, and when we have finished a hole we pour all the dirt back in and then we all jump up and down on the blanket to pack it down, but when we do this all the Peoples in the park think it’s a exercise folk dance and come over and ask if we give lessons at the Glebe Community Centre.
So now LBP and Colonel Dugal have to give classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays and have been pre-occupied trying to make up “low impact dances” for all the ladies in the neighbourhood. We are sure that Beauregard and BT-McG are very upset they didn’t think of it themselves. But it’s much more difficult then we expected or imagined. If we are out there every day, the Peoples will think we are layabouts or might even guess that we have interior motives. Mind you motives less base than those of Beauregard, Albert and BT-McG; who are all making fools of themselves, if I must say, over Miss Tanya, who drives the old Alfa Coupe, and lives down the street. She always seems to need help with her suntan lotion or synchronizing her carburetors.”
Actually Zita had noticed that all of the accused seemed to be even more picky then usual about their attire in recent weeks and hoped that it would not get too far out of hand.
The Assemblage
Two days later the Animeaux held a general conclave—to discuss their current undertaking.
Dugal convened the meeting and LBP read the minutes of the previous meeting. After the dispersal of biscuits and hot chocolate a review the accumulated intelligence on Project-X commenced.
“Firstly. Our continued presence on the Common can’t go on. It is causing far too much comment, and inquisitiveness in the neighbourhood. Secondly, I feel that I, as senior officer present must bring some unfortunate truths to light. Our first 18 holes have come to naught. Unfortunately that can not be said for our net weight gain. A more healthy way of disguising our excavations than daily picnics has to be developed before new wardrobes are needed—an expense that is quite out of the question at the moment.
Now about try 19 -- The one on the north side of the Loch, about where the big willow tree stood ‘till the storms sundered it, has been more encouraging. LBP and Albert have unearthed an ancient bottle of no-name Port and a rusty Albanian made pickaxe; both definitely Pyrate in origin. So here is the dilemma. Our first positive evidence is bracketed by the need for a more circumspect—and leaner way of explorations. Now I need some remedies more substantial than using diet dressings on the salads.” He said looking over at Beauregard, who immediately peered into his cup of hot chocolate.
“How about a tunnel?, said the small brown TeddyBear Angus SteadFastt, “From the house, under the street and down into the park. We can make a big storage room over there for our treasure hunting implements so that we needn’t haul them hither and yon.
“How will we know where we are underground?” asked Beauregard.
“We can use compasses underground and the dragons can fly overhead and we will stick one of the swords up and wiggle it. They will confirm our bearings and we will mark it on the map, it wont be hard I promise. Anyway when we find the treasure we will have need of new wine cellars and we can convert the tunnel into a grand repository for rare vintages and brews.”
Well, as you might guess this suggestion was met with great enthusiasm and a tunnel planning committee was struck, with orders to report to Dugal no later then the next day with an approach, time table, proposed search topography and an estimate of the number of barrels it could eventually hold. The conclave was adjourned and they all went downtown to check out the new Japanese bakery and dessert boutique.
Two days later the Salvation Army delivered a very used washing machine to the back door. It was dissembled on the spot and carted piece by piece down into the basement. The ruins of several old wheelchairs were salvaged and four large wheels were attached to the edges of the frame mounting the washer motor and agitator blade. The Nova donated its jack and it was attached to the rear of the frame with super-glue.
The First Brevet Animeaux Sapper Division now had a mechanized tunnel borer at its disposal. They moved Craig’s imposing and useful collection of big cardboard boxes that he kept stacked against the basement wall, at the foot of the stairs, and placed it on sheets of plywood—equipped with wheels.
From then on every day at 9am the first shift of excavators went down into the basement, pushed the box collection aside and plugged in the Great Boring Machine and keeping careful track of themselves with their compass, pushed the excavation under the street, down the slope to the point where the Store-room-bacchanal retreat was to be constructed. The second shift started a 1:30 and went to 6:00.
Within two weeks they had reached the near slope of the north bank, and started to expand the tunnel into their storeroom. The refuse from these efforts was simply pushed into the sewer that they had inadvertently hit on the second day and which the TeddyBear with the Red Toque claimed was divine intervention.
Both Craig and Zita were immeasurably impressed with the single-mindedness with which everyone approached the tunnel excavations and they both began to have second thoughts about the apparent preposterousness of the Pyrate treasure theory.
Everything now became secondary to the completion of the storeroom and all the clothes though much grimier then usual, fit much better.
The constant drone of the erstwhile washing machine became an aural companion to the household. Dugal hated to think of the forthcoming electric bill and hoped that recovered riches would cover the expenses and leave enough to admonish the Pyrates with a memorable demonstration of excess.
He was worried though, the cost of the search was greater then had been expected—the underground work required more investment then he was comfortable with, but they had to put safety and neatness first, and the new Gore-Tex smocks kept the fellows quite dust free, and provided a rather regimental look to the proceedings that he appreciated. But he wished the had some of his Cornish relatives here, they were all more familiar with “underground” escapades. He sat back in the chair and thought of the past. He had always thought that omnibuses were quite sufficient and had never used the “Underground” when he was in town anyway’. All stuff and nonsense. This thought made him feel better—and he picked up his favourite reference book “Famous Stills and Streams of Caledonia”. As Beauregard had often said “Tomorrow is another Day.”
Chapter Four
The Expedition to the Eastern Front — A Near Run Thing!
The entire contingent of Animeaux had become oblivious to the hustle and bustle of daily life as their tunnel snaked under the street and sloped down under the pond. There were of course delays. The storeroom was under construction for well over a month, awaiting the weekly pilfering of the neighbourhood trash baskets (they decided not to tell Zita about this; Craig’s comment about sleeping dogs was well placed they felt) for structural supports for the room, its antechamber and the sauna/shower station. As this slowly progressed everyone busied themselves planning for the next stage, the as yet undeveloped strategy for the systematic probing of the depths of the north side of the pond.
On a beautiful August morning Craig and Zita were sitting on the front porch having their Sunday morning coffee when the screen door opened and the fraternity of Animeaux poured out and settled themselves on the stairs.
“We’re here to discuss your approaching vacation to the Eastern Coast, and some associated possibilities,” said Haemish.
“Oh really,” said Craig, as he looked up from his new copy of “The Absolute Sound” that he had been cross-examining, worrying his mind as to the utility of $25,000 turntables or magnetically charged pieces of tin foil.
“Well, The Queen’s Own Pigs have being doing their usual bang up job of research for us. As a support to our underground efforts they have been dissecting the Oak Island mystery, naturally concentrating on the terrific tunnels. They think that a site visit would prove most beneficial to our endeavours. As it happens, we have ascertained, pouring over the atlas, that this island is not too far off the beaten track, and if you modified your travel plans ever so slightly you might be able to transport Callum and BT-McG, who have drawn the short straws, to the vicinity, saving them an arduous bout of hitch-hiking.”
“You’re coming on vacation with us?” said Zita with some concern.
“Well not really on your vacation. We would very much appreciate a ride to and from the infamous Oak Island, and perhaps if we could borrow some room for the tent, the laser theodolite, the portable sonar unit and our other camping paraphernalia.” said Callum.
“Well that seems almost reasonable. We are leaving next Thursday, early. So if you make your plans accordingly we will be delighted with your company.”
When the day arrived all was set. The Blue Car had been packed, new tapes had been made BT-McG and Callum had all their equipment stashed in the back seat behind the chair. Good-byes were said. The Lady that’s Known as Lou, had made peanut brittle and fudge sandwiches for them and had put two weeks supply of green and yellow chutney in BT’s special thermos. They were given maps that showed where everyone’s great aunt or second cousin lived - just in case — and then they were off.-
The first crisis occurred when Callum and BT-McG realized that the route to Nova Scotia required them to cross into America. You see McG had naturally left his passport at home and Callum, having being hijacked during his archaeological vacation in the middle east had no passport at all and had forgotten to have a new one issued. They were quite loath to use them anyway as neither wanted anyone to know of their whereabouts - Pyrates had connections everywhere.
They began planning their entry, “Perhaps we can wrap our selves in protective blankets and squeeze in on top of the mufflers, or unlimber the hang-glider and make a quick low level crossing.”
Craig said to stop worrying, he had it all figured out. When they reached the border station Callum and BT scrambled into the front seat and sat on Zita’s knees, so they could look out the window — and prepared to jump.
When the guard asked where they came from Craig replied “Saskatchewan” and Zita produced her Irish passport. The guard looked up with a start and said “My grandmother came from County Kerry. She was married to one of the Dark McLoughlan brothers from Clare. Would you know them by any chance?”
Zita replied “Well to be sure if my mother isn’t a McLoughlan, though she is from County Clare.”
“Close enough. Welcome to the USA cousin Kavanagh.” and he waved them a good day.
The two Animeaux breathed a long steady sigh of relief, “Nice to have relatives in high places!”, they said and changed the disk to Willie Nelson.
They reached Bar Harbour late that night and snuck their two friends into the room in Zita’s knapsack. That’s when crisis two occurred. When Callum looked out the window he saw, first of all the sea, and then the ferry dock and suddenly realized that they were about to take a long boat ride.
“My goodness. What about Pyrates! On aboard all alone with only the two of us to protect you from hordes of Pyrates! Oh dear — this is chancing a lot. We didn’t bring along a lot of munitions you know, being a bit cramped for space and all.”
Craig ignored the complaints and tried to explain that the ferry to Yarmouth was hardly ever attacked by Pyrates. There was a very large U.S. Navy base in New Haven, which was not too far away and this usually kept them at bay.
BT-McG interrupted “Colonel Dugal’s cousins says ya can’t take the U.S. Navy very seriously; no matter how big it is. Seems they can’t have Rum Toddies on board. And what’s a sailor without Rum Toddies, they say.”
“Well be that as it may” said Craig, cursing the two ex-Royal Marine Commandos under his breath, “I am certain we will manage to reach Canada again with out incident.”
“Canada again. Oh oh! -- What about our documents. They will never fall for that — my mothers from Ireland — trick at the Canadian border I bet.” said Callum with some agitation.
“They wouldn’t dare t’give me the troubles,” said BT-McG indignantly “I’m a veteran — have my Legion card in my hat band. Post 24, The United Counties of Lanark-Glengarry-Dundas. They’ll not look sideways or I’ll....”
Zita said “How about we stop worrying and go get some big bowls of clam chowder. This distracted them, and after BT found his thermos bottle they all went to dinner.
The next morning they drove onto the ferry. Craig and Zita left the Animeaux in the Car to protect the contents from any Pyrates, disguised perhaps as a bus tour. This assignment also made Zita breathe easier as it also would prevent them from relentlessly scanning the horizon with their telescopes and disconcerting the other passengers with their pyratical concerns.
Fortunately, for all involved the Canadian border passed without incident, and they all now felt that the vacation had truly begun. They consulted their maps and after a vote (Craig lost) decided to take the coast highway up towards Halifax. They settled in, and Callum, sitting on the pillow, on the suitcase, kept up a running commentary as he read from his tattered copy of The Royal (Rhinosasauris) Auto Club’s Good Guide to Great Food and Pyrate Observations.
Even Zita had to admit it was fascinating—although she felt there was an over emphasis on the whereabouts of fresh homemade pickles and seaweed chutney shops for her taste. But the information that the Animeaux had gathered over the centuries of the history of Peoples and their doings was quite astonishing. Callum had a virtually life story of each cove they passed through or each abandoned house they saw. Complete with who did what, and who got caught and who got elected. They had a great time.
Late in the afternoon, Callum said, with some reluctance, that there was a rather pleasant Inn listed in his guide just across from their destination, but he didn’t want to prejudice them as both he and McG were quite looking forward to a bracing quick hike before settling in.
Zita said that would be silly and un-necessary. They would both be their guests for dinner that night, if Callum would read them the directions from his map.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)