MacDonnell On The Heights


Too thin the line that charged the Heights
And scrambled in the clay.
Too thin the Eastern Township Scot
Who showed them all the way,
And perhaps had you not fallen,
You might be what Brock became
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.

To say the name, MacDonnell,
It would bring no bugle call
But the Redcoats stayed beside you
When they saw the General fall.
Twas MacDonnell raised the banner then
And set the Heights aflame,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.

You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.

At Queenston now, the General on his tower stands alone
And there's lichen on 'MacDonnell' carved upon that weathered stone
In a corner of the monument to glory you could claim,
But not one in ten thousand knows your name.

You brought the field all standing with your courage and your luck
But unknown to most, you're lying there beside old General Brock.
So you know what it is to scale the Heights and fall just short of fame
And have not one in ten thousand know your name.


Written and recorded by Stan Rogers

How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix



I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
‘Good speed!’ cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;
‘Speed!’ echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

’Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with ‘Yet there is time!’

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;
And one eye’s black intelligence,—ever that glance
O’er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!
And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, ‘Stay spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault’s not in her,
We’ll remember at Aix’—for one heard the quick wheeze
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees,
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
’Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white,
And ‘Gallop,’ gasped Joris, ‘for Aix is in sight!’

‘How they’ll greet us!’—and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets’ rim.

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, learned, patted his ear,
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer;
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees on the ground;
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

Robert Browning (1812–1889)

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

By Way of an Explanation – or Two


The house was filled with unanswered questions. Some of which the reader has probably long wished to pose - unfortunately as with most things connected with Animeaux, answers are far less frequent than questions.

Now I have received ceaseless pressure from inside, and outside my family to document the convolutions our lives have taken since we began sharing our home with the Animeaux.

Recounting the adventures, thrust upon us by this association, has obviously been a labour of love, if not, as has been suggested, of deep therapy. That does not mean it has been an easy task. It has been fraught with difficulties; not the least of which are the subjects themselves.

Although countless books have been written about stuffed Animeaux, most all are told from the simpler perspective of our youth. That has created a rather culturalist view of the Human-Animeaux situation.

“History has been written by those with thumbs” - has been an often heard complaint. The following stories are an attempt to perhaps produce a less “Anthropocentric” view of the relationship.

Now in the endless meetings that were required to gain their support (and to prevent liable actions) numerous formats were suggested - I discarded most of them. Though the thought of printing it reversed—only readable with a mirror seemed consistent with their view of life.

I finally suggested that a prologue, explaining the occasion of my introduction to the Animeaux would be a fitting unveiling of the narration, and would follow in established literary traditions.

(Unfortunately, the vote around the house was to begin with “Call me Ishmael.” In second place came “My Name is Ozymandius King of Kings....” Though all of The Queen’s Own Pig’s Irregulars thought my time would be better spent sorting out a pleasantly short biography of Josephine Baker.)

Therefore, in lieu of any unanimity, I have decided to follow my own model, and begin rather more towards the middle.

Even here there have been complaints. Several of the Animeaux have suggested that it should have a real beginning, full of action, a sweep of space, and context -- (i.e. more attention paid to them.)

My response has been; that if, in the beginning I had been aware I was to be set upon in New Orleans by ruffians, attacked by Pyrates in Halifax, forced to fortify the house in Ottawa, and all the rest.... well might I have had third or fourth thoughts. But since I was dumped into the middle of this extravagance - why should the reader do any better.



Chapter Five

The Imposition of an Introduction

It was quite a long time ago; not quite so far back as when people had faith in the government, but still a long time ago, when one Sunday Craig had a portentous luncheon with his friend Cassandra who was very talented, (she could spell, and type at the same time which intrigued nearly everyone) and was good at making friends.

Over coffee they discussed her poor opinion of Craig’s social life, and its reliance on what she felt to be a rather transient orientation. She felt that he needed to be introduced to the concept of a stable relationship; one not interrupted by the vagaries of airline timetables, or misplaced husbands.

While he did not entirely agree with the analysis, he knew he needed someone to talk to; someone to watch his famous collection of John Wayne movies with, someone who didn’t want to regularly dust his equally impressive collection of model tanks that lived on the plate-rails in the dining room, or thought that he should eat vegetables, and less peanut butter, or more importantly thought he should behave himself and dress better. He wanted an accomplice who didn’t need to be taken for walks or ever, ever thought of climbing up the tall speakers in the living room; or with unwarranted assurance started leaving their tooth brushes in his bathroom, or their Monday-morning-look-professional clothes in the hall closet.

Between the cups of coffee and jam soaked scones listened to the grievances, considered the situation, (with what verged on very little sympathy), and decided she had best resolve this problem before it became ponderous. That very day she went out and found him a suitable confidant.

She phoned that evening and told him not to go out, explaining that she had told an acquaintance of a friend of hers that Craig had lots of extra space in his house, if they needed a place to rest and recuperate from the tribulations of life. That acquaintance was going to arrive that very night.

This rather took Craig aback, “Who was this?”, and why did Cassandra think... She cut the conversation off with, “Don’t be such a poop. I’m sure that It will shall be far better for you than all the waywards from KLM or Lufthansa.” and hung up.

He paused in reflection for a moment. He seriously doubted that anything would be better than.... He put those thoughts out of his mind, and went into the kitchen and made himself some fresh strong coffee and opened a fresh tub of coffee ice-cream and waited for his house guest.

(It was, as fate would have it, a Dragon Animeaux, though in those more naive times he did not recognize it as such.)

It arrived late, nearly 2 in the morning. It was tall and lengthy, attired in a camouflaged French Paratroop jump suit, iridescent red sneakers, a large rescue-orange canvas carryall under one arm and an ancient aerial camera, slung across his back - between green silk wings.

It was clear to Craig that this was not just any old run-of-the-mill Dragon; this was a fabulous Dragon. Aside from being slightly taken aback, he decided that this could turn into a nice intrusion. He always liked the notion of dragons, and the thought of having one around the house was much more appealing then having to accommodate the usual cat.

As Cassandra had expected, the combination was an incalculable success. The Dragon minded its own business, liked to watch television ‘till all hours, slept-in late whenever possible, and never wanted more than a fair share of the coffee ice-cream.

Very early one morning, a few months later, after vainly trying to explain to one of the more missionary-ly inclined Nordic flight attendants why he didn’t want the kitchen rearranged with all the cans and bottles sorted alphabetically - and by size. Craig decided to become a little discouraged. He found himself looking out the front windows, towards the pond as the dawn came up, he said to no one in particular, “I must start developing more substantial inclinations. There just must be more to a social life than blanched Scandinavians, with names impossible to pronounce and lives too complicated to follow.”

A deep resonant voice hummed along the floor and said, “Do you think she was in charge of sorting all the miniature liquor bottles they have on aeroplanes for far too long?”

He looked around, and was dumbfounded to see the Dragon, sleepily opening one eye.

“I didn’t know you could talk?” he said with some trepidation.

The Dragon replied that he was rather surprised too. Although he had been conversing with other Animeaux for forgotten eons, he had never quite been able to communicate with any of the Peoples before. It was not that he hadn’t wanted to, but usually he just kind of thought things, but somehow they never quite matured into words, and certainly they had never came right out loud before.

(Now this was the first time Craig had ever heard the word Animeaux, though the scale of the discovery was not quite clear to him at the time.)

Since there seemed nothing more constructive to do Craig wandered into the kitchen, made some fresh coffee, and threw a bag of nearly fresh scones into the oven. The Dragon came in and found some of its’ favorite marmalade, then they went to the dining room and sat down at the table and began to talk. In the months that followed they spent many pleasant evenings chatting about Dragons and their numerous Animeaux relatives. Oftentimes, if it had been a very hard day, or during one of those periods when Craig’s social life seemed to favour psychologists (having momentarily misplaced his sense of the absurd, and his ScannAir timetable), the Dragon would grasp his mood, and suggest they retire to the den, fire up the DVD and watch “Fort Apache”, “55 Days at Peking” or perhaps even “The Guns Of Navaronne”, break out the Coffee Ice Cream and Croissants and make a real night of it. They always felt better in the morning.

One day, as he watched the Dragon search through the day’s intake of mail, looking for something interesting to read, it occurred to him that they had been together for almost four years, and it was surely time to celebrate this event. He asked if there was anything it wanted? - A Norton Commando motorcycle, satellite TV, his own subscription to “Air Progress”, “New Scientist” or ”Flight” ? The Dragon thought for a while, as Dragons are wont to do, and finally said, “It would be extremely nice if perhaps you could find the room for another Dragon. Someone for me to talk to, or play mah-jongg with, when nothing immeasurably interesting is going on in the house that is. Perhaps we all could watch the Rugby games televised from Cardiff together.”

Craig called Cassandra the very next morning, and asked if she could find another dragon. He didn’t tell her about the Dragon’s talking. When the new dragon finally arrived it was smaller, but it was a soft silver with deep red eyes and enveloping wings. It immediately sprang to the top of a bookcase in the living room, and looked grimly at its surroundings. Craig left the two dragons on their own.

It took the older Dragon many months of patient trying, and innumerable picnics in the local parks before the Silver Dragon could talk at all - even to him. When it finally did, the Dragons could be heard at night as a pleasant humming sound as they commented about the news of the day or any intriguing comings and goings in the house. When people insisted that the Dragons had moved during the night, Craig would always tell the truth; though to be sure it was not his first inclination. He just explained they were the Watch Dragons, and patrolled the house at night when all were asleep. He was not believed, especially by the transient Nordic contingent, who apparently lacked in imagination what they made up for in diligence and enthusiasm.
The Dragons muttered about ‘Quislings’ or ‘Ibsen’ and laughed to themselves a lot.

An Arrival

It was a few years later, through the most shameful negligence, Craig had stumbled into a crisis. He had almost given up on finding any, much less the appropriate Christmas present for his sister.

Finally in a desperate flight of fancy, he thought of asking Cassandra if she could perhaps arrange an encounter with something Scots, who might like a new home for a Christmas present. (You see his sister, like Craig had many relatives in Scotland, and had actually married one - even if he was a Lowlander.)

He promptly called Cassandra’s home, and she, caught up in the spirit of Christmas said that it should pose no great problem, seeing that the accommodations were free.

Three days later she phoned, and said to meet her at her husband Roger’s bookstore. Craig arrived several hours later to meet the non-paying guest. He was overcome. There, standing by the counter, was a tall, striking, Hibernian badger. His name, he announced, was James Festis Kerr MacGregor, and was, from his rather imposing presence, obviously one of the fabled Clan Gregor; “The Children of the Mist”. He was wearing a soft linen shirt with a long fancy lace collar and traditional Jacobite regalia. Craig was beside himself with glee, tinged if the truth be known, by a smidgen of jealously.

As he gave Mr. MacGregor a ride over to Jane’s, he knew Christmas was to be a success, though it was clear that his own home was in dire need of such company - for balance.

The Colonel

Three months after the Christmas holidays were over, a large-ish (which is not quite to say overweight) badger arrived at the front door. He was quite tall for a badger, and was well arrayed in the full kilt of the Cameron Clan, and a dress shirt with a lace collar. He carried a large knobbed briar walking stick in his right hand. His face was weathered and crinkled from years under very foreign suns. His tail had turned silver at its’ tip, as had his rather tufty ears. He looked through the glass door with interest, and standing a bit on his toes rapped on the top of the door with his stick three distinct times.

Craig opened the door and the badger shook his hand, motioning behind him, walked into the house. He was immediately followed by a thoroughly bullied cab driver, who in three successive trips lugged in; a large and ancient teak campaign chest, two stained canvas haversacks, three large leather steamer trunks, a portable, collapsible bathtub, four woven willow traveling cases, and a much weathered medium sized barrel branded “Glenmorangie — Toraidhean Alba”.

He tipped the apologetic driver with a dab of foreign money, and dragged his belongings to the top of the basement stairs, and left them there. He walked into the living room and made himself at home climbing on to the sofa and said, “Good afternoon. Dugal Blackthorn-Badger here. Must ‘pologize for not giving more warning of my ‘rival, or offering a small welcoming dram, but it’s surely been a long trip from the Poona hill stations, and I really must get some rest.” He fell soundly asleep, with his Glengarry pulled down over his face.

Craig sighed. It was to become a common sound around the house.

Three days after this peculiar arrival, upon coming down stairs on Saturday morning, Craig noticed that the Dragons were both standing (so to speak) at attention at the foot of the stairs, looking quite smart and polished. The sneakers were clean and the silver coat was freshly burnished and wiped.

He asked the Older Dragon to account for this rather singular appearance. The Dragon looked away for a second, and then standing up very straight replied that they both had joined the Colonel’s Division.

“Whose Division?” Craig asked, “Why Colonel Blackthorn-Badger’s 51st.” came the reply.

A bit nonplussed he wandered into the kitchen and made his usual fuss over his coffee, then mug in hand he went over to the big walnut equipment stand on which the badger had apparently taken up lodgings.

Stirring his coffee carefully he said “Colonel Blackthorn-Badger, I presume?”

The badger looked up from under his early morning “Times” and after twice folding it, nodded “Aye, that’s it. Colonel Dugal Blackthorn-Badger at your service mon General.” he said with a distinguished Scot’s accent.

Now it had always been Craig’s modest opinion that he would have been an extremely good general - and a very poor private - so he thought that the badger just might be a very good judge of character. So he asked “Exactly what do the dragons do in OUR army.”

He received an instant reply, “Why they are to be the Queen’s Own Dragoons. D’ye no see the beauty of it? They are a patrol. A kind of Home Guard - here to protect the house, its contents - and us, from the rapacious, prying hands of the pale and nasty Sassenach.”

Well that made sense Craig thought, and replied “Well if I agree, and I think I shall, I have a simple suggestion. I really think they should be called The First Dragon Dragoon Guards, or there will be endless confusion with the Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars.”

The badger raised one of his eyebrows and asked quietly, “The what?”

Craig replied, “The Queen’s Own Pig Irregulars. Who are presently barracked upstairs, and who are just now, as a matter of interest, looking for a new Colonel-in-Chief. A Colonel with a lot of field experience they said.”

This quite animated the badger. New recruits!

He excused himself, and scurried off down the basement stairs, kilt flying and tam askew. He returned a few moments later. He waved at Craig, and rushed up stairs waving his walking stick and clutching the Peek-Frene’s tin box that contained all his medals and his heroic pictures from the London Illustrated News.

(Over the last several years, Craig had provided some housing assistance to an assortment of Plush Pigs. Originally he thought that they would provide some pleasant company for the Dragons. Ironically it turned out that they had quite strident political and social convictions, and kept the whole household amused and appalled in equal measure, with their constant spouting of Tom Payne, Toulouse Lautrec and Robert Burns - their three heroes.)

Unfortunately they were fast becoming quite lazy, and as a result - quite porkly. He was sure that anyone who could get the two Dragons to join up, could prod the Pigs into shape. He had spontaneously made up the story about them being The Pig Irregulars, but he knew that the Pigs were far too polite to contradict a guest.

As could be expected things on Holmwood Avenue became very peaceful for a long while. The Dragon Dragoon Guards patrolled the house and helped in the garden. The Pigs slept, and marched, ran up and down the basement stairs, carrying various pieces of Dugal’s kit for inspection, and practiced their Gaelic under his watchful ear. The Colonel relaxed, listened to Wagner and Elgar, and some times, if it was very nice out, something Italian or a bit of Purcell.

He had his campaign chest brought up from the basement and unpacked. The resulting pile of ancient property had required him to ask Craig if he could borrow some shelf space for his collection of books on famous lost causes. He was especially fond of volumes about the star-crossed Army of Northern Virginia and the various gallantly unsuccessful uprisings against the foul and usurping House of Hanover. He was a true Scot you see.

The Bells

HEAR the sledges with the bells--
Silver bells--
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While the stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,--
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
Hear the mellow wedding-bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight
From the molten-golden notes!
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gust of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the Future!
how it tells
Of rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells--
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
Hear the loud alarum bells--
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror, now, their turbulancy tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor,
Now--now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the bosom of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear, it fully knows,
By the twanging
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking of the swelling in the anger of the bells--
Of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,--
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
Hear the tolling of the bells--
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In a silence of the night
How we shiver with affright
At the meloncholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats,
Is a groan:
And the people--ah, the people--
They that dwell up in the steeple,
All alone,
And who, tolling, tolling, tolling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone--
They are neither man nor woman--
They are neither brute nor human--
They are Ghouls!
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls,
A paean from the bells!
And his merry bosom swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells--
Of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells--
Of the bells, bells, bells,
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells,--
Of the bells, bells, bells--
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,--
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.


Edgar Allan Poe

Portent


Courage mes gars:
La guerre est proche.

I plant my little plot of beans,
I sit beneath my cyprus tree;
I do not know what trouble means,
I cultivate tranquillity . . .
But as to-day my walk I made
In all serenity and cheer,
I saw cut in an agave blade:
"Courage, my comrades, war is near!"

Seward I went, my feet were slow,
Awhile I dowsed upon the shore;
And then I roused with fear for lo!
I saw six grisly ships of war.
A grim, grey line of might and dread
Against the skyline looming sheer:
With horror to myself I said:
"Courage, my comrades, war is near!"

I saw my cottage on the hill
With rambling roses round the door;
It was so peaceful and so still
I sighed . . . and then it was no more.
A flash of flame, a rubble heap;
I cried aloud with woe and fear . . .
And wok myself from troubled sleep -
My home was safe, war was not near.

Oh, I am old, my step is frail,
My carcase bears a score of scars,
And as I climbed my homeward trail
Sadly I thought of other wars.
And when that agave leaf I saw
With vicious knife I made a blear
Of words clean-cut into the raw:
"Courage, my comrades, war is near!"

Who put hem there I do not know -
One of these rabid reds, no doubt;
But I for freedom struck my blow,
With bitter blade I scraped them out.
There now, said I, I will forget,
And smoke my pipe and drink my beer -
Yet in my mind these words were set:
"Courage, my comrades, war is near!"

"Courage, my comrades, war is near!"
I hear afar its hateful drums;
Its horrid din assails my ear:
I hope I die before it comes. . . .
Yet as into the town I go,
And listen to the rabble cheer,
I think with heart of weary woe:
War is not coming - WAR IS HERE.


by Robert William Service

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 there must be (God? 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.


John Rooney

Lament for Boromir

Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?'
'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey;
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away
Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.
The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor.'
'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar,
But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.'

From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones;
The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it moans.
'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the fair? He tarries and I grieve.'
'Ask not of me where he doth dwell --- so many bones there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky;
So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea.
Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me!'
'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south,
But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey sea's mouth.'

From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls;
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today?
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.'
'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought.
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.'
'O Boromir! The Tower of Gaurd shall ever northward gaze
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.'

-- J. R. R. Tolkien

Jabberwocky

’T WAS brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

’T was brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


Lewis Carroll (1832–98)

Bill's Grave


I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill;
I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim wouldn't understand;
'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill,
To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and.

For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o' the best;
We 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes;
Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure West,
So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums.

And they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound,
And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer,
If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round
Like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that's the reason I'm 'ere.

But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave Jim to know.
'E'd call me a slobberin' Cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore;
I'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago;
But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war.

It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth
(Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit);
I'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . Now Jim's o' the salt o' the earth;
But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit.

I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn.
Won't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three.
Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty? JIM! And as sure as I'm born
'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me.

Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me. I watches 'im for a while,
Then I says: "Wot 'o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?"
And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile:
"She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay."

So 'e goes away in a 'urry, and I wishes 'im best o' luck,
And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim,
When I makes me way to the boneyard, and . . . I stares like a man wot's stuck, For wot do I see? Bill's grave-mound strewn with the flowers of Jim.

Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad;
And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?"
Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew; but say! won't Bill be glad
When 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and sees the blossoms of Jim and me?

Robert Service

As I Walked Out in the Streets of Laredo

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,
As I walked out in Laredo one day,
I spied a poor cowboy wrapped up in white linen,
Wrapped up in white linen and 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 down beside me and hear my sad story;
I was shot in the breast and I know I must die.

"Let sixteen gamblers come handle my coffin,
Let sixteen cowboys come sing me a song,
Take me to the graveyard and lay the sod o'er me,
For I'm a poor cowboy and I know I've done wrong.

"It was once in the saddle I used to go dashing,
It was once in the saddle I used to go gay.
'Twas first to drinking and then to card playing,
Got shot in the breast, I am dying today.

"Get six jolly cowboys to carry my coffin,
Get six pretty girls to carry my pall;
Put bunches of roses all over my coffin,
Put roses to deaden the clods as they fall.

"O beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly
And play the dead march as you carry me along,
Take me to the green valley and lay the sod o'er me,
For I'm a young cowboy and I know I've done wrong."

We beat the drum slowly and played the fife lowly,
And bitterly wept as we bore him along;
For we all loved our comrade, so brave, young, and handsome,
We all loved our comrade although he'd done wrong.


ANONYMOUS