Kipling, I love a bit of kipling

Norman and Saxon
A.D. 1100

"My son," said the Norman Baron, "I am dying, and you will
be heir
To all the broad acres in England that William gave me for
share
When he conquered the Saxon at Hastings, and a nice little
handful it is.
But before you go over to rule it I want you to understand this:--

"The Saxon is not like us Normans. His manners are not so polite.
But he never means anything serious till he talks about justice,
right?
When he stands like an ox in the furrow--with his sullen set eyes
on your own,
And grumbles, 'This isn't fair dealing,' my son, leave the Saxon
alone.

"You can horsewhip your Gascony archers, or torture your
Picardy spears;
But don't try that game on the Saxon; you'll have the whole
brood round your ears.
From the richest old Thane in the county to the poorest chained
serf in the field,
They'll be at you and on you like hornets, and, if you are wise,
you will yield.

"But first you must master their language, their dialect, proverbs
and songs.
Don't trust any clerk to interpret when they come with the tale
of their own wrongs.
Let them know that you know what they are saying; let them feel
that you know what to say.
Yes, even when you want to go hunting, hear 'em out if it takes
you all day.

They'll drink every hour of the daylight and poach every hour
of the dark.
It's the sport not the rabbits they're after (we've plenty of game
in the park).
Don't hang them or cut off their fingers. That's wasteful as well
as unkind,
For a hard-bitten, South-country poacher makes the best man-
at-arms you can find.

"Appear with your wife and the children at their weddings and
funerals and feasts.
Be polite but not friendly to Bishops; be good to all poor parish
priests.
Say 'we,' 'us' and 'ours' when you're talking, instead of 'you
fellows' and 'I.'
Don't ride over seeds; keep your temper; and never you tell 'em
a lie!"



For all Englishmen, who love their land, from http://eureferendum.blogspot.com/

Pericles

 

And now for an Australian poem

The Man from Snowy River and other verses by A. B. (Banjo) Paterson
Entered/proofed by Alan Light, alight@vnet.net
Sheridan Ash did a second proofing
HTML layout by Peter Schmidt at OzLit
This Classic Australian E-text would not be without the patronage of Vicnet

The Man from Snowy River

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up —
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony — three parts thoroughbred at least —
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry — just the sort that won’t say die —
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, ‘That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop — lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.’
So he waited sad and wistful — only Clancy stood his friend —
‘I think we ought to let him come,’ he said;
‘I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

‘He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.’

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them — he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, ‘We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side.’

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat —
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

 

Old Pardon, the Son of Reprieve
You never heard tell of the story?
Well, now, I can hardly believe!
Never heard of the honour and glory
Of Pardon, the son of Reprieve?
But maybe you’re only a Johnnie
And don’t know a horse from a hoe?
Well, well, don’t get angry, my sonny,
But, really, a young un should know.

They bred him out back on the ‘Never’,
His mother was Mameluke breed.
To the front — and then stay there — was ever
The root of the Mameluke creed.
He seemed to inherit their wiry
Strong frames — and their pluck to receive —
As hard as a flint and as fiery
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.

We ran him at many a meeting
At crossing and gully and town,
And nothing could give him a beating —
At least when our money was down.
For weight wouldn’t stop him, nor distance,
Nor odds, though the others were fast,
He’d race with a dogged persistence,
And wear them all down at the last.

At the Turon the Yattendon filly
Led by lengths at the mile-and-a-half,
And we all began to look silly,
While her crowd were starting to laugh;
But the old horse came faster and faster,
His pluck told its tale, and his strength,
He gained on her, caught her, and passed her,
And won it, hands-down, by a length.

And then we swooped down on Menindie
To run for the President’s Cup —
Oh! that’s a sweet township — a shindy
To them is board, lodging, and sup.
Eye-openers they are, and their system
Is never to suffer defeat;
It’s ‘win, tie, or wrangle’ — to best ‘em
You must lose ‘em, or else it’s ‘dead heat’.

We strolled down the township and found ‘em
At drinking and gaming and play;
If sorrows they had, why they drowned ‘em,
And betting was soon under way.
Their horses were good ‘uns and fit ‘uns,
There was plenty of cash in the town;
They backed their own horses like Britons,
And, Lord! how we rattled it down!

With gladness we thought of the morrow,
We counted our wagers with glee,
A simile homely to borrow —
‘There was plenty of milk in our tea.’
You see we were green; and we never
Had even a thought of foul play,
Though we well might have known that the clever
Division would ‘put us away’.

Experience ‘docet’, they tell us,
At least so I’ve frequently heard,
But, ‘dosing’ or ‘stuffing’, those fellows
Were up to each move on the board;
They got to his stall — it is sinful
To think what such villains would do —
And they gave him a regular skinful
Of barley — green barley — to chew.

He munched it all night, and we found him
Next morning as full as a hog —
The girths wouldn’t nearly meet round him;
He looked like an overfed frog.
We saw we were done like a dinner —
The odds were a thousand to one
Against Pardon turning up winner,
‘Twas cruel to ask him to run.

We got to the course with our troubles,
A crestfallen couple were we;
And we heard the ‘books’ calling the doubles —
A roar like the surf of the sea;
And over the tumult and louder
Rang ‘Any price Pardon, I lay!’
Says Jimmy, ‘The children of Judah
Are out on the warpath to-day.’

Three miles in three heats: — Ah, my sonny,
The horses in those days were stout,
They had to run well to win money;
I don’t see such horses about.
Your six-furlong vermin that scamper
Half-a-mile with their feather-weight up;
They wouldn’t earn much of their damper
In a race like the President’s Cup.

The first heat was soon set a-going;
The Dancer went off to the front;
The Don on his quarters was showing,
With Pardon right out of the hunt.
He rolled and he weltered and wallowed —
You’d kick your hat faster, I’ll bet;
They finished all bunched, and he followed
All lathered and dripping with sweat.

But troubles came thicker upon us,
For while we were rubbing him dry
The stewards came over to warn us:
‘We hear you are running a bye!
If Pardon don’t spiel like tarnation
And win the next heat — if he can —
He’ll earn a disqualification;
Just think over that, now, my man!’

Our money all gone and our credit,
Our horse couldn’t gallop a yard;
And then people thought that we did it!
It really was terribly hard.
We were objects of mirth and derision
To folk in the lawn and the stand,
And the yells of the clever division
Of ‘Any price Pardon!’ were grand.

We still had a chance for the money,
Two heats still remained to be run;
If both fell to us — why, my sonny,
The clever division were done.
And Pardon was better, we reckoned,
His sickness was passing away,
So he went to the post for the second
And principal heat of the day.

They’re off and away with a rattle,
Like dogs from the leashes let slip,
And right at the back of the battle
He followed them under the whip.
They gained ten good lengths on him quickly
He dropped right away from the pack;
I tell you it made me feel sickly
To see the blue jacket fall back.

Our very last hope had departed —
We thought the old fellow was done,
When all of a sudden he started
To go like a shot from a gun.
His chances seemed slight to embolden
Our hearts; but, with teeth firmly set,
We thought, ‘Now or never! The old ‘un
May reckon with some of ‘em yet.’

Then loud rose the war-cry for Pardon;
He swept like the wind down the dip,
And over the rise by the garden,
The jockey was done with the whip
The field were at sixes and sevens —
The pace at the first had been fast —
And hope seemed to drop from the heavens,
For Pardon was coming at last.

And how he did come! It was splendid;
He gained on them yards every bound,
Stretching out like a greyhound extended,
His girth laid right down on the ground.
A shimmer of silk in the cedars
As into the running they wheeled,
And out flashed the whips on the leaders,
For Pardon had collared the field.

Then right through the ruck he came sailing —
I knew that the battle was won —
The son of Haphazard was failing,
The Yattendon filly was done;
He cut down the Don and the Dancer,
He raced clean away from the mare —
He’s in front! Catch him now if you can, sir!
And up went my hat in the air!

Then loud from the lawn and the garden
Rose offers of ‘Ten to one on!’
‘Who’ll bet on the field? I back Pardon!’
No use; all the money was gone.
He came for the third heat light-hearted,
A-jumping and dancing about;
The others were done ere they started
Crestfallen, and tired, and worn out.

He won it, and ran it much faster
Than even the first, I believe
Oh, he was the daddy, the master,
Was Pardon, the son of Reprieve.
He showed ‘em the method to travel —
The boy sat as still as a stone —
They never could see him for gravel;
He came in hard-held, and alone.

. . . . .

But he’s old — and his eyes are grown hollow;
Like me, with my thatch of the snow;
When he dies, then I hope I may follow,
And go where the racehorses go.
I don’t want no harping nor singing —
Such things with my style don’t agree;
Where the hoofs of the horses are ringing
There’s music sufficient for me.

And surely the thoroughbred horses
Will rise up again and begin
Fresh races on far-away courses,
And p’raps they might let me slip in
It would look rather well the race-card on
‘Mongst Cherubs and Seraphs and things,
‘Angel Harrison’s black gelding Pardon,
Blue halo, white body and wings.’

And if they have racing hereafter,
(And who is to say they will not?)
When the cheers and the shouting and laughter
Proclaim that the battle grows hot;
As they come down the racecourse a-steering,
He’ll rush to the front, I believe;
And you’ll hear the great multitude cheering
For Pardon, the son of Reprieve.

 

poets?

well, seeing as we now have a poetry thread going, does anyone do a bit of writing besides me? (definately no Kipling!) If so, how about sharing some?

 

Never mind the bloody poetry, today is a Historic day in the history of the world THAT UNELECTED TRAITOR BROWN HAS SIGNED AWAY THE RIGHTS OF ALL BRITISH (English, Scottish, Welsh and Northern Irish, to say nothing of the Manx, the Cornish and other fringe people of these once great islands) TO SOME FOREIGN EUROPEAN UNION MADE UP OF ALL THE ENEMIES OF BRITAIN OVER THE YEARS!

Sorry guys rant over, One very peed off Walrus

great things may soon be happening in this country, ther again they may not!

 

10 pound immigrants are still accepted in this colony of convicts. But then again if you live on your boat and are "independant" India prides itself as often being more British than the English - a touch of home?

Lots of Poms in Aus, pension is still paid and goes further than in Londonium.

 

one world government

Walrus, I'm not aware of the specifics of what the tratiorus person; Brown, did, but this whole world government thing sucks! I don't want some fat Belgian ******* deciding if an American or British soldier has committed a "war crime" and then sending them to prison for life. War sucks and is a crime by definition and horrendous things do happen when a soverign country protects itself. tough crap to the lilly livered people! go cry baby about it to someone who cares. Rant Over!

 

Does poetry induce groan (deliberately spelt that way) men to fight? Be a pacifist and join the forces as a volunteer - I ******** did! Deef as apost in my right ear from fireing my big gun (40mm, and 2 rounds a second delivering a 2 pound high explosive some two miles with deadly accuracy. I am waxing lyrical, and it is the poetry thread - still on track...

 

Mr Lee not made by 'bofors' by any chance/ - nice bit of kit but as you say somewhat noisy, still it worked (in all it's many variants) and did the deed to nasties! and Nord I don't give a 5H1T if you care or not (tho I suspect you do!) I gave my view (and will continue to do so if need be)! End of!

 

Yes, but the Aussy version. electric powered (batteries under the ammo racks) The Brits at Changi had hydraulic powered interfaced with a shitty radar control system.

In testing for surface to surface use for deployment in Malaysia during "confruntasion". I think the Bahasa spelling was like that?. I shot out the tow cable a couple of times after knocking out the watersplash target. Good fun at the time.

 

The Kipling I posted, is to rally my countrymen to remember who and what we are. At some stage, we'll get very pissed off with the scumbags who sold us out and then the ordure will hit the fan.

Pericles

 

I did apologise for capturing your Kipling thread but the challenge was too great, I had to put some Aussy poems up.

I was tempted to present a full broadside, but thought guilty at stealing your thunder from "an adventurer" to India who introduced me to many wonderous stories and scouts (via cubs).

Seasons salutations Pericles, and may santa fill your sails, and hammock, with delectable live eye-candy.

 

Masalai,

No worries sport.

Season's greetings to you.

Pericles

 

Mr Kipling does make exeedingly good cakes.

(British thing)

 

I sympothise with your disgust. I heard today that 20,000 Brits leave uk every month. They sell their expensive overvalued houses and retire in the east.

I am really surprised the Queen has'nt said something, but I think she is on thin ice too.
But then I hate the tattood Brits with there shaven heads walking round supermarkets here laughing at stuff,opening jars and smelling the contents then put them back. Who do they think they are? Horrible people.

When will we get some proper judges, instead of the geriatric affluent ****** we have now.

Kosovans and Poles trying to get into prison to get free dental and sleep somewhere warm. All the Prisons are full at Christmas, they get turkey, as the pensioners die of hyperthermia huddled in front of a 1 bar electric fire they can barely afford.

STUPID STUPID place.