Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling

Subject: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 07:49 AM

Gunga Din by Rudyard Kipling


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

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

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

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

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

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 07:59 AM

Mandalay written by Rudyard Kipling

By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea,
There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me;
For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say:
"Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay! "
Come you back to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat - jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:
Bloomin' idol made o' mud
Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd
Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay...
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!


When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow,
She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!
With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin my cheek
We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak.
Elephints a-pilin' teak
In the sludgy, squdgy creek,
Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak!
On the road to Mandalay...
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!


But that's all shove be'ind me - long ago an' fur away
An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay;
An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells:
"If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else."
No! you won't 'eed nothin' else
But them spicy garlic smells,
An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells;
On the road to Mandalay...
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!


I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones,
An' the blasted English drizzle wakes the fever in my bones;
Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand,
An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand?
Beefy face an' grubby 'and -
Law! wot do they understand?
I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land!
On the road to Mandalay...
Where the old Flotilla lay:
Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay ?
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay!


Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea;
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the old Flotilla lay,
With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay!
O the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin'-fishes play,
An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay !

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Dave the Gnome
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 08:02 AM

What a coincidence! Out of the blue the version bu Jim Croce popped up in one of my feeds today and then you post the words - Thank you :-)

I remember Dave Weatherall and Martin Hall from Jolly jack performing it to the tune Peter Bellamy put it to (Maggie May?) Wonderful version

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Dave the Gnome
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 08:02 AM

Sorry - That was in reference to Gunga Din

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 08:12 AM

I perform them as poems because they are not only well crafted (as most Rudyard Kipling poems are) also to take the back to where they started from

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 08:16 AM

This poem / ballad is pre WW1 I think it wouldn't have been as true after WW1 started


The Land “Friendly Brook” A Diversity of Creatures
By Rudyard Kipling

When Julius Fabricius, Sub-Prefect of the Weald,
In the days of Diocletian owned our Lower River-field,
He called to him Hobdenius—a Briton of the Clay,
Saying: "What about that River-piece for layin' in to hay?"

And the aged Hobden answered: "I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' bad.
An' the more that you neeglect her the less you'll get her clean.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd dreen."

So they drained it long and crossways in the lavish Roman style —
Still we find among the river-drift their flakes of ancient tile,
And in drouthy middle August, when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed sixteen hundred years ago.

Then Julius Fabricius died as even Prefects do,
And after certain centuries, Imperial Rome died too.
Then did robbers enter Britain from across the Northern main
And our Lower River-field was won by Ogier the Dane.

Well could Ogier work his war-boat—well could Ogier wield his brand—
Much he knew of foaming waters—not so much of farming land.
So he called to him a Hobden of the old unaltered blood,
Saying: "What about that River-piece; she doesn't look no good ?"

And that aged Hobden answered "'Tain't for me to interfere.
But I've known that bit o' meadow now for five and fifty year.
Have it jest as you've a mind to, but I've proved it time on ' time,
If you want to change her nature you have got to give her lime!"

Ogier sent his wains to Lewes, twenty hours' solemn walk,
And drew back great abundance of the cool, grey, healing chalk.
And old Hobden spread it broadcast, never heeding what was in't—
Which is why in cleaning ditches, now and then we find a flint.

Ogier died. His sons grew English—Anglo-Saxon was their name—
Till out of blossomed Normandy another pirate came;
For Duke William conquered England and divided with his men,
And our Lower River-field he gave to William of Warenne.

But the Brook (you know her habit) rose one rainy autumn night
And tore down sodden flitches of the bank to left and right.
So, said William to his Bailiff as they rode their dripping rounds:
"Hob, what about that River-bit—the Brook's got up no bounds ?"

And that aged Hobden answered: "'Tain't my business to advise,
But ye might ha' known 'twould happen from the way the valley lies.
Where ye can't hold back the water you must try and save the sile.
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but, if I was you, I'd spile!"

They spiled along the water-course with trunks of willow-trees,
And planks of elms behind 'em and immortal oaken knees.
And when the spates of Autumn whirl the gravel-beds away
You can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.

Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the River-field,
Am fortified with title-deeds, attested, signed and sealed,
Guaranteeing me, my assigns, my executors and heirs
All sorts of powers and profits which—are neither mine nor theirs,

I have rights of chase and warren, as my dignity requires.
I can fish—but Hobden tickles—I can shoot—but Hobden wires.
I repair, but he reopens, certain gaps which, men allege,
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swapped a hedge.

Shall I dog his morning progress o'er the track-betraying dew ?
Demand his dinner-basket into which my pheasant flew ?
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my conies ran,
And summons him to judgment ? I would sooner summons Pan.

His dead are in the churchyard—thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine.

Not for any beast that burrows, not for any bird that flies,
Would I lose his large sound counsel, miss his keen amending eyes.
He is bailiff, woodman, wheelwright, field-surveyor, engineer,
And if flagrantly a poacher—'tain't for me to interfere.

"Hob, what about that River-bit ?" I turn to him again,
With Fabricius and Ogier and William of Warenne.
"Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but"—and here he takes command.
For whoever pays the taxes old Mus' Hobden owns the land.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 08:27 AM

Macdonough's Song by Rudyard Kipling "As easy as A B C"--A Diversity of Creatures"


Whether the State can loose and bind
In Heaven as well as on Earth:
If it be wiser to kill mankind
Before or after the birth--
These are matters of high concern
Where State-kept schoolmen are;
But Holy State (we have lived to learn)
Endeth in Holy War.

Whether The People be led by The Lord,
Or lured by the loudest throat:
If it be quicker to die by the sword
Or cheaper to die by vote--
These are things we have dealt with once,
(And they will not rise from their grave)
For Holy People, however it runs,
Endeth in wholly Slave.

Whatsoever, for any cause,
Seeketh to take or give
Power above or beyond the Laws,
Suffer it not to live!
Holy State or Holy King--
Or Holy People's Will--
Have no truck with the senseless thing.
Order the guns and kill!
Saying --after--me:--

Once there was The People--Terror gave it birth;
Once there was The People and it made a Hell of Earth
Earth arose and crushed it. Listen, 0 ye slain!
Once there was The People--it shall never be again!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 11:44 AM

A Code of Morals by Rudyard Kipling

Lest you should think this story true
I merely mention I evolved it lately.
‘Tis a most Unmitigated misstatement.

Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order,
And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border,
To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught
His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught.
And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair;
So Cupid and Apollo linked , per heliograph, the pair.
At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise –
At e’en, the dying sunset bore her husband’s homilies.
He warned her ‘gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold,
As much as ‘gainst the blandishments paternal of the old;
But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs)
That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs.
‘T’was General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way,
When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play.
They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt –
So stopped to take the message down – and this is what they learnt –
“Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot” twice. The General swore.
“Was ever General Officer addressed as ‘dear’ before?
“‘My Love,’ i’ faith! ‘My Duck,’ Gadzooks! ‘My darling popsy-wop!’
“Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountain top?”
The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the gilded Staff were still,
As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill;
For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband’s warning ran: –
“Don’t dance or ride with General Bangs — a most immoral man.”
[At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise –
But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.]
With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife
Some interesting details of the General’s private life.
The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still,
And red and ever redder grew the General’s shaven gill.
And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not): –
“I think we’ve tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!”
All honour unto Bangs, for ne’er did Jones thereafter know
By word or act official who read off that helio.
But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan
They know the worthy General as “that most immoral man.”

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Joe_F
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 06:02 PM

Maurice Samuel pointed out that the Ten Commandments were in fact issued just east of Suez.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 08:50 PM

Mr. Mono John,

It is nice to see you here.

My memory is very eclectic, and can spout 100 from diverse sources.
I wish I knew the entire "Gunga" ... but, even audiences 50 years ago, wanted to "cut to the chase" after five minutes.

Sincerely,
Gargoyle

How many of Kipling's entire verse can you recite ... and do you have an audience over one?

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 27 Jun 23 - 11:43 PM

Mr. Mono John ...

I suggest you take a look at:

librivox.org

Sincerely,
Gargoye


It is a collection of "public domain" recordings by volunteer readers.
It is hosted the archive (waybackmachine) of the USA library of congress.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 03 Jul 23 - 03:19 PM

Tommy by Rudyard Kipling


I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, " We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, go away " ;
But it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's " Thank you, Mister Atkins," when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' " Tommy, wait outside ";
But it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's " Special train for Atkins " when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap.
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, 'ow's yer soul? "
But it's " Thin red line of 'eroes " when the drums begin to roll
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's " Thin red line of 'eroes, " when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Tommy, fall be'ind,"
But it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's " Please to walk in front, sir," when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an` Chuck him out, the brute! "
But it's " Saviour of 'is country " when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An 'Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool - you bet that Tommy sees!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 03 Jul 23 - 03:20 PM

Gethsemane
BY RUDYARD KIPLING
1914-1918
The Garden called Gethsemane   
   In Picardy it was,   
And there the people came to see   
   The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass—we used to pass   
   Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas   
   Beyond Gethsemane.

The Garden called Gethsemane,   
   It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
   I prayed my cup might pass.   
The officer sat on the chair,
   The men lay on the grass,   
And all the time we halted there
   I prayed my cup might pass.

It didn’t pass—it didn’t pass-
   It didn’t pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas   
   Beyond Gethsemane!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 11 Jul 23 - 11:46 AM

The Sons of Martha by Rudyard Kipling


The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary’s Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.
They say to mountains, ” Be ye removèd” They say to the lesser floods ” Be dry.”
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd – they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill tops shake to the summit – then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.
They finger death at their gloves’ end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.
To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden – under the earthline their altars are
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city’s drouth.
They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren’s days may be long in the land.
Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that !
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.
And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd – they know the angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet – they hear the Word – they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and – the Lord He lays it on Martha’s Sons

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 11 Jul 23 - 11:47 AM

Municipal by Rudyard Kipling
       "Why is my District death-rate low?"
          Said Binks of Hezabad.
       "Well, drains, and sewage-outfalls are
          "My own peculiar fad.
       "I learnt a lesson once, It ran
       "Thus," quoth that most veracious man: --

It was an August evening and, in snowy garments clad,
I paid a round of visits in the lines of Hezabad;
When, presently, my Waler saw, and did not like at all,
A Commissariat elephant careering down the Mall.

I couldn't see he driver, and across my mind it rushed
That that Commissariat elephant had suddenly gone musth.
I didn't care to meet him, and I couldn't well get down,
So I let the Waler have it, and we headed for the town.

The buggy was a new one and, praise Dykes, it stood the strain,
Till he Waler jumped a bullock just above the City Drain;
And the next that I remember was a hurricane of squeals,
And the creature making toothpicks of my five-foot patent wheels.

He seemed to want the owner, so I fled, distraught with fear,
To the Main Drain sewage-outfall while he snorted in my ear --
Reached the four-foot drain-head safely and, in darkness and despair,
Felt the brute's proboscis fingering my terror-stiffened hair.

Heard it trumpet on my shoulder -- tried to crawl a little higher --
Found the Main Drain sewage outfall blocked, some eight feet up, with mire;
And, for twenty reeking minutes, Sir, my very marrow froze,
While the trunk was feeling blindly for a purchase on my toes!

It missed me by a fraction, but my hair was turning grey
Before they called the drivers up and dragged the brute away.
Then I sought the City Elders, and my words were very plain.
They flushed that four-foot drain-head and -- it never choked again!

You may hold with surface-drainage, and the sun-for-garbage cure,
Till you've been a periwinkle shrinking coyly up a sewer.
I believe in well-flushed culverts. . . .
                                  This is why the death-rate's small;
And, if you don't believe me, get shikarred yourself. That's all.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 11 Jul 23 - 09:35 PM

John -

I most heartily encourge you to explore ...
   and then post audio recording to:
librivox.org

It is part of the USA Library of Congress Archive.

Sincerely,
Gargoyle



You have a great deal to contribute ... and they gladely preserve multiple voices of the same work.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Joe Offer
Date: 14 Jul 23 - 12:57 AM

Hi, Gargoyle - Monologue John is a "regular" at the Mudcat worldwide Singaround, which starts at noon Pacific time every Monday. He always performs within the first 15 minutes. His YouTube channel is here:

https://www.youtube.com/@monologuejohn

-Joe-

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: GUEST,.gargoyle
Date: 14 Jul 23 - 07:52 PM

I know - Joe
   HE is very very good ! ! !

He is wodthy of more than a random archive.

I sincerely encourage him to record to librivox.org

Sincerely,
Gargoyle


Of course, not in exclusion to youtube or singaround ... his recordings are better some already archived ... and they permit multiple versions

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 17 Jul 23 - 04:29 PM

Puck's Song by Rudyard Kipling


See you the ferny ride that steals
Into the oak-woods far?
O that was whence they hewed the keels
That rolled to Trafalgar.

And mark you where the ivy clings
To Bayham's mouldering walls?
O there we cast the stout railings
That stand around St. Paul's.

See you the dimpled track that runs
All hollow through the wheat?
O that was where they hauled the guns
That smote King Philip's fleet.

(Out of the Weald, the secret Weald,
Men sent in ancient years,
The horse-shoes red at Flodden Field,
The arrows at Poitiers!)

See you our little mill that clacks,
So busy by the brook?
She has ground her corn and paid her tax
Ever since Domesday Book.

See you our stilly woods of oak,
And the dread ditch beside?
O that was where the Saxons broke
On the day that Harold died.

See you the windy levels spread
About the gates of Rye?
O that was where the Northmen fled,
When Alfred's ships came by.

See you our pastures wide and lone,
Where the red oxen browse?
O there was a City thronged and known,
Ere London boasted a house.

And see you, after rain, the trace
Of mound and ditch and wall?
O that was a Legion's camping-place,
When Caesar sailed from Gaul.

And see you marks that show and fade,
Like shadows on the Downs?
O they are the lines the Flint Men made,
To guard their wondrous towns.

Trackway and Camp and City lost,
Salt Marsh where now is corn-
Old Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease,
And so was England born.

She is not any common Earth,
Water or wood or air,
But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye,
Where you and I will fare.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 18 Jul 23 - 01:31 PM

This one might not be acceptable for performance   see what you think
The Post that Fitted by Rudyard Kipling


Ere the steamer bore him Eastward, Sleary was engaged to marry
An attractive girl at Tunbridge, whom he called "my little Carrie."
Sleary's pay was very modest; Sleary was the other way.
Who can cook a two-plate dinner on eight poor rupees a day?

Long he pondered o'er the question in his scantly furnished quarters -
Then proposed to Minnie Boffkin, eldest of Judge Boffkin's daughters.
Certainly an impecunious Subaltern was not a catch,
But the Boffkins knew that Minnie mightn't make another match.

So they recognised the business and, to feed and clothe the bride,
Got him made a Something Something somewhere on the Bombay side.
Anyhow, the billet carried pay enough for him to marry -
As the artless Sleary put it: - "Just the thing for me and Carrie."

Did he, therefore, jilt Miss Boffkin - impulse of a baser mind?
No! He started epileptic fits of an appalling kind.
[Of his modus operandi only this much I could gather: -
"Pears's shaving sticks will give you little taste and lots of lather."]

Frequently in public places his affliction used to smite
Sleary with distressing vigour -- always in the Boffkins' sight.
Ere a week was over Minnie weepingly returned his ring,
Told him his "unhappy weakness" stopped all thought of marrying.

Sleary bore the information with a chastened holy joy, -
Epileptic fits don't matter in Political employ, -
Wired three short words to Carrie - took his ticket, packed his kit -
Bade farewell to Minnie Boffkin in one last, long, lingering fit.

Four weeks later, Carrie Sleary read - and laughed until she wept -
Mrs. Boffkin's warning letter on the "wretched epilept." . . .
Year by year, in pious patience, vengeful Mrs. Boffkin sits
Waiting for the Sleary babies to develop Sleary's fits.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 18 Jul 23 - 05:19 PM

Pagett, M.P. By Rudyard Kipling

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 19 Jul 23 - 05:09 AM

The Ballad of East and West by Rudyard Kipling

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side,
And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride.
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and day
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.

Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides
Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides? "
Then up and spoke Mohammed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.
"At dusk he harries the Abazai - at dawn he is into Bonair,
"But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare.
"So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
"By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.
"But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,
"For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.
"There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
"And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen."

The Colonel's son has taken horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of a gallows-tree.
The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,
Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the Pistol crack.
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. " Show now if ye can ride!
It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,
But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.
There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen.

They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.
The dun he fell at a water-course - in a woeful heap fell he,
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
He has knocked the pistol out of his hand - small room was there to strive,
'Twas only by favour of mine," quoth he, " ye rode so long alive:
"There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
"But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
"If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
"The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row.
"If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
"The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly."
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast,
"But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
"If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away.
"Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.
"They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain.
"The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
"But if thou thinkest the price be fair - thy brethren wait to sup,
"The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn - howl, dog, and call them up!
"And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
"Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back! "

Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and grey wolf meet.
"May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
"What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?"
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: " I hold by the blood of my clan:
Take up the mare for my father's gift - by God, she has carried a man!"
The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast;
"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, " but she loveth the younger best.
"So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
"My 'broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrup twain."
The Colonel's son a pistol drew, and held it muzzle-end,
"Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he. " Will ye take the mate from a friend? "
"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb.
"Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!"
With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest
He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.
"Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides,
"And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.
"Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,
"Thy life is his - thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.
"So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,
"And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line.
"And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power
"Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur! "

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault.
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.

The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.
Ha' done! ha' done! " said the Colonel's son. " Put up the steel at your sides!
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief - to-night 't is a man of the Guides!

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face though they come from the ends of the earth!

Subject: ADD: The White Man's Burden (Rudyard Kipling)
From: Monologue John
Date: 19 Jul 23 - 11:41 AM

The White Man’s Burden 1899 The United States and the Philippine Islands)

THE WHITE MAN'S BURDEN
(Rudyard Kipling, 1899)

Take up the White Man's burden -
    Send forth the best ye breed -
Go bind your sons to exile
    To serve your captives' need;
To wait in heavy harness
    On fluttered folk and wild -
Your new-caught sullen peoples,
    Half devil and half child.

Take up the White Man's burden -
    In patience to abide
To veil the threat of terror
    And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple,
    An hundred times made plain,
To seek another's profit,
    And work another's gain.

Take up the White Man's burden -
    The savage wars of peace -
Fill full the mouth of famine
    And bid the sickness cease;
And when your goal is nearest
    The end for others sought,
Watch Sloth and heathen Folly
    Bring all your hopes to nought.

Take up the White Man's burden -
    No tawdry rule of kings,
But toil of serf and sweeper -
    The tale of common things.
The ports ye shall not enter,
    The roads ye shall not tread,
Go make them with your living,
    And mark them with your dead !

Take up the White Man's burden -
    And reap his old reward,
The blame of those ye better,
    The hate of those ye guard -
The cry of hosts ye humour
    (Ah slowly !) towards the light:-
"Why brought ye us from bondage,
    "Our loved Egyptian night ?"

Take up the White Man's burden -
    Ye dare not stoop to less -
Nor call too loud on Freedom
    To cloak your weariness;
By all ye cry or whisper,
    By all ye leave or do,
The silent sullen peoples
    Shall weigh your Gods and you.

Take up the White Man's burden -
    Have done with childish days -
The lightly proffered laurel,
    The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
    Through all the thankless years,
Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom,
    The judgement of your peers.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 20 Jul 23 - 03:23 PM

The Last of the Light Brigade by Rudyard Kipling


There were thirty million English who talked of England's might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.

They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four !

They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and grey;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old Troop-Sergeant muttered, "Let us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites."

They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servant's order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.

They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toil-bowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.

The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and "Beggin' your pardon," he said,
"You wrote o' the Light Brigade, sir. Here's all that isn't dead.
An' it's all come true what you wrote, sir, regardin' the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse, an' we thought we'd call an' tell.

"No, thank you, we don't want food, sir; but couldn't you take an' write
A sort of 'to be continued' and 'see next page' o' the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, an' couldn't you tell 'em how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now."

The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with "the scorn of scorn."
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.

They sent a cheque to the felon that sprang from an Irish bog;
They healed the spavined cab-horse; they housed the homeless dog;
And they sent (you may call me a liar), when felon and beast were paid,
A cheque, for enough to live on, to the last of the Light Brigade.

O thirty million English that babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our children's children are lisping to "honour the charge they made - "
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 21 Jul 23 - 08:15 AM

Cain and Abel ‘Western Version, 1934’ by Rudyard Kpling
Cain and Abel were brothers born.
    (Koop-la! Come along, cows!)
One raised cattle and one raised corn.
    (Koop-la! Come along! Co-hoe!)

And Cain he farmed by the river-side,
So he did not care how much it dried.

For he banked, and he sluiced, and he ditched and he led
    (And the Corn don’t care for the Horn)—
A-half Euphrates out of her bed
    To water his dam’ Corn!

But Abel herded out on the plains
Where you have to go by the dams and rains.

It happened, after a three-year drought,
The wells, and the springs, and the dams gave out.

The Herd-bulls came to Cain’s new house
    (They wanted water so!—)
With the hot red Sun between their brows,
Sayin’ “Give us water for our pore cows!”
    But Cain he told ’em—“No!”

The Cows they came to Cain’s big house
With the cold white Moon between their brows,
Sayin’ “Give some water to us pore cows!”
    But Cain he told ’em—“No?”

The li’l Calves came to Cain’s fine house
With the Evenin’ Star between their brows,
Sayin’ “Give us water an’ we’ll be cows!”
    But Cain he told ’em—“No!”

The Herd-bulls led ’em back again,
An’ Abel went an’ said to Cain:—
“Oh, sell me water, my brother dear,
Or there will be no beef this year.”
    And Cain he answered—“No!”

“Then draw your hatches, my brother true,
An’ let a little water through.”
    But Cain he answered:—“No!

“My dams are tight an’ my ditches are sound,
An’ not a drop goes through or round
    Till she’s done her duty by the Corn.

“I will not sell, an’ I will not draw,
An’ if you breach, I’ll have the Law,
    As sure as you are born!”

Then Abel took his best bull-goad,
An’ holed a dyke on the Eden road.

He opened her up with foot an’ hand,
An’ let Euphrates loose on the land.

He spilled Euphrates out on the plain,
So’s all his cattle could drink again.

Then Cain he saw what Abel done—
But, in those days, there was no Gun!

So he made him a club of a hickory-limb,
An’ halted Abel an’ said to him:—

“I did not sell an’ I did not draw,
An’ now you’ve breached I’ll have the Law.

“You ride abroad in your hat and spurs,
Hell-hoofin’ over my cucumbers!

“You pray to the Lord to send you luck
An’ you loose your steers in my garden-truck:

“An’ now you’re bust, as you ought to be,
You can keep on prayin’ but not to me!”

Then Abel saw it meant the life;
But, in those days, there was no Knife:

So he up with his big bull-goad instead,
But—Cain hit first and dropped him dead!

The Herd-bulls ran when they smelt the blood,
An’ horned an’ pawed in that Red Mud.
The Calves they bawled, and the Steers they milled,
Because it was the First Man Killed;—
An’ the whole Herd broke for the Land of Nod,
An’ Cain was left to be judged by God!

But, seein’ all he had had to bear,
I never could call the Judgment fair!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 21 Jul 23 - 12:32 PM

Big Steamers by Rudyard Kipling


"Oh, where are you going to, all you Big Steamers,
With England's own coal, up and down the salt seas? "
"We are going to fetch you your bread and your butter,
Your beef, pork, and mutton, eggs, apples, and cheese."

"And where will you fetch it from, all you Big Steamers,
And where shall I write you when you are away? "
"We fetch it from Melbourne, Quebec, and Vancouver.
Address us at Hobart, Hong Kong, and Bombay."

"But if anything happened to all you Big Steamers,
And suppose you were wrecked up and down the salt sea?"
"Why, you'd have no coffee or bacon for breakfast,
And you'd have no muffins or toast for your tea."

"Then I'll pray for fine weather for all you Big Steamers
For little blue billows and breezes so soft."
"Oh, billows and breezes don't bother Big Steamers:
We're iron below and steel-rigging aloft."

"Then I'll build a new lighthouse for all you Big Steamers,
With plenty wise pilots to pilot you through."
"Oh, the Channel's as bright as a ball-room already,
And pilots are thicker than pilchards at Looe."

"Then what can I do for you, all you Big Steamers,
Oh, what can I do for your comfort and good?"
"Send out your big warships to watch your big waters,
That no one may stop us from bringing you food."

For the bread that you eat and the biscuits you nibble,
The sweets that you suck and the joints that you carve,
They are brought to you daily by All Us Big Steamers
And if any one hinders our coming you'll starve!"

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 21 Jul 23 - 03:44 PM

Fuzzy-Wuzzy by Rudyard Kipling

We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:
'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,
'E cut our sentries up at Suakim,
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
    So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
    You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
    We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed
    We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.

We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An' a Zulu impi dished us up in style:
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.
    Then 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;
    Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.
    We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;
    But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.

'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,
'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,
An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.
    So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more,
    If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;
    But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,
    For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!

'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,
An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.
'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!
'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn
For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
    So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
    You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
    An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air -
    You big black boundin' beggar - for you broke a British square!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 21 Jul 23 - 04:05 PM

If— by Rudyard Kipling


IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 22 Jul 23 - 12:06 PM

Recessional (After Queen Victoria’s Jubilee) by Rudyard Kipling


God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine
Lord God of Hosts be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 22 Jul 23 - 12:19 PM

The Female of the Species by Rudyard Kipling



When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
’Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other’s tale—
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations—worm and savage otherwise,—
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger—Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue—to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity—must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions—not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions—in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies!—
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges—even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons—even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish—like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract justice—which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern—shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Jul 23 - 11:07 AM

The Way through the Woods by Rudyard Kipling


They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.

Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse's feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the woods.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Jul 23 - 12:54 PM

Mother o’ Mine by Rudyard Kipling



If I were hanged on the highest hill,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
I know whose love would follow me still,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!
If I were drowned in the deepest sea,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine !
I know whose tears would come down to me,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine !
If I were damned of body and soul,
I know whose prayers would make me whole,
Mother o' mine, O mother o' mine!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Jul 23 - 02:31 PM

The Glory of the Garden by Rudyard Kipling
Our England is a garden that is full of stately views,
Of borders, beds and shrubberies and lawns and avenues,
With statues on the terraces and peacocks strutting by;
But the Glory of the Garden lies in more than meets the eye.

For where the old thick laurels grow, along the thin red wall,
You’ll find the tool- and potting-sheds which are the heart of all,
The cold-frames and the hot-houses, the dungpits and the tanks,
The rollers, carts and drain-pipes, with the barrows and the planks.

And there you’ll see the gardeners, the men and ’Prentice boys
Told off to do as they are bid and do it without noise;
For, except when seeds are planted and we shout to scare the birds,
The Glory of the Garden it abideth not in words.

And some can pot begonias and some can bud a rose,
And some are hardly fit to trust with anything that grows;
But they can roll and trim the lawns and sift the sand and loam,
For the Glory of the Garden occupieth all who come.

Our England is a garden, and such gardens are not made
By singing:—“Oh, how beautiful!” and sitting in the shade,
While better men than we go out and start their working lives
At grubbing weeds from gravel-paths with broken dinner-knives.

There’s not a pair of legs so thin, there’s not a head so thick,
There’s not a hand so weak and white, nor yet a heart so sick,
But it can find some needful job that’s crying to be done,
For the Glory of the Garden glorifieth every one.

Then seek your job with thankfulness and work till further orders,
If it’s only netting strawberries or killing slugs on borders;
And when your back stops aching and your hands begin to harden,
You will find yourself a partner in the Glory of the Garden.

Oh, Adam was a gardener, and God who made him sees
That half a proper gardener’s work is done upon his knees,
So when your work is finished, you can wash your hands and pray
For the Glory of the Garden that it may not pass away!
And the Glory of the Garden it shall never pass away!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 27 Jul 23 - 02:32 PM

The Power of the Dog by Rudyard Kipling



There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie
Perfect passion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart for a dog to tear.

When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find - it's your own affair, -
But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.

When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!),
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone - wherever it goes - for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear!

We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent,
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve;
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long -
So why in - Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 29 Jul 23 - 07:02 AM

The Gods of the Copybook Headings by Rudyard Kipling

As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know."

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "The Wages of Sin is Death."

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "If you don't work you die."

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 29 Jul 23 - 10:21 AM

Mesopotamia by Rudyard Kipling


They shall not return to us, the resolute, the young,
The eager and whole-hearted whom we gave:
But the men who left them thriftily to die in their own dung,
Shall they come with years and honour to the grave?

They shall not return to us; the strong men coldly slain
In sight of help denied from day to day:
But the men who edged their agonies and chid them in their pain,
Are they too strong and wise to put away?

Our dead shall not return to us while Day and Night divide–
   Never while the bars of sunset hold.
But the idle-minded overlings who quibbled while they died,
Shall they thrust for high employments as of old?

Shall we only threaten and be angry for an hour:
When the storm is ended shall we find
How softly but how swiftly they have sidled back to power
By the favour and contrivance of their kind?

Even while they soothe us, while they promise large amends,
Even while they make a show of fear,      
Do they call upon their debtors, and take counsel with their
    friends,
To confirm and re-establish each career?
            
Their lives cannot repay us–their death could not undo–
The shame that they have laid upon our race.
But the slothfulness that wasted and the arrogance that slew,
Shell we leave it unabated in its place?

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Mrrzy
Date: 30 Jul 23 - 09:39 PM

"And so that was all right, Best Beloved. Do you see?"

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 31 Jul 23 - 05:43 AM

The City of Sleep by Rudyard Kipling

Over the edge of the purple down,
Where the single lamplight gleams,
Know ye the road to the Merciful Town
That is hard by the Sea of Dreams --
Where the poor may lay their wrongs away,
And the sick may forget to weep?
But we -- pity us! Oh, pity us!
   We wakeful; ah, pity us! --
We must go back with Policeman Day --
Back from the City of Sleep!

Weary they turn from the scroll and crown,
    Fetter and prayer and plough --
They that go up to the Merciful Town,
   For her gates are closing now.
It is their right in the Baths of Night
    Body and soul to steep,
But we -- pity us! ah, pity us!
    We wakeful; ah, pity us! --
We must go back with Policeman Day --
    Back from the City of Sleep!

Over the edge of the purple down,
   Ere the tender dreams begin,
Look -- we may look -- at the Merciful Town,
But we may not enter in!
Outcasts all, from her guarded wall
Back to our watch we creep:
We -- pity us! ah, pity us!
We wakeful; ah, pity us! --
We that go back with Policeman Day --
    Back from the City of Sleep!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 01 Aug 23 - 05:38 AM

Blue Roses by Rudyard Kipling


Roses red and roses white
Plucked I for my love’s delight.
She would none of all my posies—
Bade me gather her blue roses.

Half the world I wandered through,
Seeking where such flowers grew
Half the world unto my quest
Answered me with laugh and jest.

Home I came at wintertide,
But my silly love had died
Seeking with her latest breath
Roses from the arms of Death.

It may be beyond the grave
She shall find what she would have.
Mine was but an idle quest—
Roses white and red are best!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 05 Aug 23 - 08:11 AM

THE APPEAL by Rudyard Kipling


IF I HAVE GIVEN YOU DELIGHT
BY AUGHT THAT I HAVE DONE,   
LET ME LIE QUIET IN THAT NIGHT
WHICH SHALL BE YOURS ANON:

AND FOR THE LITTLE, LITTLE SPAN
THE DEAD ARE BORNE IN MIND,
SEEK NOT TO QUESTION OTHER THAN
THE BOOKS I LEAVE BEHIND.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 05 Aug 23 - 03:47 PM

The Press by Rudyard Kipling


Why don't you write a play –
Why don't you cut your hair?
Do you trim your toe-nails round
Or do you trim them square?
Tell it to the papers,
Tell it every day.
But, en passant, may I ask
Why don't you write a play?
What's your last religion?
Have you got a creed?
Do you dress in Jaeger-wool
Sackcloth, silk or tweed?
Name the books that helped you
On the path you've trod.
Do you use a little g
When you write of God?
Do you hope to enter
Fame's immortal dome?
Do you put the washing out
Or have it done at home?
Have you any morals?
Does your genius burn?
Was you wife a what's its name?
How much did she earn?
Had your friend a secret
Sorrow, shame or vice –
Have you promised not to tell
What's your lowest price?
All the housemaid fancied
All the butler guessed
Tell it to the public press
And we will do the rest.
Why don't you write a play?

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 09 Aug 23 - 11:17 AM

I Keep Six Honest Serving Men by Rudyard Kipling


I keep six honest serving-men
   (They taught me all I knew);
Their names are What and Why and When
   And How and Where and Who.
I send them over land and sea,
   I send them east and west;
But after they have worked for me,
   I give them all a rest.

I let them rest from nine till five,
    For I am busy then,
As well as breakfast, lunch, and tea,
   For they are hungry men.
But different folk have different views;
I know a person small—
She keeps ten million serving-men,
Who get no rest at all!

She sends'em abroad on her own affairs,
   From the second she opens her eyes—
One million Hows, two million Wheres,
And seven million Whys!

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 12 Aug 23 - 06:19 AM

Boots (Infantry Columns) by Rudyard Kipling



We're foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin' over Africa
Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin' over Africa
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up and down again!)
There's no discharge in the war !

Seven—six—eleven—five—nine—an'—twenty mile to—day—
Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty—two the day before
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up and down again !)
There's no discharge in the war !

Don't—don't—don't—don't—look at what's in front of you.
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again);
Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin' 'em,
An' there's no discharge in the war !

Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers.
If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o' you !
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up and down again)
There's no discharge in the war !

Try—try—try—try—to think o' something different—
Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin' lunatic !
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again !)
There's no discharge in the war !

We—can—stick—out—'unger, thirst, an' weariness,
But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of 'em—
Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war !

'Tain`t—so—bad—by—day because o' company,
But night—brings—long—strings—o' forty thousand million
Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin' up an' down again
There's no discharge in the war !

I—'ave—marched—six—weeks in 'Ell an' certify
It—is—not—fire—devils, dark, or anything,
But boots—boots—boots—boots—movin'up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war !

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: GUEST,Guest : Sean Breadin.
Date: 13 Aug 23 - 11:18 AM

Kipling was writing in song form; his wife even says that 'Ruddy was singing a new poem this morning '. Settings of course abound but Peter Bellamy perceived an awareness of traditional song / balladry / shanty in Kipling's verse and so set them accordingly,though his more successful settings were entirely his own in the 'traditional idiom'. One or two seem to echo traditional melodies and fit very snugly indeed - try Puck's Song to the Morris tune London Pride (AKA Idbury Hill).

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Monologue John
Date: 15 Aug 23 - 08:31 AM

Cold Iron by Rudyard Kipling

Gold is for the mistress - silver for the maid" -
Copper for the craftsman cunning at his trade! "
" Good! " said the Baron, sitting in his hall,
But Iron - Cold Iron - is master of them all."

So he made rebellion 'gainst the King his liege,
Camped before his citadel and summoned it to siege.
" Nay! " said the cannoneer on the castle wall,
" But Iron - Cold Iron - shall be master of you all! "

Woe for the Baron and his knights so strong,
When the cruel cannon-balls laid 'em all along;
He was taken prisoner, he was cast in thrall,
And Iron - Cold Iron - was master of it all.

Yet his King spake kindly (ah, how kind a Lord!)
" What if I release thee now and give thee back thy sword? "
" Nay! " said the Baron, " mock not at my fall,
For Iron - Cold Iron - is master of men all."

" Tears are for the craven, prayers are for the clown
Halters for the silly neck that cannot keep a crown."
" As my loss is grievous, So my hope is small,
For Iron - Cold Iron - must be master of men all! "

Yet his King made answer (few such Kings there be!) "
Here is Bread and here is Wine - sit and sup with me.
Eat and drink in Mary's Name, the whiles I do recall
How Iron - Cold Iron - can be master of men all."

He took the Wine and blessed it. He blessed and brake the Bread
With His own Hands He served Them, and presently He said:
" See! These Hands they pierced with nails, outside My city wall,
Show Iron - Cold Iron - to be master of men all. "

" Wounds are for the desperate, blows are for the strong.
Balm and oil for weary hearts all cut and bruised with wrong.
I forgive thy treason - I redeem thy fall
For Iron Cold Iron - must be master of men all! "

'Crowns are for the valiant - sceptres for the bold!
Thrones and Powers for mighty men who dare to take and hold!'
" Nay! " said the Baron, kneeling in his hall,
" But Iron - Cold Iron - is master of men all!
Iron out of Calvary is master of men all! "

Subject: ADD: For To Admire (Rudyard Kipling)
From: Monologue John
Date: 31 Aug 23 - 03:19 PM

For to Admire by Rudyard Kipling

THE Injian Ocean sets an’ smiles
So sof’, so bright, so bloomin’ blue;
There aren’t a wave for miles an’ miles
Excep’ the jiggle from the screw.
The ship is swep’, the day is done,
The bugle’s gone for smoke and play;
An’ black agin’ the settin’ sun
The Lascar sings, “Hum deckty hai!”
 
For to admire an’ for to see,
For to be’old this world so wide—
It never done no good to me,
But I can’t drop it if I tried!
 
I see the sergeants pitchin’ quoits,
I ’ear the women laugh an’ talk,
I spy upon the quarter—deck
The orficers an’ lydies walk.
I thinks about the things that was,
An’ leans an’ looks acrost the sea,
Till spite of all the crowded ship
There’s no one lef’ alive but me.
 
The things that was which I ’ave seen,
In barrick, camp, an’ action too,
I tells them over by myself,
An’ sometimes wonders if they’re true;
For they was odd—most awful odd—
But all the same now they are o’er,
There must be ’eaps o’ plenty such,
An’ if I wait I’ll see some more.
 
Oh, I ’ave come upon the books,
An’ frequent broke a barrick rule,
An’ stood beside an’ watched myself
Be’avin’ like a bloomin’ fool.
I paid my price for findin’ out,
Nor never grutched the price I paid,
But sat in Clink without my boots,
Admirin’ ’ow the world was made.
 
Be’old a crowd upon the beam,
An’ ’umped above the sea appears
Old Aden, like a barrick—stove
That no one’s lit for years an’ years!
I passed by that when I began,
An’ I go ’ome the road I came,
A time—expired soldier—man
With six years’ service to ’is name.
 
My girl she said, “Oh, stay with me!”
My mother ’eld me to ’er breast.
They’ve never written none, an’ so
They must ’ave gone with all the rest—
With all the rest which I ’ave seen
An’ found an’ known an’ met along.
I cannot say the things I feel,
And so I sing my evenin’ song:
 
For to admire an’ for to see,
For to be’old this world so wide—
It never done no good to me,
But I can’t drop it if I tried!

Subject: ADD: For To Admire (Rudyard Kipling)
From: Monologue John
Date: 31 Aug 23 - 03:19 PM

For to Admire by Rudyard Kipling

THE Injian Ocean sets an’ smiles
So sof’, so bright, so bloomin’ blue;
There aren’t a wave for miles an’ miles
Excep’ the jiggle from the screw.
The ship is swep’, the day is done,
The bugle’s gone for smoke and play;
An’ black agin’ the settin’ sun
The Lascar sings, “Hum deckty hai!”
 
For to admire an’ for to see,
For to be’old this world so wide—
It never done no good to me,
But I can’t drop it if I tried!
 
I see the sergeants pitchin’ quoits,
I ’ear the women laugh an’ talk,
I spy upon the quarter—deck
The orficers an’ lydies walk.
I thinks about the things that was,
An’ leans an’ looks acrost the sea,
Till spite of all the crowded ship
There’s no one lef’ alive but me.
 
The things that was which I ’ave seen,
In barrick, camp, an’ action too,
I tells them over by myself,
An’ sometimes wonders if they’re true;
For they was odd—most awful odd—
But all the same now they are o’er,
There must be ’eaps o’ plenty such,
An’ if I wait I’ll see some more.
 
Oh, I ’ave come upon the books,
An’ frequent broke a barrick rule,
An’ stood beside an’ watched myself
Be’avin’ like a bloomin’ fool.
I paid my price for findin’ out,
Nor never grutched the price I paid,
But sat in Clink without my boots,
Admirin’ ’ow the world was made.
 
Be’old a crowd upon the beam,
An’ ’umped above the sea appears
Old Aden, like a barrick—stove
That no one’s lit for years an’ years!
I passed by that when I began,
An’ I go ’ome the road I came,
A time—expired soldier—man
With six years’ service to ’is name.
 
My girl she said, “Oh, stay with me!”
My mother ’eld me to ’er breast.
They’ve never written none, an’ so
They must ’ave gone with all the rest—
With all the rest which I ’ave seen
An’ found an’ known an’ met along.
I cannot say the things I feel,
And so I sing my evenin’ song:
 
For to admire an’ for to see,
For to be’old this world so wide—
It never done no good to me,
But I can’t drop it if I tried!

Subject: ADD: Eddi's Service (Rudyard Kipling)
From: Joe Offer
Date: 18 Dec 23 - 04:01 PM

Eddi's Service
(A.D. 687)

by Rudyard Kipling

EDDI, priest of St. Wilfrid
In his chapel at Manhood End,
Ordered a midnight service
For such as cared to attend.

But the Saxons were keeping Christmas,
And the night was stormy as well.
Nobody came to service,
Though Eddi rang the bell.

'Wicked weather for walking,'
Said Eddi of Manhood End.
'But I must go on with the service
For such as care to attend.'

The altar-lamps were lighted, —
An old marsh-donkey came,
Bold as a guest invited,
And stared at the guttering flame.

The storm beat on at the windows,
The water splashed on the floor,
And a wet, yoke-weary bullock
Pushed in through the open door.

'How do I know what is greatest,
How do I know what is least?
That is My Father's business,'
Said Eddi, Wilfrid's priest.

'But — three are gathered together —
Listen to me and attend.
I bring good news, my brethren!'
Said Eddi of Manhood End.

And he told the Ox of a Manger
And a Stall in Bethlehem,
And he spoke to the Ass of a Rider,
That rode to Jerusalem.

They steamed and dripped in the chancel,
They listened and never stirred,
While, just as though they were Bishops,
Eddi preached them The Word,

Till the gale blew off on the marshes
And the windows showed the day,
And the Ox and the Ass together
Wheeled and clattered away.

And when the Saxons mocked him,
Said Eddi of Manhood End,
'I dare not shut His chapel
On such as care to attend.'

http://www.windoffthehilltop.com/p-EddiesService.html

Subject: ADD: Christmas in India (Rudyard Kipling)
From: Monologue John
Date: 23 Dec 23 - 09:48 AM

CHRISTMAS IN INDIA
(Rudyard Kipling)

Dim dawn behind the tamarisks—the sky is saffron-yellow—
As the women in the village grind the corn,
And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow
That the Day, the staring Eastern Day, is born.
    Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway!
      Oh the clammy fog that hovers over earth!
    And at Home they’re making merry ’neath the white and scarlet berry—
      What part have India’s exiles in their mirth?

Full day behind the tamarisks—the sky is blue and staring—
As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke,
And they bear One o’er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring,
To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke.
    Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly—
      Call on Rama—he may hear, perhaps, your voice!
    With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars,
      And to-day we bid “good Christian men rejoice!”

High noon behind the tamarisks—the sun is hot above us—
   As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan.
They will drink our healths at dinner—those who tell us how they love us,
And forget us till another year be gone!
    Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching!
      Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain!
    Youth was cheap—wherefore we sold it. Gold was good—we hoped to hold it,
      And to-day we know the fulness of our gain.

Grey dusk behind the tamarisks—the parrots fly together—
As the sun is sinking slowly over Home;
And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether.
That drags us back how’er so far we roam.
    Hard her service, poor her payment—she in ancient, tattered raiment—
       India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind.
    If a year of life be lent her, if her temple’s shrine we enter,
      The door is shut—we may not look behind.

Black night behind the tamarisks—the owls begin their chorus —
As the conches from the temple scream and bray.
With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us,
   Let us honour, O my brother, Christmas Day!
    Call a truce, then, to our labours—let us feast with friends and neighbours,
      And be merry as the custom of our caste;
    For if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if sadness follow after,
      We are richer by one mocking Christmas past.

Subject: RE: Lyr Add: Recitations by Rudyard Kipling
From: Mrrzy
Date: 28 Dec 23 - 12:46 PM

Thank you all for a lovely read.