Subject: The Land-R. Kipling
From:
LaMarca
Date: 17 Jun 97 - 06:14 PM
Here is Kipling's "The Land", filtered through my memory. I wish I was adept at transcribing tunes and could give Peter Bellamy's setting for it, but it's on "Keep On Kipling", Fellside Records (?). I got it on tape from Andy's Front Hall Records.
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 laying into hay?"
And that agéd Hobden answered, "I remember as a lad
My father told your father that she wanted dreenin' (draining) bad,
And the more that you neglect her, the less you'll get her clean-
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but if I was you, I'd dreen!"
So they drained her long and crossways in the lavish Roman style
Still we find along the watercourse some ancient flakes of tile
And in droughthy middle August when the bones of meadows show,
We can trace the lines they followed 1600 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 Northen Main
And our lower river field was won by Ogier the Dane.
Well could Ogier work his warboat, 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 agéd Hobden answered, "Tain't for me to interfere,
But I've known that bit of meadow now for 5 and 50 years
Hev 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,
Where they 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, when cleaning ditches, we sometimes find a flint.
Ogier died, his sons grew English, Anglo-Saxon was their name
Until 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 Warrenne.
But the brook, you know her nature, rose one rainy autumn night
And tore down sodden flitches of the banks, both left and right.
William said unto his bailiff, as they rode their dripping rounds,
Hob, what about that river bit? The brook's got up no bounds!"
And that agéd Hobden answered,"Tain't my business to advise,
But you might have known 'twould happen by the way the valley lies,
Where you can't hold back the water, you must try to save the soil;
Hev it jest as you've a mind to, but if I was you, I'd spile!"
So they spiled along the watercourse with trunks of willow trees,
And planks of elm behind them, and immortal oaken knees,
And when the spates of autumn whirl the gravel beds away,
We can see their faithful fragments, iron-hard in iron clay.
Georgii Quinti Anno Sexto, I, who own the river field
Am fortified by Title Deed, 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 to chase and warren, as my dignity requires,
I can fish - but Hobden tickles; I can shoot - but Hobden wires;
I repair, but he re-opens, certain gaps which men allege
Have been used by every Hobden since a Hobden swopped a hedge!
Should I dog his morning progress through the track-betraying dew?
And demand his dinner basket into which my pheasant flew?
Confiscate his evening faggot under which my coneys ran?
And summons him to judgement? I would sooner summons Pan!
For 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 or his keen, amending eye.
He is bailiff, woodsman, 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 Warrenne,
"Hev it jest as you've a mind to...", and here he takes command,
For whoever pays the taxes, old Mus' Hobden owns The Land!
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