More Kipling; this dedicated to veterans

More benefit cuts, Bushco? Some people have long memories!

THE LAST OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

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 colors,
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.

The old Troop-Sergeant was spokesman, and
'Beggen' 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,
Regading the mouth of hell;
For we're all of us nigh to the workhouse,
And we thought we'd call and tell.

No, thank you, we don't want food, sir;
But couldn't you take and write
A sort of "to be continued"
And "see next page" of the fight?
We think that someone has blundered,
And couldn't you tell them 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,
Untill the fatted souls of the English
Were scourged with the thing called Shame.

O thirty million English
That babble of England's might,
Behold there are twenty heroes
Who have no food tonight;
Our children's children are lisping
To 'honor the charge they made-'
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse
The Last of the Light Brigade!

used to read it to my kids when they were tots

Expect more Kipling from me later, it's one of those weeks.

The Buddha at Kamakura

I was introduced to it in Kim's chapter headings and went and found the complete version. It would be a great addition to your Kipling threads, and one for Peace.

dp

O ye who tread the Narrow Way
By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day,
Be gentle when the 'heathen' pray
To Buddha at Kamakura!

To him the Way, the Law, apart,
Whom Maya held beneath her heart,
Ananda's Lord, the Bodhisat,
The Buddha of Kamakura.

For though he neither burns nor sees,
Nor hears ye thank your Deities,
Ye have not sinned with such as these,
His children at Kamakura.

Yet spare us still the Western joke
When joss-sticks turn to scented smoke
The little sins of little folk
That worship at Kamakura --

The grey-robed, gay-sashed butterflies
That flit beneath the Master's eyes.
He is beyond the Mysteries
But loves them at Kamakura.

And whoso will, from Pride released,
Contemning neither creed nor priest,
May feel the Soul of all the East
About him at Kamakura.

Yea, every tale Ananda heard,
Of birth as fish or beast or bird,
While yet in lives the Master stirred,
The warm wind brings Kamakura.

Till drowsy eyelids seem to see
A-flower 'neath her golden htee
The Shwe-Dagon flare easterly
From Burmah to Kamakura,

And down the loaded air there comes
The thunder of Thibetan drums,
And droned -- "Om mane padme hums" --
A world's-width from Kamakura.

Yet Brahmans rule Benares still,
Buddh-Gaya's ruins pit the hill,
And beef-fed zealots threaten ill
To Buddha and Kamakura.

A tourist-show, a legend told,
A rusting bulk of bronze and gold,
So much, and scarce so much, ye hold
The meaning of Kamakura?

But when the morning prayer is prayed,
Think, ere ye pass to strife and trade,
Is God in human image made
No nearer than Kamakura?

www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/379.html

"Hey - let's send our boys into war, but let's reduce their hazard pay and death benefits and their regular pay, and gosh, hey, isn't America just the greatest and aren't our troops just the greatest and aren't we all proud of this great country and isn't this SUV gas tnak taking a really long time to fill up and - oops - dropped my McBigMac, oh well we'll just go drive by and buy another one on the way to the mall. Maybe I'll super size this time - that last batch of fries wasn't so good, especially after they fell on the floorboards when I took that cell phone call. Oh, man, our military is awesome! I have so much resepct for them, that's why there's a flag on my car. Go troops! Go America! Just don't be raising my taxes, and why should they get paid more, isn't the military "volunteer" anyway? What kind of Americans are they, anyway - they serve us, not us them."

Kipling has nailed the truth of it all, yet again.

That's what makes it great.

"When you're wounded an' left on Afganistan's plains
And the women come out to cut up your remains,
Just roll to your rifle, an' blow out your brains
And go to your Gawd like a soldier."

I keep thinking of the reports that American troops are committing suicide in Iraq. I hope it's not true.

Except for that line. I'll look it up and post it later.