AULD LANG SYNE

AULD  LANG  SYNE

( OLD LONG SINCE )

LYRICS IN MODERN ENGLISH

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

And never brought to mind ?

Should old acquaintance be forgot,

And days of auld lang syne ?

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup of kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

And surely you’ll buy your pint cup !

And surely I’ll buy mine !

And we'll take a cup o’ kindness yet,

For auld lang syne

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup of kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

We two have run about the slopes,

And picked the daisies fine ;

But we’ve wandered many a weary foot,

Since auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup of kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

We two have paddled in the stream,

From morning sun till dine;

But seas between us broad have roared

Since auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup of kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand my trusty friend !

And give us a hand o’ thine !

And we’ll take a right good-will draught,

For auld lang syne.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,

We'll take a cup of kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

                     Robert Burns

CHEER

CHEER

It's a mighty good world, so it is, dear lass,

When even the worst is said.

There's a smile and a tear, a sigh and a cheer,

But better be living than dead;

A joy and a pain, a loss and a gain;

There's honey and may be some gall:

Yet still I declare, foul weather or fair,

It's a mighty good world after all.

For look, lass! at night when I break from the fight,

My Kingdom's awaiting for me;

There's comfort and rest, and the warmth of your breast,

And little ones climbing my knee.

There's fire-light and song - Oh, the world may be wrong!

Its empires may topple and fall:

My home is my care - if gladness be there,

It's a mighty good world after all.

O heart of pure gold! I have made you a fold,

It's sheltered, sun-fondled and warm.

O little ones, rest! I have fashioned a nest;

Sleep on! you are safe from the storm.

For there's no foe like fear, and there's no friend like cheer,

And sunshine will flash at our call;

So crown Love as King, and let us all sing -

"It's a mighty good world after all."

                           Robert Service

THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS

THE  MOON  OF  OTHER  DAYS

Beneath the deep veranda's shade,

When bats begin to fly,

I sit me down and watch-alas!

Another evening die.

Blood-red behind the sere ferash

She rises through the haze.

Sainted Diana! can that be

The Moon of Other Days?

Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith,

Sweet Saint of Kensington!

Say, was it ever thus at Home

The Moon of August shone,

When arm in arm we wandered long

Through Putney's evening haze,

And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath

The Moon of Other Days?

But Wandle's stream is Sutlej now,

And Putney's evening haze

The dust that half a hundred kine

Before my window raise.

Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist

The seething city looms,

In place of Putney's golden gorse

The sickly babul blooms.

Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust,

And bid the pie-dog yell,

Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ,

From each bazaar its smell;

Yea, suck the fever from the tank

And sap my strength therewith:

Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face

To little Kitty Smith!

 

                               Rudyard Kipling

AKBAR'S BRIDGE

AKBAR’S  BRIDGE

Jelaludin Muhammed Akbar, Guardian of Mankind,

Moved his standards out of Delhi to Jaunpore of lower Hind,

Where a mosque was to be builded, and a lovelier ne'er was planned;

And Munim Khan, his Viceroy, slid the drawings 'neath his hand.

High as Hope upsheered her out-works to the promised Heavens above.

Deep as Faith and dark as Judgment her unplumbed foundations dove.

Wide as Mercy, white as moonlight, stretched her forecourts to the dawn;

And Akbar gave commandment, "Let it rise as it is drawn."

Then he wearied—the mood moving—of the men and things he ruled,

And he walked beside the Goomti while the flaming sunset cooled,

Simply, without mark or ensign—singly, without guard or guide,

Till he heard an angry woman screeching by the river-side.

'Twas the Widow of the Potter, a virago feared and known,

In haste to cross the ferry, but the ferry-man had gone.

So she cursed him and his office, and hearing Akbar's tread,

(She was very old and darkling) turned her wrath upon his head.

But he answered—being Akbar—"Suffer me to scull you o'er."

Called her "Mother," stowed her bundles, worked the clumsy scow from shore,

Till they grounded on a sand-bank, and the Widow loosed her mind;

And the stars stole out and chuckled at the Guardian of Mankind.

"Oh, most impotent of bunglers! Oh, my daughter's daughter's brood

Waiting hungry on the threshold; for I cannot bring their food,

Till a fool has learned his business at their virtuous grandam's cost,

And a greater fool, our Viceroy, trifles while her name is lost!

"Munim Khan, that Sire of Asses, sees me daily come and go

As it suits a drunken boatman, or this ox who cannot row.

Munim Khan, the Owl's Own Uncle—Munim Khan, the Capon's seed,

Must build a mosque to Allah when a bridge is all we need!

"Eighty years I eat oppression and extortion and delays—

Snake and crocodile and fever, flood and drouth, beset my ways.

But Munim Khan must tax us for his mosque whate'er befall;

Allah knowing (May He hear me!) that a bridge would save us all!"

While she stormed that other laboured and, when they touched the shore,

Laughing brought her on his shoulder to her hovel's very door.

But his mirth renewed her anger, for she thought he mocked the weak;

So she scored him with her talons, drawing blood on either cheek....

Jelaludin Muhammed Akbar, Guardian of Mankind,

Spoke with Munim Khan his Viceroy, ere the midnight stars declined—

Girt and sworded, robed and jewelled, but on either cheek appeared

Four shameless scratches running from the turban to the beard.

"Allah burn all Potter's Widows! Yet, since this same night was young,

One has shown me by pure token, there was a wisdom on her tongue.

Yes, I ferried her for hire. Yes," he pointed, "I was paid."

And he told the tale rehearsing all the Widow did and said.

And he ended, "Sire of Asses—Capon—Owl's Own Uncle—know

I—most impotent of bunglers—I—this ox who cannot row—

I—Jelaludin Muhammed Akbar, Guardian of Mankind—

Bid thee build the hag her bridge and put our mosque from out thy mind."

So 'twas built, and Allah blessed it; and, through earthquake, flood, and sword,

Still the bridge his Viceroy builded throws her arch o'er Akbar's Ford!

                                 Rudyard Kipling

NOTES  ON  “AKBAR’S  BRIDGE”

In Akbars Bridge Rudyard provided a secular antidote to the hint of sympathetic Islamic magic.  While affirming the nobility of kingly justice, the verses reiterated an old theme : “ a bridge across a river is more use to the poor than another mosque.”  First published with The Debt in Limits and Renewals (1932) and collected in Inclusive Verse, Definitive Verse, The Works of Rudyard Kipling Words Poetry Library, the Sussex Edition volume 11 page 209, and volume 34 page 414.  Kiplings special use of Muslim literature and history is illustrated by several poems and stories ... there are many references to Moghul emperors, in particular Akbars Bridge ... and The Emirs Homily … are ready examples. [Shamsul Islam, Kiplings Law – A study of his philosophy of life, Macmillan, 1975, page 34]

Verse 1 - Jelaludin Muhammed Akbar - Regarded as the greatest of the Great Moghuls he came closest to forging a single nation of Hindustan during his reign 1556-1605. Archie Baron, An Indian Affair, Pan Macmillan, 2001, page 17

Verse 5 - the widow of the potter a low-caste woman – see “Tiger! Tiger!” in The Jumgle Book page 96, lines 4/5.

Verse 6 - scow a flat-bottomed boat.

Verse 13 - build the hag her bridge The bridge over the Gomti River in Jaunpur dates from 1564, the era of the Emperor Akbar.

CHRISTMAS IN INDIA

CHRISTMAS  IN  INDIA

Dim dawn behind the tamerisks - the sky is saffron-yellow -

As the women in the village grind the corn,

And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling to his fellow

That the Day, the staring Easter Day, is born.

O the white dust on the highway!O the stenches in the byway!

O 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 begind 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 honor, O my brother, Christmas Day!

Call a truce, then, to our labors - let us feast with friends and neighbors,

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.

                                   Rudyard Kipling

THE BUDDHA AT KAMAKURA

THE  BUDDHA  AT  KAMAKURA

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?

 

                                    Rudyard Kipling 1892

 

MERRY CHRISTMAS from MOON and ME

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all thro' the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;

 

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar plums danc'd in their heads,

 

And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap—

 

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

 

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters, and threw up the sash.

 

The moon on the breast of the new fallen snow,

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below;

 

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny rein-deer,

 

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.

 

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and call'd them by name:

 

"Now! Dasher, now! Dancer, now! Prancer, and Vixen,

"On! Comet, on! Cupid, on! Dunder and Blixem;

"To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

"Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

 

As dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;

 

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of Toys—and St. Nicholas too:

 

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

 

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound:

 

He was dress'd all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnish'd with ashes and soot;

 

A bundle of toys was flung on his back,

And he look'd like a peddler just opening his pack:

 

His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry,

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;

 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow.

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

 

He had a broad face, and a little round belly

That shook when he laugh'd, like a bowl full of jelly:

 

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laugh'd when I saw him in spite of myself;

 

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

 

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And fill'd all the stockings; then turn'd with a jerk,

 

And laying his finger aside of his nose

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

 

He sprung to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew, like the down of a thistle:

 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

 

                                         Henry Livingston Jr.

A COUNTING-OUT SONG

A  COUNTING-OUT  SONG

“ AN  ENGLISH  SCHOOL “

What is the song the children sing,

When doorway lilacs bloom in Spring,

And the Schools are loosed, and the games are played

That were deadly earnest when Earth was made?

Hear them chattering, shrill and hard,

After dinner-time, out in the yard,

As the sides are chosen and all submit

To the chance of the lot that shall make them "It."

(Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!

Catch a nigger by the toe!

(If he hollers let him go!)

Eenee, Meenee. Mainee, Mo!

You-are-It!"

Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, and Mo

Were the First Big Four of the Long Ago,

When the Pole of the Earth sloped thirty degrees,

And Central Europe began to freeze,

And they needed Ambassadors staunch and stark

To steady the Tribes in the gathering dark:

But the frost was fierce and flesh was frail,

So they launched a Magic that could not fail.

(Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!

Hear the wolves across the snow!

Some one has to kill 'em-so

Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo

Make-you-It!"

Slowly the Glacial Epoch passed,

Central Europe thawed out at last;

And, under the slush of the melting snows

The first dim shapes of the Nations rose.

Rome, Britannia, Belgium, Gaul-

Flood and avalanche fathered them all;

And the First Big Four, as they watched the mess,

Pitied Man in his helplessness.

(Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!

Trouble starts When Nations grow,

Some one has to stop it-so

Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!

Make-you-It!"

Thus it happened, but none can tell

What was the Power behind the spell-

Fear, or Duty, or Pride, or Faith-

That sent men shuddering out to death-

To cold and watching, and, worse than these,

Work, more work, when they looked for ease-

To the days discomfort, the nights despair,

In the hope of a prize that they never could share,

(Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!

Man is born to Toil and Woe.

One will cure another-So

Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo

Make-you-It!"

Once and again, as the Ice went North

The grass crept up to the Firth of Forth.

Once and again, as the Ice came South

The glaciers ground over Lossiemouth.

But, grass or glacier, cold or hot,

The men went out who would rather not,

And fought with the Tiger, the Pig and the Ape,

To hammer the world into decent shape.

(Singing) "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo!

What's the use of doing so?

Ask the Gods, for we don't know;

But Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo

Make-us-It!"

Nothing is left of that terrible rune

But a tag of gibberish tacked to a tune

That ends the waiting and settles the claims

Of children arguing over their games;

For never yet has a boy been found

To shirk his turn when the turn came round;

Nor even a girl has been known to say

"If you laugh at me I shan't play."

For-- "Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo,

(Don't you let the grown-ups know!)

You may hate it ever so,

But if you're chose you're bound to go,

When Eenee, Meenee, Mainee, Mo

Make-you-It!"

                         Rudyard  Kipling

THE LAND OF BEYOND

THE  LAND  OF  BEYOND

Have ever you heard of the Land of Beyond,

That dreams at the gates of the day?

Alluring it lies at the skirts of the skies,

And ever so far away;

Alluring it calls: O ye the yoke galls,

And ye of the trail overfond,

With saddle and pack, by paddle and track,

Let's go to the Land of Beyond!

 

Have ever you stood where the silences brood,

And vast the horizons begin,

At the dawn of the day to behold far away

The goal you would strive for and win?

Yet ah! in the night when you gain to the height,

With the vast pool of heaven star-spawned,

Afar and agleam, like a valley of dream,

Still mocks you a Land of Beyond.

 

Thank God! there is always a Land of Beyond

For us who are true to the trail;

A vision to seek, a beckoning peak,

A farness that never will fail;

A pride in our soul that mocks at a goal,

A manhood that irks at a bond,

And try how we will, unattainable still,

Behold it, our Land of Beyond!

                            Robert  Service

SOLDIER AN' SAILOR TOO

“ SOLDIER  AN’  SAILOR  TOO “

As I was spittin' into the Ditch aboard o' the Crocodile,

I seed a man on a man-o'-war got up in the Reg'lars' style.

'E was scrapin' the paint from off of 'er plates, an' I sez to 'im,

" 'Oo are you? "

Sez 'e, "I'm a Jolly - 'Er Majesty's Jolly-soldier an' sailor too!"

Now 'is work begins by Gawd knows when, and 'is work is never through;

'E isn't one o' the reg'lar Line, nor 'e isn't one of the crew.

'E's a kind of a giddy harumfrodite - soldier an' sailor too!

 

An' after I met 'im all over the world, a-doin' all kinds of things,

Like landin' 'isself with a Gatlin' gun to talk to them 'eathen kings;

'E sleeps in an 'ammick instead of a cot, an' 'e drills with the deck on a slew,

An' 'e sweats like a Jolly - 'Er Majesty's Jolly - soldier an' sailor too!

For there isn't a job on the top o' the earth the beggar don't know, nor do -

You can leave 'im at night on a bald man's 'ead, to paddle 'is own canoe -

'E's a sort of a bloomin' cosmopolouse - soldier an' sailor too.

 

We've fought 'em in trooper, we've fought 'em in dock,

and drunk with 'em in betweens,

When they called us the seasick scull'ry-maids, an' we called 'em the Ass Marines;

But, when we was down for a double fatigue, from Woolwich to Bernardmyo,

We sent for the Jollies - 'Er Majesty's Jollies - soldier an' sailor too!

They think for 'emselves, an' they steal for 'emselves,

and they never ask what's to do,

But they're camped an' fed an' they're up an' fed before our bugle's blew.

Ho! they ain't no limpin' procrastitutes - soldier an' sailor too.

 

You may say we are fond of an 'arness-cut, or 'ootin' in barrick-yards,

Or startin' a Board School mutiny along o' the Onion Guards;

But once in a while we can finish in style for the ends of the earth to view,

The same as the Jollies - 'Er Majesty's Jollies - soldier an' sailor too!

They come of our lot, they was brothers to us;

they was beggars we'd met an' knew;

Yes, barrin' an inch in the chest an' the arm, they was doubles o' me an' you;

For they weren't no special chrysanthemums - soldier an' sailor too!

 

To take your chance in the thick of a rush, with firing all about,

Is nothing so bad when you've cover to 'and, an' leave an' likin' to shout;

But to stand an' be still to the Birken'ead drill

is a damn tough bullet to chew,

An' they done it, the Jollies - 'Er Majesty's Jollies - soldier an' sailor too!

Their work was done when it 'adn't begun; they was younger nor me an' you;

Their choice it was plain between drownin' in 'eaps

an' bein' mopped by the screw,

So they stood an' was still to the Birken'ead drill, soldier an' sailor too!

 

We're most of us liars, we're 'arf of us thieves,

an' the rest are as rank as can be,

But once in a while we can finish in style

(which I 'ope it won't 'appen to me).

But it makes you think better o' you an' your friends,

an' the work you may 'ave to do,

When you think o' the sinkin' Victorier's Jollies - soldier an' sailor too!

Now there isn't no room for to say ye don't know -

they 'ave proved it plain and true -

That whether it's Widow, or whether it's ship, Victorier's work is to do,

An' they done it, the Jollies - 'Er Majesty's Jollies - soldier an' sailor too!

 

                               Rudyard Kipling