JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD

JOLLY GOOD ALE AND OLD

Back and side go bare, go bare,

Both Hand and foot go cold;

But belly, God sent thee good ale enough,

Whether it be new or old.

But if that I may have truly

Good ale my belly full,

I shall look like one, by sweet Saint John,

Were shorn against the wool.

Though I go bare, take ye no care,

I am nothing cold,

I stuff my skin so full within

Of jolly good ale and old.

I cannot eat but little meat,

My stomach is not good;

But sure I think that I could drink

With him that weareth a hood.

Drink is my life; although my wife

Some time do chide and scold,

Yet spare I not to ply the pot

Of jolly good ale and old.

I love no roast but a nutbrown toast,

Or a crab laid in the fire;

A little bread shall do me stead,

Much bread I never desire.

No frost nor snow, no wind, I trow,

Can hurt me if I wold,

I am so wrapped within and lapped

With jolly good ale and old.

I care right nought, I take no thought

For clothes to keep me warm;

Have I good drink, I surely think

Nothing can do me harm.

For truly then I fear no man,

Be he never so bold,

When I am armed and thoroughly warmed

With jolly good ale and old.

But now and then I curse and ban,

They make their ale so small;

God give them care and evil to fare!

They stry the malt and all.

Such peevish pew, I tell you true,

Nor for a crown of gold

There cometh one sip within my lip,

Whether it be new or old.

Good ale and strong maketh me among

Full jocund and full light,

That oft I sleep and take no keep

From morning until night.

Then start I up and flee to the cup;

The right way on I hold;

My thirst to staunch, I fill my paunch

With jolly good ale and old.

And Kit my wife, that as her life

Loveth well good ale to seek,

Full oft drinketh she, that ye may see

The tears run down her cheek.

Then doth she troll to me the bowl,

As a good malt-worm shold,

And saith “Sweetheart, I have take my part

Of jolly good ale and old.”

They that do drink till they nod and wink,

Even as good fellows should do;

They shall not miss to have the bliss

That good ale hath brought them to.

And all poor souls that scour black bowls,

And them hath lustily troll’d,

God save the lives of them and their wives,

Whether they be young or old.

                                       William Stevenson    1530-1575

SHOULD YOU GO FIRST

SHOULD YOU GO FIRST

Should you go first and I remain

To walk the road alone,

I’ll live in memory’s garden, dear,

With happy days we’ve known.

In spring I’ll watch for roses red

When fades the lilac blue,

In early Fall when brown leaves call

I’ll catch a glimpse of you.

Should you go first and I remain

For battles to be fought,

Each thing you’ve touched along the way

Will be a hallowed spot.

I’ll hear your voice, I’ll see your smile,

Though blindly I may grope,

The memory of your helping hand

Will buoy me on with hope.

Should you go first and I remain

To finish with the scroll,

No length’ning shadows shall creep in

To make this life seem droll.

We’ve known so much of happiness,

We’ve had our cup of joy

And memory is one gift of God

That death cannot destroy.

Should you go first and I remain

One thing I’d have you do;

Walk slowly down that long, lone path,

For soon I’ll follow you.

I’ll want to know each step you take

That I may walk the same.

For someday, down that lonely road,

You’ll hear me call your name.

                                       Albert Roswell

A RED RED ROSE

A RED, RED ROSE

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose

That’s newly sprung in June:

O my Luve’s like the melodie

That’s sweetly play’d in tune!

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,

So deep in luve am I:

And I will luve thee still, my dear,

Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till all the seas gang dry, my dear,

And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;

I will luve thee still, my dear,

While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve,

And fare thee weel a while!

And I will come again, my Luve’

Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

                              Robert Burns   1759 - 1796

THE LADIES

THE LADIES

I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it;

I’ve rogued an’ I’ve ranged in my time;

I’ve had my pickin’ o’ sweethearts,

An’ four o’ the lot was prime.

One was an ‘arf-caste widow,

One was a women at Prome,

One was the wife of a jemadar-sais

An’ one is a girl at ‘ome.

Now I aren’t no ‘and with the ladies,

For, takin’ ‘em all along,

You can never say till you’ve tried ‘em,

An’ then you are like to be wrong.

There’s times when you’ll think that you mightn’t,

There’s times when you’ll know that you might;

But the things you will learn from the Yellow an’ Brown,

They’ll ‘elp you a lot with the white !

I was a young un at ‘Oogli,

Shy as a girl to begin;

Aggie de Castrer she made me,

An’ Aggie was clever as sin;

Older than me, but my first un-

More like a mother she were-

Showed me the way to promotion an’ pay,

An’ I learned about women from ‘er !

Then I was ordered to Burma,

Actin’ in charge o’ Bazar,

An’ got me a tiddy live ‘eathen

Through buyin’ supplies off ‘er pa.

Funny an’ yellow an’ faithful-

Doll in a teacup she were-

But we lived on the square, like a true-married pair,

An’ I learned about women from ‘er !

Then we was shifted to Neemuch

(Or I might ha’ been keepin’ ‘er now),

An’ I took with a shiny she-devil,

The wife of a nigger at Mhow;

‘Taught me the gipsy-folks’ bolee;

Kind o’ volcano she were,

For she knifed me one night ‘cause I wished she was white,

An’ I learned about women from ‘er !

Then I come ‘ome in a trooper,

‘Long of a kid o’ sixteen-

‘Girl from a convent at Meerut,

The straightest I ever ‘ave seen.

Love at first sight was ‘er trouble,

She didn’t know what it were;

An’ I wouldn’t do such, ‘cause I liked ‘er too much,

But-I learned about women from ‘er !

I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it,

An’ now I must pay for my fun,

For the more you ‘ave known o’ the others

The less will you settle to one;

An’ the end of it’s sittin’ and thinkin’,

An’ dreamin’ Hell-fires to see;

So be warned by my lot (which I know you will not),

An’ learn about women from me !

What did the Colonel’s Lady think?

Nobody never knew.

Somebody asked the Sergeant’s Wife,

An’ she told ‘em true !

When you get to a man in the case,

They’re like as a row of pins-

For the Colonel’s Lady an’ Judy O’Grady

Are sisters under their skins !

                                       Rudyard Kipling

THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES

THE FEMALE OF THE SPECIES

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-

For 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 excepts 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 honor 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 women 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.

                                                     Rudyard Kipling 1911

MANDALAY

MANDALAY

By the old Moulmein Pagoda,
lookin’ eastward to 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 hear 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 of mud-
Wot they called the Great God Budd-
Plucky lot she cared for idols
When I kissed her where she stud!
On the road to Mandalay . . .

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 sholder
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 . . .

But that’s all shove be’ind me-
Long ago an’ fur away,
An’ there ain’t no ‘busses 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 . . .

I am sick o’wastin’ leather
On these gritty pavin’ stones,
An’ the blasted Henglish 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 . . .

Ship me Somewheres east of Suez,
Where the best is like the worst,
Where there are n’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,
lookin’ 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!
On the road to Mandalay,
Where the flyin’-fishes play,
An’ the dawn comes up like thunder
outer China ‘crost the bay!

                                         Rudyard Kipling

THE WIFE A-LOST

THE WIFE A-LOST

Since I no more do see your face,

Up stairs or down below,

I’ll sit me in the lonesome place,

Where flat-bough’d Beech do grow;

Below the Beech’s bough, my love,

Where you did never come,

An’ I don’t look to meet ye now,

As I do look at home.

Since you no more be at my side,

In walks in summer heat,

I’ll go alone where most do ride,

Through trees a-drippin’ wet;

Below the rain wet bough, my love,

Where you did never come,

An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,

As I do grieve at home.

Since now beside my dinner-board,

Your voice does never sound,

I’ll eat the bit I can afford,

A-field upon the ground;

Below the darksome bough, my love,

Where you did never dine,

An’ I don’t grieve to miss ye now,

As I at home do pine.

Since I do miss your voice and face,

In prayer at eventide,

I’ll pray with one sad voice for grace,

To go where you do bide;

Above the tree an’ bough, my love,

Where you be gone afore,

An’ be a-waiting for me now,

To come for evermore.

                                            William Barnes

THE GEATE A-VALLEN TO

THE GEATE A-VALLEN TO

In the zunsheen ov our zummers

Wi' the hay time now a-come,

How busy wer we out a-veld

Wi' vew a-left at hwome,

When waggons rumbled out ov yard

Red wheeled, wi' body blue'

As back behind 'em loudly slamm'd

The geate a-vallen to.

Drough daysheen ov how many years

The geate ha' now a-swung

Behind the veeto' vull-grown men

An' vootsteps ov the young.

Drough years o' days it swung to us

Behind each little shoe,

As we tripped lightly on avore

The geate a-vallen to.

In evenen time o' starry night

How mother zot at hwome,

An' kept her bleazen vire bright

Till father should ha' come,

An' how she quicken'd up an' smiled

An' stirred her vire anew,

To hear the trampen ho'ses' steps

An' geate a-fallen to.

There's moon-sheen now in nights o' fall

When leaves be brown vrom green,

When, to the slammen o' the geate,

Our Jenny's ears be keen,

When the wold dog do wag his tail,

An' Jean could tell to who,

As he do come in drough the geate,

The geate a-vallen to.

An' oft do come a saddened hour

When there must goo away

One well-beloved to our heart's core,

Vor long, perhaps vor aye:

An' oh! it is a touchen thing

The loven heart must rue,

To hear behind his last farewell

The geate a-vallen to.

William Barnes - written in the " Dorset Dialect " in 1862

THE TWO-SIDED MAN

THE TWO-SIDED MAN

Much I owe to the lands that grew-

More to the lives that fed-

But most to Allah Who gave me two

Seperate sides to my head.

Much I reflect on the Good and the True

In the Faiths beneath the sun,

But most upon Allah Who gave me two

Sides to my head, not one.

Wesley's following, Calvin's flock,

White or yellow or bronze,

Shaman, Ju-ju or Angekok,

Minister, Mukamuk, Bonze-

Here is a health, my brothers, to you,

However your prayers are said,

And praised be Allah Who gave me two

Seperate sides to my head !

I would go without shirt or shoe,

Friend, tobacco or bread,

Sooner than lose for a minute the two

Seperate sides of my head !

                                           Rudyard Kipling