THE GLORY OF THE GARDEN

THE  GLORY  OF  THE  GARDEN

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 will 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!

 

                        Rudyard Kipling

NEW YEAR'S DAY

NEW YEAR’S DAY

1791

TO MRS. DUNLOP

This day Time winds th' exhausted chain,

To run the twelvemonth's length again:

I see the old, bald-pated fellow,

With ardent eyes, complexion sallow,

Adjust the unimpair'd machine

To wheel the equal, dull routine.

The absent lover, minor heir,

In vain assail him with their prayer:

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press,

Nor makes the hour one moment less.

Will you (the Major's with the hounds;

The happy tenants share his rounds;

Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day,

And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray)

From housewife cares a minute borrow

(That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow),

And join with me a-moralizing?

This day's propitious to be wise in!

First, what did yestenight deliver?

'Another year has gone for ever.'

And what is this day's strong suggestion?

'The passing moment's all we rest on!'

Rest on - for what? what do we here?

Or why regard the passing year?

Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore,

Add to our date one minute more?

A few days may - a few years must -

Repose us in the silent dust:

Then is it wise to damp our bliss?

Yes: all such reasonings are amiss!

The voice of Nature loudly cries,

And many a message from the skies,

That something in us never dies;

That on this frail, uncertain state

Hang matters of eternal weight;

That future life in worlds unknown

Must take its hue from this alone,

Whether as heavenly glory bright

Or dark as Misery's woeful night.

Since, then, my honor'd first of friends,

On this poor being all depends,

Let us th' important Now employ,

And live as those who never die.

Tho' you, with days and honours crown'd,

Witness that filial circle round

(A sight life's sorrows to repulse,

A sight pale Envy to convulse),

Others now claim your chief regard:

Yourself, you wait your bright reward.

                       Robert Burns

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