Good Gnus -- P G Wodehouse

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian,
along with a longish prologue. Read on:

This poem is supposedly by Charlotte Mulliner, one of Mr Mulliner's endless
procession of relatives ... a poet and animal lover who comes under the
"spell" of Bludleigh Court, a country house full of avid hunters and one
poet boyfriend who suddenly starts to hunt rats with an umbrella when he's
at Bludleigh.  This spell makes even the most refined poet and animal lover
a ravening hunter after prey ranging from big game to rats and sparrows.

Charlotte thinks she hasn't been affected by the spell, till she gets a poem
that she sent to an animal rights magazine rejected: something that has
never, ever happened before. Here's the poem ...

(Poem #1537) Good Gnus (A Vignette in Verse) When cares attack and life seems black, How sweet it is to pot a yak, Or puncture hares and grizzly bears, And others I could mention; But in my Animals "Who's Who" No name stands higher than the Gnu; And each new gnu that comes in view Receives my prompt attention. When Afric's sun is sinking low, And shadows wander to and fro, And everywhere there's in the air A hush that's deep and solemn; Then is the time good men and true With View Halloo pursue the gnu; (The safest spot to put your shot is through the spinal column). To take the creature by surprise We must adopt some rude disguise, Although deceit is never sweet, And falsehoods don't attract us; So, as with gun in hand you wait, Remember to impersonate A tuft of grass, a mountain-pass, A kopje or a cactus. A brief suspense, and then at last The waiting's o'er, the vigil past; A careful aim. A spurt of flame. It's done. You've pulled the trigger, And one more gnu, so fair and frail, Has handed in its dinner-pail; (The females all are rather small, The males are somewhat bigger). -- P G Wodehouse

(Attributed to Charlotte Mulliner, in the short story "Unpleasantness at
Bludleigh Court", from Wodehouse's book "Mr Mulliner Speaking").

Wonderfully funny, with just the right combination of bombastic poetry,
nonsense rhymes (who but PGW can rhyme "yak" with "black" when talking of
the blackness of life) and a liberal sprinkling of classic PGW like "handed
in its dinner pail", all of which is mixed in with the sort of sanctimonious
and didactic wording used by highbrow journals that cater to the "arts and
poetry" type of crowd that eats at "The Crushed Pansy" (the restaurant with
soul) and tends to read portuguese love sonnets bound in mauve leather.

        srs.

Keeping with the title of the poem, this email has been written using gnus
on emacs 21.3. No gnus were harmed in the typing of this poem.

Jim Bludso of the Prairie Belle -- John Hay

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

Keeping in step with the recent "narrative poems" theme, here's one
more, an old favorite.

(Poem #1286) Jim Bludso of the Prairie Belle Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, Becase he don't live, you see; Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three year That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his cheeks The night of the Prairie Belle? He were n't no saint, them engineers Is all pretty much alike, One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill And another one here, in Pike; A keerless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward hand in a row, But he never flunked, and he never lied, I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had, To treat his engine well; Never be passed on the river; To mind the pilot's bell; And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire, A thousand times he swore, He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip, And her day come at last, The Movastar was a better boat, But the Belle she wouldn't be passed. And so she come tearin' along that night The oldest craft on the line- With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. The fire bust out as she clared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night, And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore." Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard, And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And, sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smokestacks fell,- And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. He were n't no saint, but at jedgment I'd run my chance with Jim, 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That would n't shook hands with him. He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing, And went for it thar and then; And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard On a man that died for men. -- John Hay

This poem was written in 1871 by John Hay, formerly one of Lincoln's private
secretaries and later secretary of State under William McKinley and Teddy
Roosevelt.  Hay's poem, based on the true story of a Missisippi riverboat
engineer who died saving his passengers, became instantly popular, making him,
at that time, as famous as Harriet Beecher Stowe and Mark Twain.

This was a fairly staple poem in American textbooks, but might not be too
popular now, given that political correctness requires that poems with the "N"
word (or even books like Huck Finn) get bowdlerized or even outright banned
from school textbooks.

This is a poem that is quite easy on the ears, and it has been set to ballad /
country and western music by several people.  A touch melodramatic, but then...

For more on the "dramatic poem" genre, try this rather well written article -
http://www.tnellen.com/cybereng/dramatic.html

        srs

The Carpenter's Son -- A E Housman

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #1262) The Carpenter's Son "Here the hangman stops his cart: Now the best of friends must part. Fare you well, for ill fare I: Live, lads, and I will die. "Oh, at home had I but stayed 'Prenticed to my father's trade, Had I stuck to plane and adze, I had not been lost, my lads. "Then I might have built perhaps Gallows-trees for other chaps, Never dangled on my own, Had I left but ill alone. "Now, you see, they hang me high, And the people passing by Stop to shake their fists and curse; So 'tis come from ill to worse. "Here hang I, and right and left Two poor fellows hang for theft: All the same's the luck we prove, Though the midmost hangs for love. "Comrades all, that stand and gaze, Walk henceforth in other ways; See my neck and save your own: Comrades all, leave ill alone. "Make some day a decent end, Shrewder fellows than your friend. Fare you well, for ill fare I: Live lads, and I will die." -- A E Housman

This is from Houseman's collection "A Shropshire Lad" - there are a lot of
war poems which are, in their own quiet way, a great deal more satisfying to
me than Rupert Brooke's poems, especially because of their biting sarcasm,
such as "From Clee to Heaven the Beacon Burns" -

>"Oh, God will save her, fear you not:
>Be you the men you've been,
>Get you the sons your fathers got,
>And God will save the Queen."

This poem above is ironic, mocking - a carpenter's son reflecting, as he is
going to be hanged, how much better it would have been if he had stuck to
making gallows trees instead of committing crimes that led to his being
forced to sample his own product.

He is making a confession of his crimes and a request to his fellow human
beings not to be led into a life of crime lest they suffer the same fate as
he.  Or is he?  Is he dying for love of mankind like Jesus did on the
cross, between two thieves suffering the same penalty for just and valid
reasons?

         srs

[Martin adds]

An added irony - nowhere in the poem does it say that the love he is dying for
is love of *mankind*. Indeed, if the narrator had not compared his situation to
Jesus's, the phrase "hangs for love" would have a readily obvious interpretation.

The Rider at the Gate -- John Masefield

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #1251) The Rider at the Gate A windy night was blowing on Rome, The cressets guttered on Caesar's home, The fish-boats, moored at the bridge, were breaking The rush of the river to yellow foam. The hinges whined to the shutters shaking, When clip-clop-clep came a horse-hoof raking The stones of the road at Caesar's gate; The spear-butts jarred at the guard's awaking. 'Who goes there?' said the guard at the gate. 'What is the news, that you ride so late?' 'News most pressing, that must be spoken To Caesar alone, and that cannot wait.' 'The Caesar sleeps; you must show a token That the news suffice that he be awoken. What is the news, and whence do you come? For no light cause may his sleep be broken.' 'Out of the dark of the sands I come, From the dark of death, with news for Rome. A word so fell that it must be uttered Though it strike the soul of the Caesar dumb.' Caesar turned in his bed and muttered, With a struggle for breath the lamp-flame guttered; Calpurnia heard her husband moan: 'The house is falling, The beaten men come into their own.' 'Speak your word,' said the guard at the gate; 'Yes, but bear it to Caesar straight, Say, "Your murderers' knives are honing, Your killers' gang is lying in wait." 'Out of the wind that is blowing and moaning, Through the city palace and the country loaning, I cry, "For the world's sake, Caesar, beware, And take this warning as my atoning. '"Beware of the Court, of the palace stair, Of the downcast friend who speaks so fair, Keep from the Senate, for Death is going on many men's feet to meet you there." 'I, who am dead, have ways of knowing Of the crop of death that the quick are sowing. I, who was Pompey, cry it aloud From the dark of death, from the wind blowing. 'I, who was Pompey, once was proud, Now I lie in the sand without a shroud; I cry to Caesar out of my pain, "Caesar beware, your death is vowed."' The light grew grey on the window-pane, The windcocks swung in a burst of rain, The window of Caesar flung unshuttered, The horse-hoofs died into wind again. Caesar turned in his bed and muttered, With a struggle for breath the lamp-flame guttered; Calpurnia heard her husband moan: 'The house is falling, The beaten men come into their own.' -- John Masefield

I have had a nightmare or two in my time (the one I had yesterday was
about work, lots of work, piling up on top of me - proof positive that I
need a vacation sometime soon).

That nightmare suddenly gave me the idea of a nightmare / dream theme
for Minstrels.

Poems like the one above.

Pompey's ghost coming to warn Caesar of his impending downfall.
Incredibly eerie atmosphere, made even more so by the tone of this poem.

My other choices for this theme include -

1. RL Stevenson's "Ticonderoga" (that is a bit long but worth running)

2. Robert Graves, "A Child's Nightmare" (already covered in minstrels
   poem #663)

any more suggestions?

          srs

Untitled (Epitaph for Lord Castlereagh) -- George Gordon, Lord Byron

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #1123) Untitled (Epitaph for Lord Castlereagh) Posterity will ne'er survey A nobler scene than this. Here lie the bones of Castlereagh. Stop traveller, and piss. -- George Gordon, Lord Byron

I was reminded of this when I saw it in a usenet post by my good friend
Shakib Otaqui.

Byron sounds off about one of the most unpopular and reviled politicians
of his era - a man who was forced to resign and spent the last fifteen
years of his life a mental wreck before he committed suicide by cutting
himself with a penknife.

If you want to rest in peace, never piss off a poet, is all I can say
about the poem.

Profile of Lord Castlereagh -
[broken link] http://proni.nics.gov.uk/records/private/castlere.htm

Castlereagh also had to face the wrath of Shelley, who wrote "The Mask
of Anarchy", blaming the massacre at St.Peters Fields on Lord
Castlereagh and his fellow minister Lord Sidmouth.

That is almost biblical, and (I think) compares Castlereagh and Sidmouth
to an evil version of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.

However, it is, unfortunately, a bit too long for minstrels, weighing in
at a whole 91 stanzas (plus a couple more, given different manuscripts /
editions of this grand poem).

Anyway, it is available online at
[broken link] http://www.english.upenn.edu/~jlynch/FrankenDemo/PShelley/anarchy.html

        srs

[Martin adds: The last line seems like a parody of Wordsworth's "Stop here,
or gently pass", from 'The Solitary Reaper'. Byron's sarcasm is a touch
heavy-handed, but, as always, a fun read - he certainly has a much better
ear than the oft-reviled (at least here on Minstrels <g>) Shelley, whose
'Mask of Anarchy' made me wince with the sheer dysphony and clumsiness of
the verse. I mean, the man rhymed "Italy" with "sea"! In the first two
lines, no less!! Sorry, I'll stop now (:]

My Rifle (The Creed of a United States Marine) -- Maj Gen WH Rupertus

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #1110) My Rifle (The Creed of a United States Marine) This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is MINE. My rifle is my best friend. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. My rifle without me is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will... My rifle and myself know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our bursts, nor the smoke we make. We know it is the hits that count. We will hit... My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its parts, its accessories, its sights, and its barrel. I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage. I will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. We will... Before God I swear this creed. My rifle and myself are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life. So be it, until there is no enemy, but PEACE. -- Maj Gen WH Rupertus

        (USMC)

The Marine Credo is the stuff of legend - a legend that is woven into
into assorted books and war movies (Sands of Iwo Jima, The Thin Red Line).

I was reminded of this poem when I saw Stanley Kubrick's "Full Metal
Jacket", though that was another war, Vietnam instead of Iwo Jima and
Guadalcanal.

This was written following the attack on Pearl Harbor, and Maj Gen
Rupertus was with the marines through some of the toughest fighting in
world war II.

I'm pretty sure the good general was deadly serious about this when he
wrote it, as serious as David when he wrote 'The Lord is my Shepherd'
(below). In fact, I have a feeling Gen. Rupertus had that in mind when
he wrote this one.

However, I *can* poke fun at at least some part of it - like the last
line "... no enemy, but Peace".  So peace is a Marine's final enemy, I
take it? :)

    -srs

~Psalms 23:1-6~

The LORD is my Shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life,
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Prospice -- Robert Browning

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #1103) Prospice Fear death? -- to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place, The power of the night, the press of the storm, The post of the foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained, And the barriers fall. Tho' a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so -- one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forebore, And bade me creep past. No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old, Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, The black minute's at end, And the elements' rage, the friend-voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend, Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, And with God be the rest. -- Robert Browning

"Prospice" (pro~spik'e~) means "Look Forward".  Browning wrote this shortly
after Elizabeth Barrett Browning's death in 1861.   The "soul of my soul" in
the last two lines is Elizabeth Barrett Browning in fact ...

This poem ranks with William Ernest Henley's "Invictus" and Tennyson's
"Crossing the Bar" as one of my favorite poems about men facing death with
sheer courage.

    "I was ever a fighter, so -- one fight more,
        The best and the last! "

A fight he knows he cannot win, and doesn't care, eagerly looking forward to
death.

-suresh

mehitabel and her kittens -- Don Marquis

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #1079) mehitabel and her kittens well boss mehitabel the cat has reappeared in her old haunts with a flock of kittens three of them this time archy she says to me yesterday the life of a female artist is continually hampered what in hell have i done to deserve all these kittens i look back on my life and it seems to me to be just one damned kitten after another i am a dancer archy and my only prayer is to be allowed to give my best to my art but just as i feel that i am succeeding in my life work along comes another batch of these damned kittens it is not archy that i am shy on mother love god knows i care for the sweet little things curse them but am i never to be allowed to live my own life i have purposely avoided matrimony in the interests of the higher life but i might just as well have been a domestic slave for all the freedom i have gained i hope none of them gets run over by an automobile my heart would bleed if anything happened to them and i found it out but it isn t fair archy it isn t fair these damned tom cats have all the fun and freedom if i was like some of these green eyed feline vamps i know i would simply walk out on the bunch of them and let them shift for themselves but i am not that kind archy i am full of mother love my kindness has always been my curse a tender heart is the cross i bear self sacrifice always and forever is my motto damn them i will make a home for the sweet innocent little things unless of course providence in his wisdom should remove them they are living just now in an abandoned garbage can just behind a made over stable in greenwich village and if it rained into the can before i could get back and rescue them i am afraid the little dears might drown it makes me shudder just to think of it of course if i were a family cat they would probably be drowned anyhow sometimes i think the kinder thing would be for me to carry the sweet little things over to the river and drop them in myself but a mother s love archy is so unreasonable something always prevents me these terrible conflicts are always presenting themselves to the artist the eternal struggle between art and life archy is something fierce my what a dramatic life i have lived one moment up the next moment down again but always gay archy always gay and always the lady too in spite of hell well boss it will be interesting to note just how mehitabel works out her present problem a dark mystery still broods over the manner in which the former family of three kittens disappeared one day she was taking to me of the kittens and the next day when i asked her about them she said innocently what kittens interrogation point and that was all i could ever get out of her on the subject we had a heavy rain right after she spoke to me but probably that garbage can leaks so the kittens have not yet been drowned archy -- Don Marquis

well, we haven't had an archy poem since at least a couple of years, i
think.  the last one was on oct 9, 1999, from a cursory look at the
minstrels archives.  i hereby propose to remedy this.

motherhood and career - as seen through the eyes of a cat on her ninth
life whose soul once belonged to cleopatra.

        -srs (all lowercase mail for an all lowercase poem)

[Martin adds]

Suresh is right - we have indeed not had one of these in a while, and I do
thank him for remedying that. One of the things that I like about the Archy
and Mehitabel poems is that they work not just as poems, but as continuing
episodes in a narrative that is enthralling in its own right; Archy and
Mehitabel are characters that we come to care about, and in whose
development we can take an interest quite orthogonal to the (considerable)
poetic merits of the individual pieces. Today's poem is a genuinely moving
glimpse into Mehitabel's moral dilemma, and the ending is as artistically
satisfying as it is disturbing.

The Consecration Of Coffee -- Rafael Jesús González

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian:

(Poem #1074) The Consecration Of Coffee to Archbishop Oscar A. Romero One day of god drinking coffee in my patio nothing is normal-- not the calla with its penis of gold nor the iris like purple lava a volcano spills. I find in the depths of the cup chasubles embroidered with black moths & red stains-- the sun fires a scintillation of silver bullets & of candles drowned-- there is blood in its shine. I place the cup on its saucer with a most tender care as if it were a chalice & say the litany: Guatemala Nicaragua El Salvador & one side of my heart tastes white & sweet like cane sugar & the other, like coffee, bitter & black. -- Rafael Jesús González

1999.

I rather like this man's vivid brush and rich sense of color. Extremely
rich, kind of like a visual version of Colombian coffee.

Wonderfully evocative - the beauty of South America hiding blood and
violence.  Black moths and red stains to remind you of bullet holes and
splashes of blood from all the people shot in long years of guerilla
warfare, coups and counter coups.

Yes, a lot like a perfect blend of cane sugar and coffee, as the man says.

Suresh.

[Biography]

   Rafael Jesús González

   was born in El Paso, Texas, attended the University of Texas at El
   Paso, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, & the University of
   Oregon. Professor of Creative Writing & Literature, he taught at the
   University of Oregon, Western State University of Colorado, Central
   Washington State University, the University of Texas at El Paso, and
   for thirty years at Laney College. His poetry and scholarly articles
   are widely published in reviews & anthologies in the U.S., Mexico &
   abroad; his collection of verse El Hacedor De Juegos / The Maker of
   Games published by Casa Editorial, San Francisco, went into a second
   printing. Also a visual artist, his work has been exhibited at the
   Oakland Museum; the Mexican Museum of San Francisco; & others in the
   U.S., Mexico, and abroad. He was Poet in Residence at the Oakland
   Museum of California and the Oakland Public Library under the Poets &
   Writers "Writers on Site Program" in 1996.

        -- http://www.think-ink.net/rafael/index.htm

On Being Asked for a War Poem -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #1040) On Being Asked for a War Poem I think it better that in times like these A poet keep his mouth shut, for in truth We have no gift to set a statesman right; He has had enough of meddling who can please A young girl in the indolence of her youth, Or an old man upon a winter's night. -- William Butler Yeats

Yeats wrote this little beauty on being asked to come up with "a war poem"
in 1919 - part of his anthology "The Wild Swans at Coole".

I _really_ like it.  Short, to the point, and wonderfully sarcastic.
There is no point at all to war, Yeats seems to say, and still less
point in writing long paeans to the glorious heroes of Britain,
conquerors of the Hun.  Beyond this, the poem speaks for itself, I think.

--srs

Greensleeves -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #1027) Greensleeves A new Courtly Sonet, of the Ladie Greensleeves. Chorus: Greensleeves was all my joy Greensleeves was my delight Greensleeves was my heart of gold And who but my Ladie Greensleeves Alas, my love, you do me wrong To cast me off discourteously And I have lov-ed you so long Delighting in your companie (Chorus) I have been ready at your hand To grant whatever you would crave, I have both waged life and land, Your love and good-will for to have. (Chorus) I bought thee kerchers to thy head, That were wrought fine and gallantly I kept thee both boord and bed Which cost my purse well favouredly (Chorus) I bought thee petticoats of the best, The cloth so fine as might be; I gave thee jewels for thy chest, And all this cost I spent on thee. (Chorus) Thy smock of silk, both fair and white, With gold embroidered gargeously; Thy petticoat of sendal right, And these I bought thee gladly (Chorus) Thy girdle of gold so red, With pearles bedecked sumptuously; The like no other lasses had, And yet thou wouldst not love me (Chorus) Thy purse and eke thy gay gilt knives, Thy pincase gallant to the eye; No better wore the Burgesse wives And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) Thy crimson stockings all of silk, With golde all wrought above the knee, Thy pumps as white as was the milk And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) Thy gown was of the grossie green, Thy sleeves of satten hanging by, Why made thee be our harvest Queen. And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) Thy garters fringed with the golde, And silver aglets hanging by, Which made thee blithe for to beholde And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) My gayest gelding I thee gave, To ride where ever liked thee, No Ladie ever was so brave And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) My men were clothed all in green, And they did ever wait on thee; All this was gallant to be seen And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) They set thee up, they took thee downe, They served thee with humilitie, Thy foote might not once touch the ground And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) For everie morning when thou rose, I sent thee dainties orderly; To cheare thy stomack from all woes And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) Thou couldst desire no earthly thing, But still thou hadst it readily; Thy musicke still to play and sing And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) And who did pay for all this geare, That thou didst spend when pleased thee, Even I that am rejected here And thou disdainst to love me. (Chorus) Well I will pray to God on high, That thou my constancy mayst see, And that yet once before I die Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me. (Chorus) Greensleeves, now farewell! adieu! God I pray to prosper thee, For I am still thy lover true, Come once again and love me. (Chorus) -- Anonymous

Note:
  sonet. Obs. rare. [a. OFr. sonet (sonnet), = Prov. sonet, f. son sound. ]
  Song, melody, music. -- OED

One of my favorite songs - a 16th century english ballad called
Greensleeves, by our old friend "Anon".  The song was first licensed
to a printer called Richard Jones, but several others have claimed
credit.

At least one version of this song's origin says that Henry VIII wrote
it about Anne Boleyn, but this is unlikely, as the style belongs to a
period after Henry's death, and the first printed version appeared
during the reign of Elizabeth I.

Since then, it became a popular ballad, carried over by the englishmen
to America, where it became one of the classic campfire ballads of the
old west.

The classic 1962 western "How the West Was Won" had a theme song set
to the "Greensleeves" tune - and "Ritchie Blackmore's Night" has a
beautiful cover of this old song (which I am listening to as I type
this).

Blackmore's brilliant guitaring adds to the magic of this old song
(and sounds far better than the ringtone in my colleague's cellphone -
again "Greensleeves" ;)

A beautiful, haunting melody - and words which show the deep grief of
a jilted man who has been rejected by a woman he has showered love
and squandered his fortune on.

Suresh

Martin adds:

  Greensleeves and Tolkien combine in the popular quote "Do not anger a bard,
  for thy name is silly, and scans to Greensleeves".

  And here's the hilarious Flanders and Swann sketch on the 'history' of
  Greensleeves:
    [broken link] http://timothyplatypus.tripod.com/FaS/hat_green.html

Cat -- J R R Tolkien

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian:

(Poem #1008) Cat The fat cat on the mat may seem to dream of nice mice that suffice for him, or cream; but he free, maybe, walks in thought unbowed, proud, where loud roared and fought his kin, lean and slim, or deep in den in the East feasted on beasts and tender men. The giant lion with iron claw in paw, and huge ruthless tooth in gory jaw; the pard dark-starred, fleet upon feet, that oft soft from aloft leaps upon his meat where woods loom in gloom -- far now they be, fierce and free, and tamed is he; but fat cat on the mat kept as a pet he does not forget. -- J R R Tolkien

A beautiful poem that's a bit more than it seems.  The Red Book has several
verses, some of which figure in the Lord of the Rings, or in the attached
stories / preludes / interludes and such.  Others are just scrawled in the
margins, for possible inclusion. JRR had scribbled "SG" in the margin when
he wrote the poem, suggesting that he meant to attribute it to Sam Gamgee.
The poem is also fairly traditional hobbit poetry (which deals a lot with
birds and beasts): rhythmic, with frequent alliteration and assonance,
making for an excellent nursery-rhyme sort of singalong song.

Still, it makes you think. Contrast a cute cat sleeping in front of a fire
with a wild, roaring and dangerous lion - and then have Tolkien solemnly
inform you in the last line that the cat hasn't forgotten her wild
ancestry...

Suresh.

[thomas adds]

Just a word on prosody: "Cat" may seem on first reading to be merely a
'hobbit nursery-rhyme', but the technical mastery it displays is nothing
short of staggering. The even-numbered lines rhyme with each other and also
internally; the odd-numbered ones have internal _triple_ rhymes. And all
this is done in lines of two and three feet respectively, leaving barely any
room for error; every single word (other than the placeholders -
prepositions conjunctions and auxiliaries) seems to be part of the rhyme
scheme. Incredible.

[Minstrels Links]

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien:
Poem #4, The Road Goes Ever On
Poem #46, Lament for Boromir
Poem #93, Eärendil was a mariner
Poem #142, He chanted a song of wizardry
Poem #220, Lament for Eorl the Young
Poem #257, Three Rings for the Elven Kings
Poem #318, Tall ships and tall kings
Poem #370, Troll sat alone on his seat of stone
Poem #440, Bregalad's Lament
Poem #643, The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon
Poem #736, The world was young, the mountains green

Cats, practical and otherwise:
Poem #165, The Owl and the Pussy-Cat  -- Edward Lear
Poem #167, Pangur Ban  -- Anon. (Irish, 8th century)
Poem #258, Macavity: The Mystery Cat -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #273, How a Cat Was Annoyed and a Poet Was Booted  -- Guy Wetmore
Carryl
Poem #282, Fog  -- Carl Sandburg
Poem #401, To a Cat  -- Jorge Luis Borges
Poem #572, Mort aux Chats -- Peter Porter
Poem #574, Growltiger's Last Stand -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #575, To Mrs Reynolds' Cat -- John Keats
Poem #577, The Cat and the Moon -- William Butler Yeats
Poem #659, Poem -- William Carlos Williams
Poem #660, On a Night of Snow -- Elizabeth Coatsworth
Poem #661, Jubilate Agno -- Christopher Smart
Poem #662, Cat -- Jibanananda Das
Poem #663, A Child's Nightmare -- Robert Graves
Poem #674, Aunt Jennifer's Tigers -- Adrienne Rich
Poem #727, Milk for the Cat -- Harold Monro
Poem #955, Gus: The Theatre Cat -- T. S. Eliot

Brahma -- Andrew Lang

The poem that inspired this week's theme, suggested by Suresh
Ramasubramanian:

(Poem #949) Brahma If the wild bowler thinks he bowls, Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled, They know not, poor misguided souls, They too shall perish unconsoled. I am the batsman and the bat, I am the bowler and the ball, The umpire, the pavilion cat, The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all. -- Andrew Lang

Here's the original:

 "Brahma"

 If the red slayer think he slays,
   Or if the slain think he is slain,
 They know not well the subtle ways
   I keep, and pass, and turn again.

 Far or forgot to me is near;
   Shadow and sunlight are the same;
 The vanish'd gods to me appear;
   And one to me are shame and fame.

 They reckon ill who leave me out;
   When me they fly, I am the wings;
 I am the doubter and the doubt,
   And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

 The strong gods pine for my abode,
   And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
 But thou, meek lover of the good!
   Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

        -- Ralph Waldo Emerson

In a kinder, gentler world, you might easily have seen Emerson's "Brahma"
featuring on the Minstrels in its own right. It's a fairly straightforward
meditation, phrased with a confidence worthy of an all-encompassing Being;
it captures the idea of Brahma succinctly, and with greater accuracy than
most philosophical treatises; and it has its share of memorable lines
(especially the first and sixth couplets).

Alas, it was not to be. Not after Andrew Lang worked his magic, at any rate.
The easiest poem to parody is one that takes itself too seriously [1], and
Emerson's "Brahma" falls headlong into this trap. It's a decent enough poem,
but it's unbearably pompous, and Lang skewers this pomposity with relish.
His "Brahma" is irreverent, surreal, and joyful; he transforms the original
from the sublime to the ridiculous, and then transcends it.

thomas.

[1] Actually, most egregiously bad poems (whether or not they're susceptible
to parody) do tend to take themselves too seriously; it's their defining
feature. The unforgettable [2] works of Julia Moore and William McGonagall
are prime examples of this fact; their immortality stems as much from their
creators' earnestness as from their own ghastliness.

Of course, one must take care not to reverse the syllogism; it is entirely
possible for a poem to take itself seriously without being a crime against
the language. I would even go so far as to put "Brahma" (the original, that
is) into this category; it's not a bad poem per se; it's just that the
parody is so much better...

[2] Word chosen with the utmost of care :)

[Minstrels Links]

This week's theme is Cricket:
Poem #946, Vitai Lampada -- Sir Henry Newbolt
Poem #947, Ballad of a Homeless Bat -- John Kendal
Poem #948, Grand Rapids Cricket Club -- Julia A. Moore
Poem #949, Brahma -- Andrew Lang
Poem #686, Nicholas Cricket -- Joyce Maxner

Two wonderfully bad poets:
Poem #948, Grand Rapids Cricket Club -- Julia A. Moore
Poem #343, The Tay Bridge Disaster  -- William McGonagall

On the Death of Smet-Smet, the Hippopotamus-Goddess -- Rupert Brooke

Still on the Theme that Refuses to Die - guest poem sent in by Suresh
Ramasubramanian

(Poem #847) On the Death of Smet-Smet, the Hippopotamus-Goddess Song of a tribe of the ancient Egyptians (The Priests within the Temple) She was wrinkled and huge and hideous? She was our Mother. She was lustful and lewd? -- but a God; we had none other. In the day She was hidden and dumb, but at nightfall moaned in the shade; We shuddered and gave Her Her will in the darkness; we were afraid. (The People without) She sent us pain, And we bowed before Her; She smiled again And bade us adore Her. She solaced our woe And soothed our sighing; And what shall we do Now God is dying? (The Priests within) She was hungry and ate our children; -- how should we stay Her? She took our young men and our maidens; -- ours to obey Her. We were loathed and mocked and reviled of all nations; that was our pride. She fed us, protected us, loved us, and killed us; now She has died. (The People without) She was so strong; But death is stronger. She ruled us long; But Time is longer. She solaced our woe And soothed our sighing; And what shall we do Now God is dying? -- Rupert Brooke

Speaking of sarcasm, Hippos and religion, this one just has to take the
cake. Blind acceptance of a cruel and savage Deity - till the Deity dies,
leaving priests and people alike fumbling, scared, at a loss.

The frightened priests are busy making up excuses for their cruel rites -
and attributing all of them to the Hippo-Goddess' savage appetites.  The
common people, who have come to accept the cruelty of the Smet-Smet cult,
are at a loss as whatever religion they had - whatever supported their
society - has been destroyed.

Fatalism - the stoic acceptance of a (frequently savage) predestination - is
often the backbone of a religion, especially a religion which is based on
terrorizing its followers into submission.  Now, when the (supposed) arbiter
of Fate herself meets her fate?  A rather interesting state of affairs.

The first thing that I thought of when I read this was that Marx was perhaps
right when he dismissed religion as "The opium of the masses."

As for Brooke - it was a pleasant surprise for me to discover he wasn't just
a war poet (though his war sonnets are among the best I've read).

    "A young Apollo, golden-haired,
    Stands dreaming on the verge of strife,
    Magnificently unprepared
    For the long littleness of life."

These lines were written by Frances Cornford for Brooke, called by W. B.
Yeats, "The most handsome man in England."  Not a very long littleness
though - Brooke died in 1915, aged just 28.  I guess there has been more
than one Brooke bio posted on minstrels already, so I'll just stop here.

-suresh

Biography:
  http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Delphi/7086/brookebionote.htm

Brooke poems on Minstrels:

  Poem #514 "The Chilterns"
  Poem #280 "The Soldier"
  Poem #589 "Sonnet Reversed"

Nearer, my God, to Thee -- Sarah Flower Adams

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #806) Nearer, my God, to Thee Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me; Still all my song would be, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Though like the wanderer, The sun gone down, Darkness be over me, My rest alone. Yet in my dreams I'd be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! There let the way appear Steps unto heav'n; All that Thou sendest me In mercy giv'n; Angels to beckon me Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Bright with Thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise; So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! Or if on joyful wing, Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upwards I fly, Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! -- Sarah Flower Adams

            (1841)

Sarah Flower was born in Harlow, Essex, was an actress (playing Lady
Macbeth in the 1837), a dramatic poet (who wrote "Vivia Perpetua" - about a
Christian martyr - in 1841).  More to the point, she was a Unitarian hymn
writer.

She was one of the earliest feminists.  When she married William Bridges
Adams in 1834, she insisted on a "no housekeeping" pact with him.

She was a close friend of Shelley, and continued with the increasingly
unfashionable ideals of romantic poetry (especially as this was the era when
gritty realism, as seen in Dickens and Carlyle, was becoming more popular)

She was particularly associated the influential but eccentric, and eventually
forgotten school of poets satirized by William Aytoun as "Spasmodics".

The first poem I thought of when I read this hymn was William Ernest Henley's
"Invictus".  And then Dylan Thomas' "Do not go gentle into that good night".
Sheer guts in Invictus, bitter and dogged resistance in "Do not go gentle
...", compared with absolute faith in God in this hymn.

"Do not go gentle..." in particular, stands out in stark contrast to this
poem, with its last, angry stanza -

        And you, my father, there on the sad height,
        Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
        Do not go gentle into that good night
        Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Now for a little more, rather interesting, trivia :)

"Nearer, my God, to Thee" is supposed to have been the hymn the band on the
RMS Titanic played when it sank after hitting an iceberg on 14 April 1912.

Wallace Hartley, the bandleader of the Titanic, an employee of the White Star
Line, who, like all the musicians on board, went down with the ship, was
reportedly particularly fond of this hymn, and wished it to be performed at
his funeral.

There is, however, a controversy about whether "Nearer, my God ..." was even
played on the Titanic that night.  The other contenders for "last song" are
Songe d'Automne (a waltz by Archibald Joyce) and the episcopalian hymn Autumn.

Even among the adherents to the "Nearer, my God .." theory, there's another
(national and denominational) schism.  Protestant Americans are familiar with
the tune (known as "Bethany" written by Lowell Mason, and this is the tune
played both in James Cameron's recent turkey er...umm... hit movie, and the
1953 Eugene Negulesco movie "Titanic", which was the first Hollywood movie on
the Titanic.

However, Wallace Hartley was an Englishman, and would doubtless have
preferred (and been much more familiar with) the British tune (called
"Horbury"), which was composed by the venerable John B Dykes, an Episcopalian
clergyman.  For what it's worth, British director Roy Baker's 1958 Titanic
movie, "A Night to Remember" plays Horbury :)

The Methodists prefer another tune altogether, "Propior Deo", written by Sir
Arthur Sullivan (of Gilbert and Sullivan).  I doubt if any movie has been
made featuring this tune though :)  However, shipboard services were
nominally Church of England, and Hartley, the bandleader, was brought up a
methodist (and this was the tune his father, a choirmaster, used at church
for over thirty years).  So "Propior Deo" is just as likely as the other two.

Confusion worse confounded, Sir Arthur Sullivan has _another_ tune for this
grand hymn, which apparently goes under the name "St.Edmund".

A lot of this has been filched from several pages, but mostly summarized
from the excellent article at [broken link] http://www.beanpaste.com/bsg/nearer.html which
includes links to MIDI files of all the contenders to the Titanic's swan
song.

        -suresh

Biography:

 Sarah Flower was born in Harlow, Essex, and married William Bridges Adams
 in 1834. Harold William Stephenson wrote a biography of this actress--Lady
 Macbeth, 1837--dramatic poet (Vivia Perpetua, 1841) and Unitarian hymn
 writer in The Author of Nearer my God to Thee in 1922. "Nearer my God to
 Thee" was one of thirteen hymns published by William Johnson Fox
 (1786-1864) in his Hymns and Anthems in 1841. They were originally sung
 in services at his South Place Chapel.
        -- http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/authors/adamssf.html#notes

To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest, With The Plough -- Robert Burns

Guest poem submitted independently by Suresh Ramasubramanian, and William Johns:

(Poem #776) To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest, With The Plough Wee, sleekit, cowrin', tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi' bickering brattle! I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, Wi' murd'ring pattle! I'm truly sorry man's dominion, Has broken Nature's social union, An' justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An' fellow-mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen icker in a thrave 'S a sma' request; I'll get blessin wi' the lave, An' never miss't! Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! It's silly wa's the win's are strewin! An' naething, now, to big a new ane, O' foggage green! An' bleak December's winds ensuin, Baith snell an' keen! Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, An' weary winter comin fast, An' cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell --- Till crash ! the cruel coulter past Out thro' thy cell. That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the winter's sleety dribble, An' cranreuch cauld ! But Mousie, thou art no thy lane, In proving foresight may be vain; The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men Gang aft agley, An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, For promis'd joy ! Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me! The present only toucheth thee: But och! I backward cast my e'e, On prospects drear! An' forward, tho' I canna see, I guess an' fear! -- Robert Burns

[Suresh's Commentary]

Robert Burns was born in 1759, Ayrshire, Scotland. He grew up on his
father's farm, and was self-taught. When he was just 15 years old, his
father died, saddling him with an  unproductive farm. His poetry gradually
became popular though, so much so that he published a book of poems in 1786
(aged 27) to finance a trip to Jamaica. The book sold much better than
anticipated, but Burns decided to go to Edinburgh and publish a "better"
second edition of his poems. He died only 10 years later at the early age of
37, but not before writing some excellent poetry such as "Auld Lang Syne"
(till today a staple of new year parties in England) and "To a mouse ...".

This poem has one immortal line, which has passed into (fairly) common
English usage -
  The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
  Gang aft agley,
Here's where Steinbeck got the title of his "Of Mice and Men", by the way.

The poem is written in his typical "broad scots" and deals with a field
mouse whose nest he apparently destroyed when plowing a field. Burns sees
the mouse scuttling out of its nest, cowering and shivering in terror (and
cold? it is mid-winter after all) in front of him. He starts off on the poor
mouse suffering because of his actions, and then reassures it that it only
has to fear the present, whereas he has had a dreary past, and "guesses and
fears" his unseen but easily guessed future.

Nothing at all would have differentiated this poem from the millions of
sentimental and tear-jerking verses churned out by assorted poets (and
ridiculed by several others) - but for the fact that Burns seems to have
opened his heart to the mouse, and speaks to it as if he's trying to cheer
up an old friend who has somehow fallen upon hard times.

The broad scots is an added bonus, making this poem a delight to read aloud
(or to listen to). For what it's worth, the "r"s are rolled out here, ...
rrrr ... almost like in French.

http://www.robertburns.org/works/75.html has a version with hyperlinks to a
glossary of the scottish words.

Suresh.

[William's Commentary]

One of my favorites. When I was a kid, we caught a mouse in the kitchen. He
became the family pet, named "Wee sleeket cowran tim'rous beastie", and he
lived a long and happy life in his new home. Kind of the exact opposite of
what happened in the poem...

Bill.

A Complaint -- William Wordsworth

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian:

(Poem #759) A Complaint There is a change--and I am poor; Your love hath been, nor long ago, A fountain at my fond heart's door, Whose only business was to flow; And flow it did; not taking heed Of its own bounty, or my need. What happy moments did I count! Blest was I then all bliss above! Now, for that consecrated fount Of murmuring, sparkling, living love, What have I? Shall I dare to tell? A comfortless and hidden well. A well of love--it may be deep-- I trust it is,--and never dry: What matter? If the waters sleep In silence and obscurity. --Such change, and at the very door Of my fond heart, hath made me poor. -- William Wordsworth

Written circa 1806-1807.

This is in the classic ababcc format.

It is quite likely that his "changed friend" was Coleridge. Wordsworth met
him (after a gap of several years) in late 1806, and then for several months
in the winter of 1806 when Coleridge was a guest of the Wordsworths during
their stay at Colenorton, Sir George Beaumont's house in Leicestershire.

Coleridge was back in England after a long residence abroad, mostly in
Malta, trying to restore his health (which was severely affected by his
being addicted to opium).  Not that I'm being censorious here, he couldn't
have written Kubla Khan without that :) His health was, however,
irrepairably destroyed by his drug abuse.

Dorothy Wordsworth wrote: "never never did I feel such a shock as at the
first sight of him [in Oct. 1806]. We all felt exactly in the same way--as
if he were different from what we had expected to see...."

His appearance and physical health were not the only things that had changed
about him - his mental balance was also affected by the drugs.

Wordsworth's grief at the state to which Coleridge was reduced shines
through every line in this poem, as does his deep love for Coleridge.
As he says, his grief makes him poor, robs him of his happiness.

Suresh.

A Ballad of John Nicholson -- Sir Henry Newbolt

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #731) A Ballad of John Nicholson It fell in the year of Mutiny, At darkest of the night, John Nicholson by Jalndhar came, On his way to Delhi fight. And as he by Jalndhar came, He thought what he must do, And he sent to the Rajah fair greeting, To try if he were true. "God grant your Highness length of days, And friends when need shall be; And I pray you send your Captains hither, That they may speak with me." On the morrow through Jalndhar town The Captains rode in state; They came to the house of John Nicholson, And stood before the gate. The chief of them was Mehtab Singh, He was both proud and sly; His turban gleamed with rubies red, He held his chin full high. He marked his fellows how they put Their shoes from off their feet; "Now wherefore make ye such ado These fallen lords to greet? "They have ruled us for a hundred years, In truth I know not how, But though they be fain of mastery They dare not claim it now." Right haughtily before them all The durbar hall he trod, With rubies red his turban gleamed, His feet with pride were shod. They had not been an hour together, A scanty hour or so, When Mehtab Singh rose in his place And turned about to go. Then swiftly came John Nicholson Between the door and him, With anger smouldering in his eyes, That made the rubies dim. "You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh," -- Oh, but his voice was low! He held his wrath with a curb of iron That furrowed cheek and brow. "You are over-hasty, Mehtab Singh, When that the rest are gone, I have a word that may not wait To speak with you alone." The Captains passed in silence forth And stood the door behind; To go before the game was played Be sure they had no mind. But there within John Nicholson Turned him on Mehtab Singh, "So long as the soul is in my body You shall not do this thing. "Have ye served us for a hundred years And yet ye know not why? We brook no doubt of our mastery, We rule until we die. "Were I the one last Englishman Drawing the breath of life, And you the master-rebel of all That stir this land to strife -- "Were I," he said, "but a Corporal, And you a Rajput King, So long as the soul was in my body You should not do this thing. "Take off, take off, those shoes of pride, Carry them whence they came; Your Captains saw your insolence, And they shall see your shame." When Mehtab Singh came to the door His shoes they burned his hand, For there in long and silent lines He saw the Captains stand. When Mehtab Singh rode from the gate His chin was on his breast: The captains said, "When the strong command Obedience is best." -- Sir Henry Newbolt

This is from Newbolt's "Admirals All, and other verses".  Nicholson was a
British brigadier who was killed storming Delhi during the Sepoy Mutiny
(aka The first war of Indian Independence) in 1857.  Nicholson's statue
stood at the Kashmiri Gate in Delhi till the 1960s, when it was removed to
Dungannon in Scotland - where it stands outside his old school.

Nicholson was idolized by the Indian troops (mostly Sikhs) he commanded
(and according to Kipling, there was a cult of "Nikulseyn-ites" who in
fact worshipped him as a kind of demi-god).  There's a bit of doggerel in
his 'Kim', which begins `Nikal-seyn is dead, ....' (sung by the old
soldier Kim and the Lama meet on the Grand Trunk Road).

George MacDonald Fraser, in his "Flashman" books, describes Nicholson as
something of a Bible thumping puritan with more than his usual share of
religious zeal (of course, in far more irreverent words).  This seems to
be borne out by these quotes from Hibberts' "The Great Mutiny" (dont have
a copy of Kaye and Malleson around right now, that'd have produced a lot
more).

  Let us propose a Bill for the flaying alive impalement, or burning of
  the murderers of the women and children at Delhi. ... I would inflict
  the most excriutiating tortures I could think of on them with a
  perfectly easy conscience.
        -- Brigadier John Nicholson, in a letter to Herbert Edwardes,
        Commissioner at Peshawar.

  Few courts martial were held by Nicholson; his dictim 'the punishment
  for mutiny is death' obviated any necessity for trial ... Nicholson
  issued an order that no native should pass a white man riding, without
  dismounting and salaaming.
        -- Ensign R. G. Wilberforce, 52nd Light Infantry, on Brigadier John
        Nicholson.

I'm both attracted and repelled by this poem.  Attracted because of the
sheer bravery of this man, who, alone, apparently overawed a huge crowd of
people thirsting for his blood.

Repelled because, of course, I'm an Indian and see a few more sides than
what Kipling or Newbolt saw, but with the dispassionate - and jaundiced -
eye of someone who's over a hundred and fifty years removed from the
situation, and has nothing to rely on except rather skewed versions from
both sides (who were equally guilty of the cruelest atrocities.

It's the same reaction I get when reading several of Kipling's books with
their simplistic assumption of white supremacy (which unconsciously show a
great love for India).  Kipling (and others of his generation) often
compared the Pathans (for example) to the scottish highlanders, who were
equally savage and feud-happy.

Nicholson (and several others of his generation) were, however, a great
improvement over their peers and successors, who came to India to rake in
profits, not caring for the Indians they were supposed to rule.

Nicholson's extreme cruelty towards the mutineers (during which he still
retained the respect of his Sikh soldiers) is explained in part by his
rigid puritanism, in which hellfire and eternal torture was the just
dessert of a sinner.

--
Suresh Ramasubramanian + + http://kcircle.com

The Wreck of the Hesperus -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian, as
part of this week's theme, poems oft-quoted by Bertie Wooster:

(Poem #717) The Wreck of the Hesperus It was the schooner Hesperus, That sailed the wintry sea; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now West, now South. Then up and spake an old Sailor, Had sailed to the Spanish Main, "I pray thee, put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane. "Last night, the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see!" The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the Northeast, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength; She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leaped her cable's length. "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, And do not tremble so; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast; He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. "O father! I hear the church-bells ring, Oh say, what may it be?" "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" -- And he steered for the open sea. "O father! I hear the sound of guns, Oh say, what may it be?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!" "O father! I see a gleaming light, Oh say, what may it be?" But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savèd she might be; And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared! At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow! Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe! -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

In 1839, Longfellow was inspired to write one of his best-known poems on
hearing of the wreck of the schooner Hesperus on the reef of Norman's Woe,
off Gloucester, Massachusetts some twenty years ago. One of the bodies
washed ashore was, in fact, lashed to a spar, as described in the poem.

He described the composition of the poem as follows:

"I wrote last evening a notice of Allston's poems. After which I sat till
twelve o'clock by my fire, smoking, when suddenly it came into my mind to
write the Ballad of the Schooner Hesperus; which accordingly I did. Then I
went to bed, but could not sleep. New thoughts were running in my mind, and
I got up to add them to the ballad. It was three by the clock. I then went
to bed and fell asleep. I feel pleased with the ballad. It hardly cost me an
effort. It did not come into my mind by lines but by stanzas."

"The Wreck ..." has been set to music by John Liptrot Hatton, a mostly
self-taught musician who was quite popular during the nineteenth century for
his ballads (and assorted other work including cathedral services, anthems,
operas ...).

As for the Bertie connection, well ... he has often compared his sozzled (or
unhappy, or whatever) friends to "the wreck of the Hesperus".

Oh, and try these two more recent musical takes on 'Hesperus':

George Harrison ([broken link] http://brouci.host.sk/text/george/wreckoft.htm)
Procol Harum (www.procolharum.com/wreck_of_the_hesperus_crd.htm)

Suresh.

100 Pipers -- Trad

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #709) 100 Pipers Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw, Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. O it's owre the border awa', awa' It's owre the border awa', awa', We'll on an' we'll march to Carlisle ha' Wi' its yetts, its castle an' a', an a'. Chorus: Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a', We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'. O! our sodger lads looked braw, looked braw, Wi' their tartan kilts an' a', an' a', Wi' their bonnets an' feathers an' glitt'rin' gear, An' pibrochs sounding loud and clear. Will they a' return to their ain dear glen? Will they a' return oor Heilan' men? Second sichted Sandy looked fu' wae. An' mithers grat when they march'd away. Chorus O! wha' is foremos o' a', o' a', Oh wha' is foremost o' a', o' a', Bonnie Charlie the King o' us a', hurrah! Wi' his hundred pipers an' a', an ' a'. His bonnet and feathers he's waving high, His prancing steed maist seems to fly, The nor' win' plays wi' his curly hair, While the pipers play wi'an unco flare. Chorus The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep, But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep; Twa thousand swam owre to fell English ground An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch's sound. Dumfoun'er'd the English saw, they saw, Dumfoun'er'd they heard the blaw, the blaw, Dumfoun'er'd they a' ran awa', awa', Frae the hundred pipers an' a', an' a'. Chorus -- Trad

A fantastic song (traditional scottish reel, to the tune of bagpipes) about
Prince Charles Edward Stuart (Bonnie Prince Charlie) (The Young Pretender)
and his 1745 Jacobite rebellion against the English, with the support of
several highland clans.

The rebellion was destined to abject failure, and the prince returned to his
(rather comfortable) exile in France.

Several books by Sir Walter Scott (most notably Rob Roy) and R.L.
Stevenson's Kidnapped (and its sequel Catriona) are set around this time -
read 'em for more.

Oh by the way, this is the tune which inspired Seagrams to call their
scotch '100 Pipers'.

nb:

fu' wae=full of woe
grat=cried  (present tense - greet)

-suresh