Rum Ration
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When all the laughter dies in sorrow
and the tears have risen to a flood
When all the wars have found a cause
in human wisdom and in blood
Do you think they'll cry in sadness ?
do you think the eye will blink ?
Do you think they'll curse the madness ?
do you even think they'll think ?

When all the great galactic systems
sigh to a frozen halt in space
Do you think there'll be a remnant
of beauty of the human race
Do you think there'll be a vestige
or a sniffle, or a cosmic tear
Do you think a greater thinking thing
will give a damn..that man..was here


. Kendrew Laschelles

Originally Posted by stirling

When all the laughter dies in sorrow

Cheers for that Stirling, I remember reading that earlier this year but didn't have a clue who wrote it!

Here is another by the same poet, very good too.

The Box
Kendrew Lascelles

Once upon a time, in the land of hushabye,
they came across a sort of box,
bound up with chains, and locked with locks,
and labelled

"KINDLY DO NOT TOUCH - IT'S WAR"


A decree was issued all about,
all with a flourish and a shout,
and a gaily coloured mascot,
tripping lightly on before.

"Don't fiddle with this deadly box,
or break the chains,
or pick the locks,

and please -
don't ever mess around
with WAR".

Well, the children understood -
children happen to be good,
and they were just as good
around the wond'rous days of yore.
They didn't try to pick the locks,
or break into the deadly box,
THEY never tried to play about
with WAR.

Mommies didn't either,
Sisters, Aunts, Grannies neither,
'cause they were quiet, and sweet, and pretty
in those wond'rous days of yore.

Well, much the same as now,
and not the ones to blame somehow
for opening up that deadly box
of WAR.

But someone did.
Someone battered in the lid,
and spilled the insides out across the floor.
A sort of bouncy, bumpy, ball
Made up of guns and flags and all
the tears and horror and the death
that goes along
with WAR.

Well, it bounced right out -
and went bashing all about
and bumping everything in store;
and what was sad, and most unfair,
is that it didn't really seem to care
much who it bumped
or why

or what

or for.


It bumped the children mainly -
and I'll tell you this quite plainly
It bumps them every day
and what is more
It leaves them dead, and burned and dying
THOUSANDS of them, sick and crying
'cause when it bumps -
it's really, very sore.

But there's a way to stop the ball,
it isn't difficult at all
All it takes is wisdom, and I'm absolutely sure,
We could get it back into the box
and bind the chains
and lock the locks..............

But no-one seems to want
to save the children anymore.

Well, that's the way it all appears,
'cause it's been bouncin' round for years and years -
in spite of all the wisdom wizzed,
since those wond'rous days of yore....

And the time they came across that box,
bound up with chains,
and locked with locks
And labelled


"KINDLY DO NOT TOUCH - IT'S WAR"

First HEARD here....
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Chicago-III-...3498764&sr=1-6

Temporarily separated from my Kipling so only a brief quote ..

"When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains .. '

.. may be a bit near the knuckle so will understand if the MOD removes this ref. The Indian Army has published Intelligence summaries on all the frontier wars giving the order of battle & many intriguing details dealing with such things as the deployment of guns in elephant draft.

Lots more Kipling - the 'Song of the Draught Animals', 'There's a Regiment A-coming up the Grand Trunk Road', 'Boots', one about the time-expired man trying not to let on that he knows all the drill when he re-enlists under a false name, 'The Troopship's on The Tide','The Wreck of the Birkenhead' ('To stand and be still ..') etc etc etc.

Originally Posted by Seaweed

.. may be a bit near the knuckle so will understand if the MOD removes this ref. The Indian Army has published Intelligence summaries on all the frontier wars giving the order of battle & many intriguing details dealing with such things as the deployment of guns in elephant draft.

I'm not about censor poetry Seaweed, The young British Soldier is a reflection of Afghanistan as seen by Kipling, in context it's an interesting piece, written so as to be sung as a ballad (one of The Barrack Room Ballads). I have added another of Kiplings' more "earthy" poems below it. The Deever character was found guilty of murder and his hanging was carried out publicly in front of his regiment to "maintain discipline" I think it was set in India but my memory isn't what it could be.

The Young British Soldier.

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier _of_ the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
A' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier _of_ the Queen!

-- Rudyard Kipling


Danny Deever

"WHAT are the bugles blowin' for? " said Files-on-Parade.
"To turn you out, to turn you out," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes you look so white, so white? " said Files-on-Parade.
"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play
The regiment's in 'ollow square - they're hangin' him to-day;
They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard? " said Files-on-Parade.
"It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes that front-rank man fall down? " said Files-on-Parade.
"A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun," the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,
They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;
An' e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound
0 they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!

" 'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade.
" 'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade.
" 'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,
For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' - you must look 'im in the face;
Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the Regiment's disgrace,
While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What's that so black agin the sun? " said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What's that that whimpers over'ead? " said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play
The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day,
After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

he great William McGonagall. So bad he's brilliant!

Lines in praise of Tommy Atkins

Success to Tommy Atkins, he's a very brave man,
And to deny it there's few people can;
And to face his foreign foes he's never afraid,
Therefore he's not a beggar, as Rudyard Kipling has said.

No, he's paid by our Government, and is worthy of his hire;
Aud from our shores in time of war he makes our foes retire,
He doesn't need to beg; no, nothing so low;
No, he considers it more honourable to face a foreign foe.

No, he's not a beggar, he's a more useful man,
And, as Shakespeare has said, his life's but a span;
And at the cannon's mouth he seeks for reputation,
He doesn't go from door to door seeking a donation.

Oh, think of Tommy Atkins when from home far away,
Lying on the battlefield, earth's cold clay;
And a stone or his knapsack pillowing his head,
And his comrades lying near by him wounded and dead.

And while lying there, poor fellow, he thinks of his wife at home,
And his heart bleeds at the thought, and he does moan;
And down his cheek flows many a silent tear,
When he thinks of his friends and children dear.

Kind Christians, think of him when far, far away,
Fighting for his Queen and Country without dismay;
May God protect him wherever he goes,
And give him strength to conquer his foes.

To call a soldier a beggar is a very degrading item,
And in my opinion it's a very great shame;
And the man that calls him a beggar is not the soldier's friend,
And no sensible soldier should on him depend.

A soldier is a man that ought to be respected,
And by his country shouldn't be neglected;
For he fights our foreign foes, and in danger of his life,
Leaving behind him his relatives and his dear wife.

Then hurrah for Tommy Atkins, he's the people's friend,
Because when foreign foes assail us he does us defend;
He is not a beggar, as Rudyard Kipling has said,
No, he doesn't need to beg, he lives by his trade.

And in conclusion I will say,
Don't forget his wife and children when he's far away;
But try and help them all you can,
For remember Tommy Atkins is a very useful man.

Good article in todays Telegraph about the great Wilfred Owen:
Link to Daily Telegraph Article

Whining Whitney tune removed by Chieftiff: