 The Last Rhyme of True Thomas By Rudyard Kipling Read for Librebox.org By Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. The King has called for priest and cop. The King has taken spur and blade. To dub True Thomas a belt at night. And all for the sake o' the songs he made. They have sought him high. They have sought him low. They have sought him over, down, and lee. They have found him by, the milk-white thorn. They guards the gates, O' Fairy. To us bent beneath and blue above, Their eyes were held, that they might not see. The kind that graze between the nose. O they were the Queen's, O' Fairy. Now cease your song, the King, he said. O cease your song, and get your dite. To vow your vow, and watch your arms. For I will dub you a belt at night. For I will give you a horso pride. We blazin' and spur and page and squire. We'll keep and tail and season and law. And land to hold at your desire. True Thomas smiled above his harp, And turned his face to the naked sky. Where blown before the wastrel wind, The thistle down she floated by. I have vowed my vow in another place, And bid her oath it was on me. I have watched my arms the lee long night, Where five-score fighting men would flee. My lance is tipped, O' the hammered flame. My shield is beat, O' the moonlight cold. And I won my spurs in the middle world, A thousand fathoms beneath the mold. And what should I make, we a horso pride? And what should I make, we a sword so brown? But spill the rings, O' the gentle folk, And flight my kin in the fairy town. And what should I make, we blazin' and belt? We keep and tail and season and flee. And what should I do, we page and squire, That am a king in my own country? For I send east and I send west, And I send far as my will may flee. By dawn and dusk and the drinking rain, And sign my sendings return to me. They come, we news of the groanin' earth. They come, we news of the groan sea. We word of spirit and ghost and flesh, And man's that's mazed among the three. The king he bit his nither lip, And smote his hand upon his knee. By the faith o' my soul true Thomas, he said, He waste no wit in courtesy. As I desire unto my pride, can I make earls By three and three, to run before and ride behind, And serve the sons o' my body? And what care I for your row foot earls, Or all the sons o' your body? Before they win to the pride, o' name, I troll they all ask, leave, o' me. For I make honor, we muck o' mouth, As I make shame, we mitzen feet, To sing we the priests at the market cross, Or run we the dogs in the naked street. And some they give me the good red gold, And some they give me the white money, And some they give me a clout o' meal, For they be people o' low degree. And the song I sing for the counted gold, The same I sing for the white money, But best I sing for the clout o' meal, That simple people givin' me. The king cast down a silver groat, A silver groat o' Scot's money. If I come with a poor man's doll, he said, To Thomas will ye harp to me. When as I harp to the children small, They press me close on either hand, And who are you, to Thomas said, That you should ride while they must stand. Light down, light down, from your horse o' pride. I troll ye talk too loud and he, And I will make you a triple word, And sign if ye dare ye shall noble me. He has lighted down from his horse o' pride, And set his back against the stone. Now guard ye well, to Thomas said, ere I wracks your heart from your breastbone. To Thomas played upon his harp, The fairy harp that could not leave, And the first least word the proud king heard, It harpeth the salt tear out o' his e. O I see the love that I lost longsign, I touch the hope that I may not see, And all that I did o' hidden shame, Like little snakes they hiss at me. The sun is lost at noon, at noon, The dread o' doom has gripped me. To Thomas hide me under your cloak, Did what I'm little fit to dee. Twas bent beneath and blue above, Twas open field and running flood, Where hot on heath and dyke and wall, The high sun warmed the actor's rud. Light down, light down, true Thomas said, The God shall judge when all is done, That I will bring you a better word, And lift the cloud that I laid on. To Thomas played upon his harp, That burled and braddled to his hand, And the next least word true Thomas made, It guard the king, take horse and brand. O I heard the tread, O the fighting men, I see the sun on splint and spear, I mark the arrow out in the fern, That flies so low and sings so clear. Advance my standards to that war, And bid my good nights prick and ride, The glee shall watch as fierce afight, As air was fought on the border side. Twas bent beneath and blue above, Twas nodding grass and naked sky, Where ringing up the wastrel wind, The eyes stooped upon the pie. To Thomas sighed above his harp, And turned the song on the midmost string, And the last least word true Thomas made, He harped his dead youth back to the king. Now I am prince, and I do wow, To love my love without in fear, To walk we man in fellowship, And breathe my horse behind the deer, My hounds they bay unto the death, The buck has couched beyond the burn, My love she waits at her window To wash my hands when I return. For that I live am I content, O I have seen my true love's eyes, To stand with Adam in Eden Glade, And run in the woods o' Paradise. Twas nodding grass and naked sky, Twas blue above and bent below, Where checked against the wastrel wind, The red-deer bell to call the doe. To Thomas laid his harp away, And louted low at the saddle-side, He has taken stirrup and haughten rain, And set the king on his horse of pride. Sleepy or wake, true Thomas said, That sit so still, that muse so long, Sleepy or wake, till the latter sleep, I troll ye'll not forget my song. I had harpid a shadow out all the sun, To stand before your face and cry, I had armed the earth beneath your heel, And over your head I had dust the sky, I had harpid ye up to the throne, O God, I had harpid your secret soul in three, I had harpid ye down to the hinges, O hell, And ye would make a night, O me. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. The Story of Ang by Rudyard Kipling, Written for LibriVox.org by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Once on a glittering ice-field ages and ages ago, Ang, a maker of pictures, fashioned an image of snow, Fashioned the form of a tribesman, Galey he whistled and sung, Working the snow with his fingers, Read ye the story of Ang, Pleased was his tribe with that image, Came in their hundreds to scan, Handled it, smelt it, and grunted, Verily this is a man. Thus do we carry our lances, Thus is a war about slung, A. it is even as we are, Glory and honour to Ang. Later he pictured an arohawk, Later he pictured a bear, Pictured the saber-toothed tiger, Dragging a man to his lair, Pictured the mountainous mammoth, Harry abhorrent alone, Out of the love that he bore them, Scribing them clearly on bone, Swift came the tribe to behold them, Hearing and pushing and still, Men of the burg-battered beaches, Men of the boulder hatched hill, Hunters and fishers and trappers, Presently whispering low, Yes they are like, and it may be, But how does the picture man know? Ang hath he slept with the arochs, Watched where the mast on Rome, Spoke on the ice with the bow-head, Followed the saber-toothed home? Nay, these are toys of his fancy, If he have cheated a soul. How is their truth in his image, The man that he fashioned of snow? Roth was the maker of pictures, Hotly he answered the call, Hunters and fishers and trappers, Children and fools are ye all. Look at the beast when ye hunt them, Swift from the turmoil he broke, Ran to the cave of his father, And told him the shame that they spoke, And the father of Ang gave answer, That was old and wise in the craft. Maker of pictures a foretime, He veined on his lance and laughed, If they could see as though seeest They would do what thou hast done, And each man would make him a picture, And what would become of my son? There would be no pelt of the reindeer, Flung down at thy cave for a gift, No dole of the oily timber, That strands with the Baltic drift, No store of well-drilled needles, Nor ouches of amber pale, No new-cut tongues of the bison, Nor meat of the stranded whale. Thou hast not toiled at the fishing, In the sodden trammels freeze, Nor worked the war-boats outward, Through the rush of the rock-steak seas, Yet they bring thee fish and plunder, For meal and an easy bed, And all for the sake of thy pictures, An ung held down his head. Thou hast not stood to the aurochs, In the red snow-rieks of the fight, Men have no time at the howling To count his curls all right, And the heart of the hairy mammoth Thou sayest they do not see, Yet they save it whole from the beaches And broil the best for thee. And now do they press to thy pictures With open mouth and eye, And the little gift in the doorway And the praise no gift can buy. But sure they have doubted thy pictures, And that is a grievous stain, Sun that can see so clearly Return them their gifts again. An ung looked down at his deerskins, Their broad shell-tassled bands, An ung drew downward his mitten, And looked at his naked hands, And he gloved himself and departed, And he heard his father behind. Sun that can see so clearly Rejoice that thy tribe is blind. Straight on that glittering ice-field By the caves of the lost Dorg-Dung, Then a maker of pictures Fell to his scribing on bone, Even to mammoth additions Galey he whistled and sung, Blessing his tribe for their blindness Heed ye the story of ung. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. The Three Decker by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibreVox.org by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The three-volume novel is extinct. Full thirty-foot she towered From waterline to rail. It cost a watch to steer her And a week to shorten sail. Despite all modern notions I found her first and best, The only certain packet For the islands of the blessed. Fair held our breeze behind us, T'was warm with lovers' prayers. We'd stolen wheels for ballast And a crew of missing heirs. They shipped as able-bastards Till the wicked nurse confessed, And they worked the old three-decker For the islands of the blessed. Carumbas and syrapies We waved to every wind. We smoked good carpobacco When our sweethearts proved unkind. With maids of matchless beauty And parentage unguest, We also took our manners To the islands of the blessed. We asked no social questions, We pumped no hidden shame. We never talked abstractrics When the little stranger came. We left the Lord in heaven, We left the fiends in hell. We weren't exactly Yusufs, but Zuluqa didn't tell. No moral doubt assailed us, So when the port was neared. The villain got his flogging At the gangway and we cheered. T'was fiddles in the Foskel, T'was garlands on the mast. For every one got married, And I went ashore at last. I left them all in couples, A kissing on the decks. I left the lovers' loving And the parents' signing checks. In endless English comfort By country folk caress. I left the old three-decker At the islands of the blessed. That root is barred to steamers, You'll never lift again. Our purple-painted headlands, Or the lordy keeps of Spain. They're just beyond the skyline, Howard, so far you cruise. In a ram you dam your liner, With a brace of bucking screws. Swing round your aching searchlight, Till show no heaven's peace. A blow your shrinking sirens To the deaf gray-bearded seas. Boom out the dripping old bags To skin the deeps unrest. But you aren't a knot The nearer to the islands of the blessed. And when you're thrashing crippled With broken bridge and rail, On a drogue of dead convictions To hold you head to gale. Calm as the flying Dutchman, From truck to taffrel dressed, You'll see the old three-decker For the islands of the blessed. You'll see her tearing canvas In sheeted silver spread. You'll hear the long-drawn thunder Neath her leaping figurehead. While far, so far above you, Her tall poop lantern shine, Unvexed by wind or weather Like the candles round a shrine. Hold down, hold down, and under, She dwindles to a speck, With noise of pleasant music And dancing on her deck. All's well, all's well, aboard her, She's dropped you far behind, With ascent of old roses Through the fog that ties you blind. Her crew are babes or madmen, Her port is all to make. Of man by truth and science And you steam for steaming sake. Well tinker up your engines, You know your business best. She's taking tired people To the islands of the blessed. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. An American, by Rudyard Kipling, read for thebervox.org, by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. The American Spirit Speaks. If the lead striker call it a strike, Or the papers call it a war, They know not much what I am like, Nor what he is my avatar. Through many roads, by me possessed, He shambles forth in cosmic guise. He is the jester and the jest, And he the text himself applies. The kelt is in his heart and hand, The gull is in his brain and nerve. After cosmopolitanly planned, He guards the redskins dry reserve. His easy unswipped hearth he lends, From Labrador to Guadalupe. Till elbowed out by slothen friends, He camps at sufferance on the stoop. From eyed he scoffs at sword and crown, Or panic-blinded stabs and slays. Blatent he bids the world bow down, Or cringing brings a crumb of praise. Or somber drunk, at mind and mart, He dubs his dreary brethren kings. His hands are black with blood, His heart leaps as a babes at little things. But though the shift of mood and mood, Mine ancient humor saves him whole. The cynic devil in his blood, That bids him mock his hurrying soul, That bids him flout the law he makes, That bids him make the law he flouts, Till dazed by many doubts he wakes, The drumming guns that have no doubts, That checks him foolish, hot and fond, That chuckles through his deepest ire, That guilds the slew of his despond, But dims the goal of his desire. Inopportune shrill accented the acrid asiatic mirth, That leaves him careless mid his dead, The scandal of the elder earth. How shall he clear himself how reach? Our bar or weighted defense preferer, A brother hedged with alien speech, And lacking all interpreter. Which knowledge vexes him a space? But while reproof around him rings, He turns a keen untroubled face home To the instant need of things. Enslaved illogical elate, He greets the embarrassed gods nor fears, To shake the iron hand of fate, Or match with destiny for beers. Though unperturbable he rules, Uncamped, disreputable, vast, And in the pith of all the schools, I, I shall save him at the last. In the poem this recording is in the public domain. The Mary Gloucester by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org By Linda Marie Nielsen Vancouver, B.C. I've paid for your sickest fancies, I've humored your crackedest whim. Dick, it's your daddy dying, You've got to listen to him. Good for a fortnight, am I? The doctor told you, he lied. I shall go under by morning, And put that nurse outside. Never seen death yet, Dickie, Well now is your time to learn, And you'll wish you held my record Before it comes to your turn. Not counting the line and the foundry, The yards and the village too, I've made myself a million, But I'm damned if I made you. Master at two and twenty, And married at twenty-three, Ten thousand men on the payroll, And forty freighters at sea, Fifty years between them, And every year of it fight. And now I'm Sir Anthony Gloucester, Dying a baronite. For I lunched with his royal, Inus, What was it the papers I had? Not least of our merchant princes, Dickie, that's me, your dad. I didn't begin with askings, I took my job and I stuck, And I took the chances they wouldn't, And now they're calling it luck. But what boats I've handled, Rotten and leaky and old? Ran them or opened the bilgecock Precisely as I was told. Rub that you'd bind you crazy And cruise that a turn you gray, And a big fat lump of insurance To cover the risk on the way. The others they duranced do it, They said they valued their life. They've served me since as skippers, I went and I took my wife. Over the world I drove them, Married at twenty-three, And your mother saving the money, And making a man of me. I was content to be master, But she said there was better behind. She took the chances I wouldn't, And I followed your mother blind. She ate me to borrow the money, And she helped me clear the loan, When we bought half shares in a cheapum, And hoisted a flag of our own, Patching and coaling on credit, And living the Lord knew how. We started the red ox freighters, We've eight and a thirty now, And those were the days of clippers, And the freight were clipper-fraiths, And we knew we were making our fortune, But she died in Maccassar straits. Buy the little pattern-mosters As you come to the Union Bank, And we dropped her in fourteen fathom, I pricked it off where she sank. Owners we were for owners, And the boat was christened for her, And she died out there in child-bed, My heart how young we were. So I went on a spree round Java, And well nigh ran her ashore. But your mother came and warned me, And I wouldn't lick her no more. Strict I stuck to my business, Afraid to stop or I'd think. Saving the money she warned me, And letting the other men drink. And I met Maccalla in London, I'd saved five hundred then, And between us we started the foundry, Three forges and twenty men. Cheap repairs for the cheap ones, It paid and the business grew, For I bought me a steam-lath patent, And that was a gold mine too. Cheaper to build them than buy them, I said, But Maccalla he shied. And we wasted a year in talking, Before we moved to the Clyde. And the lines were all beginning, And we all of us started fair, Building our engines like houses And staying the boiler square. But Maccalla wanted cabins with marble and maple and all, And Brussels and Ulltrecht velvet and baths and a social hall, And pipes for closets all over, And cutting the frames too light. But Maccalla he died in the sixties, And, well, I'm dying to-night. I knew, I knew what was coming, When we bid on the by-fleets' keel. I piddled and peffled with iron, I'd given my orders for steel, Steel and the first expansions, It paid, I tell you it paid. When we came with our nine-knot freighters, And collared the long-run trade, And they asked me how I did it, And I gave in the scripture text, To keep your light so shining, A little in front, o' the next. They copied all they could follow, But they couldn't copy my mind, And I left them sweating and stealing, A year and a half behind. Then came the armour contracts, But that was Maccalla's side. He was always best in the foundry, But better, perhaps, he died. I went through his private papers, The notes were plainer than print, And I'm no fool to finish If a man'll give me a hint. I remember his widow was angry, So I saw what the drawings meant, And I started the six-inch rollers, And it paid me sixty percent, Sixty percent with failures, And more than twice we could do, And a quarter million to credit, And I saved it all for you. I thought it doesn't matter, You seem to favour your ma, But you're nearer forty than thirty, And I know the kind you are. Harrow and Trinity College, I ought to have sent you to see, But I stood you an education, And what have you done for me? The things I knew was proper, You wouldn't thank me to give. And the things I knew was rotten, You said was the way to live, For you muddled with books and pictures And china and etchings and fans, And your rooms at college was beastly, More like a whore's than a man's, Till you married that thin flank woman As white and as stale as a bone, And she gave you your social nonsense, But wears that kid or your own. I've seen your carriages blocking the half of the Cromwell Road, But never the doctor's braum to help the Mrs. Unload, So there isn't even a grandchild, And the Gloucester family's done. Like your mother she isn't, She carried her freight each run, But they died the poor little beggars, At sea she had them they died. Only you, and you stood it, You haven't stood much beside, Weak a liar and idle, And mean as a collier's welp. Looking for scraps in the galley, No help, my son was no help. So he gets three hundred thousand, In trust and the interest paid. I wouldn't give it you, Dickie, You see, I made it in trade. You're saved from soiling your fingers, And if you have no child, It all comes back to the business, Glad won't your wife be wild. Calls and calls in her carriage, And anchor-chief up to her eye. Daddy, dear daddy's dying, And doing her best to cry. Grateful, oh yes, ungrateful, But keep her away from here. Your mother had never has stood her, And anyhow women are queer. There's women will say I've married a second time, not quite, But give poor Eggie a hundred, And tell her your lawyers fight. She was the best, oh the boiling, You meet her before it ends. I'm in for a row with the mother, I'll leave you settle, my friends. For a man he must go with a woman, Which women don't understand, Or the sort that say they can see it, They aren't the marrying brand. But I wanted to speak, oh your mother, That's Lady Gloucester still. I'm going to up and see her, Without it's hurting the will. Here take your hand off the bell-pole, Five thousand's waiting for you. If you'll only listen a minute, And do as I bid you do, They'll try to prove me a loony, And if you bungle they can, And I've only you to trust to, Oh God, why ain't he a man? There's some waste money on marbles, The same as McCullough tried. Marbles and mausoleums, But I call that sinful pride. There's some ship bodies for burial, We've carried them soldiered and packed. Down in their wills they wrote it, And nobody called them cracked. But me I've too much money, And people might, all my fault. It come a-hopping for grandsons, And buying that woken vault. I'm sick, oh the old damn business, I'm going back where I came. Dick, you're the son of my body, And you'll take charge, oh, the same. I'm going to lie by your mother, Ten thousand mile away, And they'll want to send me to walking, And that's where you'll earn your pay. I've thought it out on the quiet, The same as it ought to be done. Quiet and decent and proper, And hears your orders, my son. You know the line? You don't, though. You'll write to the board and tell. Your father's death has upset you, And you're going to cruise for a spell. And you'd like the Mary Glosser. I've held her ready for this. They'll put her in working order, And you'll take her out as she is. Yes, it was money idle when I passed her, And put her aside. Thank God I can pay for my fancies, The boat where your mother died. By the little pattern nostres, As you come to the Union Bank, We dropped her, I think I told you, And I put it off where she sank. Tiny she looked on the grating, That oily, treacally sea, Hundred and eighteen east, Remember, and south just three, Easy bearings to carry, Three south, three to the dot. But I gave McAndrews a copy In case of dying or not. And so you'll write to McAndrews, He's chief of the Maori line. They'll give him leave if you'll ask him And say it's business or mine. I built three boats for the Maori's And very well pleased they were. And I've known Mc since the fifties, And Mc knew me and her. After the first stroke warned me, I sent him the money to keep. Against the time you'd claim it, Committing your dad to the deep. For you are the son of my body, And Mc was my oldest friend. I've never asked him to dinner, But he'll see it out to the end. Stiff necked Glasgow beggar, I've heard he prayed for my soul. But he couldn't lie if you paid him, And he'd starve before he stole. He'll take the Mary in ballast, You'll find her a lively ship. And you'll take Sir Anthony Gloucester That goes on his wedding trip. Lashed in our old debt cabin With all three portholes wide. The kick o' the screw beneath him And the round blue seas outside. Sir Anthony Gloucester's carriage, Our house flag flying free. Ten thousand men on the payroll And forty freighters at sea. He made himself and a million, But the world is a fleeting show. And he'll go to the wife of his bosom The same as he ought to go. By the heel of the pastor nostres There isn't a chance to mistake. And Mac will pay you the money As soon as the bubbles break. Five thousand for six weeks cruising The staunchest freighter afloat. And Mac he'll give you your bonus The minute I'm out o' the boat. He'll take you round to Maccascar And you'll come back alone. He knows what I want o' the merry I'll do what I please with my own. Your mother would call it wasteful But I've seven and thirty more. I'll come in my private carriage And bid it wait at the door. For my son he was never a credit He muddled with books and art. And he lived on Sir Anthony's money And he broke Sir Anthony's heart. There isn't even a grandchild And the Gloucester family's done. The only one you left me, O mother, the only one. Harrier and Trinity College Me slaving early and late. He thinks I'm dying crazy And you're in Maccascar Street. Flesh o' my flesh, my dearie, Forever and ever a man. That first stroke come for a warning I ought to have gone to you then. But cheap repairs for a cheapum The doctor said I do. Three why didn't you warn me I've all is heeded to you. Except I know about women But you are a spirit now. And wife they was only one woman And I was a man, that's how. And a man he must go with a woman As you could not understand. But I never talked in secrets I paid him out o' hand. Thank God I can pay for my fancies Now what's five thousand to me? For a birth off the pastor nostres In the haven where I would be. I believe in resurrection If I read my Bible plain. But I wouldn't trust him at workin' We're safer at sea again. For the heart it shall go with the treasure Go down to the sea in ships. I'm sick of the hired women I'll kiss my girl on her lips. I'll be content with my fountain I'll drink from my own well. And the wife of my youth shall charm me And the rest can go to hell. Dicky he will, that certain I'll lie in our stand in bed. And Mack take her in ballast And she trims best by the head. Down by the head and sinkin' Her fires are drawn and cold. In the water splash and hollow On the skin of the empty hold. Churning and choking and chuckling Quiet and scummy and dark. Full to her lower hatches And rising steady hark. That was the after bulkhead She's flooded from stem to stern. Never seen death yet, Dicky? Well now is your time to learn. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Sestina of the Tramp Royale, by Rudyard Kipling, read for LibriVox.org, by Linda Marie Nielsen, Vancouver, B.C. Speaking in general, I've tried them all, The api roads that take you o'er the world. Speaking in general, I've found them good, For such as cannot use one bed too long, But must get ants the same as I've done, And go observe in matters till they die. What do it matter where or how we die, So long as we've are elf to watch it all, The different ways that different things are done, And men and women lovin' in this world, Takin' our chances as they come along, And when they ain't pretendin' they are good? In cash or credit, no, it ain't no good. You have to have the abbot or you'll die, Unless you lived your life but one day long, Nor did prophecy nor fret at all, But drew your Tucker some ow from the world, And never bothered what you might have done. But God, what things are they I haven't done, I've turned my an to most and turned it good, In various situations round the world, For I'm that doth not work must surely die, But that's no reason man should labour all. Is life on one same shift, Life's none so long? Before, from job to job, I've moved along, Pay couldn't owed me when my time was done, For something in my head upset me all, Till I had dropped whatever was for good, And out at sea be held the dock lights die, And met my mate the wind that tramps the world. It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world, Which you can read and care for just so long, But presently you feel that you will die, Unless you get the page you're readin' done, And turn another, likely not so good, But what you're after is to turn them all. And bless this world, whatever she hath done, Except when awful long I've found it good, So write before I die, elight it all. End of Pome, This recording is in the public domain. End of the Seven Seas by Rudyard Kipling.