 The Old Issue, by Rudyard Kipling, read for LibriVox.org by Elaine Conway, England Here is nothing new, nor ought, unproven, say the trumpets, many feet have worn it, and the road is old indeed. It is the king, the king we schooled a full time, trumpets in the marshes, in the eot at Runnymede. Here is neither haste, nor hate, nor anger, peel the trumpets, pardon for his penitence, or pity for his fall, it is the king, inexorable trumpets. Trumpets ran to the scaffold at the dawning by Whitehall, he hath veiled the crown, and hid the scepter, warned the trumpets, he hath changed the fashion of the lies that cloak his will. Hard die the kings, ah, hard, doom's hard, declare the trumpets, trumpets at the gangplank, where the brawling troupe decks fill, ancient and unteachable, abide, abide the trumpets. Once again the trumpets, for the shuddering grand swell brings, clamour over ocean of the harsh, pursuing trumpets, trumpets of the vanguard, that have sworn no truce with kings, all we have of freedom, all we use or know. This our fathers bought for us, long, long ago, ancient right, unnoticed as the breath we draw, leave to live, by no man's, leave, underneath the law. Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey goose wing, wrenched it, inch and l, and all, slowly from the king, till our fathers established, after bloody years, how our king is one with us, first among his peers. So they bought us freedom, not at little cost, wherefore must we watch the king, lest our gain be lost, over all things certain, this is sure indeed, suffer not the old king, for we know the breed. Give no ear to bondsmen, bidding us endure, whining, he is weak and far, crying, time shall cure, time himself his witness, till the battle joins, deeper strikes the rottenness in the people's loins. Give no heed to bondsmen, masking war with peace, suffer not the old king, here or overseas, they that beg us barter, wait, his yielding get moved, pledge the years we hold in trust, pour our brothers blood, how so great their clamour, what so air, their claim, suffer not the old king, under any name. Here is not unproven, here is not to learn, it is written, watch our fall, if the king return. He shall mark our goings, question whence we came, set his guards about us, as in freedom's name. He shall take a tribute, toll of all our wear, he shall change our gold for arms, arms we may not bear, he shall break his judges, they cross his word, he shall rule above the law, calling on the Lord. He shall peep and mutter, and the night shall bring, watch as neath our window, lest we mock the king. Hate and all division, hosts of harrowing spies, money poured in secret, carrion breeding flies, strangers of his council, healings of his pay, these shall deal our justice, sell, deny, delay. We shall drink dishonour, we shall eat abuse, for the land we look to, for the tongue we use, we shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet, while his hired captains jeered us in the street, cruel in the shadow, crafty in the sun, far beyond his borders shall his teachings run, sloven, sullen, savage, secret, uncontrolled, laying on a new land, evil of the old, long forgotten bonded, dwarfing heart and brain, all our fathers died, to lose he shall bind again. Here is naught adventure, random nor untrue, swings the wheel full circle, brims the cup and you, here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid, step for step and word for word, so the old kings did. Step by step and word by word, who is ruled, may read, suffer not the old kings, for we know the breed, all the right they promise, all the wrong they bring, stewards of the judgement, suffer not this king. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Speaking Utschorn ranges stand up like the thrones of kings, ramparts of slaughter and peril, blazing amazing aglow, twigs the skyline's belting barrel and the wind-dark flats below, Royal the pageant closes, lit by the last of the sun, opal and ash of roses, cinnamon, amber and dun. The twilight swallows the thicket, the starlight reveals the ridge, the whistle shrills to the picket, we are changing guard on the bridge. Few, forgotten and lonely, where the empty metals shine, no not combatants only, details guarding the line. We slip through the broken panel, offence by the gander's shed, we drop to the waterless channel and the lean track overhead. We stumble on refuse of rations, the beef and the biscuit tins, we take our appointed stations and the endless night begins. We hear the hot and taut herders and the sheep click past to the fold and the click of the restless girders as the steel contracts in the cold. Voices of jackals calling and loud in the hush between, a morsel of dry earth falling from the flanks of the scarred ravine. And the solemn firmament marches and the hosts of heaven rise, framed through the iron arches, banded and barred by the tithes. Till we feel the far-track humming and we see her headlight plain, and we gather and wait her coming, the wonderful northbound train. Few, forgotten and lonely, where the white-car windows shine, no not combatants only, details guarding the line. Quick, hear the gift escape us out of the darkness we reach, for a handful of weak old papers and a mouthful of human speech. And the monstrous heaven rejoices and the earth allows again, meetings, greetings and voices of women talking with men. So we return to our places, as out on the bridge she rolls, and the darkness covers our faces, and the darkness reenters our souls. More than a little lonely, where the lessening taillights shine, no not combatants only, details guarding the line. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Lesson 1899-1902 by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org by Patrick Wallace Let us admit it fairly, as a business people should. We have had no end of a lesson. It will do us no end of good. Not on a single issue, or in one direction or twain, but conclusively, comprehensively, and several times and again, were all our most holy illusions not higher than Gilgeroy's kite. We have had a jolly good lesson, and it serves us jolly well right. This was not bestowed us under the trees, nor yet in the shade of a tent, but, swingingly, over eleven degrees of a bare brown continent. From Lambert's to Delagua Bay, and from Petersburg to Sutherland, fell the phenomenal lesson we learned, with a fullness accorded no other land. It was our fault, and our very great fault, and not the judgment of heaven. We made an army in our own image, on an island, nine by seven, which faithfully mirrored its maker's ideals, equipment, and mental attitude. And so we got our lesson, and we ought to accept it with gratitude. We have spent two hundred million pounds, to prove the fact once more, that horses are quicker than men a foot, since two and two make four. And horses have four legs, and men have two legs, and two into four goes twice, and nothing over except our lesson, and very cheap at the price. For remember, this our children shall know, we are too near for that knowledge. Not our mere astonished camps, but council, and creed, and college, all the obese, unchallenged old things, that stifle and overlie us, have felt the effects of the lesson we got, an advantage no money could buy us. Then let us develop this marvellous asset, which we alone command, and which it may subsequently transpire, will be worth as much as the round. Let us approach this pivotal fact in a humble yet hopeful mood. We have had no end of a lesson. It will do us no end of good. It was our fault, and our very great fault, and now we must turn it to use. We have forty million reasons for failure, but not a single excuse. So the more we work, and the less we talk, the better results we shall get. We have had an imperial lesson. It may make us an empire yet. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Files by Rad Yard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org by Salmya Mavin The Files Office Files Ablige me by referring to the Files Every question man can raise, every phrase of every phase of that question is on record in the Files. Threshed out, threadbare, fought and finished in the Files, ere the universe at large was our new tipped arrow's targe, ere we rediscovered Mammon and his wiles. Fianza Gentlereader spent her five and twentieth liter, you will find him and some others in the Files. Warn all future Robert Browning's and Carliles, it will interest them to hunt among the Files, where unvisited a cold, by the crowded years of old, and that cancelled green of greatness called the Files. In our news, Papa Ray lost to say the Office Files, where the dead men lay them down, meekly sure of long renown, and above them Seren Swift packs the daily deepening drift of the all-recording, all-effacing Files. The obliterating automatic Files Count the mighty men who slung ink, evangel, sword, or tongue when reforming you were young, made their boasts and spake according in the Files. Hear the ghosts that wake up plotting in the Files? Trace each all-forgot career from long primer through revere, onto depth, a Paraminion in the Files. Paraminion, solid, bottom of the Files. Some successful kings and queens adorned the Files. They were great, their views were leaded, and their deaths were triple-headed. So they catch the eye in running through the Files, show as blazes in the mazes of the Files. For their paramours and priests, and their gross, jackbooted feasts, and their epoch-marking actions, see the Files. Was it Bomba fled the blue Sicilian Isles? Was it Safi, a professor, once of Oxford, brought redress, or a garibaldi, who remembers forty-odd year-old September's? Only sextons pay to dig among the Files, such as I am, born and bred among the Files. You must hack through much deposit, ere you know for sure who was it, came to burial with such honour in the Files. Only seven seasons back beneath the Files, very great are loss and grievous, so our best and brightest leave us, and it ends the age of giants, say the Files. All the sixty, seventy, eighty, ninety Files, the open-minded opportunist Files, the easy, ok-and-live-forever Files, it is good to read a little in the Files, to the sure and sovereign Bomb, on to philosophic calm, yay and philosophic doubt when life begiles. When you know success is greatness, when you marvel at your lateness, and apprehending facts so plain to smiles, self-helpful, wholly strenuous, sannual smiles. When your impo-blind desire bids you set the tames afire, you'll remember men have done so in the Files. You'll have seen those flames transpire in the Files, more than once the flood has run so in the Files. When the conchmaran horns of the Reboantic Norns usher gentlemen and ladies with new lights on Heaven and Hades, guaranteeing to eternity all yesterday's modernity, when Brock inspectors made by someone's breath on ink parade by very earnest and tremendous. Let not shows of shows offend us, when of everything we like, short aesthetic, quote UBK, quote ab omnibus means semper, oh my brother, keep your temper. Light your pipe and take a look along the Files. You have a better chance to guess, at the meaning of success, which is greatness, V-Day Press, when you've seen it in perspective in the Files. End of poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. DERGE OF THE DEAD SISTARS by Rudyard Kipling readforlibbervox.org by Chris Pyle DERGE OF THE DEAD SISTARS Who recalls the twilight and the ranged tents in order, violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air, and the clink of iron teacups and the piteous noble laughter, and the faces of the sisters with the dust upon their hair. Now and not hereafter, while the breath is in our nostrils, now and not hereafter ere the meaner years go by. Let us now remember many honorable women, such as Bada's turn again when we were like to die. Who recalls the morning and the thunder through the foothills, tufts of fleecy shrapnel strung along the empty plains? And the sun-scarred red-crossed coaches creeping guarded to the culvert, and the faces of the sisters looking gravely from the trains. When the days were torment and the nights were clouded terror, when the powers of darkness had dominion on our soul, when we fled consuming through the seven hells of fever. These put out their hands to us and healed us and made us whole. Who recalls the midnight by the bridge's wrecked abutment, autumn rain that rattled like a maxim on the tin, and the lightning dazzled levels and the streaming, straining wagons, and the faces of the sisters as they bore the wounded in, till the pain was merciful and stunned us into silence, when each nerve cried out on God that made the misused play, when the body triumphed and the last poor shame departed. These abode our agonies and wiped the sweat away. Who recalls the noontide and the funerals through the market, blanket-hidden bodies, flagless, followed by the flies, and the foot-sore firing-party, and the dust and stench and staleness, and the faces of the sisters and the glory in their eyes? Bold behind the battle, in the open camp all hallowed, patient-wise and mirthful in the ringed and reeking town, these endured unresting till they rested from their labours, little wasted bodies, ah, so light to lower down. Yet their graves are scattered, and their names are clean-forgotten. Earth shall not remember, but the waiting angel knows. Then the died at Outflit, when the plague was on the city, her that fell at Simon's town in service on our foes. Wherefore we, they ransomed, while the breath is in our nostrils, now and not hereafter, ere the meaner years go by, praise with love and worship many honourable women, those that gave their lives for us when we were like to die. In the poem, this recording is in the public domain. Derge of the Dead Sisters by Rudyard Kipling read for Libervox.org by Chris Pyle Derge of the Dead Sisters Who recalls the twilight and the ranged tents in order, violet peaks uplifted through the crystal evening air, and the clink of iron teacups and the piteous noble laughter, and the faces of the sisters with the dust upon their hair. Now and not hereafter, while the breath is in our nostrils, now and not hereafter ere the meaner years go by, let us now remember many honourable women, such as bait us turn again when we were like to die. Who recalls the morning and the thunder through the foothills, tufts of fleecy shrapnel strung along the empty plains, and the sun-scarred red-crossed coaches creeping guarded to the culvert, and the faces of the sisters looking gravely from the trains. When the days were torment and the nights were clouded terror, when the powers of darkness had dominion on our soul, when we fled consuming through the seven hells of fever. These put out their hands to us and healed us and made us whole. Who recalls the midnight by the bridges wrecked to butment, autumn rain that rattled like a maxim on the tin, and the lightning dazzled levels and the streaming, straining wagons, and the faces of the sisters as they bore the wounded in, till the pain was merciful and stunned us into silence, when each nerve cried out on God that made the misused play. When the body triumphed and the last poor shame departed, these abode our agonies and wiped the sweat away. Who recalls the noontide and the funerals through the market, blanket-hidden bodies, flagless, followed by the flies, and the footsore firing-party, and the dust and stench and staleness, and the faces of the sisters and the glory in their eyes? Bold behind the battle, in the open camp all hallowed, patient-wise and mirthful in the ringed and reeking town. These endured unresting till they rested from their labours. Little wasted bodies are so light to lower down. Yet their graves are scattered, and their names are clean forgotten. Earth shall not remember, but the waiting angel knows. Then the died at Outflit, when the plague was on the city, heard that fell at Simon's town and serviced on our foes. Wherefore we they ransomed, while the breath is in our nostrils, now and not hereafter ere the meaner years go by. Praise with love and worship many honourable women, those that gave their lives for us when we were like to die. Who so speaks in your presence must say acceptable things, bowing the head in worship, bending the knee in fear, bringing the word well-smoothened such as a king should hear, fenced by your careful fathers, ringed by your lead and seas. Long did ye wake in quiet and long lie down at ease, till ye set of strife what is it of the sword, it is far from our kin, till ye made a sport of your shrunken hosts and a toy of your armed men. Ye stopped your ears to the warning, ye would neither look nor heed, ye set your leisure before their toil and your lusts above their need, because of your witless learning and your beasts of warren and chase, ye grudged your sons to their service and your fields for their camping place, ye forced them glean in the highways, the straw for the bricks they brought, ye forced them following byways, the craft that ye never taught, ye hindered and hampered and crippled, ye thrust out aside in a way, those that would serve ye for honour and those that served ye for pay. Then where the judgments loosened, then was your shame revealed, at the hands of a little people, few but apt in the field, yet ye were saved by a remnant and your land's long-suffering star, when your strongmen cheered in their millions while your striplings went to the war. Sons of the sheltered city, unmade, unhandled, unmeat, ye pushed them raw to the battle as ye picked them raw from the street, and what did ye look they should compass? Warcraft learned in a breath knowledge unto occasion at the first far view of death, so, and ye train your horses and the dogs ye feed in prize? How are the beasts more worthy than the souls your sacrifice? But ye said, their valour shall show them, but ye said, the end is close, and ye sent them comfits and pictures to help them harry your foes, and ye vaunted your fathomless power, and ye flaunted your iron pride, ere ye fond on the younger nations for the men who could shoot and ride. Then ye returned to your trinkets, then ye contented your souls, with the flanneled foals at the wicket, or the muddied oafs at the goals, given to strong delusion, holy believing a lie. Ye saw that the land lay fenceless, and ye let the months go by, waiting some easy wonder, hoping some saving sign, idle, openly idle, in the lee of the forespent line, idle, except for your boasting, and what is your boasting worth, if ye grudge a year of service to the Lordeous life on earth? Ancient, effortless, ordered, cycle on cycle set, life so long untroubled, that ye who inherit forget. It was not made with the mountains, it is not one with the deep. Men, not gods, devised it. Men, not gods, must keep. Men, not children, servants, or kinsfolk, called from afar, but each man born in the island broke to the matter of war, soberly and by custom taken, and trained for the same. Each man born in the island entered at youth to the game, as it were almost cricket, not to be mastered in haste, but after trial and labor, by temperance, living chase, as it were almost cricket, as it were even your play, weighed and pondered and worshipped, and practiced day in day. So ye shall bide, sure guarded, when the restless lightnings wake, in the womb of the blotting war cloud, and the pallid nations quake. So, at the haggard trumpets, instant your soul shall leap, forthright, occuded, accepting, alert from the wells of sleep. So at the threat ye shall summon, so at the need ye shall send. Men, not children or servants, tempered and taught to the end, cleansed of servile panic, slow to dread or despise, humble because of knowledge, mighty by sacrifice. But ye say it will mar our comfort, ye say it will diminish our trade. Do ye wait for the spattered shrapnel, ere ye learn how a gun is laid, for the low, red glare to southward, when the raided coast towns burn? Light ye shall have on that lesson, but little time to learn. Will ye pitch some white pavilion, and lustily even the odds, with nets and hoops and mallets, with rackets and bats and rods? Will the rabbit war with your foemen, the red deer horn them for hire? Your kept cock pheasant keep you? He is master of many a shire, arid, aloof, incurious, unthinking, unthinking, guilt. Will ye loose your skulls to flout them, till their browby columns melt? Will ye pray them or preach them, or print them, or ballot them back from your shore? Will your workmen issue a mandate to bid them strike no more? Will ye rise unto throne your rollers, because ye were idle both? Pride by insolence chastened? Indolence purged by sloth? No doubt but ye are the people, who shall make you afraid? Also your gods are many, no doubt but your gods shall aid. Idols of greasy altars, built for the body's ease, proud little brazen bales, and talking fetishies, tariffs of septum party, and wisewood pavement gods. These shall come down to the battle and snatch you from under the rods, from the gusty, flickering gun roll, with viewless salvos rent, and the pitted hail of the bullets, that tell not once they were sent. When ye are ringed as with iron, when ye are scorched as with whips, when the meat is yet in your belly, and the boast is yet on your lips. When ye go forth that morning, and the noon beholds you broke, ere ye lie down at even, your remnant under the yoke. No doubt but ye are the people, absolute strong and wise. Whatever your heart has desired, ye have not withheld from your eyes. On your own heads, in your own hands, the sin and the saving lies. And of poem this recording is in the public domain. THE PIECE OF DEVES by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson The word came down to thieves in torment where he lay. Our world is full of wickedness, by children maim and slay, and the saint and seer and prophet can make no better of it than to sanctify and prophesy and pray. Rise up, rise up thou thieves, and take again thy gold, and thy women and thy housing as they were to thee of old. It may be Grace hath found thee, and the furnace where we bound thee, and that thou shalt bring my peace, my son foretold. Then merrily rose thieves and leaped from out his fire, and walked abroad with diligence to do the Lord's desire. And anon the battle ceased, and the captives were released, and earth had rest from Gushan to Gediar. The word came down to Satan that raged and warred alone, mid the shouting of the peoples by the cannon overthrown. But the prophets, saints, and seers set each other by the ears, for each would claim the marvel as his own. Rise up, rise up thou Satan upon the earth to go, and prove the peace of thieves if it be good or no, for all that he hath planned we delivered to thy hand, as thy skill shall serve to break it or bring it low. Then merrily rose Satan, and about the earth he hide, and breathed on kings in idleness, and princes drunk with pride. But for all the wrong he breathed there was never sword unsheathed, and the fires he lighted flickered out and died. Then terribly rose Satan, and he darkened earth afar, till he came on cunning thieves where the money-changers are, and he saw men pledge their gear for the gold that buys the spear, and the helmet and the harbour-gen of war. Yea, to thieves came the Persian and the Syrian and the Mede, and their hearts were nothing altered, nor their cunning nor their greed, and they pledged their flocks and farms for the king-compelling arms, and thieves lent according to their need. Then Satan said to thieves, return again with me, who has broken his commandment in the day he set thee free, who grindest for thy greed man's belly-pinch and need, and the blood of man to fill the usury. Then softly answered thieves where the money-changers sent. My refuge is our master, O my master in the pit, but behold all earth is laid in the peace which I have made, and behold I wait on thee to trouble it. Then angrily turned Satan and about the seas he fled to shake the new-sown peoples with insult, doubt, and dread. But for all the sleight he used there was never squadron loosed, and the brandsy flung flew dying and fell dead. Yet to thieves came Atlantis and the captains of the West, and their hate were nothing weakened, nor their anger nor unrest, and they punged their utmost trade for the dry decreeing blade. And thieves lent and took of them their best. Then Satan said to thieves, Declare thou by thy name the secret of thy subtlety that turneth mine to shame. It is known through all the hells how my peoples mocked my spells, and my faithfulest kings denied me ere I came. Then answered cunning thieves, Do not gold and hate abide at the heart of every magic, yea and senseless fear beside? With gold and fear and hate I have harnessed state to state, and with hate and fear and gold their hates are tied. For hate men seek a weapon, for fear they seek a shield. Keener blades and broader charges than their frantic neighbor's wield. For gold I arm their hands, and for gold I buy their lands, and for gold I sell their enemies the yield. Their nearest foes may purchase, or their furthest friends may lease, one by one from ancient Acad to the islands of the seas, and their covenants they make for the naked iron's sake. But I, I trapped them armored into peace. The flocks that Egypt pledged me to Assyria I drained, and Pharaoh hath the increase of the herds that Sargon gave. Not for Ashdod overthrown will the kings destroy their own, or their peoples wake the strife they feigned to bring. Is not Calna like Khakamish? For the steeds of their desire they have sold me seven harvests that I sell to crowning Tyre, and the Tyrian sweeps the plains with a thousand hired wanes, and the cities keep the peace and share the hire. Has thou seen the pride of Moab? For the swords about his path his bond is to Felistia, in half of all he hath. And he dare not draw the sword till Gaza give him word, and he shall release from Ascalon a gath. Will thou call again thy peoples? Will thou craze anew thy kings? Lo, my lightnings pass before thee, and the whistling servant brings ere the drowsy street hath stirred, every mast and midnight word, and the nations break their fast upon these things. So I make a jest of wonder, and a mock of time and space, the ruthless seas and hostile, and the earth a marketplace, where the anxious traders know each is surety for his foe, and none may thrive without his fellow's grace. Now this is all my subtlety, and this is all my wit. God give thee good enlightenment, my master in the pit. But behold, all earth is laid in peace which I have made, and behold, I wait on thee to trouble it. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. South Africa by Rajard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Mapstone Lived a woman wonderful, may the Lord amend her, neither simple, kind, nor true, but her pagan beauty drew Christian gentlemen a few, hotly to attend her. Christian gentlemen a few, from Beric unto Dover, for she was South Africa, and she was South Africa, she was our South Africa, Africa all over. Half her land was dead with drought, half was red with battle, she was fenced with fire and sword, plague on pestilence outpoured, locusts on the greening shward, and moraine on the cattle. True are true and over true, that is why we love her, for she is South Africa, and she is South Africa, she is our South Africa, Africa all over. Bitter hard her lovers toiled, scandalous their payment, food forgot on trains derailed, cattle dung where fuel failed, water where the mules had staled, and sackcloth for their raiment. So she filled their mouths with dust and their bones with fever, greeted them with cruel limes, treated them despiteful wise, meted them calamitise, till they vowed to leave her. They took ship and they took sail, raging from her borders, in a little none the less, they forgot their sword's dress, they forgave her waywardness, and returned for orders. They esteemed her favour more than a throne's foundation, for the glory of her face bade farewell to breed and race, yea and made their burial place, altar of a nation. Wherefore, being bought by blood, and by blood restored, adored to the arms that nearly lost, she, because of all she cost, stands the very woman most perfect and adored. On your feet and let them know this is why we love her, for she is South Africa, she is our South Africa, is our own South Africa, Africa all over. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. Here, in a large and sunlit land, where no wrong bites to the bone, I will lay my hand in my neighbour's hand, and together we will atone, for the set folly and the red breach, and the black waste of it all, giving and taking counsel each over the cattle crawl. Here will we join against our foes, the hail stroke and the storm, and the red and rustling cloud that blows the locust's mild deep swarm, frost and marine and floods let loose, shall launch us side by side, in the holy wars that have no truce, to exceed and harvest tide. Earth, where we rode to slay or be slain, our love shall redeem unto life. We will gather and lead to her lips again, the waters of ancient strife. From the far and the fiercely guarded streams, and the pools where we lay in wait, till the corn cover our evil dreams, and the young corn our hate. And when we bring old fights to mind, we will not remember the sin, if there be blood on his head of my kind, or blood on my head of his kin. For the ungrazed upland, the untilled lee, cry in the fields forlorn, the dead must bury their dead, but ye, ye serve and host unborn. Bless then, our God, the new yoked plow, and the good beasts that draw, and the bread we eat in the sweat of our brow, according to thy law. After us come at the multitude, prosper the work of our hands, that we may feed with our land's food, the folk of all our lands. Here, in the waves and the troughs of the plains, where the healing stillness lies, and the vast, benignant sky restrains, and the long days make wise, bless to our use the rain in the sun, and the blind seed in its bed, that we may repair the wrong that was done to the living and the dead. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Service Songs by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson Tommy Tommy, U.S. when it began. But now that is o'er. You shall be called the service man, ins forward evermore. Battery Brigade Flank Center van. Defaulter, Army Corps. From first to last the service man, ins forward evermore. From Alifax to Industan. From York to Singapore. Ours, foot and guns, the service man, ins forward evermore. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Chant Pagan by Rudyard Kipling Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Mapstone English Irregular, 99-02 Me that have been what I have been, me that have gone where I have gone, me that have seen what I have seen, how can I ever take on with awful old England again, and houses both sides of the street, and edges two sides of the lane, and the parson and gentry between, and touching me out when we meet, me that have been what I've been, me that have watched half the world, Eve up all shiny with Jew, cop your uncop to the sun, and soon as the mist let them through, our ellioes winking like fun, three sides of a ninety mile square, or valleys as big as a shire, are ye there, are ye there, are ye there, and then the blind drum of our fire, and I'm rolling his lawns for the squire, me, me that have rode through the dark, forty mile off and on end, along the Malinsburg range, with only the stars for my mark, and only the night for my friend, and things running off as you pass, and things jumping up in the grass, and the silence the shine and the size of the high inexpressible skies. I am taking some letters almost as much as a mile to the post, and mind you come back with the change, me, me that saw Barberton took when we dropped through the clouds on their head, and they ove the guns over and fled, me that was through Diamond Hill, and Peaches and Spring and Belfast, from Dundee to Varyingine All, me that stuck out to the last, and fight blooming bars on my chest. I am doing my Sunday school best by the elf of the squire and his wife, not to mention the housemaid and cook, to come in and hands up and be still, and honestly work for my bread, my living in that state of life to which it shall please God to call me. Me that have followed my trade in the place where the lightnings are made, tricks the rains and the sun and the moon, me that lay down and got up, three years in the sky for my roof, that have ridden my hunger and thirst, six thousand raw miles on the oof, with the val and the orange for cup, and the brand water basin for dish, oh it's hard to behave as they wish, too hard and a little too soon, I'll have to think over it first, me. I will rise and get ends, I will trek south and make sure, if it's only my fancy or not, that the sunshine of England is pale, and the breezes of England are stale, and there's something gone small with the lot, for I know of a sun and a wind, and some plains and a mountain behind, and some graves by a barred wire fence, and a Dutchman I fought who might give, me a job where I ever inclined, look in an off-saddle and live, where there's neither a road nor a tree, but only my maker and me, and I think it will kill me or cure, so I think I will go there and see. I wish my mother could see me now, with a fence-post under my arm, and a knife and a spoon in my putties that I found on a bower-farm, atop of a soul-backed Argentine with a thirst that you couldn't buy. I used to be in the yolk-shires once, Sussex, Lincoln's and Rifles once, Hampshire's, Gloucesters and Scottish once, but now I am am I. That is what we are known as. That is the name you must call. If you want officers, servants, pickets and horse-guards and all. Details for burying parties, company cooks or supply. Turn out the chronic iconas. Roll up, the M.I. My hands are spotty with veldsoys. My shirt is a button and frill, and the things I've used my bayonet for would make a tinker ill, and I don't know whose damn column I'm in, nor where we're trekking, nor why. I've trekked from the val to the orange once, from the val to the greasy Pongolo once, or else it was called the Zambezi once, for now I am am I. That is what we are known as. We are the pusher require, for outpost all night under freezing, and rear-guide all day under fire. Anything hot or unwholesome? Anything dusty or dry? Borrow a bunch of iconas. Trot out the M.I. All sergeant-majors, a sub-latern, are captains of Fusillier, are agitans late of somebody's horse, and a Melbourne auctioneer. But you couldn't spot us at our from mile darkest calvary? They used to talk about lancers once. Who saw us dragoons and lancers once? Elmets, pistols, and carbines once? But now we are am I. That is what we are known as. We are the orphans, they blame, for begging the loan of an ed stall and making a mount to the same. Can't even look at our horse-line, but someone goes beller and hey, here comes a burglin icona, Fusacu, am I. We're trekking our twenty miles a day and being loved by the Dutch, but we don't hold on by the main no more nor lose our stirrups much, and we scout with a senior man in charge where the only white flags fly. We used to think they were friendly once, didn't take any precautions once, once meducky and only once, but now we are am I. That is what we are known as. We are the beggars that got, three days to learn equitation, and six months of blooming well trot. Cowguns and cattle and convoys and Mr. Dewitt on the fly. We are the rolling iconas. We are the am I. The new fat regiments come from home, imagine in vain VCs. The same as our talky, fighty men, which are often number threes, but our words of command are scatter and close and let your wounded lie. We used to rescue them noble once, given the range as we raised them once, getting them killed as we saved them once, but now we are am I. That is what we are known as. We are the lanterns you view, after a fight round the copches, looking for men that we knew, whistling and calling together, alting to catch the reply, help me, oh help me, iconas, this way, the am I. I wish my mother could see me now, I gather a news on my own, when I ride like a general up to the scrub, and ride back like Todd Sloan. Remarkable close to Mao's neck to let the shots go by. We used to fancy it risky once, called it a reconnaissance once, under the charge of an officer once, but now we are am I. That is what we are known as, that is the song you must say, when you want men to be mausered at one and a penny a day, we are no five-bogged colonials, we are the homemade supply. Ask for the London iconas, ring up, the am I. I wish myself could talk to myself, as I had left him a year ago. I could tell him a lot that would save him a lot, on the things that he ought to know. When I think of that ignorant barracks bird, it almost makes me cry. I used to belong in an army once, God what a rum little army once, red little, dead little army once, but now I am am I. That is what we are known as. We are the men that have been, over a year at the business, smelt it and felt it and seen. I have got old of the needful you will be told by and by. Wait till you've heard the iconas, spoke to the old am I. Mount, march iconas, stand to your horses again, mop off the frost on the saddles, mop up the miles on the plain, go out the stars at the dawn in, up goes our dust to the sky, walk trot iconas, trek chow, the old am I. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Columns by Rudyard Kipling, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Mapstone. Mobile Columns of the Later Wars. Out of the wilderness, dusty and dry, time and eye time to be trekking again, who is it, Ed's to the detailed supply, a section of pom-pom and 600 men? Here comes the Clark with his lantern in keys, time and eye time to be trekking again, surplus of everything, draw what you please, for the section of pom-pom and 600 men? What are our orders and where did we lay? Time and eye time to be trekking again, you came after dark, you will leave before day, you section, you pom-pom and 600 men? Down the Tynes Street half-awake and unfed, arc to un-blessing the general in bed, now by the church in the outspan they wind, over the ridge and it's all left behind, for the section of pom-pom and 600 men? Soon they will camp as the dawn's growing grey, roll up for coffee and sleep what they may, the section the pom-pom and 600 men? Read their own letters, their papers and such, for they'll move after dark to astonish the Dutch with a section of pom-pom and 600 men? Untimped for shade as the long hours pass, blankets on rifles or burrows in grass, lies the section the pom-pom and 600 men? Dossing and beating a shirt in the sun, washing comedians or cleaning a gun, waste the section the pom-pom and 600 men? With nothing but stillness as far as you please, and the silly mirage stringing islands and seas, round the section the pom-pom and 600 men? So they strip off their eyed and they grills in their bones, till the shadows crawl out from beneath the poor stones, towards the section the pom-pom and 600 men? And the mouser bird stops and the jackals begin, and the horse-guard comes up and the gunners look in, as they enter the pom-pom and 600 men? Off through the dark with the stars to rely on, Alpha Centurion, something Orion, moves the section the pom-pom and 600 men? Soon blaming all where the ant-bearers broke, the same blooming stumble and same blooming joke, down the section the pom-pom and 600 men? Same wishes right where the cart tracks divide, the same give it up from the same clever guide, the same section the pom-pom and 600 men? Same tumble down on the same hidden farm, same white eyed calf who gives the alarm, of the section the pom-pom and 600 men? Same shooting wild at the end of the night, same flying tackle and same messy flight, by the section the pom-pom and 600 men? Same ugly hiccup and same horrid squeal, when it's too dark to see and it's too late to feel, in the section the pom-pom and 600 men? Same batch of prisoners, airy and still, watching their comrades bolt over the hill, from the section the pom-pom and 600 men? Same chilly glare in the eye of the sun, as he gets up displeasured to see what was done, by the section the pom-pom and 600 men? Same splash of pink on the stoop or the crowd, and the same quiet face which is finished with all, in the section the pom-pom and 600 men? Out of the wilderness dusty and dry, time and eye time to be trekking again, who is it adds to the detailed supply? A section a pom-pom and 600 men? On the nth instant, a mixed detachment of colonials, left Blunk for Cape Town, there to rejoin their respective homeward bound contingents, after 15 months service in the field. They were escorted to the station, by the regular troops in Garrison, and the bulk of Colonel Blunk's column, which has just come in to refit preparatory to further operations. The leave taking was of the most cordial character, the men cheering each other continuously. Any newspaper? We've rolled in four and eight and drunk as rations come to hand, together for a year or more around this stinking land. Now you're going home again, but we must see it through. We needn't tell we liked you well. Goodbye, good luck to you. You had no special call to come, and so you doubled out, and learned us how to camp and cook, and steal our horse and scout. Whatever game we fancied most, you joyful played it too, and rather better or no. Goodbye, good luck to you. There isn't much we haven't shared since Kruger cut and run. The same old work, the same old scoff, the same old dust and sun, the same old chance that laid us out, or winked and let us through. The same old life, the same old death. Goodbye, good luck to you. Our blood has truly mixed with yours, all down the Red Cross train. We've bit the same thermometer in blooming typhoid tane. We've had the same old temperature, the same relapses too. The same old sawback fever chart. Goodbye, good luck to you. But wasn't merely this and that, which all the world may know, it was how you talked and looked at things which made us like you so. All independent, queer and odd, but most amazing new. My word, you shock us up to rights. Goodbye, good luck to you. Think of the stories round the fire, the tales along the trek, a Calgary and Wellington and Sydney and Quebec, and mine and farm and ranch and run, and moose and caribou, and Parrots pecking lambs to death. Goodbye, good luck to you. We've seen you own by word of mouth. We've watched your rivers shine. We've urged your blooming forest blow of eucalyptum pine. Your young gay countries north and south, we feel we own them too. For they was made by rank and file. Goodbye, good luck to you. We'll never read the papers now without inquiring first for word from all those friendly dorks where you was born and nursed. Why Dawson, Gaul and Montreal, Port Darwin, Timaru. They're only just across the road. Goodbye, good luck to you. Goodbye, so long. Don't lose yourself. Nor us, nor all kind friends. But tell the girls your side the drift we're coming when it ends. Goodbye, you blooming atlases. You've taught us something new. The world's no bigger than a crow. Goodbye, good luck to you. To you. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Two copiers by Rudyard Kipling. Read for LibriVox.org by Alan Mapstone. Made humanry. Only two African copiers. Only the car tracks that wind empty and open between them. Only the trans fell behind. Only an older shot only an older shot column marching to conquer the land. Only a certain and solemn visit unarmed to the rand. Then scorn not the African copier the copier that smiles in the heap the wholly unoccupied copier the home of Cornelius and Pete. You can never be sure of your copier but of this be you blooming well sure a copier is always a copier and a butcher is always a boar. Only two African copiers. Only the vultures above. Only baboons at the bottom. Only some buck on the move. Only a Kensington Draper. Only pretending to skate. Only bad news for the paper. Only another knockout. Then mock not the African copier and rub not your flank on its side. The silent and simmering copier the copier be loved by the guide. You can never be sure of your copier but of this be you blooming well sure. A copier is always a copier and a butcher is always a boar. Only two African copiers. Only the dust of their wheels. Only a bolted commando. Only our guns at their heels. Only a little barbed wire. Only a natural fork. Only bisections retire. Only regret to return. Only a little barbed wire. Only a natural fork. Only regret to report. Then mock not the African copier especially when it is twins. One sharp and one tabletop copier. For that's where the trouble begins. You can never be sure of your copier but of this be you blooming well sure. A copier is always a copier and a butcher is always a boar. Only two African copiers. Baited the same as before. Only we've had it so often. Only we're taking no more. Only a wave to our troopers. Only our flanks swinging past. Only a dozen vorlupers. Only we've learned it at last. Then mock not the African copier but take off your act to the same. The patient impartial old copier. The copier that taught us the game. For all that we knew in the columns and all they forgot on the staff we learned at the fight of two copiers which lasted two years and a half. O mock not the African copier not even when peace has been signed. The copier that isn't a copier the copier that copies its kind. You can never be sure of your copier but of this be you blooming well sure that a copier is always a copier and a butcher is always a copier and a butcher is always a boar. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. Then watched him write my captain's epitaph so that a long way off it could be read he has the knack of making men feel small old whistle-tip who isn't on the staff. There is no sense in fleeing I have fled better go on and do the belly crawl and hope you'll it some other man instead of you he seems to aren't so special Fitz even spits who isn't on the staff and thus in memories gratis biograph now that the show is over I recall the peevish voice of an ory mushroom ed a vim we owned was greater than us all who give instruction to the quick and the dead the shutter and beggar not upon the staff End of poem, this recording is in the public domain Boots by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Alan Mapstone We're foot slog slog slog slog you know we're Africa foot foot foot foot slogging over Africa Boots boots boots boots moving up and down again there's no discharge in the war 7 6 11 5 9 and 20 mile a day 4 11 17 32 the day before Boots boots boots boots moving up and down again there's no discharge in the war don't don't don't don't look at what's in front of you Boots boots boots boots moving up and down again men men men men men go mad with watching them there's no discharge in the war try try try try to think of something different oh my god keep me from going lunatic Boots boots boots boots moving up and down again there's no discharge in the war count count count count bullets in the bandoliers if your eyes drop they will get to top of you Boots boots boots boots moving up and down again there's no discharge in the war we can stick out hunger thirst and weariness but not not not not the chronic sight of them Boots boots boots moving up and down again there's no discharge in the war take so bad by day because the company but night brings long strings of 40,000 million Boots boots boots boots moving up and down again there's no discharge in the war I have March 6 weeks in L and certify is not fired devil's dark or anything but Boots boots boots moving up and down again and there's no discharge in the war end of poem this recording is in the public domain and he fights for three for M. Menor in it and two when one makes three he wants to finish his little bit and he wants to go home to his tea the bachelor pokes up is Ed to see if you are gone but the married man lies down instead and waits till the sights come on for M. Menor and the hit director Rikichi he wants to finish his little bit and he wants to go home to his tea the bachelor will miss you clear another day but the married man he says no fear he wants you out of the way of M. Menor in it and his road is farm or the sea he wants to finish his little bit and he wants to go home to his tea the bachelor he fights his fight and stretches out and snores but the married man sits up all night or he don't like the outdoors he'll strain and listen and peer and give the first alarm for the sake of the breathing and give the thick of his arm the bachelor may risk his eye to help you when you're down but the married man will wait beside till the ambulance comes round you'll take your own address and all you've time to say or if he sees there's hope you'll press your artery after the day for M. Menor in it and one from three leaves two for he knows you wanted to finish your bit and he knows who's wanting you yes M. Menor in it three were all of us anxious to finish our bit and we want to get home to our tea yes it and her and him which often makes me think the married man must sink or swim and he can't afford to sink a whim and it dinner since Adam and Eve began so I'd rather fight with the bachelor and be nursed by the married man end of poem this recording is in the public domain still in Bosch by Rajard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Alan Mapstone the general erred the firing on the flank and he sent a mounted man to bring him back the silly pushing persons name and rank who dare to answer brother Boer's attack for there might have been a serious engagement and he might have wasted half a dozen men so he ordered him to stop his operations round the copiers and he told him off before the staff at ten and it all goes into the laundry but it never comes out in the wash and we're sugared it back by the old men every sterned amateur old men the amperininder and scold men for fear of Stella and Bosch the general had produced a great effect the general at the country cleared almost the general had no reason to expect and the Boer has had us blooming well on toast for we might have crossed the drift before the twilight instead of sitting down and taking root but we was not allowed so the Booja scooped the crowd to the last surviving bandolier and boot the general saw the farm house in his rear with its stoop so nicely shaded from the sun it says I'll pitch my tabernacle here and he kept us mucking round till he had done for he might have caught the confluent pneumonia from sleeping in his gaiters in the Jew so he took a book and dozed while the other columns closed and commandos out and trickled through the general saw the mountain range ahead with their ellio showing saucy on the ice so he held us to the level ground instead and telegraphed the boogers wouldn't fight for he might have gone and sprayed him with a pom-pom or he might have slung a squadron out to sea but he wasn't taking chances in them eye and hostile crances he was marking time to earn a KCB the general got his decorations thick the men that backed his lies could not complain the staff had DSOs till we were sick and the soldier had the work to do again for he might have known the district was an op-bed instead of anding over upside down to a man who had to fight half a year to put it right while the general went and slandered him in town and it all went into the laundry but it never came out in the wash we were sugared aback by the old men panicky perishing old men the emperor and inder and scold men for fear of Stella and Bosch end of poem this recording is in the public domain half ballad of water Val by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Alan Mapstone when by the labour of my hands I've helped to pack a transport type with prisoners for foreign lands I ain't transported with delight I know it's only just and right and somehow sickened me for I have learned at WaterVal the meaning of captivity behind the peg-barred wire strands beneath the tall electric light we used to walk in bare-ed bands explaining how we lost our fight and that is what they'll do tonight upon the steamer out at sea if I have learned at WaterVal the meaning of captivity they'll never know the shame that brands black shame, no living down makes white the mocking from the sentry stands the women's laugh, the jailer's spite we are too blooming much polite but that is how I'd have us be since I have learned at WaterVal the meaning of captivity they'll get those dragging days alright spent as a foreigner commands and horrors of the locked up night with hell's own thinking on their hands I'd give the gold a twenty round if it were mine to set them free for I have learned at WaterVal the meaning of captivity end of poem this recording is in the public domain Pay it regular of the line by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Alan Matstone I'll do not love my empire I'll do not love my empire I'll do not love my empire's foes nor call them angels still what is the sense of eating those whom you are paid to kill so barring all that foreign lot which only join for a spite myself I'd just as soon as not respect the man I fight ah there Pete his trousers to his knees his coat tails lying level in the bullet sprinkled breeze he does not lose his rifle and he does not lose his seat I've known a lot of people ride a damn sight worse than Pete I've heard him crying from the ground like Abel's blood of old and skirmished out to look and found the beggar nearly cold I've waited on till he was dead which couldn't help him much but many grateful things he said to me for doing such ah there Pete whose time has come to die his carcass past rebellion and his eyes inquiring why though dressed in stolen uniform with badge of rank complete I've known a lot of fellas go a damn sight worse than Pete and when there wasn't ought to do but camp and cattle guards I fought with him the old day through at 1500 yards long afternoons are lying still and hearing as you lay the bullets swish from ill to ill like scythes among the A ah there Pete behind his stony cop with his burr bread and builtong and his flask of awful dopp his mouser for amusement and his pony for retreat I've known a lot of fellas shoot a damn sight worse than Pete he shoved his rifle near my nose before I had time to think and borrowed all my Sunday clothes and sent me home in pink and I have crept lord how I've crept on hands and knees I've gone and spored and floored and caught and kept and sent him to Ceylon ah there Pete you've sold me many a pup when week on week alternate it was you and me hands up but though I never made you walk man naked in the heat I've known a lot of fellas I've known a damn sight worse than Pete from Plumans to Marabastad from Ukaipe to Daar me and my trusty friend of ad as you might say a war but seeing what both parties done before they own defeat I ain't more proud of having won than I am pleased with Pete ah there Pete picked up behind the drive the wonder wasn't how he fought but how he kept alive with nothing in his belly on his back or to his feet I've known a lot of men behave a damn sight worse than Pete now more I'll ear his rifle crack along the blockhouse fence the beggars on the peaceful track regardless of expense for counting what he eats and draws and gifts and loans as well he's getting off the earth because he didn't give a sell ah there Pete ah there Pete with your brand new English plow your gris, tents and cattle and your most ungrateful frow you've made the British taxpayer rebuild your country's seat I've known some pet battalions charge a damn sight less than Pete end of poem this recording is in the public domain there is a world outside the one you know to which for curiousness L can't compare it is the place where willful missings go as we can testify for we are there you may have read a bullet latest low that we was gathered in with reverent care and buried proper but it was not so as we can testify for we are there they can't be certain though after the old as vogals at its share the uniforms the mark by which they go and ain't it odd the one we best can spare we might have seen our chance to cut the show name, number, record and begin elsewhere leaving some not too late lamented foe one funeral, private, British, for his share we may have took it yonder in the low bush veldt that sends men's dragglin unaware we might have been your lovers long ago us-bins or children comfort or despair our death and burial settles all we owe and why we done it is our own affair marry again and we will not say no nor come to bastardize the kids you bear wait on an oak you've all your life below before you'll ever ear us on the stare there is no need to give our reasons though God is there for us we are there for you we are there for you we need to give our reasons though God knows we all add reasons which were fair but the other people might not judge him so and now it doesn't matter what they were what man concise or way and others woe there are some things too bitter hard to bear suffice it we have finished domino as we can testify for we are there in the side world where the willful missings go end of poem this recording is in the public domain ubi quay by rudyard kippling read for LibriVox.org by Patrick Wallace there is a word you often see pronounce it as you may you bike you bike we a bi quay alluded to r.a. it serves Osfield and garrison as moho for a crest when you found out all it means I'll tell you off the rest ubi quay means the long-range crux behind the low-range hill ubi quay means you'll pick it up and while you do stand still ubi quay means you caught the flash and timed it by the sound ubi quay means five gunners ash before you've loosed around ubi quay means blue fuse and make the old to sink the trail ubi quay means stand up and take the mouse's half mile ale ubi quay means the crazy team not god nor man can hold ubi quay means that horse's scream which turns you into its culled ubi quay means bank open bank penny all the way the soothing jingle bump and clank from day to peaceful day ubi quay means they've caught the wet and now we shan't be long ubi quay means I much regret the beggars going strong ubi quay means the tearing drift where breach blocks jammed with mud the khaki muzzle's duck and lift across the khaki flood ubi quay means the dancing plane that changes rocks to bores ubi quay means mirage again and shell in all outdoors ubi quay means and train at once for group defeat fontane ubi quay means offload your guns at midnight in the rain ubi quay means more mounted men return all guns to store ubi quay means the R.A.M.R. infantila recall ubi quay means that warning grunt the perished linesman knows when ore is strung and suffering front the shrapnel sprays his foes and as their firing dies away the uski whisper runs lips that haven't drunk all day their guns thank god their guns extreme depressed point blank or short end first or any hour from colesburg cop to quaggers port from 99 till now by what however of the others tell and I in spots have seen there is nothing this side ebb nor el ubi quay doesn't mean end of poem this recording is in the public domain the return by roger kippling read for libruvox.org by alan mapstone the return all arms pieces declared and I return to acne shnad but not the same things have transpired which made me learn the size and meaning of the game I did know more than others did I don't know where the change began I started as an average kid I finished as a thinking man if england was what england seems and not the england of our dreams but only putty brass and paint how quick we drop her but she ain't before my gaping math could speak I heard it in my comrades tone I saw it on my neighbours cheek before I felt it flush my own and last it come to me not pride nor yet conceit but on the owl if such a term may be applied the making of a blooming soul rivers at night that clock and jeer planes which the moonshine turns to see mountains that never let you near and stars to all eternity and the quick breathing dark that fills the hollows of the wilderness when the wind worries through the ills these may have taught me more or less towns without people ten times took and ten times left and burned at last and starving dogs that come to look for owners when a column passed and choir home sick talks between men met at night you never knew until his face by shellfire scene once and struck off they taught me too the days lay out the morning sun beneath your at brim as you sight the dinner rush from noon till one and the full roar that lasts till night and the poor dead that look so old and was so young an hour ago and legs tied down before they're cold these are the things which make you know also time running into years a thousand places left behind and men from both two hemispheres discussing things of every kind so much more near than I had known so much more great than I had guessed and me like all the rest alone but reaching out to all the rest so as it comes to me not pride nor yet conceit but on the old if such a term may be applied the making of a blooming soul but now discharged I fall away to do with little things again God who knows all I cannot say look after me in Thames Fontaine if England was what England seems and not the England of our dreams but only putty brass and paint how quick we chuck her but she ain't end of poem this recording is in the public domain Recessional by Rudyard Kipling read for LibriVox.org by Larry Wilson 1897 God of our fathers known of old Lord of our far flung battle-line beneath whose awful hand we hold dominion over palm and pine Lord God of hosts be with us yet lest we forget lest we forget the tumble than the shouting dies the captains and the kings depart still stands thine ancient sacrifice and humble and a contrite heart Lord God of hosts be with us yet lest we forget lest we forget far called our navy's mouth away on dune and headland sinks the fire lo all our pomp of yesterday is one with Nineveh and Tyre judge of nations perish yet lest we forget lest we forget if drunk with sight of power we loose wild tongues that have not thee and awe such boastings as the Gentiles use or lesser breeds without the law Lord God of hosts be with us yet lest we forget lest we forget for heathen heart that puts her trust in reeking tube and iron shard all valiant dust that builds on dust and guarding calls not thee to guard for frantic boast and foolish word thy mercy on thy people Lord Amen End of poem This recording is in the public domain End of the Five Nations Volume 2 by Rudyard Kipling