01-10-2005, 04:09 PM
Hi,
I always liked that one, too. But Kipling greatly changed the feelings it engenders:
The Last of the Light Brigade
1891
Rudyard Kipling
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
THERE were thirty million English who talked of Englandâs might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!
They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and gray;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old troop sergeant muttered, âLet us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites.â
They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servantâs order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.
They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toilbowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.
The old troop sergeant was spokesman, and âBegginâ your pardon,â he said,
âYou wrote oâ the Light Brigade, sir. Hereâs all that isnât dead.
Anâ itâs all come true what you wrote, sir, regardinâ the mouth of hell;
For weâre all of us nigh to the workhouse, anâ we thought weâd call anâ tell.
âNo, thank you, we donât want food, sir; but couldnât you take anâ write
A sort of âto be continuedâ and âsee next pageâ oâ the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, anâ couldnât you tell âem how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now.â
The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with âthe scorn of scorn.â
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.
O thirty million English that babble of Englandâs might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our childrenâs children are lisping to âhonour the charge they madeââ
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!
--Pete
I always liked that one, too. But Kipling greatly changed the feelings it engenders:
The Last of the Light Brigade
1891
Rudyard Kipling
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
THERE were thirty million English who talked of Englandâs might,
There were twenty broken troopers who lacked a bed for the night.
They had neither food nor money, they had neither service nor trade;
They were only shiftless soldiers, the last of the Light Brigade.
They felt that life was fleeting; they knew not that art was long,
That though they were dying of famine, they lived in deathless song.
They asked for a little money to keep the wolf from the door;
And the thirty million English sent twenty pounds and four!
They laid their heads together that were scarred and lined and gray;
Keen were the Russian sabres, but want was keener than they;
And an old troop sergeant muttered, âLet us go to the man who writes
The things on Balaclava the kiddies at school recites.â
They went without bands or colours, a regiment ten-file strong,
To look for the Master-singer who had crowned them all in his song;
And, waiting his servantâs order, by the garden gate they stayed,
A desolate little cluster, the last of the Light Brigade.
They strove to stand to attention, to straighten the toilbowed back;
They drilled on an empty stomach, the loose-knit files fell slack;
With stooping of weary shoulders, in garments tattered and frayed,
They shambled into his presence, the last of the Light Brigade.
The old troop sergeant was spokesman, and âBegginâ your pardon,â he said,
âYou wrote oâ the Light Brigade, sir. Hereâs all that isnât dead.
Anâ itâs all come true what you wrote, sir, regardinâ the mouth of hell;
For weâre all of us nigh to the workhouse, anâ we thought weâd call anâ tell.
âNo, thank you, we donât want food, sir; but couldnât you take anâ write
A sort of âto be continuedâ and âsee next pageâ oâ the fight?
We think that someone has blundered, anâ couldnât you tell âem how?
You wrote we were heroes once, sir. Please, write we are starving now.â
The poor little army departed, limping and lean and forlorn.
And the heart of the Master-singer grew hot with âthe scorn of scorn.â
And he wrote for them wonderful verses that swept the land like flame,
Till the fatted souls of the English were scourged with the thing called Shame.
O thirty million English that babble of Englandâs might,
Behold there are twenty heroes who lack their food to-night;
Our childrenâs children are lisping to âhonour the charge they madeââ
And we leave to the streets and the workhouse the charge of the Light Brigade!
--Pete
How big was the aquarium in Noah's ark?