Written by
Rudyard Kipling |
A great and glorious thing it is
To learn, for seven years or so,
The Lord knows what of that and this,
Ere reckoned fit to face the foe --
The flying bullet down the Pass,
That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass.
"
Three hundred pounds per annum spent
On making brain and body meeter
For all the murderous intent
Comprised in "villanous saltpetre!"
And after -- ask the Yusufzaies
What comes of all our 'ologies.
A scrimmage in a Border Station --
A canter down some dark defile --
Two thousand pounds of education
Drops to a ten-rupee jezail --
The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,
Shot like a rabbit in a ride!
No proposition Euclid wrote,
No formulae the text-books know,
Will turn the bullet from your coat,
Or ward the tulwar's downward blow
Strike hard who cares -- shoot straight who can --
The odds are on the cheaper man.
One sword-knot stolen from the camp
Will pay for all the school expenses
Of any Kurrum Valley scamp
Who knows no word of moods and tenses,
But, being blessed with perfect sight,
Picks off our messmates left and right.
With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,
The troop-ships bring us one by one,
At vast expense of time and steam,
To slay Afridis where they run.
The "captives of our bow and spear"
Are cheap -- alas! as we are dear.
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Written by
Ellis Parker Butler |
The Whale is found in seas and oceans,
Indulging there in fishlike motions,
But Science shows that Whales are mammals,
Like Jersey cows, and goats, and camels.
When undisturbed, the Whale will browse
Like camels, goats, and Jersey cows,
On food that satisfies its tongue,
Thus making milk to feed its young.
Asking no costly hay and oats,
Like camels, Jersey cows, and goats,
The Whale, prolific milk producer,
Should be our cheapest lactic juicer.
Our milk should all come from the sea,
But who, I ask, would want to be—
And here the proposition fails—
The milkmaid to a herd of Whales?
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Written by
Dimitris P Kraniotis |
La cheminée
voulait
mettre un point,
à la proposition
que le chemin
de mes rêves
a collée
sur le mot bonheur,
avec des flammes
du bois mouille
que j’ai ramasse
de mon âme
et que j’avais osé
de le transformer en cendre.
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Written by
Ellis Parker Butler |
Whenas—(I love that “whenas” word—
It shows I am a poet, too,)
Q.
Horace Flaccus gaily stirred
The welkin with his tra-la-loo,
He little thought one donkey’s back
Would carry thus a double load—
Father and son upon one jack,
Galumphing down the Tibur Road.
II
Old is the tale—Aesop’s, I think—
Of that famed miller and his son
Whose fortunes were so “on the blink”
They had one donk, and only one;
You know the tale—the critic’s squawk
(As pater that poor ass bestrode)—
“Selfish! To make thy fine son walk!”
Perhaps that was on Tibur Road?
III
You will recall how dad got down
And made the son the ass bestride:—
The critics shouted with a frown:
“Shame, boy! pray let thy father ride!”
Up got the dad beside the son;
The donkey staggered with the load
“Poor donk! For shame!” cried every one
That walked the (was it?) Tibur Road.
IV
You know the end! Upon their backs
Daddy and son with much ado
Boosted that most surprised of jacks,—
He kicked, and off the bridge he flew;
“He! haw!” A splash! A gurgling sound—
A long, last watery abode—
In Anio’s stream the donk was drowned—
(If this occurred on Tibur Road.
)
V
Let Donkey represent the Odes;
The Miller represent G.
M.
;
The Son stand for G.
F.
; the loads
Of Critics—I will do for them.
Now, then, this proposition made,
(And my bum verses “Ah’d” and “Oh’d!”).
What Q.
E.
D.
can be displayed
Anent this “On the Tibur Road”?
VI
First, Horry’s dead and he don’t care,
So cancel him, and let him snore;
His Donkey has been raised in air
So oft he’s tough and calloused o’er;
Our Miller—dusty-headed man—
Follows the best donk-boosting code:
Our Son—dispute it no one can—
Sings gaily down the Tibur Road.
VII
This, then, must be this Critic’s scream:—
The donk was boosted well and high,
And, ergo! falling in the stream,
Isn’t and ain’t and can’t be dry;
Nor is your book.
Which is to say
It is no gloomy episode—
You’ve made a dead donk sweetly bray,
And joyful is the Tibur Road.
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Written by
Badger Clark |
At a roundup on the Gily,
One sweet mornin' long ago,
Ten of us was throwed right freely
By a hawse from Idaho.
And we thought he'd go-a-beggin'
For a man to break his pride
Till, a-hitchin' up one leggin,
Boastful Bill cut loose and cried--
"_I'm a on'ry proposition for to hurt;_
_I fulfil my earthly mission with a quirt;_
_I kin ride the highest liver_
_'Tween the Gulf and Powder River,_
_And I'll break this thing as easy as I'd flirt._"
So Bill climbed the Northern Fury
And they mangled up the air
Till a native of Missouri
Would have owned his brag was fair.
Though the plunges kep' him reelin'
And the wind it flapped his shirt,
Loud above the hawse's squealin'
We could hear our friend assert
"_I'm the one to take such rakin's as a joke._
_Some one hand me up the makin's of a smoke!_
_If you think my fame needs bright'nin'_
_W'y, I'll rope a streak of lightnin'_
_And I'll cinch 'im up and spur 'im till he's broke._"
Then one caper of repulsion
Broke that hawse's back in two.
Cinches snapped in the convulsion;
Skyward man and saddle flew.
Up he mounted, never laggin',
While we watched him through our tears,
And his last thin bit of braggin'
Came a-droppin' to our ears.
"_If you'd ever watched my habits very close_
_You would know I've broke such rabbits by the gross._
_I have kep' my talent hidin';_
_I'm too good for earthly ridin'_
_And I'm off to bust the lightnin's,--Adios!_"
Years have gone since that ascension.
Boastful Bill ain't never lit,
So we reckon that he's wrenchin'
Some celestial outlaw's bit.
When the night rain beats our slickers
And the wind is swift and stout
And the lightnin' flares and flickers,
We kin sometimes hear him shout--
"_I'm a bronco-twistin' wonder on the fly;_
_I'm the ridin' son-of-thunder of the sky._
_Hi! you earthlin's, shut your winders_
_While we're rippin' clouds to flinders._
_If this blue-eyed darlin' kicks at you, you die!_"
Stardust on his chaps and saddle,
Scornful still of jar and jolt,
He'll come back some day, astraddle
Of a bald-faced thunderbolt.
And the thin-skinned generation
Of that dim and distant day
Sure will stare with admiration
When they hear old Boastful say--
"_I was first, as old rawhiders all confessed._
_Now I'm last of all rough riders, and the best._
_Huh! you soft and dainty floaters,_
_With your a'roplanes and motors--_
_Huh! are you the great grandchildren of the West!_"
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