Written by
Marriott Edgar |
Sam Small had retired from the Army,
In the old Duke of Wellington's time,
So when present unpleasantness started,
He were what you might call.
.
.
past his prime.
He'd lived for some years in retirement,
And knew nowt of war, if you please,
Till they blasted and bombed his allotment,
And shelled the best part of his peas.
'T were as if bugles called Sam to duty,
For his musket he started to search,
He found it at last in the Hen house,
Buff Orpingtons had it for perch.
Straight off to the Fusilliers' depot,
He went to rejoin his old troop.
.
.
Where he found as they couldn't recruit Him,
Until his age group was called up.
Now Sam wasn't getting no younger,
Past the three score and ten years was he,
And he reckoned by time they reached his age group,
He'd be very near ten score and three.
So he took up the matter with Churchill,
Who said, "I don't know what to do,
Never was there a time when so many,
Came asking so much from so few.
"
"I don't want no favours" Sam answered,
"Don't think as I'm one of that mob,
All I'm asking is give me the tools, lad,
And let me help finish the job.
"
"I'll fit you in somewhere," said Winnie,
"Old soldiers we must not discard.
"
Then seeing he'd got his own musket,
He sent him to join the Home Guard.
They gave Sam a coat with no stripes on,
In spite of the service he'd seen,
Which considering he'd been a King's sergeant,
Kind of rankled.
.
.
you know what I mean.
He said "I come back to the Army,
Expecting my country's thanks,
And the first thing I find when I get here,
Is that I've been reduced to the ranks.
He found all the lads sympathetic,
They agreed that 'twere a disgrace,
Except one old chap in the corner,
With a nutcracker kind of a face.
Said the old fella, "Who do you think you are?
The last to appear on the scene,
And you start off by wanting promotion,
Last come, last served.
.
.
see what I mean?"
Said Sam, "Wasn't I at Corunna,
And when company commander got shot,
Didn't I lead battalion to victory?"
Said the old fella, "No.
.
.
you did not.
"
"I didn't?" said Sam quite indignent,
"Why, in every fight Wellington fought,
Wasn't I at his right hand to guard him?"
Said old chap, "You were nowt of the sort.
"
"What do you know of Duke and his battles?"
Said Sam, with a whithering look,
Said the old man, "I ought to know something,
Between you and me.
.
.
I'm the Duke.
"
And if you should look in any evening,
You'll find them both in the canteen,
Ex Commander-in-Chief and ex Sergeant,
Both just Home Guards.
.
.
you know what I mean?
|
Written by
Jonas Mekas |
Mondays, way before dawn,
before even the first hint of blue in the windows,
we'd hear it start, off the road past our place,
over on the highway nearby,
in a clatter of market-bound traffic.
Riding the rigs packed with fruit and crated live fowl,
or on foot, with cattle hitched to tailgates slowing the pace,
or sitting up high, on raised seats
(the women all wore their garish kerchiefs,
the knot under each chin carefully tied)
so jolting along, lurching in their seats,
in and out of woods, fields, scrub barrens,
with dogs out barking from every yard along the way,
in a cloud of dust.
And on, by narrow alleyways,
rattling across the cobbles,
up to the well in the market square.
With a crowd already there,
the wagons pull up by a stone wall
and people wave across to each other,
a bright noisy swarm.
And from there, first tossing our horse a tuft of clover,
father would go to look the livestock over.
Strolling past fruitwagons loaded with apples and pears,
past village women seated on wheelframes
and traders laid out along the base of the well,
he'd make his way to one large fenced-in yard
filled with bleating sheep, with horses and cows,
the air full of dung-stench and neighing,
hen squalls, non-stop bawling,
the farmers squabbling.
.
.
And mother, mindful of salt she needed to get,
as well as knitting needles, rushed right off;
and we'd be looking on to help our sister pick her thread,
dizzy from this endless spread of bright burning colors in front of us,
till mother pulled us back from the booths,
had us go past wagonloads of fruit and grain
to skirt the crowding square,
then head up that narrow, dusty side street
to see our aunt Kastune;
later, we'd still be talking away, when she hurried us back
past the tiny houses shoved up next to each other, along the river
and down to the mill, where with the last
of the rye-flour sacks stacked up in the wagon
and his shoes flour-white, his whole outfit pale flour-dust,
father would be waiting.
And on past nightfall, farmwagons keep clattering
back past scattered homesteads,
then on through the woods; while up ahead
cowherds perch impatient on top of the gateposts,
their caps pulled down on their eyes,
still waiting for us to get back.
Translated by Vyt Bakaitis
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