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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=511113" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Song Of The Banjo</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile --<br> You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp --<br>You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile,<br> And play it in an Equatorial swamp.<br>~I~ travel with the cooking-pots and pails --<br> ~I'm~ sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the pork --<br>And when the dusty column checks and tails,<br> You should hear me spur the rear-guard to a walk!<br> With my &quot;~Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!~&quot;<br> [Oh, it's any tune that comes into my head!]<br> So I keep 'em moving forward till they drop;<br> So I play 'em up to water and to bed.<br> <br>In the silence of the camp before the fight,<br> When it's good to make your will and say your prayer,<br>You can hear my ~strumpty-tumpty~ overnight<br> Explaining ten to one was always fair.<br>I'm the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,<br> Of the Patently Impossible and Vain --<br>And when the Thing that Couldn't has occurred,<br> Give me time to change my leg and go again.<br> With my &quot;~Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump!~&quot;<br> In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled<br> There was never voice before us till I led our lonely chorus,<br> I -- the war-drum of the White Man round the world!<br> <br>By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread,<br> Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own, --<br>'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,<br> In the silence of the herder's hut alone --<br>In the twilight, on a bucket upside down,<br> Hear me babble what the weakest won't confess --<br>I am Memory and Torment -- I am Town!<br> I am all that ever went with evening dress!<br> With my &quot;~Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!~&quot;<br> [So the lights -- the London Lights -- grow near and plain!]<br> So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and the Flesh,<br> Till I bring my broken rankers home again.<br> <br>In desire of many marvels over sea,<br> Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars,<br>I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay<br> Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores.<br>He is blooded to the open and the sky,<br> He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,<br>He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,<br> Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.<br> With my &quot;~Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah! Haul!~&quot;<br> [O the green that thunders aft along the deck!]<br> Are you sick o' towns and men? You must sign and sail again,<br> For it's &quot;Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!&quot;<br> <br>Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear --<br> Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel --<br>Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom sheer --<br> Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal:<br>Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow,<br> Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine,<br>So I lead my reckless children from below<br> Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine.<br> With my &quot;~Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!~&quot;<br> [And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]<br> So we ride the iron stallions down to drink,<br> Through the ca]~nons to the waters of the West!<br> <br>And the tunes that mean so much to you alone --<br> Common tunes that make you choke and blow your nose,<br>Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the groan --<br> I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;<br>With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun --<br> And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,<br>And the merry play that drops you, when you're done,<br> To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.<br> With my &quot;~Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!~&quot;<br> Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past,<br> Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes to see your sin<br> And the heavier repentance at the last!<br> <br>Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof --<br> I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!<br>Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof --<br> I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!<br>My bray ye may not alter nor mistake<br> When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,<br>But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,<br> Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?<br> With my &quot;~Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!~&quot;<br> [Is it naught to you that hear and pass me by?]<br> But the word -- the word is mine, when the order moves the line<br> And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die.<br> <br>Of the driven dust of speech I make a flame<br> And a scourge of broken withes that men let fall:<br>For the words that had no honour till I came --<br> Lo! I raise them into honour over all!<br>By the wisdom of the centuries I speak --<br> To the tune of yestermorn I set the truth --<br>I, the joy of life unquestioned -- I, the Greek --<br> I, the everlasting Wonder Song of Youth!<br> With my &quot;~Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!~&quot;<br> [What d'ye lack, my noble masters? What d'ye lack?]<br> So I draw the world together link by link:<br> Yea, from Delos up to Limerick and back!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Rudyard+Kipling">Rudyard Kipling</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=511113" data-title="The Song Of The Banjo de Rudyard Kipling" data-description="You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile --
 You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp --
You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile,
 And play it in an Equatorial swamp.
~I~ travel with the cooking-pots and pails --
 ~I'm~ sandwiched 'tween the coffee ..."></div>
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