The Pipes At Lucknow
Pipes of the misty moorlands,
Voice of the glens and hills;
The droning of the torrents,
The treble of the rills!
Not the braes of bloom and heather,
Nor the mountains dark with rain,
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,
Have heard your sweetest strain!
Dear to the Lowland reaper,
And plaided mountaineer, -
To the cottage and the castle
The Scottish pipes are dear; -
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch
O'er mountain, loch, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played.
Day by day the Indian tiger
Louder yelled, and nearer crept;
Round and round the jungle-serpent
Near and nearer circles swept.
'Pray for rescue, wives and mothers, -
Pray to-day!' the soldier said;
'To-morrow, death's between us
And the wrong and shame we dread.'
Oh, they listened, looked, and waited,
Till their hope became despair;
And the sobs of low bewailing
Filled the pauses of their prayer.
Then up spake a Scottish maiden.
With her ear unto the ground:
'Dinna ye hear it? - dinna ye hear it?
The pipes o' Havelock sound!'
Hushed the wounded man his groaning;
Hushed the wife her little ones;
Alone they heard the drum-roll
And the roar of Sepoy guns.
But to sounds of home and childhood
The Highland ear was true; -
As her mother's cradle-crooning
The mountain pipes she knew.
Like the march of soundless music
Through the vision of the seer,
More of feeling than of hearing,
Of the heart than of the ear,
She knew the droning pibroch,
She knew the Campbell's call:
'Hark! hear ye no MacGregor's,
The grandest o' them all!'
Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless,
And they caught the sound at last;
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee
Rose and fell the piper's blast!
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving
Mingled woman's voice and man's;
'God be praised! - the march of Havelock!
The piping of the clans!'
Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,
Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,
Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call,
Stinging all the air to life.
But when the far-off dust-cloud
To plaided legions grew,
Full tenderly and blithesomely
The pipes of rescue blew!
Round the silver domes of Lucknow.
Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,
The air of Auld Lang Syne.
O'er the cruel roll of war-drums
Rose that sweet and homelike strain;
And the tartan clove the turban,
As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.
Dear to the corn-land reaper
And plaided mountaineer, -
To the cottage and the castle
The piper's song is dear.
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch
O'er mountain, glen, and glade;
But the sweetest of all music
The pipes at Lucknow played!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Related quotes
Dear j
my dear J
Dear Mr J
To dear J,
To Dear J
Dearest sweetest J J
Dear J
Mr Dear J
t
MR. J.A Dear,
Please can you send someone around immediately from your company 'Nifty Pipes and Shiny Taps'
There is a blockage in my.... sorry can't find the right word
Hope you don' t mind me, NOT calling you Dear?
Hardly know you? What? was you're surname dear?
Well thought I better slide it in somewhere you know
Any way yours not [sincerely] or [Faithfully]
Yours most irately customer ref: 143267 lettr QUI
L. M. LEMON
P.S I have friends whose name begins with J I address these people
who I don; t know that well as Dear, hope you don; t mind, ? I think they do, I hardly know them infact from now on I think Dear will be replaced by, 'Not so Dear' JJ? Please let me know your thoughts
they are of [not so] great value to me, you see I am doing a survey on the use of 'dear' AND PLEASE UNBLOCK MY PIPES SOON! ! ! dear!
[not] Yours LEANORA LEMON
poem by Yvette Smith
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The Piper On The Hills
A CHILD'S SONG
There sits a piper on the hill
Who pipes the livelong day,
And when he pipes both loud and shrill,
The frightened people say
‘The wind, the wind is blowing up,
'Tis rising to a gale.’
The women hurry to the shore
To watch some distant sail.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing to a gale.
But when he pipes all sweet and low,
The piper on the hill,
I hear the merry women go
With laughter, loud and shrill
‘The wind, the wind is coming south,
'Twill blow a gentle day.’
They gather on the meadow-land,
To toss the yellow hay.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Is blowing south to-day.
And in the morn, when winter comes,
To keep the piper warm,
The little Angels shake their wings
To make a feather storm
‘The snow, the snow has come at last!’
The happy children call,
And ‘ring around’ they dance in glee,
And watch the snowflakes fall.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
Has spread a snowy pall.
But when at night the piper plays,
I have not any fear,
Because God's windows open wide
The pretty tune to hear;
And when each crowding spirit looks,
From its star window-pane,
A watching mother may behold
Her little child again.
The wind, the wind, the wind, the wind,
May blow her home again.
poem by Dora Sigerson Shorter
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The Burial of Sir John Mackenzie
(1901)
They played him home to the House of Stones
All the way, all the way,
To his grave in the sound of the winter sea:
The sky was dour, the sky was gray.
They played him home with the chieftain's dirge,
Till the wail was wed to the rolling surge,
They played him home with a sorrowful will
To his grave at the foot of the Holy Hill
And the pipes went mourning all the way.
Strong hands that had struck for right
All the day, all the day,
Folded now in the dark of earth,
Veiled dawn of the upper way!
Strong hands that struck with his
From days that were to the day that is
Carry him now from the house of woe
To ride the way the Chief must go:
And his peers went mourning all the way.
Son and brother at his right hand
All the way, all the way!
And O for them and O for her
Who stayed within, the dowie day!
Son and brother and near of kin
Go out with the chief who never comes in!
And of all who loved him far and near
'Twas the nearest most who held him dear --
And his kin went mourning all the way!
The clan went on with the pipes before
All the way, all the way;
A wider clan than ever he knew
Followed him home that dowie day.
And who were they of the wider clan?
The landless man and the no man's man,
The man that lacked and the man unlearned,
The man that lived but as he earned --
And the clan went mourning all the way.
The heart of New Zealand went beside
All the way, all the way,
To the resting-place of her Highland Chief;
Much she thought she could not say;
He found her a land of many domains,
Maiden forest and fallow plains --
He left her a land of many homes,
The pearl of the world where the sea wind roams,
And New Zealand went mourning all the way.
poem by Jessie Mackay
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Kilts, Ye Ken
Noo, ye ken, we'll see 'em agen,
Waggling doon the street,
While the baton twirls an' the piper skirls
To the beat of the marching feet.
Left - right - glimmerin' bright,
Buttons and cairngorms shine;
While the pipes give forth 'The Cock o' the North'
Ho! The kilts are in the line!
Far an' faint ye hear the plaint
Comin' adoon the breeze,
Closer it comes, wi' the crackle o' drums
An' the lift o' the naked knees.
Left - right - was ever a sight
Finer by burn or glen?
Wi' the tunes ye know, like the auld 'Keel Row'
Tis the march o' the Cameron men.
Pageantry it ever shall be
An asset in any land.
But the lad who's built to carry a kilt
Losh, mon! But he is grand;
Steppin' along to some auld song
Or a war chant tipped wi' flame.
'Tis the kilt - the kilt! An' the pibroch's lilt
Callin' us - callin' us hame.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Peaceful Pipes
I sat in our caravan
as the peaceful pipes
played a soft reverie of harmony
for all those who heard its song.
Their melody drifted on the wind
soothing everything it touched.
The peaceful pipes played
at the ending of the day.
27 September 2008
poem by David Harris
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Pan the Fallen
1 He wandered into the market
2 With pipes and goatish hoof;
3 He wandered in a grotesque shape,
4 And no one stood aloof.
5 For the children crowded round him,
6 The wives and greybeards, too,
7 To crack their jokes and have their mirth,
8 And see what Pan would do.
9 The Pan he was they knew him,
10 Part man, but mostly beast,
11 Who drank, and lied, and snatched what bones
12 Men threw him from their feast;
13 Who seemed in sin so merry,
14 So careless in his woe,
15 That men despised, scarce pitied him,
16 And still would have it so.
17 He swelled his pipes and thrilled them,
18 And drew the silent tear;
19 He made the gravest clack with mirth
20 By his sardonic leer.
21 He blew his pipes full sweetly
22 At their amused demands,
23 And caught the scornful, earth-flung pence
24 That fell from careless hands.
25 He saw the mob's derision,
26 And took it kindly, too,
27 And when an epithet was flung,
28 A coarser back he threw;
29 But under all the masking
30 Of a brute, unseemly part,
31 I looked, and saw a wounded soul,
32 And a god-like, breaking heart.
33 And back of the elfin music,
34 The burlesque, clownish play,
35 I knew a wail that the weird pipes made,
36 A look that was far away,—
37 A gaze into some far heaven
38 Whence a soul had fallen down;
39 But the mob only saw the grotesque beast
40 And the antics of the clown.
41 For scant-flung pence he paid them
42 With mirth and elfin play,
43 Till, tired for a time of his antics queer,
44 They passed and went their way;
45 Then there in the empty market
46 He ate his scanty crust,
47 And, tired face turned to heaven, down
48 He laid him in the dust.
49 And over his wild, strange features
50 A softer light there fell,
51 And on his worn, earth-driven heart
52 A peace ineffable.
53 And the moon rose over the market,
54 But Pan the beast was dead;
55 While Pan the god lay silent there,
56 With his strange, distorted head.
57 And the people, when they found him,
58 Stood still with awesome fear.
59 No more they saw the beast's rude hoof,
60 The furtive, clownish leer;
61 But the lightest in that audience
62 Went silent from the place,
63 For they knew the look of a god released
64 That shone from his dead face.
poem by William Wilfred Campbell
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Danny Boy
(words & music by frederic e. weatherly)
Oh danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen and down the mountain side
The summers gone and all the roses dying
tis you, tis you must go and I must bye
But come ye back when summers in the meadow
Or when the valleys hushed and white with snow
And Ill be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh danny boy, oh danny boy I love you so
But if he come and all the roses dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
Hell come here and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an ava there for me
And I shall feel, oh soft you tread above me
And then my grave will richer, sweeter be
For you will bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall rest in peace until you come to me
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Musicians
The strings of my heart were strung by Pleasure,
And I laughed when the music fell on my ear,
For he and Mirth played a joyful measure,
And they played so loud that I could not hear
The wailing and mourning of souls a-weary -
The strains of sorrow that floated around,
For my heart's notes rang out loud and cheery,
And I heard no other sound.
Mirth and Pleasure, the music brothers,
Played louder and louder in joyful glee;
But sometimes a discord was heard by others -
Though only the rhythm was heard by me.
Louder and louder, faster and faster
The hands of the brothers played strain on strain,
When all of a sudden a Mighty Master
Swept them aside; and Pain,
Pain, the musician, the soul-refiner,
Restrung the strings of my quivering heart,
And the air that he played was a plaintive minor,
So sad that the tear-drops were forced to start;
Each note was an echo of awful anguish,
As shrill as solemn, as sharp as slow,
And my soul for a reason seemed to languish
And faint with its weight of woe.
With skilful hands that were never weary,
This Master of Music played strain on strain,
And between the bars of the miserere,
He drew up the strings of my heart again,
And I was filled with a vague, strange wonder,
To see that they did not snap in two.
'They are drawn so tight, they will break assunder, '
I thought, but instead, they grew,
In the hands of the Master, firmer and stronger;
And I could hear on the stilly air -
Now my ears were deafened by Mirth no longer -
The sound of sorrow, and grief, and despair;
And my soul grew kinder and tender to others,
My nature grew sweeter, my mind grew broad,
And I held all men to be my brothers,
Linked by the chastening rod.
My soul was lifted to God and heaven,
And when on my heart-strings fell again
The hands of Mirth, and Pleasure, even,
There was never a discord to mar the strain.
For Pain, the musician, and soul-refiner,
Attuned the strings with a master hand,
And whether the music be major or minor,
It is always sweet and grand.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Forest Lord for S.J.Gardner
As I walked out beneath the moon
I heard that old compelling tune
The Pipes of Pan that faintly play
have power to steal my will away.
The old God rules the forest yet
I know he does I can’t forget.
I was forced to follow the sound.
Although I know he can’t be found.
Unless he chooses to reveal
he is alive and well and real.
To tell the truth I found it odd
For Pan is a forgotten God.
He has the power to overrule
with music as his only tool.
My hardened shell of disbelief
and in some way grant me relief.
From all the woes which trouble me.
So for a little while I’m free,
to leave reality behind.
For long enough to still my mind.
I might be only fantasy.
I’m well ware that it could be
Although I try I can’t explain
the forest is till Pans domain.
Then suddenly the music ceased.
I knew that I had been released.
I still cherish the memory
Of the night Pan played pipes for me..
28-Oct-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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For Shrill The Piper Plays His Tune
When thoughts are idle wanderings
Words tumbled round and round
When feelings they turn inwardly
Still I hear the piper's sound.
When happiness is broken
And the Kings and Queens are gone
The piper's tune keeps playing
And I hear his victory song.
For even when awoken
From the sleepiness of time
There's a distant music playing
Heard clear within my mind
For shrill the piper plays his tune
That beckons every day
And when his tune is full played out
He carries us away.
No-one has seen this piper man
And no-one has seen him play
But we all can hear his mournfulness
And fear for what he'll say
No folds of fathered cornfields
And no breaking of the bread
The piper's tune keeps playing
With his words as yet unsaid.
For shrill the piper plays his tune
That beckons every day
And when his tune is full played out
He carries us away.
We can all hear if we but try
The piper's song so sweet
The musings and meanderings
Of souls lost whole complete
No piper plays before we're born
Before we touch the earth
The piper's tunes they all begin
From the moment of our birth.
For shrill the piper plays his tune
Like happiness disease'd
And all the notes that he plays out
Are our moments ill at ease.
Not one of us pays him to play
Nor gives him any score
For every note that he blows out
Is fully paid before
We entertain our wanderings
And confusion in the mind
For the piper's very soul turns out
To be both yours and mine.
For shrill the piper plays his tune
That beckons every day
And when his tune is full played out
He carries us away.
poem by David Keig
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Donal Campbell
DONAL' CAMPBELL
-Donal' Bane-
sailed away across the
ocean
With the tartans of Clan
Gordon, to the Indies'
distant shore,
But on Dargai's lonely hill-
side, Donal' Campbell
met the foeman,
And the glen of Athol
Moray will never see him more!
O! the wailing of the women, O! the storm of
bitter sorrow
Sweeping like the wintry torrent thro' Athol
Moray's glen
When the black word reached the clansmen,
that young Donal' Bane had fallen
In the red glare of the battle, with the gallant
Gordon men!
Far from home and native sheiling, with the
sun of India o'er him
Blazing down its cruel hatred on the white-
faced men below
Stood young Donal' with his comrades, like the
hound of ghostly Fingal
Eager, waiting for the summons to leap up
against the foe-
Hark! at last! the pipes are pealing out the
welcome Caber Feidh
And wild the red blood rushes thro' every
Highland vein
They breathe the breath of battle, the children
of the Gael,
And fiercely up the hillside, they charge and
charge again-
And the grey eye of the Highlands, now is
dark as blackest midnight,
The history of their fathers is written on each
face,
Of border creach and foray, of never yieldong
conflict
Of all the memories shrouding a stern uncon-
quered race!
And up the hillside, up the mountain, while
the war-pipes shrilly clamour
Bayonet thrusting, broadsword cleaving, the
Northern soldiers fought
Till the sun of India saw them victors o' er the
dusky foeman,
For who can stay the Celtic hand when Celtic
blood is hot?
But the corse of many a clansman from the far-
off Scottish Highlands
'Mid the rocks of savage Dargai is lying cold
and still
With the death-dew on its forehead, and young
Donal' Campbell 's tartan
Bears a deeper stain of purple than the heather
of the hill!
Mourn him! Mourn him thro' the mountains,
wail him women of Clan Campbell!
Let the Coronach be sounded tii it reach the
Indian shore
For your beautiful has fallen in the foremost
of the battle
And the glen of Athol Moray will never see
him more!
poem by William Henry Drummond
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Danny Boy (live)
Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the roses are dying
It's you, It's you must go and I must bide
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow
For I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so
But when ye come and all the flowers are a dying
And if I am dead, dead I well may be
Just come and find, find the place
Find the place where I lay lying
And kneel and say an "Ave" there for me
And I will hear tho soft you tread above me
And my grave, my grave warmer and sweeter be
For you're gonna kneel and you're gonna tell
God you're gonna tell me how you loved me
And I will sleep in peace until you come to me
song performed by by Cher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The pipes of Christmas past
The thistle-down rises
On the north winds blast
Old Scotland calls the pipes
The pipes of Christmas past
Snow on the snow fleeced-land
Where the grouse run rich
With the golden-hare
Beyond the fox's caverns lair
Beyond the Mull of Kintyre
Beyond the Irish sea
The pagan wood and the pagan tree
Is the heart world of Christianity?
poem by Mark Heathcote
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A Song
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear;
There is ever a something sings alway:
There's the song of the lark when the skies are clear,
And the song of the thrush when the skies are gray.
The sunshine showers across the grain,
And the bluebird trills in the orchard tree;
And in and out, when the eaves dip rain,
The swallows are twittering ceaselessly.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear
There is ever a song somewhere!
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
In the midnight black, or the mid-day blue:
The robin pipes when the sun is here,
And the cricket chirrups the whole night through.
The buds may blow, and the fruit may grow,
And the autumn leaves drop crisp and sear;
But whether the sun, or the rain, or the snow,
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear.
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear,
Be the skies above or dark or fair,
There is ever a song that our hearts may hear--
There is ever a song somewhere, my dear--
There is ever a song somewhere!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Auld Lang Syne
(r.burns)
Traditional new years eves song. jeff performed it live at mercury lounge, new york, on december 31 1995.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot
And auld lang syne!
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
And surely yell be your pint stowp
And surely Ill be mine!
And well tak a cup o kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae run about the braes
And poud the gowans fine
But weve wanderd mony a weary fit
Sin auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidld in the burn
Frae morning sun till dine
But seas between us briad hae roard
Sin auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
And theres a hand, my trusty fere
And gies a hand o thine
And well tak a right gude-willie waught
For auld lang syne.
For auld lang syne, my dear
For auld lang syne
Well tak a cup o kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
song performed by by Jeff Buckley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Recollections Of Love
I
How warm this woodland wild Recess !
Love surely hath been breathing here ;
And this sweet bed of heath, my dear !
Swells up, then sinks with faint caress,
As if to have you yet more near.
II
Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills,
Where quiet sounds from hidden rills
Float hear and there, like things astray,
And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.
III
No voice as yet had made the air
Be music with your name ; yet why
That asking look ? that yearning sigh ?
That sense of promise every where ?
Belovéd ! flew your spirit by ?
IV
As when a mother doth explore
The rose-mark on her long-lost child,
I met, I loved you, maiden mild !
As whom I long had loved before--
So deeply had I been beguiled.
V
You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remembered in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did seem
To tell me, Love within you wrought--
O Greta, dear domestic stream !
VI
Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,
Has not Love's whisper evermore
Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ?
Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
Dear under-song in clamor's hour.
poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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Danny Boy
(Traditionallyrics by Fred E. Weatherly)
Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
The summer's gone, and all the roses falling
'Tis you, 'tis you must go and I must bide.
But come you back when summer's in the meadow
Or all the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
But when you come, when all the flowers are dying
If I am dead, as dead I well may be
Then if you bend and tell me that you love me
I'll sleep in peace until you come to me
But come ye back when summer's in the meadow
Or all the valley's hushed and white with snow
'Tis I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poem
A poem in three stages
Whilst eating a meat pie
She embraced vegetarianism
Hidden under the weight of his opinions
[and ever expandng girth]
He 'PUBLICLY DENOUNCED]
third world poverty and hunger
[as he reached for his KING SIZED MARS BAR]
On the coroners report it stated
'Pipes blocked and furry'
'I knew it was his pipes' his wife cried[too late]
'Stupid man, he called the plumber, when I said PIPES!
[Under the rule of the poem this is a disclaimer to say
None of the above characters alludes to real people,
secondly this is not a poem, but an observation.....
of sorts..........depending on how
you read it.It is not flammable or open to erudite intellectuall
debate.....but who knows you could give it a try, if it makes you
feel better
poem by Yvette Smith
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Armenian Folk-Song--The Partridge
As beats the sun from mountain crest,
With 'pretty, pretty',
Cometh the partridge from her nest;
The flowers threw kisses sweet to her
(For all the flowers that bloomed knew her);
Yet hasteneth she to mine and me--
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!
And when I hear the partridge cry
So pretty, pretty,
Upon the house-top, breakfast I;
She comes a-chirping far and wide,
And swinging from the mountain side--
I see and hear the dainty dear!
Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!
Thy nest's inlaid with posies rare.
And pretty, pretty
Bloom violet, rose, and lily there;
The place is full of balmy dew
(The tears of flowers in love with you!)
And one and all impassioned call;
'O pretty, pretty--
O dear little partridge!'
Thy feathers they are soft and sleek--
So pretty, pretty!
Long is thy neck and small thy breast;
The color of thy plumage far
More bright than rainbow colors are!
Sweeter than dove is she I love--
My pretty, pretty--
My dear little partridge!
When comes the partridge from the tree,
So pretty, pretty!
And sings her little hymn to me,
Why, all the world is cheered thereby--
The heart leaps up into the eye,
And echo then gives back again
Our 'Pretty, pretty,'
Our 'Dear little partridge!'
Admitting the most blest of all
And pretty, pretty,
The birds come with thee at thy call;
In flocks they come and round they play,
And this is what they seem to say--
They say and sing, each feathered thing;
'Ah! pretty, pretty;
Ah! dear little partridge!'
poem by Eugene Field
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Follow Me 'Ome
There was no one like 'im, 'Orse or Foot,
Nor any o' the Guns I knew;
An' because it was so, why, o' course 'e went an' died,
Which is just what the best men do.
So it's knock out your pipes an' follow me!
An' it's finish up your swipes an' follow me!
Oh, 'ark to the big drum callin',
Follow me -- follow me 'ome!
'Is mare she neighs the 'ole day long,
She paws the 'ole night through,
An' she won't take 'er feed 'cause o' waitin' for 'is step,
Which is just what a beast would do.
'Is girl she goes with a bombardier
Before 'er month is through;
An' the banns are up in church, for she's got the beggar hooked,
Which is just what a girl would do.
We fought 'bout a dog -- last week it were --
No more than a round or two;
But I strook 'im cruel 'ard, an' I wish I 'adn't now,
Which is just what a man can't do.
'E was all that I 'ad in the way of a friend,
An' I've 'ad to find one new;
But I'd give my pay an' stripe for to get the beggar back,
Which it's just too late to do.
So it's knock out your pipes an' follow me!
An' it's finish off your swipes an' follow me!
Oh, 'ark to the fifes a-crawlin'!
Follow me -- follow me 'ome!
Take 'im away! 'E's gone where the best men go.
Take 'im away! An' the gun-wheels turnin' slow.
Take 'im away! There's more from the place 'e come.
Take 'im away, with the limber an' the drum.
For it's 'Three rounds blank' an' follow me,
An' it's 'Thirteen rank' an' follow me;
Oh, passin' the love o' women,
Follow me -- follow me 'ome!
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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