Sunday!

a quiet day for us,

 a pre-meal read and a sherry,

 time for our starters,

  prawns with avocado, and a twist of lemon,

 for our main course,

 roast chicken, delicious!

 we always have a long break between courses, whilst sitting at the table and chatting, in the far distance I could see something on the roof of a neighbors house, I could not make out what it was, until I zoomed in, 

 a squirrel, 

 on to our dessert,

 a sherry trifle, 

 whilst looking through my books for the next one in the Wilbur Smith Egyptian series to read, I came across one of my old book marks, the poem by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936), Gunga Din, 

 a bit difficult to read from the book mark, the poem famous for it's last line, 

You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

so here it is the full poem, written in 1890, some of the words have fallen into disuse, but a wonderful window into the times,

Gunga Din

You may talk o’ gin and beer   

When you’re quartered safe out ’ere,   

An’ you’re sent to penny-fights an’ Aldershot it;

But when it comes to slaughter   

You will do your work on water,

An’ you’ll lick the bloomin’ boots of ’im that’s got it.   

Now in Injia’s sunny clime,   

Where I used to spend my time   

A-servin’ of ’Er Majesty the Queen,   

Of all them blackfaced crew   

The finest man I knew

Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din,   

      He was ‘Din! Din! Din!

   ‘You limpin’ lump o’ brick-dust, Gunga Din!

      ‘Hi! Slippy hitherao

      ‘Water, get it! Panee lao,

   ‘You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.’

The uniform ’e wore

Was nothin’ much before,

An’ rather less than ’arf o’ that be’ind,

For a piece o’ twisty rag   

An’ a goatskin water-bag

Was all the field-equipment ’e could find.

When the sweatin’ troop-train lay

In a sidin’ through the day,

Where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl,

We shouted ‘Harry By!’

Till our throats were bricky-dry,

Then we wopped ’im ’cause ’e couldn’t serve us all.

      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!

   ‘You ’eathen, where the mischief ’ave you been?   

      ‘You put some juldee in it

      ‘Or I’ll marrow you this minute

   ‘If you don’t fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!’

’E would dot an’ carry one

Till the longest day was done;

An’ ’e didn’t seem to know the use o’ fear.

If we charged or broke or cut,

You could bet your bloomin’ nut,

’E’d be waitin’ fifty paces right flank rear.   

With ’is mussick on ’is back,

’E would skip with our attack,

An’ watch us till the bugles made 'Retire,’   

An’ for all ’is dirty ’ide

’E was white, clear white, inside

When ’e went to tend the wounded under fire!   

      It was ‘Din! Din! Din!’

   With the bullets kickin’ dust-spots on the green.   

      When the cartridges ran out,

      You could hear the front-ranks shout,   

   ‘Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!’

I shan’t forgit the night

When I dropped be’ind the fight

With a bullet where my belt-plate should ’a’ been.   

I was chokin’ mad with thirst,

An’ the man that spied me first

Was our good old grinnin’, gruntin’ Gunga Din.   

’E lifted up my ’ead,

An’ he plugged me where I bled,

An’ ’e guv me ’arf-a-pint o’ water green.

It was crawlin’ and it stunk,

But of all the drinks I’ve drunk,

I’m gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.

      It was 'Din! Din! Din!

   ‘’Ere’s a beggar with a bullet through ’is spleen;   

   ‘’E's chawin’ up the ground,

      ‘An’ ’e’s kickin’ all around:

   ‘For Gawd’s sake git the water, Gunga Din!’

’E carried me away

To where a dooli lay,

An’ a bullet come an’ drilled the beggar clean.   

’E put me safe inside,

An’ just before ’e died,

'I ’ope you liked your drink,’ sez Gunga Din.   

So I’ll meet ’im later on

At the place where ’e is gone—

Where it’s always double drill and no canteen.   

’E’ll be squattin’ on the coals

Givin’ drink to poor damned souls,

An’ I’ll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din!   

      Yes, Din! Din! Din!

   You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!   

   Though I’ve belted you and flayed you,   

      By the livin’ Gawd that made you,

   You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

a great read, 

 to accompany a Jamaican coffee,

 and nice it was too,

  as I was now in a mood for poetry, I decided to read another favorite of mine by the great man, If, many of us might remember the first and last couple of lines, 

the first,

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

and the last, 

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

the poem If,

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

written 5 years before Gunga Din, in the poem If, Rudyard Kipling is trying to impart wisdom about how to live up to the ideals of manhood. The speaker lists a number of conditionals, saying that "if" the listener does these things, they will live a fulfilling existence. Embedded in these conditionals is a variety of values, indirectly telling the listener to maintain a balanced set of virtues, the astounding aspect of the poem comes from the applicability of his rules in today's society, Kipling wrote the poem as if he was talking to his son, the reference being made in the last line, what magical words, although I guess it is only a matter if time before the uneducated mob pull down any statues of him around the world, as madness seems seems to be around all sane people now, 'if' that happens to Rudyard, that is going to put Walt Disney in a bit of a fix, as the film Jungle Book, is one of several stories of Kipling that have been made into films, the film will I guess have to be banned, how mad is that? and there is worse to come, thanks to Theodore Roosevelt,

 I will no longer be able to watch Night At The Museum and it's later films with a clear conscious, as his statue outside the Museum of Natural History, is under police watch, and will be coming down, still good news for the manufactures of jackhammers when the mob buy them and descend on Mount Rushmore!

late in the evening the fox put in an appearance, we listened to music for the early part of the evening,

 and then decided to watch The Italian Job, great fun, then for us we were off to bed.