Rupert Brook The Soldier

The Soldier If I should die, think only this of me:    That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be    In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,    Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air,    Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away,    A pulse in the eternal mind, no less       Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;    And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,       In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

RUPERT BROOK

Funny quotes

Eighty percent of success is showing up.     Woody Allen
If at first you don't succeed, try, try again. Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it.  W.C.Fields
If at first you don't succeed, failure might be your style.  Quentin Crisp.
A Gentleman never heard the story before.  Austin O'Malley
Life doesn't imitate art. It imitates bad television.   Woody Allen
Don't worry about the world ending today: it's already tomorrow in Australia.  Steve Wright
Believe nothing until has been officially denied.    Claud Cockburn
I don't believe in mathematics.     Albert Einstein
I don't believe in astrology. I'm a Sagittarian and we're sceptical.     Arthur C. Clarke
My church accepts all denominations; fivers, tenners, twenties.   Patrick O'Connell
The New English Bible: even the end of the world is described as if it were only an exceptionally hot afternoon.  Peter Mallen
"Imagine no possessions," sang John Lennon who owned a luxury apartment in New York solely to house his clothes.  Arthur Smith
We started off trying to set up a small anarchist community, but people wouldn't obey the rules. Alan Bennett
Too bad all the people who knew how to run the country are busy driving cabs or cutting hair.   George Burns

Thomas Hardy Drummer Hodge

They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined -- just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around:
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.

Young Hodge the drummer never knew --
Fresh from his Wessex home --
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.

Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally.                         

THOMAS HARDY

Thomas Hardy I said to Love

I said to Love,
"It is not now as in old days
When men adored thee and thy ways
   All else above;
Named thee the Boy, the Bright, the One
Who spread a heaven beneath the sun,"
   I said to Love.

   I said to him,
"We now know more of thee than then;
We were but weak in judgment when,
   With hearts abrim,
We clamoured thee that thou would'st please
Inflict on us thine agonies,"
   I said to him.

   I said to Love,
"Thou art not young, thou art not fair,
No faery darts, no cherub air,
   Nor swan, nor dove
Are thine; but features pitiless,
And iron daggers of distress,"
   I said to Love.

   "Depart then, Love! . . .
- Man's race shall end, dost threaten thou?
The age to come the man of now
   Know nothing of? -
We fear not such a threat from thee;
We are too old in apathy!
Mankind shall cease.--So let it be,"
   I said to Love.

THOMAS HARDY                       

Three Craws

Three craws sat upon a wa',
Sat upon a wa', sat upon a wa',
Three craws sat upon a wa',
On a cauld and frosty mornin'.
The first craw was greetin' for his maw,
Greetin' for his maw, greetin' for his maw,
The first craw was greetin' for his maw,
On a cauld and frosty mornin'. The second craw fell and broke his jaw,
Fell and broke his jaw, fell and broke his jaw,
The second craw fell and broke his jaw,
On a cauld and frosty mornin'. The third craw, couldnae caw at a',
Couldnae caw at a', couldnae caw at a',
The third craw, couldnae caw at a',
On a cauld and frosty mornin'. An that's a', absolutely a',
Absolutely a', absolutely a',
An that's a', absolutely a',
On a cauld and frosty mornin'.

Wee Willie Winkie

The original text of 1841 was written in Scots and is below:

Wee Willie Winkie rins through the toon,

Up stairs an' doon stairs in his nicht-gown,

Tirlin' at the window, crying at the lock,

"Are the weans in their bed, for it's now ten o'clock?"

"Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye comin' ben?

The cat's singin grey thrums to the sleepin hen,

The dog's speldert on the floor and disna gie a cheep,

But here's a waukrife laddie, that wunna fa' asleep."

Onything but sleep, you rogue, glow'ring like the moon,

Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon,

Rumblin', tumblin' roon about, crawin' like a cock,

Skirlin like a kenna-what, waukenin' sleepin' fock.

"Hey Willie Winkie, the wean's in a creel,

Wamblin' aff a bodie's knee like a verra eel,

Ruggin' at the cat's lug and raveling a' her thrums-

Hey Willie Winkie – see there he comes."

Wearit is the mither that has a stoorie wean,

A wee, stumpie, stousie, that canna rin his lane,

That has a battle aye wi' sleep afore he'll close an e'e-

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.

Versions paraphrased for English-language readers began to appear in print from 1844 in the form:

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,

Up stairs and down stairs in his night-gown,

Tapping at the window, crying at the lock,

Are the children in their bed, for it's past ten o'clock?

Hey, Willie Winkie, are you coming in?

The cat is singing purring sounds to the sleeping hen,

The dog's spread out on the floor, and doesn't give a cheep,

But here's a wakeful little boy who will not fall asleep!

Anything but sleep, you rogue! glowering like the moon,'

Rattling in an iron jug with an iron spoon,

Rumbling, tumbling round about, crowing like a cock,

Shrieking like I don't know what, waking sleeping folk.

Hey, Willie Winkie – the child's in a creel!

Wriggling from everyone's knee like an eel,

Tugging at the cat's ear, and confusing all her thrums

Hey, Willie Winkie – see, there he comes!"

Weary is the mother who has a dusty child,

A small short little child, who can't run on his own,

Who always has a battle with sleep before he'll close an eye

But a kiss from his rosy lips gives strength anew to me.

WILLIAM MILLER

Alex Day The Underground Story Teller

This book by Alex Day is a fun read. I recommend this book as its a mixture of fact, fiction and entertaining comments. Its well written but he sometimes makes a comic spelling mistake. Its an easy read but if you want treat it as a reference book please do. I had a good chuckle one afternoon reading this book. Have a wonderful day