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'rimini' Post by :richard52az Category :Poems Author :Rudyard Kipling Date :November 2010 Read :1749

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(Marching Song of a Roman Legion of the Later Empire)

When I left home for Lalage's sake
By the Legions' road to Rimini,
She vowed her heart was mine to take
With me and my shield to Rimini--
(Till the Eagles flew from Rimini!)
And I've tramped Britain, and I've tramped Gaul,
And the Pontic shore where the snow-flakes fall
As white as the neck of Lalage--
(As cold as the heart of Lalage!)
And I've lost Britain, and I've lost Gaul,
And I've lost Rome, and worst of all,
I've lost Lalage!

When you go by the Via Aurelia,
As thousands have travelled before,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who never saw Rome any more!
Oh dear was the sweetheart that kissed him
And dear was the mother that bore,
But his shield was picked up in the heather,
And he never saw Rome any more!

And _he_ left Rome, etc.

When you go by the Via Aurelia
That runs from the City to Gaul,
Remember the Luck of the Soldier
Who rose to be master of all!
He carried the sword and the buckler,
He mounted his guard on the Wall,
Till the Legions elected him Caesar,
And he rose to be master of all!

And _he_ left Rome, etc.

It's twenty-five marches to Narbo,
It's forty-five more up the Rhone,
And the end may be death in the heather
Or life on an Emperor's throne.

But whether the Eagles obey us,
Or we go to the Ravens--alone,
I'd sooner be Lalage's lover
Than sit on an Emperor's throne!

We've _all_ left Rome for Lalage's sake, etc.

(The end)
Rudyard Kipling's poem: "Rimini"

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'poor Honest Men' "poor Honest Men"

'poor Honest Men'
(A.D. 1800)Your jar of VirginnyWill cost you a guineaWhich you reckon too much by five shillings or ten;But light your churchwardenAnd judge it according,When I've told you the troubles of poor honest men!From the Capes of the Delaware,As you are well aware,We sail with tobacco for England--but then,Our own British cruisers,They watch us come through, sirs,And they press half a score of us poor honest men!Or if by quick sailing(Thick weather prevailing)We leave them behind (as we do now and then)We are sure of a gun fromEach frigate we run from,Which is often destruction to poor honest men!Broadsides the AtlanticWe tumble

A Pict Song A Pict Song

A Pict Song
Rome never looks where she treads. Always her heavy hooves fall,On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads; And Rome never heeds when we bawl.Her sentries pass on--that is all, And we gather behind them in hordes,And plot to reconquer the Wall, With only our tongues for our swords.We are the Little Folk--we! Too little to love or to hate.Leave us alone and you'll see How we can drag down the State!We are the worm in the wood! We are the rot at the root!We are the germ in the blood! We are the thorn in the foot!Mistletoe killing an oak--