R.I.P.

 Ozzy Osbourne died yesterday. This song of his never gets old...

Generals gathered in their masses
Just like witches at black masses
Evil minds that plot destruction
Sorcerers of death's construction

In the fields the bodies burning
As the war machine keeps turning
Death and hatred to mankind
Poisoning their brainwashed minds, oh lord yeah!

Politicians hide themselves away
They only started the war
Why should they go out to fight?
They leave that role to the poor, yeah!

Time will tell on their power minds
Making war just for fun
Treating people just like pawns in chess
Wait 'till their judgement day comes, yeah!

Now in darkness, world stops turning
Ashes where the bodies' burning
No more war pigs have the power
Hand of God has struck the hour

Day of judgement, God is calling
On their knees, the war pigs crawling
Begging mercy for their sins
Satan, laughing, spreads his wings, oh lord yeah!

Liberal Vs Traditional Concept Of God

I have been following a discussion about whether a Christian should ever sacrifice his life for Christ/his convictions and teach his children to do the same. Apparently, a lot of modern people, including believers can't even fathom the idea of dying for something as abstract as their faith. They also sincerely can't comprehend why God even would allow a situation to happen where you have to choose between your life and standing for something you sincerely believe in (not necessarily in the religious sense).

The concept of betrayal is foreign to some, either. To behave in a way men like Martin Luther did is insanity and dangerous fanaticism. Why not recant when you life and liberty is at stake, those are mere words and you still can believe the way you like in your heart. If you are forced to deny your parents, just do it already, your old folks will forgive you, after all, they would desire you to be happy.

I think "happiness" is a key word here. Life used to be about honour and duty, now it's all about feeling happy and material stuff.  I've heard people say things like: "God arranged it all so that I could lead a comfy life free of worries." In other words, God is somewhat akin to a fairy Godmother who exists to make your life one big fairy tale. There is a lot of entitlement in this attitude, don't you agree?

It has been a custom in all Christian countries to give a convicted criminal awaiting his execution a possibility to repent of his crime and make things good with God before he dies. Some people confessed of crimes they had committed which nobody knew about on their deathbed. The reason for this was that they dreaded to appear before the Heavenly judge  should they die in their sins. Again, this has become something of a foreign concept. God is love, we are told and that's all there is to it. Forget about judgement, it would be unloving!

In a relatively short time, we went from a society which taught its citizens that it was noble to sacrifice for the common good to the one which promotes egoism (and hedonism) as the highest virtue. Is it really any wonder that it's falling apart in front of our very eyes?

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

Happy Mother's Day!

I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.

(Quoted from here) 

Dane-Geld

Saturday Poetry Hour brings you this:

It is always a temptation to an armed and agile nation
  To call upon a neighbour and to say: --
"We invaded you last night--we are quite prepared to fight,
  Unless you pay us cash to go away."

And that is called asking for Dane-geld,
  And the people who ask it explain
That you've only to pay 'em the Dane-geld
  And then  you'll get rid of the Dane!

It is always a temptation for a rich and lazy nation,
  To puff and look important and to say: --
"Though we know we should defeat you, we have not the time to meet you.
  We will therefore pay you cash to go away."

And that is called paying the Dane-geld;
  But we've  proved it again and  again,
That if once you have paid him the Dane-geld
  You never get rid of the Dane.

It is wrong to put temptation in the path of any nation,
  For fear they should succumb and go astray;
So when you are requested to pay up or be molested,
  You will find it better policy to say: --

"We never pay any-one Dane-geld,
  No matter how trifling the cost;
For the end of that game is oppression and shame,
  And the nation that pays it is lost!"

Three guesses as to who might be the author? The answer is here.

The Story Of Horatius

Publius Horatius, that is.

Horatius was an officer in the Roman army which defended the city against the Etruscan king Lars Porsena. Together with two other officers he was defending the bridge against superior enemy forces, allowing other Roman soldiers to evacuate and destroy the bridge. 

Though several times wounded, he managed to swim back to safety and was crowned as a hero.His story became an inspiration for a famous poem by T.B. Macaulay, an (early) Victorian poet:

But the Consul's brow was sad,
          And the Consul's speech was low,
     And darkly looked he at the wall,
          And darkly at the foe.
     "Their van will be upon us
          Before the bridge goes down;
     And if they once may win the bridge,
          What hope to save the town?"
           
     Then out spake brave Horatius,
          The Captain of the Gate:
     "To every man upon this earth
          Death cometh soon or late.
     And how can man die better
          Than facing fearful odds,
     For the ashes of his fathers,
          And the temples of his gods,
             
     "And for the tender mother
          Who dandled him to rest,
     And for the wife who nurses
          His baby at her breast,
     And for the holy maidens
          Who feed the eternal flame,
     To save them from false Sextus
          That wrought the deed of shame?

 Read the whole poem at Wikisource and the story of Horatius at Wikipedia

The Death Of A Politician

Here richly, with ridiculous display,
The Politician's corpse was laid away.
While all of his acquaintance sneered and slanged
I wept: for I had longed to see him hanged.

Quoted from Here

Googlebots And Poetry

Are you ever being visited by a Googlebot? It´s a serious question! Spyware has become more advanced so now I can see what browser my visitors use, what is their monitor resolution, and whether they use a smartphone or a laptop or a tablet. I was also informed that in the last couple of days I´d been visited by a Googlebot. Twice. Actually there were two different Googlebots. Whatever...

And here is a nice poem to go together with the pics from Friday:

Heather Ale by R.L. Stevenson

From the bonny bells of heather
  They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far then honey,
  Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
  And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
  In their dwellings underground.

There rose a king in Scotland,
  A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
  He hunted them like roes.
Over miles of the red mountain
  He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
  Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country,
  Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
  Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children's
  On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
  Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland
  Rode on a summer's day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
  Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
  Black was his brow and pale,
To rule in a land of heather
  And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals,
  Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
  And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
  Never a word they spoke;
A son and his aged father --
  Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger,
  He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
  Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them;
  And there on the giddy brink --
"I will give you life, ye vermin,
  For the secret of the drink."

There stood the son and father,
  And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
  The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
  Shrill was his voice to hear:
"I have a word in private,
  A word for the royal ear.

"Life is dear to the aged,
  And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,"
  Quoth the Pict to the king.
His voice was small as a sparrow's,
  And shrill and wonderful clear:
"I would gladly sell my secret,
  Only my son I fear.

"For life is a little matter,
  And death is nought to the young;
And I dare not sell my honour
  Under the eye of my son.
Take him, O king, and bind him,
  And cast him far in the deep;
And it's I will tell the secret
  That I have sworn to keep."

They took the son and bound him,
  Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
  And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
  Like that of a child of ten; --
And there on the cliff stood the father,
  Last of the dwarfish men.

"True was the word I told you:
  Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
  That goes without the beard.
But now in vain is the torture,
  Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
  The secret of Heather Ale."

Quoted from here. 

The Elvenking

The Elvenking by J.W. Goethe is probably one of the creepiest stories of Western literature. I remembered it while driving through a German forest at night, high in the mountains:)




There has been some discussion in comments whether the King of Elves only symbolises Death or there is a darker meaning. Personally I believe there is, considering that the author created his own version of an old Nordic legend which told the story of a mortal man tempted by an elf-maid who stabs him when he refuses her sexual advances,  but you can read the poem for yourself and then decide.

It's amazing how J.R.R. Tolkien managed to turn elves into positive characters, isn't it now?

True Love Exists

Yesterday while visiting family I saw an interesting TV program. Now I may have missed some details as by obvious reasons I couldn't give my full attention to the telly, but in the nutshell, the story was about a couple with their children living somewhere in the wilderness in the manner of nomads of old.

The interesting thing was that the wife is 30 years (yes, thirty!) her husband's junior. She met him while traveling at the age of 22 and he was 52 and an American (I think). She left her own country, her CAREER, her family and friends to marry this man and to travel around the world with him, living in primitive circumstances and cooking food over the open fire.

The husband said to the reporter that he is a gypsy at heart and simply can't settle down. His wife (who, by the way, still looks great after 3 children and is in an excellent physical condition) appears to be very much in love with him.

While watching this surprisingly traditional program, I caught myself thinking that this is the western way of life: not gathering harems and locking your women up, but pair-bonding and the wife as a companion, following the man she loves to the end of the world, if necessary.

Now our television is very liberal and they probably only showed this couple because they live like hippies but probably unknowingly to themselves they stumbled upon something much bigger than their intention.

The heart of a man to the heart of a maid --
  Light of my tents, be fleet.
Morning waits at the end of the world,
  And the world is all at our feet!

Don't Be A Social Justice Warrior

"But what are we to do?" said Susan...
"My dear young lady," said the Professor, suddenly looking up with a very sharp expression at both of them, "there is one plan which no one has yet suggested and which is well worth trying."
"What's that?" said Susan.
"We might all try minding our own business, " said he. And that was the end of the conversation. 

C.S. Lewis, "The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe," Harper Collins Children's Books, 2001, p.58.


And withal they learn to be idle, wandering about from house to house; and not only idle, but tattlers also and busybodies, speaking things which they ought not.
14 I will therefore that the younger women marry, bear children, guide the house, give none occasion to the adversary to speak reproachfully.

(Scriptures quoted from this site).

Being a busybody is seldom attractive, however, nowadays it's promoted  as virtue. Do-goodism has become a religion of its own, we are all supposed to engage in campaigns to save the climate, Africa, women in third world countries, children in South America who don't go to school etc etc. There are whole missionary teams going to some obscure village to dig wells. I always wonder, can't men in those villages dig wells? Are Westerners supposed to be babysitters of the entire world? Do adults and/or wealthy people in those countries have no responsibilities to their own? And finally, why should I care?

The world would be a much better place if we just started paying more attention to the needs of our immediate family, neighbours and friends, instead of engaging in pointless campaigns to eliminate world poverty and inequality, or becoming a part of internet lynch mobs fighting an -ism du jour.  I believe that women especially are prone to this malaise of busybodism, hence this poem from 1906:

She's a woman with a mission, 'tis her 
heaven-born ambition to reform
the world's condition, you will
please to understand.

She's a model of propriety, a leader in
society, and has a great variety 
of remedies at hand. 

Each a sovereign specific, with a title 
scientific, for the cure of things
morbific that vex the people sore;

For the swift alleviation of the evils
 of  the nation is her fore-ordained
vocation on this sublunary
shore.

And while thus she's up and coming,
always hurrying and humming,
and occasionally slumming, this 
reformer of renown,

Her neglected little Dicky, ragged, dirty
tough and tricky, with his
 fingers soiled and sticky, is
 the terror of the town.

Author unknown, quoted from here.

Finnish Christmas

H/t to Miriam from Finland. I thought it was too good to get buried in the comments. Here is what Miriam wrote:

It's all about 24th, from noon on, when the declaration of Christmas peace is given in Turku. It is quite important for those who live in Turku, but also all over Finland. It can be watched in Tv or listened in radio. After that, churches are bursted with people, because almost everyone wants to attend a Christmas afternoon/Eve service. Even more people visit graveyards, decorating graves with candles. It is important to go to sauna at some point before dinner and gifts. Quite a busy day :-)

UPDATE: Here are the words of the military march that is played last, courtesy of Wikipedia:

Sons of a race whose blood was shed,

On Narva's field; on Poland's sand; at Leipzig; Lützen's dark hills under;

Not yet is Finland's manhood dead;

With foemen's blood a field may still be tinted red!

All Rest, all Peace, Away! begone!

The tempest loosens; lightnings flash; and o'er the field the cannon thunder

Rank upon rank, march on! march on!

The spirit of each father brave looks on as brave a son.

No nobler aim

Could light us to the field;

Our swords are flame;

Nor new our blood to yield;

Forward each man, brave and bold!

Lo! the glorious path of Freedom, centuries old!

Gleam high! Thou banner Victory-sealed!

In the grey bygone days, long since, all battle-worn,

Be still our splendid colours, though tattered, onward borne!

Of Finland's ancient Standard there's yet a shred untorn!

H/t to Housewife from Finland

An Ode To Romantic Love

Gipsy Trail by R. Kipling:

The white moth to the closing bine,
  The bee to the opened clover,
And the gipsy blood to the gipsy blood
  Ever the wide world over.

Ever the wide world over, lass,
  Ever the trail held true,
Over the world and under the world,
  And back at the last to you.

Out of the dark of the gorgio camp,
  Out of the grime and the grey
(Morning waits at the end of the world),
  Gipsy, come away!

The wild boar to the sun-dried swamp,
  The red crane to her reed,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
  By the tie of a roving breed.

The pied snake to the rifted rock,
  The buck to the stony plain,
And the Romany lass to the Romany lad,
  And both to the road again.

Both to the road again, again!
  Out on a clean sea-track --
Follow the cross of the gipsy trail
  Over the world and back!

Follow the Romany patteran
   North where the blue bergs sail,
And the bows are grey with the frozen spray,
   And the masts are shod with mail.

Follow the Romany patteran
  Sheer to the Austral Light,
Where the besom of God is the wild South wind,
  Sweeping the sea-floors white.

Follow the Romany patteran
  West to the sinking sun,
Till the junk-sails lift through the houseless drift.
  And the east and west are one.

Follow the Romany patteran
  East where the silence broods
By a purple wave on an opal beach
  In the hush of the Mahim woods.

"The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky,
  The deer to the wholesome wold,
And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid,
  As it was in the days of old."

The heart of a man to the heart of a maid --
  Light of my tents, be fleet.
Morning waits at the end of the world,
  And the world is all at our feet!

Quoted from here. 

Leisure

I had to learn this poem by William Henry Davies at school. It's a good illustration of the point I was trying to make in my previous post:

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.


Courtesy of this website.

Abraham Davenport

Abraham Davenport was an American politician who became prominent during the American Revolution. He also served as a colonel in Connecticut state militia. He became famous for his reaction to New England's Dark Day (May 19, 1780), when the unusual darkness came on between 10 and 11 a.m. which lasted till the middle of the next night. As Davenport's colleagues suggested adjourning (as they feared that the Judgement Day was approaching) he refused to do it stating that in any case, he preferred doing his duty.

Later John Whittier wrote a poem about this famous incident:

...Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts,
Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut,
Trembling beneath their legislative robes.
"It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn,"
Some said; and then, as if with one accord,
All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport.
He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice
The intolerable hush. "This well may be
The Day of Judgment which the world awaits;
But be it so or not, I only know
My present duty, and my Lord's command
To occupy till He come. So at the post
Where He hast set me in His providence,
I choose, for one, to meet Him face to face,
No faithless servant frightened from my task,
But ready when the Lord of the harvest calls;
And therefore, with all reverence, I would say,
Let God do His work, we will see to ours.
Bring in the candles." And they brought them in...

... And there he stands in memory to this day,
Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen
Against the background of unnatural dark,
A witness to the ages as they pass,
That simple duty hath no place for fear.

Read the whole poem over here.

The Story Of Regulus

Marcus Atilius Regulus was a Roman consul and general, who was taken prisoner by Carthaginians in 255 B.C. and charged by them with negotiating peace, but instead he pointed out their weakness to the Roman Senate and urged for war.  He had sworn to return back to Carthage, and this he did, knowing full well what it meant for him.

He was subsequently tortured to death (crucified by this account ) and has been remembered since that time as an example of Roman virtue (later historians claimed his wife avenged his death by killing two Carthaginian prisoners in the same manner).

Regulus served as an inspiration to the Roman poet Horace (Q. Horatius Flaccus), who dedicated one of his odes to him:

...'Twas this that Regulus foresaw,
What time he spurn'd the foul disgrace
Of peace, whose precedent would draw
Destruction on an unborn race,
Should aught but death the prisoner's chain
Unrivet. “I have seen,” he said,
“Rome's eagle in a Punic fane,
And armour, ne'er a blood-drop shed,
Stripp'd from the soldier; I have seen
Free sons of Rome with arms fast tied;
The fields we spoil'd with corn are green,
And Carthage opes her portals wide...

...His wife's pure kiss he waved aside,
And prattling boys, as one disgraced,
They tell us, and with manly pride
Stern on the ground his visage placed.
With counsel thus ne'er else aread
He nerved the fathers' weak intent,
And, girt by friends that mourn'd him, sped
Into illustrious banishment.
Well witting what the torturer's art
Design'd him, with like unconcern
The press of kin he push'd apart
And crowds encumbering his return...

(Quoted from here) You can also watch in on YouTube where it's read aloud in the original language:
Horace, Ode III.5, Regulus. 

Regulus has inspired Kipling to write a story with the same name, about a boys' boarding school. He is also mentioned in one of Laura Ingalls' "Little House On The Prairie" books, as she and Mary learn his speech by heart. Those two are probably the most famous examples, however, there seemed to be an 18th century English tragedy dedicated to him, which can be read over here.

Below is an excerpt, featuring the farewell speech of Regulus to his son (I changed the spelling slightly):

If Rome should raise thee to her highest Service
(As thou hast Merit  to expect her Honours)
Serve her for Love of Rome, and not of Interest;
Let Glory be thy second Motive only,
Thy Country´s Love be ever first, and dearest;
In Liberty´s Defence fight constant, single
Die with her - ´tis no Life if you survive her;
The greatest Glory of a free-born People,
Is to transmit that Freedom to their Children.

Search out for hidden Worth - and then reward it:
The noblest Prospect to a Roman Eye,
Is Greatness, lifting Merit up to Fame.

Let Falsehood be a Stranger to thy lips;
Shame on the Policy that first began
To temper with the Heart to hide its Thoughts!
And double Shame on that Inglorious Tongue,
That sold its Honesty, and told a Lie!

And that is the story of Regulus.

Tuesday Kipling

I remember this poem produced a lasting impression on me when I first read it as a teenager. It's considered one of the most significant of his early works:

 Danny Deever

"What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade.
"To turn you out, to turn you out", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade.
"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch", the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
The regiment's in 'ollow square -- they're hangin' him to-day;
They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes that front-rank man fall down?" said Files-on-Parade.
"A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun", the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,
They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;
An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound --
O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!

"'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine", said Files-on-Parade.
"'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times", said Files-on-Parade.
"'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone", the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,
For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' -- you must look 'im in the face;
Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace,
While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What's that so black agin' the sun?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now", the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play,
The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day,
After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

Text quoted from here

Nihilism vs Faith

Modern Western society is chiefly based on humanism which is described by a Longman dictionary I possess as "a system of beliefs and standards concerned with the needs of people and not with religious ideas". In other words, the immediate and often subjective concerns of human beings are considered more important than objective reality and any system of religious beliefs. When you keep this in mind, you'll begin to understand the roots of some problems which plague the modern Western society.

Christian preachers used to teach that holiness or salvation existed outside of man, not within, while humanism searches for the ultimate good within a person, hence the belief that human nature could be improved by progress and education. However, in my opinion, humanism also directly opposes any system based on idealism, since such a system will hold (some) ideas and concepts higher than the material needs of the people and worthy to sacrifice one's life for, if necessary.

A society based on the concept that material needs are everything that matters will inevitably grow more nihilistic and hedonistic as it will basically teach its citizens that eating, drinking and having fun is the most important thing in life and will ridicule such abstract concepts as "duty", "honour" or "patriotism" since they exist outside of man.

Idealism has dangers of its own since it can breed fanatics ready to kill and die for something they hold dear, and it could very well be that modern materialistic hedonism is the reaction to the 19th century idealism which brought us revolutions and two most horrible world wars, and yet I'm not sure that nihilism is a good substitute or that such a society can survive for a long time.

Since I now have new readers I'd like to repost one of my favourite poems by Robert Service which illustrates the point I'm trying to make. The hero of it is not a believer yet he has a concept of honour, which exists outside of himself, and his adherence to it outweighs his desire to save his life:

Soldier Of Fortune

"Deny your God!" they ringed me with their spears;
Blood-crazed were they, and reeking from the strife;
Hell-hot their hate, and venom-fanged their sneers,
And one man spat on me and nursed a knife.
And there was I, sore wounded and alone,
I, the last living of my slaughtered band.
Oh sinister the sky, and cold as stone!
In one red laugh of horror reeled the land.
And dazed and desperate I faced their spears,
And like a flame out-leaped that naked knife,
And like a serpent stung their bitter jeers:
"Deny your God, and we will give you life."

Deny my God! Oh life was very sweet!
And it is hard in youth and hope to die;
And there my comrades dear lay at my feet,
And in that blear of blood soon must I lie.
And yet . . . I almost laughed -- it seemed so odd,
For long and long had I not vainly tried
To reason out and body forth my God,
And prayed for light, and doubted -- and denied:
Denied the Being I could not conceive,
Denied a life-to-be beyond the grave. . . .
And now they ask me, who do not believe,
Just to deny, to voice my doubt, to save
This life of mine that sings so in the sun,
The bloom of youth yet red upon my cheek,
My only life! -- O fools! 'tis easy done,
I will deny . . . and yet I do not speak.

"Deny your God!" their spears are all agleam,
And I can see their eyes with blood-lust shine;
Their snarling voices shrill into a scream,
And, mad to slay, they quiver for the sign.
Deny my God! yes, I could do it well;
Yet if I did, what of my race, my name?
How they would spit on me, these dogs of hell!
Spurn me, and put on me the brand of shame.
A white man's honour! what of that, I say?
Shall these black curs cry "Coward" in my face?
They who would perish for their gods of clay --
Shall I defile my country and my race?
My country! what's my country to me now?
Soldier of Fortune, free and far I roam;
All men are brothers in my heart, I vow;
The wide and wondrous world is all my home.
My country! reverent of her splendid Dead,
Her heroes proud, her martyrs pierced with pain:
For me her puissant blood was vainly shed;
For me her drums of battle beat in vain,
And free I fare, half-heedless of her fate:
No faith, no flag I owe -- then why not seek
This last loop-hole of life? Why hesitate?
I will deny . . . and yet I do not speak.

"Deny your God!" their spears are poised on high,
And tense and terrible they wait the word;
And dark and darker glooms the dreary sky,
And in that hush of horror no thing stirred.
Then, through the ringing terror and sheer hate
Leaped there a vision to me -- Oh, how far!
A face, Her face . . . through all my stormy fate
A joy, a strength, a glory and a star.
Beneath the pines, where lonely camp-fires gleam,
In seas forlorn, amid the deserts drear,
How I had gladdened to that face of dream!
And never, never had it seemed so dear.
O silken hair that veils the sunny brow!
O eyes of grey, so tender and so true!
O lips of smiling sweetness! must I now
For ever and for ever go from you?

Ah, yes, I must . . . for if I do this thing,
How can I look into your face again?
Knowing you think me more than half a king,
I with my craven heart, my honour slain.
No! no! my mind's made up. I gaze above,
Into that sky insensate as a stone;
Not for my creed, my country, but my Love
Will I stand up and meet my death alone.
Then though it be to utter dark I sink,
The God that dwells in me is not denied;
"Best" triumphs over "Beast", -- and so I think
Humanity itself is glorified. . . .

"And now, my butchers, I embrace my fate.
Come! let my heart's blood slake the thirsty sod.
Curst be the life you offer! Glut your hate!
Strike! Strike, you dogs! I'll not deny my God."
I saw the spears that seemed a-leap to slay,
All quiver earthward at the headman's nod;
And in a daze of dream I heard him say:
"Go, set him free who serves so well his God!"

As a P.S. I'd like to add that I took some pictures to add to my previous post on different clothes styles but by some reason, can't upload them now, so I'll try to do it later.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose

Found at Project Gutenberg: the complaint of a divorced man from the year 1709. Called The Pleasures of A Single Life, Or The Miseries of Matrimony.

Wedlock, oh! Curs'd uncomfortable State,
Cause of my Woes, and Object of my hate.
How bless'd was I? Ah, once how happy me?
When I from those uneasie Bonds were free;

The author then proceeds to describe in great detail how happy and peaceful his life used to be, until the Cursed Fiend from Hell brought a woman upon his path, who was extremely beautiful (probably a 10!)


Beauty she had, a seeming Modest Mein, }
All Charms without, but Devil all within, }


And thus he married her:


Thus thro' mistake I rashly plung'd my Life
Into that Gulph of Miseries a Wife.
With joyful Arms I thus embrac'd my Fare,
Believ'd too soon, was undeceiv'd too late;

It didn't work out too well though, as his wife was a habitual adulteress. He tried to appease her at first, but it only made matters worse:

I strugled hard, and all my Passions chekt,
And chang'd Revenge into a mild Respect,
That Good for Ill return'd might touch hear near,
And Gratitude might bind her more tan fear;
My former Love I every day renew'd;
And all the Signals of Oblivion shew'd;
Wink'd at small Faults, wou'd no such Trifles mind,
As accidental Failings not designed.
I all things to her Temper easie made,
Scorn'd to reflect, and hated to upbraid...

Thus the new Covenant I strictly kept,
And oft in private for her Failings wept,
Yet bore with seeming Cheerfulness those Cares,
That bring a Man too soon to grisled Hairs...

 For after all the Endearments I should show,
At last she turn'd both Libertine and Shrow,
From my Submission grew perverse and proud,
Crabbed as Varges, and as Thunder loud;
Did what she pleas'd, would no Obedience own,
And redicul'd the Patience I had shown.
Fear'd no sharp threatnings, valued no disgrace,
But flung the wrongs she'd done me in my Face;


He finally got enough when she switched to his servants because men of her own class wouldn´t have her any more, and filed for divorce

 On these just Grounds for a Divorce I su'd, }
At last that head-strong Tyrant wife subdu'd, }
Cancel'd the marriage-bonds, and basterdiz'd her brood. }


then swore to become MGTOW for the rest of his life


Farewel Church-juggle that enslav'd my Life,
But bless that Pow'r that rid me of my Wife.
And now the Laws once more have set me free,
If Woman can again prevail with me,
My Flesh and Bones shall make my Wedding-Feast, }
And none shall be Invited as my Guest, }


It´s probably good to remember when searching for a wife that appearance is not as important as virtue

Favour is deceitful and beauty is vain but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised. 
(give this clumsy girl with glasses a chance,she may have a heart of gold!)

Read the whole poem over here
 

Soldier Of Fortune

by Robert W. Service:

"Deny your God!" they ringed me with their spears;
Blood-crazed were they, and reeking from the strife;
Hell-hot their hate, and venom-fanged their sneers,
And one man spat on me and nursed a knife.
And there was I, sore wounded and alone,
I, the last living of my slaughtered band.
Oh sinister the sky, and cold as stone!
In one red laugh of horror reeled the land.
And dazed and desperate I faced their spears,
And like a flame out-leaped that naked knife,
And like a serpent stung their bitter jeers:
"Deny your God, and we will give you life."

Deny my God! Oh life was very sweet!
And it is hard in youth and hope to die;
And there my comrades dear lay at my feet,
And in that blear of blood soon must I lie.
And yet . . . I almost laughed -- it seemed so odd,
For long and long had I not vainly tried
To reason out and body forth my God,
And prayed for light, and doubted -- and denied:
Denied the Being I could not conceive,
Denied a life-to-be beyond the grave. . . .
And now they ask me, who do not believe,
Just to deny, to voice my doubt, to save
This life of mine that sings so in the sun,
The bloom of youth yet red upon my cheek,
My only life! -- O fools! 'tis easy done,
I will deny . . . and yet I do not speak.

"Deny your God!" their spears are all agleam,
And I can see their eyes with blood-lust shine;
Their snarling voices shrill into a scream,
And, mad to slay, they quiver for the sign.
Deny my God! yes, I could do it well;
Yet if I did, what of my race, my name?
How they would spit on me, these dogs of hell!
Spurn me, and put on me the brand of shame.
A white man's honour! what of that, I say?
Shall these black curs cry "Coward" in my face?
They who would perish for their gods of clay --
Shall I defile my country and my race?
My country! what's my country to me now?
Soldier of Fortune, free and far I roam;
All men are brothers in my heart, I vow;
The wide and wondrous world is all my home.
My country! reverent of her splendid Dead,
Her heroes proud, her martyrs pierced with pain:
For me her puissant blood was vainly shed;
For me her drums of battle beat in vain,
And free I fare, half-heedless of her fate:
No faith, no flag I owe -- then why not seek
This last loop-hole of life? Why hesitate?
I will deny . . . and yet I do not speak.

"Deny your God!" their spears are poised on high,
And tense and terrible they wait the word;
And dark and darker glooms the dreary sky,
And in that hush of horror no thing stirred.
Then, through the ringing terror and sheer hate
Leaped there a vision to me -- Oh, how far!
A face, Her face . . . through all my stormy fate
A joy, a strength, a glory and a star.
Beneath the pines, where lonely camp-fires gleam,
In seas forlorn, amid the deserts drear,
How I had gladdened to that face of dream!
And never, never had it seemed so dear.
O silken hair that veils the sunny brow!
O eyes of grey, so tender and so true!
O lips of smiling sweetness! must I now
For ever and for ever go from you?

Ah, yes, I must . . . for if I do this thing,
How can I look into your face again?
Knowing you think me more than half a king,
I with my craven heart, my honour slain.
No! no! my mind's made up. I gaze above,
Into that sky insensate as a stone;
Not for my creed, my country, but my Love
Will I stand up and meet my death alone.
Then though it be to utter dark I sink,
The God that dwells in me is not denied;
"Best" triumphs over "Beast", -- and so I think
Humanity itself is glorified. . . .

"And now, my butchers, I embrace my fate.
Come! let my heart's blood slake the thirsty sod.
Curst be the life you offer! Glut your hate!
Strike! Strike, you dogs! I'll not deny my God."
I saw the spears that seemed a-leap to slay,
All quiver earthward at the headman's nod;
And in a daze of dream I heard him say:
"Go, set him free who serves so well his God!"

Happy Father's Day!

Just a bit of poetry for the Father's Day. 

IF, by R. Kipling

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 them 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!