This Dai adjusts his slipping shoulder-straps
This Dai adjusts his slipping shoulder-straps, wraps close his
misfit outsize greatcoat — he articulates his English with an
alien care.
My fathers were with the Black Prinse of Wales
at the passion of
the blind Bohemian king.
They served in these fields,
it is in the histories that you can read it, Corporal — boys
Gower, they were — it is writ down — yes.
Wot about Methusalum, Taffy?
I was with Abel when his brother found him,
under the green tree.
I built a shit-house for Artaxerxes.
I was the spear in Balin's hand
that made waste King Pellam's land.
I took the smooth stones of the brook,
I was with Saul
playing before him.
I saw him armed like Derfel Gatheren.
I the fox-run fire
consuming in the wheatlands;
and in the standing wheat in Cantium made some attempt to
form — (between dun August oaks their pied bodies darting)
And I the south air, tossed from high projections by his Olifant; (the arid marcher-slopes echoing —
should they lose
Clere Espaigne la bele).
I am '62 Socrates, my feet are colder than you think
on this
Potidaean duck-board.
I the adder in the little bush
whose hibernation-end
undid,
unmade victorious toil:
In ostium fluminis.
At the four actions in regione Linnuis
by the black waters.
At Bassas in the shallows.
At Cat Coit Celidon.
At Guinnion redoubt, where he carried the Image.
In urbe Legionis.
By the vallum Antonini, at the place of boundaries, at the toiling estuary and strong flow called Tribruit.
By Agned mountain.
On Badon hill, where he bore the Tree.
I am the Loricated Legions.
Helen Camulodunum is ours;
she's the toast of the Rig'ment,
she is in an especial way our Mediatrix.
She's clement and loving, she's Friday's child, she's loving and giving;
O dulcis
imperatrix.
Her ample bosom holds:
Pontifex maximus,
Comes Litoris Saxonici,
Comes Britanniarum,
Gwledig,
Bretwalda, as these square-heads say.
She's the girl with the sparkling eyes,
she's the Bracelet Giver,
she's a regular draw with the labour companies,
whereby
the paved army-paths are hers that grid the island which is her dower.
Elen Lluyddawc she is — more she is than
Helen Argive.
My mob digged the outer vallum,
we furnished picquets;
we staked trip-wire as a precaution at
Troy Novaunt.
I saw the blessed head set under
that kept the narrow sea inviolate.
To keep the Land,
to give the yield:
under the White Tower
I trowelled the inhuming mortar.
They learned me well the proportions due —
by water
by sand
by slacked lime.
I drest the cist —
the beneficent artisans knew well how to keep
the king's head to keep
the land inviolate.
The Bear of the Island: he broke it in his huge pride, and
over-reach of his imperium.
The Island Dragon.
The Bull of Battle
(this is the third woeful uncovering).
Let maimed kings lie — let be
O let the guardian head
keep back — bind savage sails, lock the shield-wall, nourish the sowing.
The War Duke
The Director of Toil —
he burst the balm-cloth, unbricked the barrow
(cruel feet march because of this
ungainly men sprawl over us).
O Land! — O Br├ón lie under.
The chrism'd eye that watches the French-men
that wards under
that keeps us
that brings the furrow-fruit,
keep the land, keep us
keep the islands adjacent.
I marched, sixty thousand and one thousand marched, because
of the brightness of Flur, because of the keeper of promises
(we came no more again)
who depleted the Island,
(and this is the first emigrant host)
and the land was bare for our going.
O blessed head hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
I marched, sixty thousand marched who marched for Kynan
and Elen because of foreign machinations,
(we came no more again)
who left the land without harness
(and this is the second emigrant host).
O Brân confound the counsel of the councillors, O blessed
head, hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
In the baized chamber confuse his tongue:
that Lord Agravaine.
He urges with repulsive lips, he counsels: he nets us into
expeditionary war.
O blessed head hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
I knew the smart on Branwen's cheek and the turbulence in Ireland
(and this was the third grievous blow).
I served Longinus that Dux bat-blind and bent;
the Dandy Xth are my regiment;
who diced
Crown and Mud-hook
under the Tree,
whose Five Sufficient Blossoms
yield for us.
I kept the boding raven
from the Dish.
With my long pilum
I beat the crow
from that heavy bough.
But I held the tunics of these —
I watched them work the terrible embroidery that He put on
I heard there sighing for the Feet so shod.
I saw cock-robin gain
his rosy breast.
I heard Him cry:
Apples ben ripe in my gardayne
I saw Him die.
I was in Michael's trench when bright Lucifer bulged his
primal salient out.
That caused it,
that upset the joy-cart,
and three parts waste.
You ought to ask: Why,
what is this,
what's the meaning of this.
Because you don't ask,
although the spear-shaft
drips,
there's neither steading — not a roof-tree.
I am the Single Horn thrusting
by night-stream margin
in Helyon.
Cripes-a-mighty-strike-me-stone-cold — you don't say.
Where's that birth-mark, young 'un.
Wot the Melchizzydix! — and still fading — jump to it
Rotherhithe.
Never die never die
Never die never die
Old soljers never die
Never die never die
Old soljers never die they never die
Never die
Old soljers never die they
Simply fade away.
This Dai adjusts his slipping shoulder-straps, wraps close his
misfit outsize greatcoat — he articulates his English with an
alien care.
My fathers were with the Black Prinse of Wales
at the passion of
the blind Bohemian king.
They served in these fields,
it is in the histories that you can read it, Corporal — boys
Gower, they were — it is writ down — yes.
Wot about Methusalum, Taffy?
I was with Abel when his brother found him,
under the green tree.
I built a shit-house for Artaxerxes.
I was the spear in Balin's hand
that made waste King Pellam's land.
I took the smooth stones of the brook,
I was with Saul
playing before him.
I saw him armed like Derfel Gatheren.
I the fox-run fire
consuming in the wheatlands;
and in the standing wheat in Cantium made some attempt to
form — (between dun August oaks their pied bodies darting)
And I the south air, tossed from high projections by his Olifant; (the arid marcher-slopes echoing —
should they lose
Clere Espaigne la bele).
I am '62 Socrates, my feet are colder than you think
on this
Potidaean duck-board.
I the adder in the little bush
whose hibernation-end
undid,
unmade victorious toil:
In ostium fluminis.
At the four actions in regione Linnuis
by the black waters.
At Bassas in the shallows.
At Cat Coit Celidon.
At Guinnion redoubt, where he carried the Image.
In urbe Legionis.
By the vallum Antonini, at the place of boundaries, at the toiling estuary and strong flow called Tribruit.
By Agned mountain.
On Badon hill, where he bore the Tree.
I am the Loricated Legions.
Helen Camulodunum is ours;
she's the toast of the Rig'ment,
she is in an especial way our Mediatrix.
She's clement and loving, she's Friday's child, she's loving and giving;
O dulcis
imperatrix.
Her ample bosom holds:
Pontifex maximus,
Comes Litoris Saxonici,
Comes Britanniarum,
Gwledig,
Bretwalda, as these square-heads say.
She's the girl with the sparkling eyes,
she's the Bracelet Giver,
she's a regular draw with the labour companies,
whereby
the paved army-paths are hers that grid the island which is her dower.
Elen Lluyddawc she is — more she is than
Helen Argive.
My mob digged the outer vallum,
we furnished picquets;
we staked trip-wire as a precaution at
Troy Novaunt.
I saw the blessed head set under
that kept the narrow sea inviolate.
To keep the Land,
to give the yield:
under the White Tower
I trowelled the inhuming mortar.
They learned me well the proportions due —
by water
by sand
by slacked lime.
I drest the cist —
the beneficent artisans knew well how to keep
the king's head to keep
the land inviolate.
The Bear of the Island: he broke it in his huge pride, and
over-reach of his imperium.
The Island Dragon.
The Bull of Battle
(this is the third woeful uncovering).
Let maimed kings lie — let be
O let the guardian head
keep back — bind savage sails, lock the shield-wall, nourish the sowing.
The War Duke
The Director of Toil —
he burst the balm-cloth, unbricked the barrow
(cruel feet march because of this
ungainly men sprawl over us).
O Land! — O Br├ón lie under.
The chrism'd eye that watches the French-men
that wards under
that keeps us
that brings the furrow-fruit,
keep the land, keep us
keep the islands adjacent.
I marched, sixty thousand and one thousand marched, because
of the brightness of Flur, because of the keeper of promises
(we came no more again)
who depleted the Island,
(and this is the first emigrant host)
and the land was bare for our going.
O blessed head hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
I marched, sixty thousand marched who marched for Kynan
and Elen because of foreign machinations,
(we came no more again)
who left the land without harness
(and this is the second emigrant host).
O Brân confound the counsel of the councillors, O blessed
head, hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
In the baized chamber confuse his tongue:
that Lord Agravaine.
He urges with repulsive lips, he counsels: he nets us into
expeditionary war.
O blessed head hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
I knew the smart on Branwen's cheek and the turbulence in Ireland
(and this was the third grievous blow).
I served Longinus that Dux bat-blind and bent;
the Dandy Xth are my regiment;
who diced
Crown and Mud-hook
under the Tree,
whose Five Sufficient Blossoms
yield for us.
I kept the boding raven
from the Dish.
With my long pilum
I beat the crow
from that heavy bough.
But I held the tunics of these —
I watched them work the terrible embroidery that He put on
I heard there sighing for the Feet so shod.
I saw cock-robin gain
his rosy breast.
I heard Him cry:
Apples ben ripe in my gardayne
I saw Him die.
I was in Michael's trench when bright Lucifer bulged his
primal salient out.
That caused it,
that upset the joy-cart,
and three parts waste.
You ought to ask: Why,
what is this,
what's the meaning of this.
Because you don't ask,
although the spear-shaft
drips,
there's neither steading — not a roof-tree.
I am the Single Horn thrusting
by night-stream margin
in Helyon.
Cripes-a-mighty-strike-me-stone-cold — you don't say.
Where's that birth-mark, young 'un.
Wot the Melchizzydix! — and still fading — jump to it
Rotherhithe.
Never die never die
Never die never die
Old soljers never die
Never die never die
Old soljers never die they never die
Never die
Old soljers never die they
Simply fade away.
misfit outsize greatcoat — he articulates his English with an
alien care.
My fathers were with the Black Prinse of Wales
at the passion of
the blind Bohemian king.
They served in these fields,
it is in the histories that you can read it, Corporal — boys
Gower, they were — it is writ down — yes.
Wot about Methusalum, Taffy?
I was with Abel when his brother found him,
under the green tree.
I built a shit-house for Artaxerxes.
I was the spear in Balin's hand
that made waste King Pellam's land.
I took the smooth stones of the brook,
I was with Saul
playing before him.
I saw him armed like Derfel Gatheren.
I the fox-run fire
consuming in the wheatlands;
and in the standing wheat in Cantium made some attempt to
form — (between dun August oaks their pied bodies darting)
And I the south air, tossed from high projections by his Olifant; (the arid marcher-slopes echoing —
should they lose
Clere Espaigne la bele).
I am '62 Socrates, my feet are colder than you think
on this
Potidaean duck-board.
I the adder in the little bush
whose hibernation-end
undid,
unmade victorious toil:
In ostium fluminis.
At the four actions in regione Linnuis
by the black waters.
At Bassas in the shallows.
At Cat Coit Celidon.
At Guinnion redoubt, where he carried the Image.
In urbe Legionis.
By the vallum Antonini, at the place of boundaries, at the toiling estuary and strong flow called Tribruit.
By Agned mountain.
On Badon hill, where he bore the Tree.
I am the Loricated Legions.
Helen Camulodunum is ours;
she's the toast of the Rig'ment,
she is in an especial way our Mediatrix.
She's clement and loving, she's Friday's child, she's loving and giving;
O dulcis
imperatrix.
Her ample bosom holds:
Pontifex maximus,
Comes Litoris Saxonici,
Comes Britanniarum,
Gwledig,
Bretwalda, as these square-heads say.
She's the girl with the sparkling eyes,
she's the Bracelet Giver,
she's a regular draw with the labour companies,
whereby
the paved army-paths are hers that grid the island which is her dower.
Elen Lluyddawc she is — more she is than
Helen Argive.
My mob digged the outer vallum,
we furnished picquets;
we staked trip-wire as a precaution at
Troy Novaunt.
I saw the blessed head set under
that kept the narrow sea inviolate.
To keep the Land,
to give the yield:
under the White Tower
I trowelled the inhuming mortar.
They learned me well the proportions due —
by water
by sand
by slacked lime.
I drest the cist —
the beneficent artisans knew well how to keep
the king's head to keep
the land inviolate.
The Bear of the Island: he broke it in his huge pride, and
over-reach of his imperium.
The Island Dragon.
The Bull of Battle
(this is the third woeful uncovering).
Let maimed kings lie — let be
O let the guardian head
keep back — bind savage sails, lock the shield-wall, nourish the sowing.
The War Duke
The Director of Toil —
he burst the balm-cloth, unbricked the barrow
(cruel feet march because of this
ungainly men sprawl over us).
O Land! — O Br├ón lie under.
The chrism'd eye that watches the French-men
that wards under
that keeps us
that brings the furrow-fruit,
keep the land, keep us
keep the islands adjacent.
I marched, sixty thousand and one thousand marched, because
of the brightness of Flur, because of the keeper of promises
(we came no more again)
who depleted the Island,
(and this is the first emigrant host)
and the land was bare for our going.
O blessed head hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
I marched, sixty thousand marched who marched for Kynan
and Elen because of foreign machinations,
(we came no more again)
who left the land without harness
(and this is the second emigrant host).
O Brân confound the counsel of the councillors, O blessed
head, hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
In the baized chamber confuse his tongue:
that Lord Agravaine.
He urges with repulsive lips, he counsels: he nets us into
expeditionary war.
O blessed head hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
I knew the smart on Branwen's cheek and the turbulence in Ireland
(and this was the third grievous blow).
I served Longinus that Dux bat-blind and bent;
the Dandy Xth are my regiment;
who diced
Crown and Mud-hook
under the Tree,
whose Five Sufficient Blossoms
yield for us.
I kept the boding raven
from the Dish.
With my long pilum
I beat the crow
from that heavy bough.
But I held the tunics of these —
I watched them work the terrible embroidery that He put on
I heard there sighing for the Feet so shod.
I saw cock-robin gain
his rosy breast.
I heard Him cry:
Apples ben ripe in my gardayne
I saw Him die.
I was in Michael's trench when bright Lucifer bulged his
primal salient out.
That caused it,
that upset the joy-cart,
and three parts waste.
You ought to ask: Why,
what is this,
what's the meaning of this.
Because you don't ask,
although the spear-shaft
drips,
there's neither steading — not a roof-tree.
I am the Single Horn thrusting
by night-stream margin
in Helyon.
Cripes-a-mighty-strike-me-stone-cold — you don't say.
Where's that birth-mark, young 'un.
Wot the Melchizzydix! — and still fading — jump to it
Rotherhithe.
Never die never die
Never die never die
Old soljers never die
Never die never die
Old soljers never die they never die
Never die
Old soljers never die they
Simply fade away.
This Dai adjusts his slipping shoulder-straps, wraps close his
misfit outsize greatcoat — he articulates his English with an
alien care.
My fathers were with the Black Prinse of Wales
at the passion of
the blind Bohemian king.
They served in these fields,
it is in the histories that you can read it, Corporal — boys
Gower, they were — it is writ down — yes.
Wot about Methusalum, Taffy?
I was with Abel when his brother found him,
under the green tree.
I built a shit-house for Artaxerxes.
I was the spear in Balin's hand
that made waste King Pellam's land.
I took the smooth stones of the brook,
I was with Saul
playing before him.
I saw him armed like Derfel Gatheren.
I the fox-run fire
consuming in the wheatlands;
and in the standing wheat in Cantium made some attempt to
form — (between dun August oaks their pied bodies darting)
And I the south air, tossed from high projections by his Olifant; (the arid marcher-slopes echoing —
should they lose
Clere Espaigne la bele).
I am '62 Socrates, my feet are colder than you think
on this
Potidaean duck-board.
I the adder in the little bush
whose hibernation-end
undid,
unmade victorious toil:
In ostium fluminis.
At the four actions in regione Linnuis
by the black waters.
At Bassas in the shallows.
At Cat Coit Celidon.
At Guinnion redoubt, where he carried the Image.
In urbe Legionis.
By the vallum Antonini, at the place of boundaries, at the toiling estuary and strong flow called Tribruit.
By Agned mountain.
On Badon hill, where he bore the Tree.
I am the Loricated Legions.
Helen Camulodunum is ours;
she's the toast of the Rig'ment,
she is in an especial way our Mediatrix.
She's clement and loving, she's Friday's child, she's loving and giving;
O dulcis
imperatrix.
Her ample bosom holds:
Pontifex maximus,
Comes Litoris Saxonici,
Comes Britanniarum,
Gwledig,
Bretwalda, as these square-heads say.
She's the girl with the sparkling eyes,
she's the Bracelet Giver,
she's a regular draw with the labour companies,
whereby
the paved army-paths are hers that grid the island which is her dower.
Elen Lluyddawc she is — more she is than
Helen Argive.
My mob digged the outer vallum,
we furnished picquets;
we staked trip-wire as a precaution at
Troy Novaunt.
I saw the blessed head set under
that kept the narrow sea inviolate.
To keep the Land,
to give the yield:
under the White Tower
I trowelled the inhuming mortar.
They learned me well the proportions due —
by water
by sand
by slacked lime.
I drest the cist —
the beneficent artisans knew well how to keep
the king's head to keep
the land inviolate.
The Bear of the Island: he broke it in his huge pride, and
over-reach of his imperium.
The Island Dragon.
The Bull of Battle
(this is the third woeful uncovering).
Let maimed kings lie — let be
O let the guardian head
keep back — bind savage sails, lock the shield-wall, nourish the sowing.
The War Duke
The Director of Toil —
he burst the balm-cloth, unbricked the barrow
(cruel feet march because of this
ungainly men sprawl over us).
O Land! — O Br├ón lie under.
The chrism'd eye that watches the French-men
that wards under
that keeps us
that brings the furrow-fruit,
keep the land, keep us
keep the islands adjacent.
I marched, sixty thousand and one thousand marched, because
of the brightness of Flur, because of the keeper of promises
(we came no more again)
who depleted the Island,
(and this is the first emigrant host)
and the land was bare for our going.
O blessed head hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
I marched, sixty thousand marched who marched for Kynan
and Elen because of foreign machinations,
(we came no more again)
who left the land without harness
(and this is the second emigrant host).
O Brân confound the counsel of the councillors, O blessed
head, hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
In the baized chamber confuse his tongue:
that Lord Agravaine.
He urges with repulsive lips, he counsels: he nets us into
expeditionary war.
O blessed head hold the striplings from the narrow sea.
I knew the smart on Branwen's cheek and the turbulence in Ireland
(and this was the third grievous blow).
I served Longinus that Dux bat-blind and bent;
the Dandy Xth are my regiment;
who diced
Crown and Mud-hook
under the Tree,
whose Five Sufficient Blossoms
yield for us.
I kept the boding raven
from the Dish.
With my long pilum
I beat the crow
from that heavy bough.
But I held the tunics of these —
I watched them work the terrible embroidery that He put on
I heard there sighing for the Feet so shod.
I saw cock-robin gain
his rosy breast.
I heard Him cry:
Apples ben ripe in my gardayne
I saw Him die.
I was in Michael's trench when bright Lucifer bulged his
primal salient out.
That caused it,
that upset the joy-cart,
and three parts waste.
You ought to ask: Why,
what is this,
what's the meaning of this.
Because you don't ask,
although the spear-shaft
drips,
there's neither steading — not a roof-tree.
I am the Single Horn thrusting
by night-stream margin
in Helyon.
Cripes-a-mighty-strike-me-stone-cold — you don't say.
Where's that birth-mark, young 'un.
Wot the Melchizzydix! — and still fading — jump to it
Rotherhithe.
Never die never die
Never die never die
Old soljers never die
Never die never die
Old soljers never die they never die
Never die
Old soljers never die they
Simply fade away.
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