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It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And, with a natural sigh, "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory. "I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory." "Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory. "My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head. "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then, And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. "They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. "Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay... nay... my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory. "And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

Ye Sons of Great Britain! come join with me And sing in praise of the gallant British Armie, That behaved right manfully in the Soudan, At the great battle of Omdurman. ’Twas in the year of 1898, and on the 2nd of September, Which the Khalifa and his surviving followers will long remember, Because Sir Herbert Kitchener has annihilated them outright, By the British troops and Soudanese in the Omdurman fight. The Sirdar and his Army left the camp in grand array, And marched on to Omdurman without delay, Just as the brigades had reached the crest adjoining the Nile, And became engaged with the enemy in military style. The Dervishes had re-formed under cover of a rocky eminence, Which to them, no doubt, was a strong defence, And they were massed together in battle array Around the black standard of the Khalifa, which made a grand display. But General Maxwell’s Soudanese brigade seized the eminence in a short time, And General Macdonald’s brigade then joined the firing line; And in ten minutes, long before the attack could be driven home, The flower of the Khalifa’s army was almost overthrown. Still manfully the dusky warriors strove to make headway, But the Soudanese troops and British swept them back without dismay, And their main body were mown down by their deadly fire— But still the heroic Dervishes refused to retire. And defiantly they planted their standards and died by them, To their honour be it said, just like brave men; But at last they retired, with their hearts full of woe, Leaving the field white with corpses, like a meadow dotted with snow. The chief heroes in the fight were the 21st Lancers; They made a brilliant charge on the enemy with ringing cheers, And through the dusky warriors bodies their lances they did thrust, Whereby many of them were made to lick the dust. Then at a quarter past eleven the Sirdar sounded the advance, And the remnant of the Dervishes fled, which was their only chance, While the cavalry cut off their retreat while they ran; Then the Sirdar, with the black standard of the Khalifa, headed for Omdurman. And when the Khalifa saw his noble army cut down, With rage and grief he did fret and frown; Then he spurred his noble steed, and swiftly it ran, While inwardly to himself he cried, “Catch me if you can!” And Mahdism now has received a crushing blow, For the Khalifa and his followers have met with a complete overthrow; And General Gordon has been avenged, the good Christian, By the defeat of the Khalifa at the battle of Omdurman. Now since the Khalifa has been defeated and his rule at an end, Let us thank God that fortunately did send The brave Sir Herbert Kitchener to conquer that bad man, The inhuman Khalifa, and his followers at the battle of Omdurman. Success to Sir Herbert Kitchener! he is a great commander, And as skilful in military tactics as the great Alexander, Because he devised a very wise plan, And by it has captured the town of Omdurman. I wish success to the British and Soudanese Army, May God protect them by land and by sea, May he enable them always to conquer the foe, And to establish what’s right wherever they go.

Ye sons of Great Britain, come join with me, And sing in praise of Sir Garnet Wolseley; Sound drums and trumpets cheerfully, For he has acted most heroically. Therefore loudly his praises sing Until the hills their echoes back doth ring; For he is a noble hero bold, And an honour to his Queen and country, be it told. He has gained for himself fame and renown, Which to posterity will be handed down; Because he has defeated Arabi by land and by sea, And from the battle of Tel-el-Kebir he made him to flee. With an army about fourteen thousand strong, Through Egypt he did fearlessly march along, With the gallant and brave Highland brigade, To whom honour is due, be it said. Arabi’s army was about seventy thousand in all, And, virtually speaking, it wasn’t very small; But if they had been as numerous again, The Irish and Highland brigades would have beaten them, it is plain. ’Twas on the 13th day of September, in the year of 1882, Which Arabi and his rebel horde long will rue; Because Sir Garnet Wolseley and his brave little band Fought and conquered them on Kebir land. He marched upon the enemy with his gallant band O’er the wild and lonely desert sand, And attacked them before daylight, And in twenty minutes he put them to flight. The first shock of the attack was borne by the Second Brigade, Who behaved most manfully, it is said, Under the command of brave General Grahame, And have gained a lasting honour to their name. But Major Hart and the 18th Royal Irish, conjoint, Carried the trenches at the bayonet point; Then the Marines chased them about four miles away, At the charge of the bayonet, without dismay! General Sir Archibald Alison led on the Highland Brigade, Who never were the least afraid. And such has been the case in this Egyptian war, For at the charge of the bayonet they ran from them afar! With their bagpipes playing, and one ringing cheer, And the 42nd soon did the trenches clear; Then hand to hand they did engage, And fought like tigers in a cage. Oh! it must have been a glorious sight To see Sir Garnet Wolseley in the thickest of the fight! In the midst of shot and shell, and the cannon’s roar, Whilst the dead and the dying lay weltering in their gore. Then the Egyptians were forced to yield, And the British were left masters of the field; Then Arabi he did fret and frown To see his army thus cut down. Then Arabi the rebel took to flight, And spurred his Arab steed with all his might: With his heart full of despair and woe, And never halted till he reached Cairo. Now since the Egyptian war is at an end, Let us thank God! Who did send Sir Garnet Wolseley to crush and kill Arabi and his rebel army at Kebir hill.

This year an ocean trip I took, and as I am a Scot And like to get my money’s worth I never missed a meal. In spite of Neptune’s nastiness I ate an awful lot, Yet felt as fit as if we sailed upon an even keel. But now that I am home again I’m stricken with disgust; How many pounds of fat I’ve gained I’d rather not divulge: Well, anyway, I mean to take this tummy down or bust, So here I’m suet-strafing in the Battle of the Bulge. No more will sausage, bacon, eggs provide my breakfast fare; On lobster I will never lunch, with mounds of mayonnaise. At tea I’ll Spartanly eschew the chocolate éclair; Roast duckling and pêche melba shall not consummate my days. No more nocturnal ice-box raids, midnight spaghetti feeds; On slabs of pâté de foie gras I vow I won’t indulge: Let bran and cottage cheese suffice my gastronomic needs, And lettuce be my ally in the Battle of the Bulge. To hell with you, ignoble paunch, abhorrent in my sight! I gaze at your rotundity, and savage is my frown. I’ll rub you and I’ll scrub you and I’ll drub you day and night, But by the gods of symmetry I swear I’ll get you down. Your smooth and smug convexity, by heck! I will subdue, And when you tucker in again with joy will I refulge; No longer of my toes will you obstruct my downward view ... With might and main I’ll fight to gain the Battle of the Bulge.

Back when I used to be Indian I am standing outside the pool hall with my sister. She strawberry blonde. Stale sweat and beer through the open door. A warrior leans on his stick, fingers blue with chalk. Another bends to shoot. His braids brush the green felt, swinging to the beat of the jukebox. We move away. Hank Williams falls again in the backseat of a Cadillac. I look back. A wind off the distant hills lifts my shirt, brings the scent of wounded horses.

It showed the War was as my father said: boredom flanked by terror, a matter of keeping low and not freezing. “You wore your helmet square,” he said, not “at some stupid angle, like that draft-dodger Wayne,” who died so photogenically in The Sands of Iwa Jima. Those nights I heard shouts from the dark of my parents’ room, he was back down in his foxhole, barking orders, taking fire that followed him from France and Germany, then slipped into the house, where it hunkered in the rafters and thrived on ambush. We kept our helmets on, my mother and I, but there was no cover, and our helmets always tilted. He’d lump us with the ones he called “JohnDoes,” lazy, stupid, useless. We needed to straighten up and fly right, pick it up, chop chop, not get “nervous in the service.” We’d duck down like GIs where German snipers might be crouched in haylofts, their breaths held for the clean shot. “Bang,” my father said, “the dead went down, some like dying swans, some like puppets with their strings cut.” I wanted to hear more, but he’d change the subject, talk about the pennant, the Cards’ shaky odds, how Musial was worth the whole JohnDoe lot of them.

When I fall asleep, and even during sleep, I hear, quite distinctly, voices speaking Whole phrases, commonplace and trivial, Having no relation to my affairs. Dear Mother, is any time left to us In which to be happy? My debts are immense. My bank account is subject to the court’s judgment. I know nothing. I cannot know anything. I have lost the ability to make an effort. But now as before my love for you increases. You are always armed to stone me, always: It is true. It dates from childhood. For the first time in my long life I am almost happy. The book, almost finished, Almost seems good. It will endure, a monument To my obsessions, my hatred, my disgust. Debts and inquietude persist and weaken me. Satan glides before me, saying sweetly: “Rest for a day! You can rest and play today. Tonight you will work.” When night comes, My mind, terrified by the arrears, Bored by sadness, paralyzed by impotence, Promises: “Tomorrow: I will tomorrow.” Tomorrow the same comedy enacts itself With the same resolution, the same weakness. I am sick of this life of furnished rooms. I am sick of having colds and headaches: You know my strange life. Every day brings Its quota of wrath. You little know A poet’s life, dear Mother: I must write poems, The most fatiguing of occupations. I am sad this morning. Do not reproach me. I write from a café near the post office, Amid the click of billiard balls, the clatter of dishes, The pounding of my heart. I have been asked to write “A History of Caricature.” I have been asked to write “A History of Sculpture.” Shall I write a history Of the caricatures of the sculptures of you in my heart? Although it costs you countless agony, Although you cannot believe it necessary, And doubt that the sum is accurate, Please send me money enough for at least three weeks.

Cul-de-sac Pastoral The sill plays a cruel joke—thrones me. Frames me lording over lawn mower stripes—myself in a shallow trench. In grass blades. Myself persisting, despite a dickhead sun—me in chlorophyll. Early, I find myself swaying—me! in the black chokeberry, me! in the rabbit’s throat. Me, the rabbit. Me dancing out pellets. Out-dancing myself— my father’s pellet gun, the hawk. The joke is a bright belly full of dark hopping along my father’s garden & the joke small, between wrapped talons, is the hawking too, is the axe sun, swift, rising, this joy. This joy, it swallows itself far too soon!

i must be careful about such things as these. the thin-grained oak.    the quiet grizzlies scared into the hills by the constant tracks squeezing in behind them closer in the snow.    the snared rigidity of the winter lake.    deer after deer crossing on the spines of fish who look up and stare with their eyes pressed to the ice.   in a sleep.  hearing the thin taps leading away to collapse like the bear in the high quiet.   i must be careful not to shake anything in too wild an elation.    not to jar the fragile mountains against the paper far- ness.   nor avalanche the fog or the eagle from the air. of the gentle wilderness i must set the precarious words.   like rocks.   without one snowcapped mistake.

Be glad your nose is on your face, not pasted on some other place, for if it were where it is not, you might dislike your nose a lot. Imagine if your precious nose were sandwiched in between your toes, that clearly would not be a treat, for you’d be forced to smell your feet. Your nose would be a source of dread were it attached atop your head, it soon would drive you to despair, forever tickled by your hair. Within your ear, your nose would be an absolute catastrophe, for when you were obliged to sneeze, your brain would rattle from the breeze. Your nose, instead, through thick and thin, remains between your eyes and chin, not pasted on some other place— be glad your nose is on your face!