Author of quotes: Joseph Rudyard Kipling. Page 2

She's good to me, but I
With her in the shade always.
She men me
Introduces sometimes.
But to talk to me
Only old people want
Young and eager for her
After all, she's fifty!
(She's in the saddle - they are for her
[Calls them "the Heartbreakers"],
And I ride one myself.
From morning to lunch
I'm in the best dresses, but I
Alas! - will not be invited.
Oh, my God, why
Not me fifty!)
She rides with half a dozen men,
[She calls them "boys" and "mashers"]
I trot along the Mall alone;
My prettiest frocks and sashes
Don't help to fill my programme-card,
And vainly I repine
From ten to two a.m. Ah me!
Would I were forty-nine!

Attention young people
Not attracted I
And dancing with her, those who she
Good sons.
We take a rickshaw for him
Everyone here is glad to escape:
Because I'm only seventeen,
And she was under fifty.
(The fine young men crowd
Crowding around Her;
You look lovingly, though She
They like my Granny.
To her stroller - not to my -
To settle down in a hurry;
Why? Seventeen me
And She's under fifty.)
The young men come, the young men go
Each pink and white and neat,
She's older than their mothers, but
They grovel at Her feet.
They walk beside Her ‘rickshaw wheels -
None ever walk by mine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is foty-nine.

I can't submit
I am always so modest!
Oh, if only I could
Laugh as she
And to sing everything that I want
Not what I'm told!
But I'm only seventeen,
And she was under fifty.
(Oh, I would color on Her face
Could I care
Purr nice
Not thumb notes.
She makes jokes, and I'm boring
Sit downcast look.
Well, as luck would have it, seventeen me
And She's under fifty.)
I wish I had Her constant cheek;
I wish that I could sing
All sorts of funny little songs,
Not quite the proper thing.
I'm very gauche and very shy,
Her jokes aren't in my line;
And, worst of all, I'm seventeen
While She is forty-nine.

I'm pale, breaks out suddenly
To the ends of hair.
Blushing cheeks from me
And often the nose.
It had the same paint on the face
Where necessary, there are:
The blush is durable because the
Anyone under fifty.
(I can't keep shame,
And paint it without permission
Me to the tips of the nails
And then the tip of the nose;
It is there where it is necessary, there Bela
And there is red where necessary:
Blush windy, but true
Fifty lipstick.)
I cannot check my girlish blush,
My color comes and goes;
I redden to my finger-tips,
And sometimes to my nose.
But She is white where white should be,
And red where red should shine.
The blush that flies at seventeen
Is fixed at forty-nine.

I go to the Opera, to the ball -
And all that to anything:
I all one to me
There is no business to anyone.
Not me, but only her
All the incense burn incense.
Then that I'm seventeen
And she was under fifty.
(Why did I go to visit,
To get on the ball try?
I'm there like a fool sitting
Careless pretend.
It is mine by right, incense,
But only to Her, and flatter:
Still, I'm seventeen
And She's under fifty.)
I go to concert, party, ball
What profit is in these?
I sit alone against the wall
And strive to look at ease.
The incense that is mine by right
They burn before her shrine;
And that's because I'm seventeen
And She is forty-nine.

Day-all-we-there - and not so hard
But-just-fell-darkness - again, only heels.
(Dust-dust-dust-dust - from walking boots!)
Vacation no war!
I-went-through-hell - six weeks, and I swear,
There-is-no-darkness - no braziers, no devils,
But-dust-dust-dust-dust - from walking boots
And release no to war!
Taint-so-bad-by-day because o' company,
But night-brings-long-strings-o' forty thousand million
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again.
There's no discharge in the war!
I-'ave-marched-six-weeks in 'Ell an' certify
It-is-not-fire-devils, dark, or anything,
But boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

Count-count-count-count - the bullets in the belt drive,
A little sleep-took-top - back you will be crushed.
(Dust-dust-dust-dust - from walking boots!)
Vacation no war!
For-us-all-the-nonsense - hunger, thirst, long way
But-no - worse than always the same, -
Dust-dust-dust-dust - from walking boots
And release no to war!
Count-count-count-count-the bullets in the bandoliers.
If-your-eyes-drop-they will get atop o' you!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again) -
There's no discharge in the war!
We-can-stick-out-'unger, thirst, an' weariness,
But-not-not-not-not the chronic sight of 'em -
Boot-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war!

Drop-drop-drop-drop - to see what's ahead.
(Dust-dust-dust-dust - from walking boots!)
All-all-all-all - of it will go crazy
And release no to war!
You-you-you-you - try to think about something else,
God-my-give-power - sail not quite!
(Dust-dust-dust-dust - from walking boots!)
And release no to war!
Don't-don't-don't-don't-look at what's in front of you.
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again);
Men-men-men-men-men go mad with watchin' em,
An' there's no discharge in the war!
Try-try-try-try-to think o' something different -
Oh-my-God-keep-me from goin' lunatic!
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Eight-six to twelve-five and twenty miles this time
Three twelve twenty two - eighteen miles yesterday.
(Dust-dust-dust-dust - from walking boots!)
Vacation no war!
Seven-six-eleven-five-nine-an'-twenty mile to-day -
Four-eleven-seventeen-thirty-two the day before -
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Day-night-day-night - we go to Africa,
Day-night-day-night - all the same Africa
(Dust-dust-dust-dust - from walking boots!)
Vacation no war!
We're foot-slog-slog-slog-sloggin' over Africa -
Foot-foot-foot-foot-sloggin' over Africa -
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again!)
There's no discharge in the war!

Picket go around again,
Whose face he accepted, open
Whether he was a mosquito
Il on the river midges,
Litter that is lying everywhere,
A rat running out,
Spit, the street plate -
This is your business, spy!
Go where his pickets hide -
Unmask the shape they take,
Whether a gnat from the waterside,
Or a stinging fly in the brake,
Or filth of the crowded street,
Or a sick rat limping by,
Or a smear of spittle dried in the heat -
That is the work of a spy!

In a fair game of war - place a spy there.
Killed in the cleanly game of war - that is no place for a spy!

If hitherto you alive and well, thank my goodness!
The cliff is not steep, no clumps of wood for twenty miles around,
Where not concealed b my man with the cocked trigger.
I hand with the reins to the body pressed, but if I picked it up,
Passed over b czekalski and fierce press feasted would now beasts.
I head held high, and I tilt the forehead,
That vulture could not fly, stuffed to satiety goiter.

Those eyes didn't love you and lie
I love now and again
You're in the dispersion of the eyebrows you know
All the delights and anguish of the past!
You and voices are not loved
What are you afraid of these sounds?
Did you end up killed
His spell in the fatal separation?