Kipling is an odd author: a fervent imperialist who, at the same time, felt pity for the soldiers who died to create his country’s global dominance. Here are some of his poems of use in Ars Magica games. The first poem is a hymn written to Mithras. It’s not genuine to the game period, but can be used as background colour for Flambeau magi who have joined the warrior cult. The second is a faerie trod. The reader for the second poem is Winston Tharpp from Librivox. Thanks to him and his production team. The third recording was made in 1915 by Taylor Holmes and distributed by the Library of Congress. It has a lot of crackle because it was stored on physical media for a century before digitization. The poem is about a private going slowly mad during the forced marches of the Second Boer War. The recording you’re about to hear used to be part of the US military’s Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape training. It was looped at candidates for hours. It’s an excellent example of what the demonic power of Obsession feels like. Oppression, the sensation that all joy has drained out of the world, might also suit here. You may have heard this clip before: it was sampled for the soundtrack of the film 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple.
A Song to Mithras
Hymn of the XXX Legion: circa A.D. 350
“On the Great Wall” Puck of Pook’s Hill
Mithras, God of the Morning, our trumpets waken the Wall!
‘Rome is above the Nations, but Thou art over all!’
Now as the names are answered, and the guards are marched away,
Mithras, also a soldier, give us strength for the day!
Mithras, God of the Noontide, the heather swims in the heat,
Our helmets scorch our foreheads; our sandals burn our feet.
Now in the ungirt hour; now ere we blink and drowse,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us true to our vows!
Mithras, God of the Sunset, low on the Western main,
Thou descending immortal, immortal to rise again!
Now when the watch is ended, now when the wine is drawn,
Mithras, also a soldier, keep us pure till the dawn!
Mithras, God of the Midnight, here where the great bull dies,
Look on Thy children in darkness. Oh take our sacrifice!
Many roads Thou hast fashioned: all of them lead to the Light,
Mithras, also a soldier, teach us to die aright!
The Way Through the Woods
From Rewards and Fairies (1910), where it accompanies the story Marklake Witches.
They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.
Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate.
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods…
But there is no road through the woods.
Boots
(Infantry Columns)
We’re foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin’ over Africa
Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin’ over Africa
(Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up and down again!)
There’s no discharge in the 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 and down again!)
There’s no discharge in the 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!
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 and down again)
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!
We—can—stick—out—’unger, thirst, an’ weariness,
But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of ’em—
Boots—boots—boots—boots—movin’ up an’ down again,
An’ there’s no discharge in the war!
‘Tain`t—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!
