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When Earth's Last Picture Is Painted
by Rudyard Kipling

When Earth's last picture is painted,
And the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colors have faded,
And the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an aeon or two
'Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew.

And those that were good shall be happy,
They'll sit in a golden chair,
They'll splash at a ten league canvas,
With brushes of comet's hair,
They'll find real saints to draw from,
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul,
They'll work for an age at a sitting,
And never be tired at all.

And only the Master shall praise us.
And only the Master shall blame.
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it.
For the God of things as they are!

“The poor dog, in life, the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend.
Whose honest heart is still the master's own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone.
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth,
Denied in Heaven, the soul he held on Earth.
While man, vain insect, hopes to be forgiven,
And tries to claim himself a sole exclusive heaven.”

Excerpt from "Epitaph For A Dog" by Lord Byron

Just had to share this one because "Tot Time" used to be so near to my heart.

Up Spirits: Ode to a Tot of Rum

There once was a time in H.M. Ships
When the magic hour had come
The leading hands of every mess
... ... prepared to collect the rum.

The smell of Jamaican filled the air
As the ritual began
A daily tot of Nelson's Blood
Was a favourite to every man.

When the Rum Bosun stood, his measure poised
To serve every man his tot
Two fingers always in the cup
Making sure that the Queen got her lot.

The ticker off was there, of course
His pencil at the ready
With a sipper given from each man's tot
His hand was no longer steady

The rum rat sat, his eyes aglow
His whiskers twitching well
He liked his rum so much it seems
He could get pished just on the smell.

Sometimes the tots were passed around
As each man paid his debts
Favour, rubber, game of crib
Could cost a couple of wets.

Then came the time to sup "The Queens"
God Bless Her, was the toast
A watchful eye as each man supped
As the Rum Bosun got the most.

Once the rum had been consumed
And nothing left to pour
The dits began as the Grog took charge
Of favourite runs ashore.

A feed, a fight, a couple of pints
Was part of a run ashore
A game of darts was in there too
Then all night with Pompey Lil.

No longer though does the scent of rum
Pervade Her Majesty's bots
No more to sup Lord Nelson's blood
And give the Queen her toasts.

So to all who drank Lord Nelson's blood
And heard the Klaxon's blast
May old shipmates meet and share a wet
Spinning dits of the good times past.

A toast then to Horatio
Another to the Queen
And may we all wherever we are
Remember where we've been.

Amen to that, Up Spirits, stand fast the Holy Ghost.

Thanks for that Bandy. Good one !

.

Published for the first time on 23rd Dec. 1823

'Twas the Night Before Christmas (or A Visit from St. Nicholas)
by Clement Clarke Moore

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.



The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
while visions of sugar plums danced in their heads.
And Mama in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap.



When out on the roof there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
tore open the shutter, and threw up the sash.


The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
gave the lustre of midday to objects below,
when, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.



With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles, his coursers they came,
and he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

"Now Dasher! Now Dancer!
Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid!
On, Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch!
To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away!
Dash away all!"



As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky
so up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
with the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.


And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.



He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
and he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.


His eyes--how they twinkled! His dimples, how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
that shook when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.


He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
and I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.


He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.



He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, 'ere he drove out of sight,


"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"