Posted: 2/9/2005 5:37:56 PM EDT
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For anyone who might enjoy these, read on. Hep Song of the Soldiers by Charles G. Halpine Comrades known in marches many, Comrades, tried in dangers many, Comrades, bound by memories many, Brothers let us be. Wounds or sickness may divide us, Marching orders may divide us, But whatever fate betide us, Brothers of the heart are we. Comrades, known by faith the clearest, Tried when death was near and nearest, Bound we are by ties the dearest, Brothers evermore to be. And, if spared, and growing older, Shoulder still in line with shoulder, And with hearts no thrill the colder, Brothers ever we shall be. By communion of the banner, Crimson, white, and starry banner, By the baptism of the banner, Children of one Church are we. Creed nor faction can divide us, Race nor language can divide us Still, whatever fate betide us, Children of the flag are we. * * * * * On the Idle Hill of Summer a poem by A. E. Housman On the idle hill of summer, Sleepy with the flow of streams, Far I hear the steady drummer Drumming like a noise in dreams. Far and near and low and louder On the roads of earth go by, Dear to friends and food for powder, Soldiers marching, all to die. East and west on fields forgotten Bleach the bones of comrades slain, Lovely lads and dead and rotten; None that go return again. Far the calling bugles hollo, High the screaming fife replies, Gay the files of scarlet follow: Woman bore me, I will rise * * * * * I have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous. * * * * * Dirge for a Soldier by George H. Boker Close his eyes; his work is done! What to him is friend or foeman, Rise of moon, or set of sun, Hand of man, or kiss of woman? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low! As man may, he fought his fight, Proved his truth by his endeavor; Let him sleep in solemn night, Sleep forever and forever. Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low! Fold him in his country's stars, Roll the drum and fire the volley! What to him are all our wars, What but death bemocking folly? Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low! Leave him to God's watching eye, Trust him to the hand that made him. Mortal love weeps idly by: God alone has power to aid him, Lay him low, lay him low, In the clover or the snow! What cares he? he can not know: Lay him low! * * * * * O Captain My Captain a poem by Walt Whitman O Captain my Captain! our fearful trip is done, The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills, For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding, For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; Here Captain! dear father! This arm beneath your head! It is some dream that on the deck, You've fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; Exult O shores, and ring O bells! But I, with mournful tread, Walk the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead. * * * * * |
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Gunga Din YOU may talk o' gin an' beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But if it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, 5 An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them black-faced crew 10 The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippy hitherao! 15 Water, get it! Panee lao! You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din!" The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, 20 For a twisty piece o' rag An' a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, 25 Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted "Harry By!" Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. It was "Din! Din! Din! 30 You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some juldee in it, Or I'll marrow you this minute, If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!" 'E would dot an' carry one 35 Till the longest day was done, An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. 40 With 'is mussick on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire." An' for all 'is dirty 'ide, 'E was white, clear white, inside 45 When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was "Din! Din! Din!" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could 'ear the front-files shout: 50 "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" I sha'n't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. I was chokin' mad with thirst, 55 An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead, An' 'e plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water—green; 60 It was crawlin' an' it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 65 'E's chawin' up the ground an' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake, git the water, Gunga Din!" 'E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 70 'E put me safe inside, An' just before 'e died: "I 'ope you liked your drink," sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on In the place where 'e is gone— 75 Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to pore damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in Hell from Gunga Din! Din! Din! Din! 80 You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Tho' I've belted you an' flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din! |
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The Charge of the Light Brigade 1. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! "Charge for the guns!" he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 2. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 3. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. 4. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. 5. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. 6. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made, Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred |
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The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose. |
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Wow. That's the absolute middle of despair..... |
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Battlefield Wisdom? In order to be victorious in war one must accept the consequences. Victory is never assured, thus one must be ever vigilant in defense. Mercy, can be abused, thus it should be applied sparingly. Don't be lulled into trading freedom for security, it gains nothing. If people and leaders were reasonable and fair, war would never be. |
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The poem, High Flight, has over the years become a mantra to pilots. It is reproduced here as a tribute to, and in memory of pilots of all generations. High Flight Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings; Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung My eager craft through footless halls of air. Up, up the long delirious, burning blue, I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace Where never lark, or even eagle flew - And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod The high untresspassed sanctity of space, Put out my hand and touched the face of God. Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee No 412 squadron, RCAF Killed 11 December 1941 |
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By Harry 'Breaker' Morant In prison cell I sadly sit, A damned crest-fallen chappie! And own to you I feel a bit- A little bit - unhappy! It really ain't the place nor time To reel off rhyming diction - But yet we'll write a final rhyme Whilst waiting cru-ci-fixion! No matter what "end" they decide - Quick-lime or "b'iling ile," sir? We'll do our best when crucified To finish off in style, sir! But we bequeath a parting tip For sound advice of such men, Who come across in transport ship To polish off the Dutchmen! If you encounter any Boers You really must not loot 'em! And if you wish to leave these shores, For pity's sake, DON'T SHOOT 'EM!! And if you'd earn a D.S.O., Why every British sinner Should know the proper way to go Is: "ASK THE BOER TO DINNER!" Let's toss a bumper down our throat, - Before we pass to Heaven, And toast: "The trim-set petticoat We leave behind in Devon." The Last Rhyme and Testament of Tony Lumpkin - First published in The Bulletin, 19 April 1902. Harry 'Breaker' Morant (1864- 27 February 1902) was an Anglo-Australian drover, horseman, poet and soldier whose renowned skill with horses earned him the nickname "The Breaker". Articulate, intelligent and well educated, he was also a published poet and became one of the better-known 'back-block bards' of the 1890s, with the bulk of his work appearing in "The Bulletin" magazine. During his service in the Boer War, Morant ordered the summary execution of several Afrikaner and African prisoners, which led to his controversial court-martial and execution for murder by the British Army; his death warrant was personally signed by the British commander in South Africa, Lord Kitchener. |
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This one was always a favorite..... Hep Roman Occupation of Britain, A.D. 300 By Kipling Legate, I had the news last night --my cohort ordered home By ships to Portus Itius and thence by road to Rome. I've marched the companies aboard, the arms are stowed below: Now let another take my sword. Command me not to go! I've served in Britain forty years, from Vectis to the Wall, I have none other home than this, nor any life at all. Last night I did not understand, but, now the hour draws near That calls me to my native land, I feel that land is here. Here where men say my name was made, here where my work was done; Here where my dearest dead are laid--my wife--my wife and son; Here where time, custom, grief and toil, age, memory, service, love, Have rooted me in British soil. Ah, how can I remove? For me this land, that sea, these airs, those folk and fields surffice. What purple Southern pomp can match our changeful Northern skies, Black with December snows unshed or pearled with August haze-- The clanging arch of steel-grey March, or June's long-lighted days? You'll follow widening Rhodanus till vine an olive lean Aslant before the sunny breeze that sweeps Nemausus clean To Arelate's triple gate; but let me linger on, Here where our stiff-necked British oaks confront Euroclydon! You'll take the old Aurelian Road through shore-descending pines Where, blue as any peacock's neck, the Tyrrhene Ocean shines. You'll go where laurel crowns are won, but--will you e'er forget The scent of hawthorn in the sun, or bracken in the wet? Let me work here for Britain's sake--at any task you will-- A marsh to drain, a road to make or native troops to drill. Some Western camp (I know the Pict) or granite Border keep, Mid seas of heather derelict, where our old messmates sleep. Legate, I come to you in tears--My cohort ordered home! I've served in Britain forty years. What should I do in Rome? Here is my heart, my soul, my mind--the only life I know. I cannot leave it all behind. Command me not to go! |
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Fiddler's Green Halfway down the trail to Hell, In a shady meadow green Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped, Near a good old-time canteen. And this eternal resting place Is known as Fiddlers' Green. Marching past, straight through to Hell The Infantry are seen. Accompanied by the Engineers, Artillery and Marines, For none but the shades of Cavalrymen Dismount at Fiddlers' Green. Though some go curving down the trail To seek a warmer scene. No trooper ever gets to Hell Ere he's emptied his canteen. And so rides back to drink again With friends at Fiddlers' Green. And so when man and horse go down Beneath a saber keen, Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee You stop a bullet clean, And the hostiles come to get your scalp, Just empty your canteen, And put your pistol to your head And go to Fiddlers' Green. |
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TOMMY I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away"; But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside"; But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide, The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind", But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind, There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees! |
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The Young British Soldier When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East 'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast, An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier. Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, So-oldier of the Queen! Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day, You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay, An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may: A soldier what's fit for a soldier. Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . . First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts, For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts -- Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts -- An' it's bad for the young British soldier. Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . . When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt -- Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout, For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out, An' it crumples the young British soldier. Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . . But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead: You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said: If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead, An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier. Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . . If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind, Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; Be handy and civil, and then you will find That it's beer for the young British soldier. Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . . Now, if you must marry, take care she is old -- A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told, For beauty won't help if your rations is cold, Nor love ain't enough for a soldier. 'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . . If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! -- Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both, An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier. Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . . When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck And march to your front like a soldier. Front, front, front like a soldier . . . When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich, An' she'll fight for the young British soldier. Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . . When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine, The guns o' the enemy wheel into line, Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine, For noise never startles the soldier. Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . . If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take open order, lie down, and sit tight, And wait for supports like a soldier. Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . . When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains An' go to your Gawd like a soldier. Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, So-oldier of the Queen! |
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Danny Deever "What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade. "To turn you out, to turn you out", the Colour-Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade. "I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch", the Colour-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play, The regiment's in 'ollow square -- they're hangin' him to-day; They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. "What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold", the Colour-Sergeant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" said Files-on-Parade. "A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun", the Colour-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round, They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground; An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound -- O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'! "'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine", said Files-on-Parade. "'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night", the Colour-Sergeant said. "I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times", said Files-on-Parade. "'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone", the Colour-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place, For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' -- you must look 'im in the face; Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace, While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. "What's that so black agin' the sun?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life", the Colour-Sergeant said. "What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny's soul that's passin' now", the Colour-Sergeant said. For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play, The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away; Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day, After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. |
It's a good one. Early in my career Tommy, and, YBS influenced my thinking a great deal. I need to go back and re-read them again. |
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Song of Marions Men by William Cullen Bryant Our band is few, but true and tried, Our leader frank and bold; The British soldier trembles When Marion's name is told. Our fortress is the good greenwood Our tent the cypress-tree; We know the forest round us, As seamen know the sea. We know its walls of thorny vines, Its glades of reedy grass, Its safe and silent islands Within the dark morass. Woe to the English soldiery, That little dread us near! On them shall light at midnight A strange and sudden fear: When, waking to their tents on fire, They grasp their arms in vain, And they who stand to face us Are beat to earth again. And they who fly in terror deem A mighty host behind, And hear the tramp of thousands Upon the hollow wind. Then sweet the hour that brings release From danger and from toil; We talk the battle over, And share the battle's spoil. The woodland rings with laugh and shout As if a hunt were up, And woodland flowers are gathered To crown the soldier's cup. With merry songs we mock the wind That in the pine-top grieves, And slumber long and sweetly On beds of oaken leaves. Well knows the fair and friendly moon The band that Marion leads The glitter of their rifles, The scampering of their steeds. 'Tis life to guide the fiery barb Across the moonlight plain; 'Tis life to feel the night-wind That lifts his tossing mane. A moment in the British camp A moment and away Back to the pathless forest, Before the peep of day. Grave men there are by broad Santee, Grave men with hoary hairs; Their hearts are all with Marion, For Marion are their prayers. And lovely ladies greet our band With kindliest welcoming, With smiles like those of summer, And tears like those of spring. For them we wear these trusty arms, And lay them down no more Till we have driven the Briton, Forever, from our shore. Song of Marions Men by William Cullen Bryant Yanks by James Foley O'Leary, from Chicago, and a first-class fightin' man, For his father was from Kerry, where the gentle art began: Sergeant Dennis P. O'Leary, from somewhere on Archie Road, Dodgin' shells and smellin' powder while the battle ebbed and flowed. And the captain says: "O'Leary, from your fightin' company Pick a dozen fightin' Yankees and come skirmishin' with me; Pick a dozen fightin' devils, and I know it's you who can." And O'Leary, he saluted like a first-class fightin' man. O'Leary's eye was piercin' and O'Leary's voice was clear: "Dimitri Georgoupoulos!" And Dimitri answered "Here!" Then "Vladimir Slaminsky! Step three paces to the front, For we're wantin' you to join us in a little Heinie hunt!" "Garibaldi Ravioli!" Garibaldi was to share; And "Ole Axel Kettleson!" and "Thomas Scalp-the-Bear!" Who was Choctaw by inheritance, bred in the blood and bones, But set down in army records by the name of Thomas Jones. "Van Winkle Schuyler Stuyvesant!" Van Winkle was a bud From the ancient tree of Stuyvesant and had it in his blood; "Don Miguel de Colombo!" Don Miguel's next of kin Were across the Rio Grande when Don Miguel went in. "Ulysses Grant O'Sheridan!" Ulysses' sire, you see, Had been at Appomattox near the famous apple-tree; And "Patrick Michael Casey!" Patrick Michael, you can tell, Was a fightin' man by nature with three fightin' names as well. "Joe Wheeler Lee!" And Joseph had a pair of fightin' eyes; And his granddad was a Johnny, as perhaps you might surmise; Then "Robert Bruce MacPherson!" And the Yankee squad was done With "Isaac Abie Cohen!" once a lightweight champion. Then O'Leary paced 'em forward and, says he: "You Yanks, fall in!" And he marched 'em to the captain. "Let the skirmishin' begin." Says he, "The Yanks are comin', and you beat 'em if you can!" And saluted like a soldier and first-class fightin' man! Rifle Poem Author Unknown (At least to me) Do you wonder why that rifle Is hanging in my den? You know I rarely take it down But I touch it now and then. It's rather slow and heavy By standards of today But not too many years ago It swept the rest away. It's held its own in battles Through snow, or rain, or sun And I had one just like it, This treasured old M-1. It went ashore at Bougainville In Nineteen Forty-Three. It stormed the beach at Tarawa Through a bullet-riddled sea. Saipan knew its strident bark, Kwajelein, its sting. The rocky caves of Peleliu Resounded with its ring. It climbed the hill on Iwo, With men who wouldn't stop. And left our nation's banner Flying on the top. It poked its nose in Pusan, Screamed an angry roar And took the First Division From Chosin Reservoir. Well, time moves on And things improve With rifles and with men, And that is why the two of us Are sitting in my den. But sometimes on a winter night, While thinking of my Corps, I know that if the bugle blew We'd be a team once more. The Man He Killed Thomas Hardy Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have set us down to wet Right many a nipperkin! But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place. I shot him dead because-- Because he was my foe, Just so: my foe of course he was; That's clear enough; although He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, Off-hand like--just as I-- Was out of work--had sold his traps-- No other reason why. Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat, if met where any bar is, Or help to half a crown. |
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By Rupert Brooke If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. |
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By Siegfried Sassoon At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun In the wild purple of the glow'ring sun, Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop! *** Counter-Attack By Siegfried Sassoon We'd gained our first objective hours before While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes, Pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke. Things seemed all right at first. We held their line, With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed, And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench. The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud, Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled; And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair, Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime. And then the rain began,— the jolly old rain! A yawning soldier knelt against the bank, Staring across the morning blear with fog; He wondered when the Allemands would get busy; And then, of course, they started with five-nines Traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud. Mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst Spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell, While posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke. He crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear, Sick for escape,— loathing the strangled horror And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead. An officer came blundering down the trench: 'Stand-to and man the fire-step! 'On he went... Gasping and bawling, 'Fire- step...counter-attack!' Then the haze lifted. Bombing on the right Down the old sap: machine- guns on the left; And stumbling figures looming out in front. 'O Christ, they're coming at us!' Bullets spat, And he remembered his rifle...rapid fire... And started blazing wildly...then a bang Crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out To grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked And fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom, Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans... Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned, Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed. Siegfried Sassoon was born on 8th September 1886 at Weirleigh, near Paddock Wood in Kent. After Marlborough College he went to Clare College, Cambridge, but left without a degree. For the next eight years lived the life of a country gentleman. He spent his tie hunting, playing sports and writing poetry. Published privately, Sassoon's poetry made very little impact on the critics or the book buying public. On the outbreak of the First World War Sassoon enlisted as a cavalry trooper in the Sussex Yeomanry. In May 1915 Sassoon became an officer in the Royal Fusiliers, and was posted to the Western Front in France. Considered to be recklessly brave, he soon obtained the nickname 'Mad Jack'. In June 1916 he was awarded the Military Cross for bringing a wounded man back to the British lines while under heavy fire. While in France he met the poets Robert Graves and Wilfred Owen. After being wounded in April 1917, Sassoon was sent back to England. Sassoon had grown increasingly angry about the tactics being employed by the British Army and in July 1917 published a Soldier's Declaration, which announced that "I am making this statement as an act of willful defiance of military authority, because I believe that the war is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it." Sassoon's hostility to war was also reflected in his poetry. During the war Sassoon developed a harshly satirical style that he used to attack the incompetence and inhumanity of senior military officers. These poems caused great controversy when they were published in The Old Huntsman (1917) and Counter-Attack (1918). Despite his public attacks on the way the war was being managed, Sassoon, like Wilfred Owen and Robert Graves, agreed to continue to fight. Sassoon was sent to Palestine and France before further injuries forced him to return to England. Over the next thirty years Sassoon wrote three semi-autobiographical works, Memoirs of a Fox-Hunting Man (1928), Memoirs of an Infantry Officer (1930) and Sherston's Progress (1936). This was followed by three volumes of autobiography, The Old Century (1938), The Weald of Youth (1942) and Siegfried's Journey (1945). Siegfried Sassoon died in 1967. |
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And it's down in the Bogside, that's where I long to be, Lying in the dark with a Provo company, A comrade on me left and another on me right And a magful of ammunition for my little Armalite. I was stopped by a soldier, said he, You are a swine, He beat me with his baton and he kicked me in the groin, I bowed and I scraped, sure me manners were polite But all the time I'm thinking of me little Armalite. And it's down in Crossmaglen, sure that's where I long to be, Lying in the dark with a Provo company, A comrade on me left and another on me right And a mag of ammunition for my little Armalite. Sure a brave RUC man came up into our street Six hundred British soldiers were gathered round his feet Come out, ye cowardly Fenians, said he, come out and fight. But he cried, I'm only joking, when he heard the Armalite. Sure it's down in Kilwilkie, that's where I long to be, Lying in the dark with a Provo company, A comrade on me left and another on me right And a mag of ammunition for my little Armalite. Sure, the army came to visit me, 'twas in the early hours, With Saladins and Saracens and Ferret armoured cars They thought they had me cornered, but I gave them all a fright With the armour piercing bullets of my little Armalite. And it's down in the Falls Road, that's where I long to be, Lying in the dark with a Provo company, A comrade on me left and another on me right And a mag of ammunition for my little Armalite. When Tuzo came to Belfast, he said, The battle's won, Said General Ford, We're winning sir, we have them on the run. But corporals and privates on patrol at night, Said, Send for reinforcements, it's the bloody Armalite. And it's up in Ballymurphy, that's where I long to be, Lying in the dark with a Provo company, A comrade on me left and another on me right And a mag of ammunition for my little Armalite. saw this posted on another site., it's supposed to be a song, actually. as you can guess, i'm not a big "fan" of the british.  bad experiences as a child. |
Greetings Glockpiper. Appreciated your post. Did you read Butchered to Make A Dutchman's Holiday posted above? Written by Harry "Breaker" Morant. I can only hazard a guess as to his last thoughts of his countrymen. |
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2 of my favorites: Carentan O' Carentan Trees in the old days used to stand And shape a shady lane Where lovers wandered hand in hand Who came from Carentan. This was the shining green canal Where we came two by two Walking at combat-interval. Such trees we never knew. The day was early June, the ground Was soft and bright with dew. Far away the guns did sound, But here the sky was blue. The sky was blue, but there a smoke Hung still above the sea Where the ships together spoke To towns we could not see. Could you have seen us through a glass You would have said a walk Of farmers out to turn the grass, Each with his own hay-fork. The watchers in their leopard suits Waited till it was time, And aimed between the belt and boot And let the barrel climb. I must lie down at once, there is A hammer at my knee. And call it death or cowardice, Don't count again on me. Everything's all right, Mother, Everyone gets the same At one time or another. It's all in the game. I never strolled, nor ever shall, Down such a leafy lane. I never drank in a canal, Nor ever shall again. There is a whistling in the leaves And it is not the wind, The twigs are falling from the knives That cut men to the ground. Tell me, Master-Sergeant, The way to turn and shoot. But the Sergeant's silent That taught me how to do it. O Captain, show us quickly Our place upon the map. But the Captain's sickly And taking a long nap. Lieutenant, what's my duty, My place in the platoon? He too's a sleeping beauty, Charmed by that strange tune. Carentan O Carentan Before we met with you We never yet had lost a man Or known what death could do. -- Louis Simpson Major Michael Davis O'Donnell 1 January 1970 Dak To, Vietnam If you are able, case for them a place inside of you and save one backward glance when you are leaving for the places they can no longer go. Be not ashamed to say you loved them, though you may or may not have always. Take what they have left and what they have taught you with their dying and keep it with your own. And in that times when men decided and feel safe to call the war insane, wake one moment to embrace those gentle heroes you left behind. |
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I've always loved this : Artist: Joseph Kilna McKenzie Lyrics Song: Sgt. McKenzie Lyrics Original Scottish Version Lay me doon in the caul caul groon Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun Lay me doon in the caul caul groon Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun When they come a wull staun ma groon Staun ma groon al nae be afraid Thoughts awe hame tak awa ma fear Sweat an bluid hide ma veil awe tears Ains a year say a prayer faur me Close yir een an remember me Nair mair shall a see the sun For a fell tae a Germans gun Lay me doon in the caul caul groon Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun Lay me doon in the caul caul groon Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun Whaur afore monie mair huv gaun English Translation Lay me down in the cold cold ground Where before many more have gone Lay me down in the cold cold ground Where before many more have gone When they come I will stand my ground Stand my ground I’ll not be afraid Thoughts of home take away my fear Sweat and blood hide my veil of tears Once a year say a prayer for me Close your eyes and remember me Never more shall I see the sun For I fell to a Germans gun Lay me down in the cold cold ground Where before many more have gone Lay me down in the cold cold ground Where before many more have gone Where before many more have gone In memory of Sgt. Charles Stuart MacKenzie Seaforth Highlanders Who along with many others gave up his life So that we can live free We will remember them Awesome with bagpies by Clann an Drumma |
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O, I'm a Good Old Rebel NOTE: In the book Point Lookout Prison Camp for Confederates (page 101), Edwin Beitzell says, "According to Herbert Quick, who printed an account of The Good Old Rebel in Colliers for April 14, 1914, its author was Major James Randolph, a Virginian and a member of General J.E.B. Stuart's staff. Sung to the tune of Joe Bowers, a favorite of the forty-niners, it traveled beyond the bounds of the Confederacy. Edward VII, the Prince of Wales, heard it at a reception in London and called it 'that fine American song with the cuss words in it.'" O, I'm a good old Rebel, Now that's just what I am, For this "Fair Land of Freedom" I do not care at all; I'm glad I fit against it -- I only wish we'd won, And I don't want no pardon For anything I done. I hates the Constitution, This Great Republic too, I hates the Freedman's Buro, In uniforms of blue; I hates the nasty eagle, With all his brags and fuss, The lyin', thievin' Yankees, I hates 'em wuss and wuss. I hates the Yankee nation And everything they do, I hates the Declaration Of Independence too; I hates the glorious Union -- 'Tis dripping with our blood -- I hates their striped banner, I fit it all I could. I followed old mass' Robert For four year, near about, Got wounded in three places And starved at Pint Lookout; I cotch the rheumatism A campin' in the snow, But I killed a chance of Yankees, I'd like to kill some mo'. Three hundred thousand Yankees Is stiff in Southern dust; We got three hundred thousand Before they conquered us; They died of Southern fever And Southern steel and shot, I wish they was three million Instead of what we got. I can't take up my musket And fight 'em now no more, But I ain't going to love 'em, Now that is sarten sure; And I don't want no pardon For what I was and am, I won't be reconstructed And I don't care a damn. |
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The Man With The Rifle Knows Men may argue forever on what wins their wars, And welter in cons and pros, And seek for their answer at history's door But the man with the rifle knows. He must stand on the ground on his own two feet, And he is never in doubt when it's won. If it's won he's there; if he's not it's defeat. That's the test when the fighting is done. When he carries the fight, it's not with the roar Of high armored wings spitting death. He creeps and he crawls on the earthen floor, Butt down and holding his breath. Saving his strength for the last low rush, Grenade throw, and bayonet thrust, And the whispered prayer, before he goes in, of a man who does what he must. And when he's attacked, he can't zoom away When the shells fill the air with their sound. He stays where he is, loosens his spade, and digs his defense in the ground. That ground isn't ours 'till he's there in the flesh. Not a gadget or a bomb, but a man. He's the answer to trite theories from those who weren't there With each new peace, since war began. And it isn't the fear; and it isn't the hope, The esprit, the disgrace, or the pride. It's just the fiber alone to go one more round After all the machines have died. So let the wild circle of argument rage On what wins, as war comes and goes. Many new theories briefly hold center stage But the man with the rifle knows. The Eagle(?) The Eagle spreads it’s wings, Soars high and circles round. It flies with strength and freedom, Ever watchful as it glides to ground. The Anchor keeps me Earthbound, Makes me steadfast, strong and true. It’s Ropes they bind me to a job, I promised God and Country I would do. Thirteen weeks it takes to make a man, Lessons learned both day and night. Through the Crucible’s grueling tasks we go, Working hard never losing sight. All the challenges that are given to us, We take them all, each one by one. For at the end a great reward there will be, The Eagle, Globe and Anchor we have won. Now must finish up some other things, Make the grade and pass the tests. In the end I will finally be, One of America’s best. I reflect back at what I once was, Think of all that I have seen. Here I stand upon the Parade Ground A United States Marine. |
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Wilfred Owen, English, WW1. He died in the war. Apologia Pro Poemate Meo I, too, saw God through mud,- The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. Merry it was to laugh there- Where death becomes absurd and life absurder. For power was on us as we slashed bones bare Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. I, too, have dropped off Fear- Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, And sailed my spirit surging light and clear Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn; And witnessed exultation- Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, Shine and lift up with passion of oblation, Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul. I have made fellowships- Untold of happy lovers in old song. For love is not the binding of fair lips With the soft silk of eyes that look and long, By Joy, whose ribbon slips,- But wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong; Bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; Knit in the webbing of the rifle-thong. I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty; Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate. Nevertheless, except you share With them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, Whose world is but the trembling of a flare, And heaven but as the highway for a shell, You shall not hear their mirth: You shall not come to think them well content By any jest of mine. These men are worth Your tears. You are not worth their merriment. Dulce Et Decorum Est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. ************ Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) Wilfred Edward Salter Owen was born on March 18, 1893. He was on the Continent teaching until he visited a hospital for the wounded and then decided, in September, 1915, to return to England and enlist. "I came out in order to help these boys-- directly by leading them as well as an officer can; indirectly, by watching their sufferings that I may speak of them as well as a pleader can. I have done the first" (October, 1918). Owen was injured in March 1917 and sent home; he was fit for duty in August, 1918, and returned to the front. November 4, just seven days before the Armistice, he was caught in a German machine gun attack and killed. He was twenty-five when he died. The bells were ringing on November 11, 1918, in Shrewsbury to celebrate the Armistice when the doorbell rang at his parent's home, bringing them the telegram telling them their son was dead. |
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A bit more Kipling: The Grave of the Hundred Head Rudyard Kipling There’s a widow in sleepy Chester Who weeps for her only son; There's a grave on the Pabeng River, A grave that the Burmans shun, And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri Who tells how the work was done. A Snider squibbed in the jungle, Somebody laughed and fled, And the men of the First Shikaris Picked up their Subaltern dead, With a big blue mark in his forehead And the back blown out of his head. Subadar Prag Tewarri, Jemadar Hira Lal, Took command of the party, Twenty rifles in all, Marched them down to the river As the day was beginning to fall. They buried the boy by the river, A blanket over his face- They wept for their dead Lieutenant, The men of an alien race- They made a samadh in his honor, A mark for his resting-place. For they swore by the Holy Water, They swore by the salt they ate, That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib Should go to his God in state; With fifty file of Burman To open him Heaven's gate. The men of the First Shikaris Marched till the break of day, Till they came to the rebel village, The village of Pabengmay- A jingal covered the clearing, Calthrops hampered the way. Subadar Prag Tewarri, Bidding them load with ball, Halted a dozen rifles Under the village wall; Sent out a flanking-party With Jemadar Hira Lal. The men of the First Shikaris Shouted and smote and slew, Turning the grinning jingal On to the howling crew. The Jemadar's flanking-party Butchered the folk who flew. Long was the morn of slaughter, Long was the list of slain, Five score heads were taken, Five score heads and twain; And the men of the First Shikaris Went back to their grave again, Each man bearing a basket Red as his palms that day, Red as the blazing village- The village of Pabengmay, And the "drip-drip-drip" from the baskets Reddened the grass by the way. They made a pile of their trophies High as a tall man's chin, Head upon head distorted, Set in a sightless grin, Anger and pain and terror Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin. Subadar Prag Tewarri Put the head of the Boh On the top of the mound of triumph, The head of his son below, With the sword and the peacock-banner That the world might behold and know. Thus the samadh was perfect, Thus was the lesson plain Of the wrath of the First Shikaris- The price of a white man slain; And the men of the First Shikaris Went back into camp again. Then a silence came to the river, A hush fell over the shore, And Bohs that were brave departed, And Sniders squibbed no more; For the Burmans said That a kullah's head Must be paid for with heads five score. There's a widow in sleepy Chester Who weeps for her only son; There's a grave on the Pabeng River, A grave that the Burmans shun, And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri Who tells how the work was done. |
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Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) Photo 1916 He moved to Bordeaux (France) in 1913, as a teacher of English in the Berlitz School of Languages; one year later he was a private teacher in a prosperous family in the Pyrenees. He enlisted in the Artists' Rifles on 21st October 1915; there followed 14 months of training in England. He was drafted to France in 1917, the worst war winter. His total war experience will be rather short: four months, from which only five weeks in the line. On this is based all his war poetry. After battle experience, thoroughly shocked by horrors of war, he went to Craiglockhart War Hospital near Edinburgh. In August 1918, after his friend, the other great War Poet, Siegfried Sassoon, had been severely injured and sent back to England, Owen returned to France. War was still as horrid as before. The butchery was ended on 11th November 1918 at 11 o'clock. Seven days before Owen had been killed in one of the last vain battles of this war. |
Well, I'm not a famous poet, but I wrote this back in early 2003, right before Operation Iraqi Freedom...
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By Wilfred Owen Halted against the shade of a last hill, They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease And, finding comfortable chests and knees Carelessly slept. But many there stood still To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge, Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world. Marvelling they stood, and watched the long grass swirled By the May breeze, murmurous with wasp and midge, For though the summer oozed into their veins Like the injected drug for their bones' pains, Sharp on their souls hung the imminent line of grass, Fearfully flashed the sky's mysterious glass. Hour after hour they ponder the warm field - And the far valley behind, where the buttercups Had blessed with gold their slow boots coming up, Where even the little brambles would not yield, But clutched and clung to them like sorrowing hands; They breathe like trees unstirred. Till like a cold gust thrilled the little word At which each body and its soul begird And tighten them for battle. No alarms Of bugles, no high flags, no clamorous haste - Only a lift and flare of eyes that faced The sun, like a friend with whom their love is done. O larger shone that smile against the sun, - Mightier than his whose bounty these have spurned. So, soon they topped the hill, and raced together Over an open stretch of herb and heather Exposed. And instantly the whole sky burned With fury against them; and soft sudden cups Opened in thousands for their blood; and the green slopes Chasmed and steepened sheer to infinite space. Of them who running on that last high place Leapt to swift unseen bullets, or went up On the hot blast and fury of hell's upsurge, Some say God caught them even before they fell. But what say such as from existence' brink Ventured but drave too swift to sink. The few who rushed in the body to enter hell, And there out-fiending all its fiends and flames With superhuman inhumanities, Long-famous glories, immemorial shames - And crawling slowly back, have by degrees Regained cool peaceful air in wonder - Why speak they not of comrades that went under? |
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The Guards Came Through Men of the Twenty-first Up by the Chalk Pit Wood, Weak with our wounds and our thirst, Wanting our sleep and our food, After a day and a night -- God, shall we ever forget! Beaten and broke in the fight, But sticking it -- sticking it yet. Trying to hold the line, Fainting and spent and done, Always the thud and the whine, Always the yell of the Hun! Northumerland, Lancaster, York, Durham and Somerset, Fighting alone, worn to the bone, But sticking it -- sticking it yet. Never a message of hope! Never a word of cheer! Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope, With the dull dead plain in our rear. Always the whine of the shell, Always the roar of its burst, Always the tortures of hell, As waiting and wincing we cursed Our luck and the guns and the Boche, When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!" And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!" And the Guards came through. Our throats they were parched and hot, But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers! Irish and Welsh and Scot, Coldstream and Grenadiers. Two brigades, if you please, Dressing as straight as a hem, We -- we were down on our knees, Praying for us and for them! Lord, I could speak for a week, But how could you understand! How should your cheeks be wet, Such feelin's don't come to you. But when can me ar my mates forget, When the Guards came through? "Five yards left extend!" If passed from rank to rank. Line after line with never a bend, And a touch of the London swank. A trifle of swank and dash, Cool as a home parade, Twinkle and glitter and flash, Flinching never a shade, With the shrapnel right in their face Doing their Hyde Park stunt, Keeping their swing at an easy pace, Arms at the trail, eyes front! Man, it was great to see! Man, it was fine to do! It's a cot and a hospital ward for me, But I'll tell'em in Blighty, whereever I be, How the Guards came through. Arthur Conan Doyle |
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Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967). Counter-Attack and Other Poems. 1918. 17. Suicide in the Trenches I KNEW a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark. In winter trenches, cowed and glum, 5 With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again. . . . . You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, 10 Sneak home and pray you’ll never know The hell where youth and laughter go. |