Christmas in the Trenches


My name is Francis Tolliver, I come from Liverpool.
Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school.
To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here
I fought for King and country I love dear. 

'Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung,
The frozen fields of France were still, no Christmas song was sung
Our families back in England were toasting us that day
Their brave and glorious lads so far away.

I was lying with my messmate on the cold and rocky ground
When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound
Says I, ``Now listen up, me boys!'' each soldier strained to hear
As one young German voice sang out so clear.

"He's singing bloody well, you know!'' my partner says to me
Soon, one by one, each German voice joined in harmony
The cannons rested silent, the gas clouds rolled no more
As Christmas brought us respite from the war
As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent
``God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen'' struck up some lads from Kent
The next they sang was ``Stille Nacht.'' ``Tis `Silent Night','' says I
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky 

"There's someone coming toward us!'' the front line sentry cried
All sights were fixed on one long figure trudging from their side
His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shown on that plain so bright
As he, bravely, strode unarmed into the night

Soon one by one on either side walked into No Man's Land
With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand
We shared some secret brandy and we wished each other well
And in a flare-lit soccer game we gave 'em hell
We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and photographs from home
These sons and fathers far away from families of their own
Young Sanders played his squeezebox and they had a violin
This curious and unlikely band of men

Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more
With sad farewells we each prepared to go
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wonderous night
"Whose family have I fixed within my sights?''

'Twas Christmas in the trenches where the frost, so bitter hung
The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung
For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war
Had been crumbled and were gone forevermore

My name is Francis Tolliver, in Liverpool I dwell
Each Christmas come since World War I, I've learned its lessons well
That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame
And on each end of the rifle we're the same

John McCutcheon

Flodden Field

King Jamie hath made a vow,
Keepe it well if he may
That he will be at lovely London
Upon Saint James, his day.

'Upon Saint James his day at noone,
At faire London will I be,
And all the lords in merrie Scotland,
They shall dine there with me.'

Then bespake good Queene Margaret,
The teares fell from her eye:
'Leave off these warres, most noble king,
Keepe your fidelitie.

The water runnes swift and wondrous deepe,
From bottome unto the brimme;
My brother Henry hath men good enough;
England is hard to winne.'

'Away,' quoth he, 'with this silly foole
In prison fast let her lie:
For she is come of the English bloud,
And for these words she shall dye.'

With that bespake Lord Thomas Howard,
The queenes chamberlaine that day:
'If that you put Queene Margaret to death,
Scotland shall rue it alway.'

Then m a rage King Jamie did say,
'Away with this foolish mome
He shall be hanged, and the other be burned,
So soone as I come home.'

At Flodden Field the Scots came in,
Which made our English men faine;
At Bramstone Greene this battaile was seene,
There was King Jamie slaine.

Then presently the Scots did flie,
Their canons they left behind;
Their ensignes gay were won all away,
Our souldiers did beate them blinde.

To tell you plaine, twelve thousand were slaine
That to the fight did stand,
And many prisoners tooke that day,
The best in all Scotland.

That day made many a fatherlesse child,
And many a widow poore,
And many a Scottish gay lady
Sate weeping in her bower.

Jack with a feather was lapt all in leather,
His boastings were all in vaine;
He had such a chance, with a new morrice-dance,
He never went home againe.

FIERY CROSS 

Heard ye the news on the wind 
Heard ye the news on the wind 
Clansmen come forth for the Prince in the north 
Heard ye the news in the wind. 

Chorus 
Caithness Sutherland Cromarty and Ross 
 Follow the Fiery Cross. 

 Saw ye the sign in the sky 
Saw ye the sign in the sky 
In hundreds and tens come the loyal 
Highland men Saw ye the sign in the sky.  
Saw ye the Highlands awake 
Saw ye the Highlands awake 

From Lewis and Skye with their guns and powder dry 
Saw ye the sign in the sky. 
Saw ye the light in their eye 
Saw ye the light in their eye 
Stand if ye dare, aye, 
Sassenach beware 

Saw ye the light in their eye. 
Heard ye the skirl o' the pipe 
Heard ye the skirl o' the pipe 
Swing your claymore let them hear your battle roar 

Charles Edward Stuart he has come. 
Caithness Sutherland Cromarty and Ross 
Follow the Fiery, Fiery Fiery, Follow the Fiery Cross. 


Gordon Menzies

Great White Sheep 

Oh Sutherland is a bonnie land, 
Beyond the Moray Firth. 
And Rosshire smiles at the Western Isles, 
The land of Gaeldom's birth. 
From Scrabster Bay to Mingulay, 
The mighty mountains weep; 

For each sad glen has been cleared of men 
To make way for the great white sheep. 
 Kildonan's ablaze and Langdale's braes 
Are burnin' tae the skies. 
The Factor's men who raze the glen 
Heed not the infant's cries. 

The landlord's might denies the right 
Of the crofter's crops tae grow. 
A laird must keep his great white sheep 
So his flesh and blood must go. 

A Sutherland maid, her clan betrayed 
And wed tae an English lord. 
She's driven her men from the neighbor's glen 
Wi' musket, ball and sword. 

Her land she's sold for English gold 
While her clansmen throng the shore; 
And the great white sheep walk the mountains steep, 
Her men will walk no more. 

From every glen the silent men 
Have a prayer upon their lips; 
As they crouch by the sea in poverty 
And wait for the white sailed ships. 

The Atlantic roar on the rocky shore 
Will lull the bairns tae sleep. 
No more they'll stand on their faether's land - 

It has gone for the great white sheep.

Three Score And Ten lyrics

Me thinks I see a host of craft
Spreading their sails alee
Down the Humber they do glide
All bound for the Northern Sea

Me thinks I see on each small craft
A crew with hearts so brave
Going out to earn their daily bread
Upon the restless wave
And it's three score and ten
Boys and men were lost from Grimsby town
 
From Yarmouth down to Scarboro
Many hundreds more were drowned
Our herring craft, our trawlers
Our fishing smacks, as well
They long did fight that bitter night
The battle with the swell
 
Me thinks I see them yet again
As they leave this land behind
Casting their nets into the sea
The herring shoals to find
 
Me thinks I see them yet again
They're all on board all right
With their nets rolled up and their decks cleaned off
And the side lights burning bright
 
Me thinks I've heard the captain say
"Me lads we'll shorten sail"
With the sky to all appearances
Looks like an approaching gale

Me thinks I see them yet again
Midnight hour is past
The little craft abattling there
Against the icy blast

October's night brought such a sight
Twas never seen before
There were mast and yards and broken spars
A washing on the shore

There were many a heart in sorrow
Many a heart so brave
There were many a fine and hearty lad
That met a watery grave

The D-day Dodgers lyrics

We're the D-Day Dodgers, way off in Italy
Always on the vino, always on the spree;
Eighth Army scroungers and their tanks,
We live in Rome, among the Yanks.
We are the D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy;

We landed in Salerno, a holiday with pay,
The Jerries brought the bands out to greet us on the way.
Showed us the sights and gave us tea,
We all sang songs, the beer was free
To welcome D-Day Dodgers to sunny Italy.

Naples and Casino were taken in our stride,
We didn't go to fight there, we went just for the ride.
Anzio and Sangro were just names,
We only went to look for dames
The artful D-Day Dodgers, way out in Italy.

Dear Lady Astor, you think you're mighty hot,
Standing on the platform, talking tommyrot.
You're England's sweetheart and her pride
We think your mouth's too bleeding wide.
We are the D-Day Dodgers, in sunny Italy.

Look around the mountains, in the mud and rain,
You'll find the scattered crosses, some that have no name.
Heartbreak and toil and suffering gone,
The boys beneath them slumber on.
They are the D-Day Dodgers who stay in Italy.

The Enniskillen Dragoons 

 

Our troop was made ready at the dawn of the day
From lovely Enniskillen, they were marching us away
They put us then onboard a ship to cross the raging main
To fight in bloody battle in the sunny land of Spain

Fare thee well Enniskillen, Fare thee well for awhile
And all around the borders of Erin's green isle
And when the war is over, we'll return in full bloom
And you'll all welcome home your Enniskillen Dragoons

Oh, Spain it is a gallant land where wine and ale flow free
There's lots of lovely women there to dandle on your knee
And often in a tavern there, we'd make the rafters ring
When every soldier in the house would raise his glass and sing

We fought for Ireland's glory there and many a man did fall
From musket and from bayonet and from thundering cannonball
And many a foeman we laid low amid the battle throng
And as we prepared for action, you would often hear this song

Well, now the fighting's over and for home we have set sail
Our flag above this lofty ship is fluttering in the gale
They've given us a pension boys of fourpence each a day
And when we reach Enniskillen, never more we'll have to say

 Johnson's Motor car

It was down by Brannigan's corner one morning I did stray.
I met a fellow rebel and to me he did say
"We have orders from our Captain to assemble at Dunbar
But how were we to get there without a motor car?"

Oh Barney dear be of good cheer I'll tell you what you'll do.
The Specials they are plentiful but the I.R.A. are few,
We'll send a wire to Johnson to meet us at Stranlar
And we'll give the boys a jolly good drive in Johnson's Motor Car.

When Doctor Johnson heard the news he soon put on his shoes
He said "this is an urgent case, there is not time to lose,"
He then put on his castor hat and on his breast a star,
You could hear the din going through Glen Fin of Johnson's Motor Car.

But when he got to the Railway Bridge, the rebels he saw there,
Ould Johnson knew the game was up for at him they did stare;
He said "I have a permit to travel near and far,"
To hell with your English permit, we want you motor car.

"What will my loyal brethren think when they hear the news
My car it has been commandeered by the rebels at Dunluce,"
We'll give you a receipt for it, all signed by Captain Barr
And when Ireland gets her freedom boy, you'll get your Motor Car

Well we put that car in motion and filled it to the brim
With guns and bayonets shining, which made ould Johnon grim.
Then Barney hoisted the Sinn Fein flag and it fluttered like a star,
And we gave three cheers for the I.R.A. and Johnson's motor car

The Battle of Benburb 

 

O'er the hills of Benburb, rose the red beam of day
Gleaming bright from our foemen in battle array
But as brightly again, in the mid summer glow
It shone back from the troops of our brave Owen Roe

Munroe had his thousands arrayed at his back
With their puritan mantles, steel morion and Jack
And with him fierce Blayney and Conway had come
To crush Owen Roe at the roll of the drum.

And who with O'Neill on that morn drew the band?
Brave hearts as e'er beat by the Blackwater strand
Sir Phelim, brave chief, with his bosom of fire
O'Donnell, McSweeney and gallant Maguire

From Derry's wild woodlands from Maine's sounding tide
From Leitrim and Longford came chiefs to our side
From Breffni's green hills, with his sabre in hand
Stood bold Myles the slasher, the pride of our land

We kept all that noontide, the foemen at play
Though we thought of their forays and burned for the fray;
For our chief bade us wait, till the eve had begun
Then rush on the foe with our backs to the sun

Hurrah for the red hand! And on to a man
Our columns poured down, like a storm on their van
Where a sermon was preaching to strengthen their zeal
"We'll give them a sermon" cried Owen Roe O'Neill

There was panic before us and panic beside
As their horsemen fled back in a wild broken tide;
And we swept them along by the Blackwater shore
'Till we reddened its tide with the Puritan's gore

A Kern by the river held something on high
"Saint Columb, is it thus that our enemies fly!
Perchance 'tis my coolun, they clipped long ago
Mile Gloria, the rough wig of flying Munroe!"

And we took from the foes e'er that calm twilight fall
Their horses and baggage and banners and all;
Then we sat by our camp-fires and drank in the glow
Good health to our leader, the brave Owen Roe

 The Ballad Of The Alamo

In the southern part of Texas, in the town of San Antone,
There's a fortress all in ruin that the weeds have overgrown.
You may look in vain for crosses and you'll never see a one,
But sometime between the setting and the rising of the sun,
You can hear a ghostly bugle as the men go marching by;
You can hear them as they answer to that roll call in the sky:
Colonel Travis, Davy Crockett and a hundred eighty more;
Captain Dickenson, Jim Bowie, present and accounted for.

Back in 1836, Houston said to Travis:
"Get some volunteers and go fortify the Alamo."
Well, the men came from Texas and from old Tennessee,
And they joined up with Travis just to fight for the right to be free.

Indian scouts with squirrel guns, men with muzzle loaders,
Stood together heel and toe to defend the Alamo.
"You may never see your loved ones," Travis told them that day.
"Those that want to can leave now, those who'll fight to the death, let 'em stay."

In the sand he drew a line with his army sabre,
Out of a hundred eighty five, not a soldier crossed the line.
With his banners a-dancin' in the dawn's golden light,
Santa Anna came prancin' on a horse that was black as the night.

He sent an officer to tell Travis to surrender.
Travis answered with a shell and a rousin' rebel yell.
Santa Anna turned scarlet: "Play Degüello," he roared.
"I will show them no quarter, everyone will be put to the sword."

One hundred and eighty five holdin' back five thousand.
Five days, six days, eight days, ten; Travis held and held again.
Then he sent for replacements for his wounded and lame,
But the troops that were comin' never came, never came, never came.

Twice he charged, then blew recall. On the fatal third time,
Santa Anna breached the wall and he killed them one and all.
Now the bugles are silent and there's rust on each sword,
And the small band of soldiers lie asleep in the arms of The Lord.

In the southern part of Texas, near the town of San Antone,
Like a statue on his Pinto rides a cowboy all alone.
And he sees the cattle grazin' where a century before,
Santa Anna's guns were blazin' and the cannons used to roar.
And his eyes turn sort of misty, and his heart begins to glow,
And he takes his hat off slowly to the men of Alamo.
To the thirteen days of glory at the seige of Alamo. 


Marty  Robbins

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance 

 

When Liberty Valance rode to town the womenfolk would hide, they'd hide
When Liberty Valance walked around the men would step aside
'cause the point of a gun was the only law that Liberty understood
When it came to shootin' straight and fast---he was mighty good.
 
From out of the East a stranger came, a law book in his hand, a man
The kind of a man the West would need to tame a troubled land
'cause the point of a gun was the only law that Liberty understood
When it came to shootin' straight and fast---he was mighty good.

Many a man would face his gun and many a man would fall
The man who shot Liberty Valance, he shot Liberty Valance
He was the bravest of them all.

The love of a girl can make a man stay on when he should go, stay on
Just tryin' to build a peaceful life where love is free to grow
But the point of a gun was the only law that Liberty understood
When the final showdown came at last, a law book was no good.

Alone and afraid she prayed that he'd return that fateful night, aww that night
When nothin' she said could keep her man from goin' out to fight
From the moment a girl gets to be full-grown the very first thing she learns
When two men go out to face each other only one retur-r-r-ns

Everyone heard two shots ring out, a shot made Liberty fall
The man who shot Liberty Valance, he shot Liberty Valance
He was the bravest of them all.

The man who shot Liberty Valance, he shot Liberty Valance
He was the bravest of them all.

Up-Hill 

DOES the road wind up-hill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.

Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.

Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.

Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.


Christina Rossetti

The Song of Wandering Aengus

 I WENT out to the hazel wood, 
 Because a fire was in my head, 
And cut and peeled a hazel wand, 
And hooked a berry to a thread; 
And when white moths were on the wing, 
And moth-like stars were flickering out, 
I dropped the berry in a stream 
And caught a little silver trout. 
When I had laid it on the floor 
I went to blow the fire aflame, 
But something rustled on the floor, 
And some one called me by my name: 
It had become a glimmering girl 
With apple blossom in her hair 
Who called me by my name and ran 
And faded through the brightening air. 
Though I am old with wandering 
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,  
I will find out where she has gone, 
And kiss her lips and take her hands; 
And walk among long dappled grass, 
 And pluck till time and times are done 
The silver apples of the moon, 
The golden apples of the sun. 


William Butler Yeats

The Gods of the Copybook Heading

AS I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,

I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market-Place. 

 

Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all. 

 

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn.

That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:

But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breath of Mind,

So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind. 

 

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,

Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market-Place;

But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come

That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch. 

 

They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch.

They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings.

So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace. 

 

They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.

But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: "Stick to the Devil you know." 

 

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life

(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)

Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,

And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "The Wages of Sin is Death." 

 

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,

By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;

But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,

And the Gods of the Copybook Heading said: "If you don't work you die." 

 

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew,

And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true

That All is not God that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four-

And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more. 

 

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man-

There are only four things certain since Social Progress began:-

That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,

And the burnt Fool's bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire; 

 

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins

When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,

As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,

The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return! 

 

Rudyard Kipling

The Last Watch

They dragged her down, dead, from Tobermory,
Too cheap to spare her one last head of steam,
Deep in diesel fumes embraced,
Rust and soot upon the face of one who was so clean.

They brought me here to watch her in the boneyard,
Just two old wrecks to spend the night alone.
It's the dark inside this evil place.
Clouds on the moon hide her disgrace;
This whiskey hides my own.

My guess is that we were young together.
Like her's, my strength was young and hard as steel.
And like her too, I knew my ground;
I scarcely felt the years go round
In answer to the wheel.

But then they quenched the fire beneath the boiler,
Gave me a watch and showed me out the door.
At sixty-four, you're still the best;
One year more, and then you're less
Than dust upon the floor.

So here's to useless superannuation
And us old relics of the days of steam.
In the morning, Lord, I would prefer
WHen men with torches come for her,
Let angels come for me.

It's the last watch on the Midland,
The last watch alone,
One last night to love her,
The last might she's whole.

Stan Rogers

Free In The Harbour

Well it's blackfish at play in Hermitage Bay
From Pushthrough across to Bois Island.
They broach and they sprout and they lift their flukes out
And they wave to a town that is dying.
Now it's many's the boats that have plied on the foam,
Hauling away! Hauling away!

But there's many more fellows been leaving their homes,
Where whales make free in the harbour.
It's at Portage and Main you'll see them again
On their way to the hills of Alberta.

With lop-side grins, they waggle their chins
And they brag of the wage they'll be earning.
Then it's quick, pull the string boys, and get the loot out,
Haul it away! Haul it away!

But just two years ago you could hear the same shout
Where the whales make free in the harbour.
Free in the harbour; the blackfish are sporting again
Free in the harbour; untroubled by comings and goings of men
Who once did persue them as oil from the sea,
Hauling away! Hauling away!

Now they're Calgary roughnecks from Hermitage Bay,
Where the whales make free in the harbour.
Well, it's living they've found, deep in the ground,
And if there's doubts, it's best they ignore them.
Nor think on the bones, the crosses and stones
Of their fathers that came there before them.
In the taverns of Edmonton, fishermen shout
Haul it away! Haul it away!

They left three hundred years buried up the Bay
Where the whales make free in the harbour.
Free in the harbour; the blackfish are sporting again
Free in the harbour; untroubled by comings and goings of men
Who once did persue them as oil from the sea,
Hauling away! Hauling away!

Now they're Calgary roughnecks from Hermitage Bay,
Where the whales make free in the harbour.






Stan Rogers

YE PARLIAMENT OF ENGLAND

Ye Parliament of England,
You Lords and commons, too,
Consider well what you're about
And what you're going to do.

You're now to fight with Yankees,
I'm sure you'll rue the day,
You roused the Sons of Liberty
In North Amerikay.

You first confined our commerce,
And said our ships shant trade,
You next impressed our seamen,
And used them as your slaves;
You then insulted Rogers,
While ploughing o'er the main,
And had we not declared war,
You'd have done it o'er again.

You thought our frigates were but few,
And Yankees would not fight,
Until brave Hull your Guerriere took,
And banished her from your sight.
The Wasp then took your Frolic,
We'll nothing say to that,
The Poictiers being of the line,
Of course she took her back.

Then next, upon Lake Erie,
Where Perry had some fun,
You own he beat your naval force,
And caused them for to run;
This was to you a sore defeat,
The like ne'er known before,
Your British Squadron beat complete
Some took, some run ashore.

There's Rogers, in the President,
Will burn, sink, and destroy;
The Congress, on the Brazil coast,
Your commerce will annoy;
The Essex, in the Sonth Seas,
Will put out all your lights,
The flag she waves at her mast-head-
"Free Trade and Sailors' Rights!"

Lament, ye sons of Britain,
Far distant is the day
When you'll regain by British force
What you're lost in America;
Go tell your King and parliament,
By all the world 'tis known,
That British force, by sea and land,
By Yankees is o'erthrown.

Use every endeavor,
And strive to make a peace,
For Yankee ships are building fast,
Their Navy to increase;
They will enforce their commerce,
The laws by Heaven were made,
That Yankee ships in time of peace,
To any port may trade.

Crusader

"What do I do next?" said the bishop to the priest,
"I have spent my whole life waiting, preparing for the feast,
And now you say Jerusalem has fallen and is lost,
The king of heathen Saracen has seized the holy cross;"

Then the priest said "Oh my bishop, we must put them to the sword,
For God in all His mercy will find a just reward,
For the noblemen and sinners, and knights of ready hand,
Who will be the Lord's Crusader, send word through all the land,

Jerusalem is lost,
Jerusalem is lost,
Jerusalem is lost;"

"Tell me what to do", said the king upon his throne,
"but speak to me in whispers for we are not alone,
They tell me that Jerusalem has fallen to the hand,
Of some bedevilled eastern Heathen who has seized the Holy Land;"

Then the chamberlain said "Lord, we must call upon our foes
In Spain and France and Germany to end our bitter wars,
All Christian men must be as one and gather for the fight,
You will be their leader, begin the battle cry,

Jerusalem is lost,
Jerusalem is lost,
Jerusalem is lost"...

Ooh, high on a hill, in the town of Jerusalem,
There stood Saladin, the king of the Saracens,
Whoring and drinking and snoring and sinking, around him his army lay,
Secure in the knowledge that he had won the day;

A messenger came, blood on his feet and a wound in his chest,
"The Christians are coming!" he said, "I have seen their cross in the west,"
In a rage Saladin struck him down with his knife,
And he said "I know that this man lies,
They quarrel too much, the Christians could never unite!

I am invincible, I am the king,
I am invincible, and I will win..."

Closer they came, the army of Richard the Lionheart,
Marching by day and night, with soldiers from every part,
And when the Crusaders came over the mountain and they saw Jerusalem,
They fell to their knees and prayed for her release;

They started the battle at dawn, taking the city by storm,
With horsemen and bowmen and engines of war,
They broke through the city walls,
The Heathens were flying and screaming and dying,
And the Christian swords were strong,
And Saladin ran when he heard their victory song;

"We are invincible, God is the king,
We are invincible, and we will win!"

"What do I do now?" said the wise man to the fool,
"I have spent my whole life searching, to find the Golden Rule,
Though centuries have disappeared, the memory still remains,
Of those enemies together, could it be that way again?"

Then the fool said "Oh you wise men, you really make me laugh,
With your talk of vast persuasion and searching through the past,
There is only greed and evil in the men who fight today,
The song of the Crusader has long since gone away,

Jerusalem is lost,
Jerusalem is lost,
Jerusalem is lost...
Jerusalem." 

Chris De Burgh

Note:

After 41 years of service Her Majesty has agreed that Mr. Ts departure will not unduly compromise the integrity of Her Government and has graciously acceded to his request to retire.

Miss Poppy will be pleased.

God Save the Queen.

Ezekiel 25:17

The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. 

Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. 

And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who would attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. 

And you will know my name is The Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee.

Sonnet XLIII

HOW do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, -I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.


Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The Picket Guard

``ALL quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
Except here and there a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.

'Tis nothing! a private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of a battle;
Not an officer lost, only one of the men
Moaning out, all alone, the death rattle.
All quiet along the Potomac to-night!

Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming;
And their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
And the light of their camp-fires are gleaming.

A tremulous sigh, as a gentle night-wind
Through the forest leaves slowly is creeping;
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard o'er the army sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two on the low trundel bed,
Far away, in the cot on the mountain.

His musket falls slack, his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
And their mother--"may heaven defend her!"

The moon seems to shine forth as brightly as then--
That night, when the love, yet unspoken,
Leaped up to his lips, and when low-murmured vows
Were pledged to be ever unbroken.

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling;
And gathers the gun closer up to his breast
As if to keep down his heart's swelling.

He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree,
And his footstep is lagging and weary;
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Towards the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves?
Was it the moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle: "Ha! Mary, good-by!"
And his life-blood is ebbing and plashing.

"All quiet along the Potomac to-night!"
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
And the picket's off duty forever!


Ethyl Lynn Beers

Ballad of Agincourt

FAIR stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance,
Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth towards Agincourt,
In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French gen'ral lay
With all his power.

Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide
To the King sending;
Which he neglects the while
As from the nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile
Their fall portending.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then:
Though they to one be ten,
Be not amazëd.

Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun
By fame been raisëd.
And for myself, quoth he,
This my full rest shall be,
England ne'er mourn for me,
Nor more esteem me;
Victor I will remain
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain
Loss to redeem me.

Poitiers and Crécy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell;
No less our skill is
Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat
By many a warlike feat,
Lopped the French lilies.

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped
Amongst his henchmen.

Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone,
Armor on armor shone,
Drum now to drum did groan,
To hear was wonder,
That with cries they make
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake,
Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces;
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery
Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,
Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilboes drew,
And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;
Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went;
Our men were hardy.

This while our noble King,
His broad sword brandishing,
Down the French host did ding,
As to o'erwhelm it;
And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.

Gloster, that Duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood
With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight,
Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,
And cruel slaughter made,
Still as they ran up;
Suffolk his ax did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry;
Oh, when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?


Michael Drayton

The Battle of Blenheim

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 Wilhemine.

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 Wilhemine 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 Wilhemine.

"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."


Richard Southey

Edgehill Fight

NAKED and gray the Cotswolds stand
Beneath the summer sun,
And the stubble fields on either hand
Where Sour and Avon run.

There is no change in the patient land
That has bred us every one.

She should have passed in cloud and fire
And saved us from this sin
Of war--red war--'twixt child and sire,
Household and kith and kin,
In the heart of a sleepy Midland shire,
With the harvest scarcely in.

But there is no change as we meet at last
On the brow-head or the plain,
And the raw astonished ranks stand fast
To slay or to be slain
By the men they knew in the kindly past
That shall never come again--
By the men they met at dance or chase,
In the tavern or the hall,
At the justice bench and the market place,
At the cudgel play or brawl--
Of their own blood and speech and race,
Comrades or neighbors all!

More bitter than death this day must prove
Whichever way it go,
For the brothers of the maids we love
Make ready to lay low
Their sisters' sweethearts, as we move
Against our dearest foe.

Thank Heaven! At last the trumpets peal
Before our strength gives way.
For King or for the Commonweal--
No matter which they say,
The first dry rattle of new-drawn steel
Changes the world today!


Rudyard Kipling

England, My England

WHAT have I done for you,

England, my England?

What is there I would not do,

England, my own?

With your glorious eyes austere,

As the Lord were walking near,

Whispering terrible things and dear

As the Song on your bugles blown,

England--

Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,

England, my England,

Match the masterwork you've done

England, my own?

When shall he rejoice again

Such a breed of mighty men

As come forward, one to ten,

To the Song on your bugles blown,

England--

Down the years on your bugles blown!

Ever the faith endures,

England, my England--

"Take and break us; we are yours,

England, my own!

Life is good, and joy runs high

Between English earth and sky.

Death is death; but we shall die

To the Song on your bugles blown,

England--

To the stars on your bugles blown!"

They call you proud and hard,

England, my England--

You with worlds to watch and ward,

England, my own!

You whose mailed hand keeps the keys

Of such teeming destinies,

You could not know or dread nor ease

Were the Song on your bugle blown,

England--

Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might,

England, my England,

Is the fierce old Sea's delight,

England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,

Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,

There's the menace of the Word

In the Song on your bugles blown,

England--

Out of heaven on your bugles blown!

William Ernest Henley

The Song of the Wage-Slave

When the long, long day is over, and the Big Boss gives me my pay,

I hope that it won't be hell-fire, as some of the parsons say.

And I hope that it won't be heaven, with some of the parsons I've met --

All I want is just quiet, just to rest and forget.

Look at my face, toil-furrowed; look at my calloused hands;

Master, I've done Thy bidding, wrought in Thy many lands --

Wrought for the little masters, big-bellied they be, and rich;

I've done their desire for a daily hire, and I die like a dog in a ditch.

I have used the strength Thou hast given, Thou knowest I did not shirk;

Threescore years of labor -- Thine be the long day's work.

And now, Big Master, I'm broken and bent and twisted and scarred,

But I've held my job, and Thou knowest, and Thou will not judge me hard.

Thou knowest my sins are many, and often I've played the fool --

Whiskey and cards and women, they made me the devil's tool.

I was just like a child with money; I flung it away with a curse,

Feasting a fawning parasite, or glutting a harlot's purse;

Then back to the woods repentant, back to the mill or the mine,

I, the worker of workers, everything in my line.

Everything hard but headwork (I'd no more brains than a kid),

A brute with brute strength to labor, doing as I was bid;

Living in camps with men-folk, a lonely and loveless life;

Never knew kiss of sweetheart, never caress of wife.

A brute with brute strength to labor, and they were so far above --

Yet I'd gladly have gone to the gallows for one little look of Love.

I, with the strength to two men, savage and shy and wild --

Yet how I'd ha' treasured a woman, and the sweet, warm kiss of a child!

Well, 'tis Thy world, and Thou knowest. I blaspheme and my ways be rude;

But I've lived my life as I found it, and I've done my best to be good;

I, the primitive toiler, half naked and grimed to the eyes,

Sweating it deep in their ditches, swining it stark in their styes;

Hurling down forests before me, spanning tumultuous streams;

Down in the ditch building o'er me palaces fairer than dreams;

Boring the rock to the ore-bed, driving the road through the fen,

Resolute, dumb, uncomplaining, a man in a world of men.

Master, I've filled my contract, wrought in Thy many lands;

Not by my sins wilt Thou judge me, but by the work of my hands.

Master, I've done Thy bidding, and the light is low in the west,

And the long, long shift is over. . .

Master, I've earned it -- Rest.

Robert Service