Crucifixion

 
And the night comes again to the circle studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in loneliness they lie
'Till the universe explodes as a falling star is raised
Planets are paralyzed, mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the brilliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity, then he dies.

In the green fields a turnin', a baby is born
His cries crease the wind and mingle with the morn
An assault upon the order, the changing of the guard
Chosen for a challenge that is hopelessly hard
And the only single sound is the sighing of the stars
But to the silence of distance they are sworn


So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Images of innocence charge him go on
But the decadence of destiny is looking for a pawn
To a nightmare of knowledge he opens up the gate
And a blinding revelation is laid upon his plate
That beneath the greatest love is a hurricane of hate
And God help the critic of the dawn.

So he stands on the sea and shouts to the shore,
But the louder that he screams the longer he's ignored
For the wine of oblivion is drunk to the dregs
And the merchants of the masses almost have to be begged
'Till the giant is aware, someone's pulling at his leg,
And someone is tapping at the door.

To dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Then his message gathers meaning and it spreads across the land
The rewarding of his pain is the following of the man
But ignorance is everywhere and people have their way
Success is an enemy to the losers of the day
In the shadows of the churches, who knows what they pray
For blood is the language of the band.

The Spanish bulls are beaten; the crowd is soon beguiled,
The matador is beautiful, a symphony of style
Excitement is estatic, passion places bets
Gracefully he bows to ovations that he gets
But the hands that are applauding are slippery with sweat
And saliva is falling from their smiles

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Then this overflow of life is crushed into a liar
The gentle soul is ripped apart and tossed into the fire.
First a smile of rejection at the nearness of the night
Truth becomes a tragedy limping from the light
All the (canons|heavens) are horrified, they stagger from the sight
As the cross is trembling with desire.

They say they can't believe it, it's a sacreligious shame
Now, who would want to hurt such a hero of the game?
But you know I predicted it; I knew he had to fall
How did it happen?  I hope his suffering was small.
Tell me every detail, for I've got to know it all,
And do you have a picture of the pain?

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

Time takes her toll and the memory fades
but his glory is broken, in the magic that he made.
Reality is ruined; it's the freeing from the fear
The drama is distorted, to what they want to hear
Swimming in their sorrow, in the twisting of a tear
As they wait for a new thrill parade.

The eyes of the rebel have been branded by the blind
To the safety of sterility, the threat has been refined
The child was created to the slaughterhouse he's led
So good to be alive when the eulogy is read
The climax of emotion, the worship of the dead
And the cycle of sacrifice unwinds.

So dance dance dance
Teach us to be true
Come dance dance dance
'Cause we love you

And the night comes again to the circle studded sky
The stars settle slowly, in loneliness they lie
'Till the universe expodes as a falling star is raised
Planets are paralyzed, mountains are amazed
But they all glow brighter from the briliance of the blaze
With the speed of insanity, then he died.

 Phil Ochs

Un Canadien Errant
    
Un Canadien errant,
Banni de ses foyers,
Parcourait en pleurant
Des pays étrangers.

Un jour, triste et pensif,
 Assis au bord des flots,
 Au courant fugitif
 Il adressa ces mots:

"Si tu vois mon pays,
Mon pays malheureux,
Va, dis à mes amis
Que je me souviens d'eux.

"Ô jours si pleins d'appas
Vous êtes disparus,
Et ma patrie, hélas!
Je ne la verrai plus!

"Non, mais en expirant,
Ô mon cher Canada!
Mon regard languissant
Vers toi se portera..."

In Flanders Fields


In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
              In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
              In Flanders fields.


Dr. John McRae RCA  1872-1918

 

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner

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 its 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.
 

Randall Jarrell

Hymn of the Knights Templars
 

Mother of God! as evening falls   
  Upon the silent sea,   
And shadows veil the mountain walls,   
  We lift our souls to thee!   
From lurking perils of the night,            
  The desert's hidden harms,   
From plagues that waste, from blasts that smite,   
  Defend thy men-at-arms!   
 
Mother of God! thy starry smile   
  Still bless us from above!     
Keep pure our souls from passion's guile,   
  Our hearts from earthly love!   
Still save each soul from guilt apart   
  As stainless as each sword,   
And guard undimmed in every heart     
  The image of our Lord!   
 
In desert march or battle's flame,   
  In fortress and in field,   
Our war-cry is thy holy name,   
  Thy love our joy and shield!     
And if we falter, let thy power   
  Thy stern avenger be,   
And God forget us in the hour   
  We cease to think of thee!   
 
Mother of God! the evening fades     
  On wave and hill and lea,   
And in the twilight's deepening shades   
  We lift our souls to thee!   
In passion's stress—the battle's strife,   
  The desert's lurking harms,     
Maid-Mother of the Lord of Life,   
  Protect thy men-at-arms!

John Hay

On the monument marking the Battle of Thermopylae

Go tell the Spartans, stranger passing by,
That here, obedient to their wishes, we lie.

Simonides

Destroyers in the Arctic

Camouflaged, they detach lengths of sea and sky
When they move; offset, speed and direction are a lie.

Everything is grey anyway; ships, water, snow, faces.
Flanking the convoy, we rarely go through our paces.

But sometimes on tightening waves at night they wheel
Drawing white moons on strings from dripping keel.

Cold cases them, like ships in glass; they are formal,
Not real, except in adversity. Then, too, have to seem normal.

At dusk they intensify, strung out, non-committal:
Waves spill from our wake, crêpe paper magnetized by gun metal.

They breathe silence, less solid than ghosts, ruminative
As the Arctic breaks up on their sides and they sieve

Moisture into mess-decks. Heat is cold-lined there,
Where we wait for a torpedo and lack air.

Repititive of each other, imitating the sea's lift and fall,
On the wings of the convoy they indicate rehearsal.

Merchantmen move sideways, with the gait of crustaceans,
Round whom like eels escorts take up their stations.

Landfall, Murmansk; but starboard now a lead-coloured
Island, Jan Mayen. Days identical, hoisted like sails, blurred.

Counters moved on an Admiralty map, snow like confetti
Covers the real us. We dream we are counterfeits tied to our jetty.

But cannot dream long; the sea curdles and sprawls,
Liverishly real, and merciless all else away from us falls.

Alan Ross

Bill's Grave


    I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill;
        I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim wouldn't understand;
    'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill,
        To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and.

    For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o' the best;
        We 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes;
    Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure West,
        So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums.

    And they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound,
        And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer,
    If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round
        Like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that's the reason I'm 'ere.

    But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave Jim to know.
        'E'd call me a slobberin' Cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore;
    I'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago;
        But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war.

    It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth
        (Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit);
    I'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . Now Jim's o' the salt o' the earth;
        But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit.

    I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn.
        Won't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three.
    Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty? JIM! And as sure as I'm born
        'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me.

    Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me. I watches 'im for a while,
        Then I says: "Wot 'o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?"
    And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile:
        "She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay."

    So 'e goes away in a 'urry, and I wishes 'im best o' luck,
        And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim,
    When I makes me way to the boneyard, and . . . I stares like a man wot's stuck, For wot do I see? Bill's grave-mound strewn with the flowers of   Jim.

    Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad;
        And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?"
    Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew; but say! won't Bill be glad
        When 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and sees the blossoms of Jim and me?
Robert  Service -

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!



Kipling

To The RAF

Never since English ships went out
To singe the beard of Spain,
Or English sea-dogs hunted death
Along the Spanish Main,
Never since Drake and Raleigh won
Our freedom of the seas,
Have sons of Britain dared and done
More valiantly than these.

Whether at midnight or at noon,
Through mist or open sky,
Eagles of freedom, all our hearts
Are up with you on high;
While Britain's mighty ghosts look down
From realms beyond the sun
And whisper, as their record pales,
Their breathless, deep, Well Done!

Alfred Noyes

Henry V’s Speech at Againcourt


This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.

Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:

And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Henry V - Act IV, Scene iii.

The Revenge  -  A Ballad of the Fleet

I.

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay,
And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far away:
"Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!"
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward;
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear,
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick.
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?"

II.

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward;
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again.
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore.
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard,
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain."

III.

So Lord Howard passed away with five ships of war that day,
Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven;
But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land
Very carefully and slow,
Men of Bideford in Devon,
And we laid them on the ballast down below;
For we brought them all aboard,
And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to Spain,
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord.

IV.

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight,
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniard came in sight,
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow.
"Shall we fight or shall we fly?
Good Sir Richard, tell us now,
For to fight is but to die!
There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set."
And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English men.
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil,
For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet."

V.

Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, and so
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe,
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below;
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen,
And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane between.

VI.

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks and
laugh'd,
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little craft
Running on and on, till delay'd
By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred tons,
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of guns,
Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd.

VII.

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a cloud
Whence the thunderbolt will fall
Long and loud,
Four galleons drew away
From the Spanish fleet that day,
And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay,
And the battle-thunder broke from them all.

VIII.

But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and went
Having that within her womb that had left her ill content;
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us hand to
hand,
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musqueteers,
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes his ears
When he leaps from the water to the land.

IX.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the
summer sea,
But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.
Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built galleons came,
Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle-thunder and
flame;
Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her dead and
her shame.
For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could fight
us no more - God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world
before?

X.

For he said "Fight on! fight on!"
Though his vessel was all but a wreck;
And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night was gone,
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck,
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly dead,
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the head,
And he said "Fight on! fight on!"

XI.

And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over the
summer sea,
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in a ring;
But they dared not touch us again, for they fear'd that we still could
sting,
So they watched what the end would be.

And we had not fought them in vain,
But in perilous plight were we,
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain,
And half of the rest of us maim'd for life
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife;
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark and
cold,
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was all of
it spent;
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side;
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride,
"We have fought such a fight for a day and a night
As may never be fought again!
We have won great glory, my men!
And a day less or more
At sea or ashore,
We die - does it matter when?
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner - sink her, split her in twain!
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain!"

XII.

And the gunner said "Ay, ay," but the seamen made reply:
"We have children, we have wives,
And the Lord hath spared our lives.
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us go;
We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow."
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the foe.

XIII.

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then,
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at last,
And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign grace;
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried:
"I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and true;
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do:
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!"
And he fell upon their decks, and he died.

XIV.

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and true,
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few;
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew,
But they sank his body with honour down into the deep,
And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew,
And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own;
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from sleep,
And the water began to heave and the weather to moan,
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew,
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake grew,
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts and their
flags,
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd navy of
Spain,
And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags
To be lost ever more in the main.

The Private of the Buffs

 LAST night, among his fellow roughs,   
  He jested, quaff’d, and swore:   
A drunken private of the Buffs,   
  Who never look’d before.   
To-day, beneath the foeman’s frown,           
  He stands in Elgin’s place,   
Ambassador from Britain’s crown,   
  And type of all her race.   

Poor, reckless, rude, lowborn, untaught,   
  Bewilder’d, and alone,           
A heart, with English instinct fraught,   
  He yet can call his own.   
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,   
  Bring cord, or axe, or flame:   
He only knows, that not through him           
  Shall England come to shame.   

Far Kentish hop-fields round him seem’d,   
  Like dreams, to come and go;   
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam’d,   
  One sheet of living snow;           
The smoke, above his father’s door,   
  In gray soft eddyings hung:   
Must he then watch it rise no more,   
  Doom’d by himself, so young?   

Yes, honour calls!—with strength like steel           
  He put the vision by.   
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;   
  An English lad must die.    

And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,   
  With knee to man unbent,           
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,   
  To his red grave he went.   

Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron fram’d;   
  Vain, those all-shattering guns;   
Unless proud England keep, untam’d,           
  The strong heart of her sons.    

So, let his name through Europe ring—   
  A man of mean estate,   
Who died, as firm as Sparta’s king,   
  Because his soul was great.           


Sir Francis Hastings Doyle

The Battle of Liège

Now spake the Emperor to all his shining battle forces,
To the Lancers, and the Rifles, to the Gunners and the Horses; --
And his pride surged up within him as he saw their banners stream! --
" 'Tis a twelve-day march to Paris, by the road our fathers travelled,
And the prize is half an empire when the scarlet road's unravelled –

Go you now across the border,
God's decree and William's order --
Climb the frowning Belgian ridges
With your naked swords agleam!
Seize the City of the Bridges --
Then get on, get on to Paris --
To the jewelled streets of Paris --
To the lovely woman, Paris, that has driven me to dream!"

A hundred thousand fighting men
They climbed the frowning ridges,
With their flaming swords drawn free
And their pennants at their knee.
They went up to their desire,
To the City of the Bridges,
With their naked brands outdrawn
Like the lances of the dawn!

In a swelling surf of fire,
Crawling higher -- higher -- higher --
Till they crumpled up and died
Like a sudden wasted tide,
And the thunder in their faces beat them down and flung them wide!
They had paid a thousand men,
Yet they formed and came again,
For they heard the silver bugles sounding challenge to their pride,
And they rode with swords agleam
For the glory of a dream,
And they stormed up to the cannon's mouth and withered there, and died. . . .

The daylight lay in ashes
On the blackened western hill,
And the dead were calm and still;
But the Night was torn with gashes --
Sudden ragged crimson gashes --
And the siege-guns snarled and roared,
With their flames thrust like a sword,
And the tranquil moon came riding on the heaven's silver ford.

What a fearful world was there,
Tangled in the cold moon's hair!
Man and beast lay hurt and screaming,
(Men must die when Kings are dreaming!) --
While within the harried town
Mothers dragged their children down
As the awful rain came screaming,
For the glory of a Crown!

So the Morning flung her cloak
Through the hanging pall of smoke --
Trimmed with red, it was, and dripping with a deep and angry stain!
And the Day came walking then
Through a lane of murdered men,
And her light fell down before her like a Cross upon the plain!

But the forts still crowned the height
With a bitter iron crown!
They had lived to flame and fight,
They had lived to keep the Town!
And they poured their havoc down
All that day . . . and all that night. . . .
While four times their number came,
Pawns that played a bloody game! --
With a silver trumpeting,
For the glory of the King,

To the barriers of the thunder and the fury of the flame!
So they stormed the iron Hill,
O'er the sleepers lying still,
And their trumpets sang them forward through the dull succeeding dawns,
But the thunder flung them wide,
And they crumpled up and died, --

They had waged the war of monarchs -- and they died the death of pawns.
But the forts still stood . . . . Their breath
Swept the foeman like a blade,
Though ten thousand men were paid
To the hungry purse of Death,
Though the field was wet with blood,
Still the bold defenses stood,
Stood!

And the King came out with his bodyguard at the day's departing gleam --
And the moon rode up behind the smoke and showed the King his dream.


Dana Burnet

Praise the Lord and Pass the Ammunition

Down went the gunner, a bullet was his fate
Down went the gunner, and then the gunner's mate
Up jumped the sky pilot, gave the boys a look
And manned the gun himself as he laid aside the Book, shouting

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
And we'll all stay free

Praise the Lord and swing into position
Can't afford to sit around a-wishin'
Praise the Lord, we're all between perdition
And the deep blue sea

Yes the sky pilot said it
Ya gotta give him credit
For a son of a gun of a gunner was he, shouting

Praise the Lord, we're on a mighty mission
All aboard, we're not a-goin' fishin'
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition
And we'll all stay free


Frank Loesser

On a Wing and a Prayer

One of our planes was missing
Two hours overdue
One of our planes was missing
With all its gallant crew
The radio sets were humming
We waited for a word
Then a noise broke
Through the humming and this is what we heard

Comin' in on a wing and a prayer
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer
Though there's one motor gone
We can still carry on
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer

What a show, what a fight, boys
We really hit our target for tonight
How we sing as we limp through the air
Look below, there's our field over there
With just one motor gone
We can still carry on
Comin' in on a wing and a prayer

Harold Adamson and Jimmie McHugh

Men Behind The Guns


Let's drink a toast to the admiral,
and here's to the captain bold,
and glory more for the commodore,
when the deeds of might are told.

 
They stand to the deck with the battle's wreck,
when the great shells roar and pound,
and never they fear when the foe is near
to lay their orders down--

      But off with your hats and three times three
      for every sailor's son
      for the men below who fight the foe,
      the men behind the guns:
      oh, the men behind the guns.
 
Their hearts a-pounding heavy when
they swing to port once more --
with never enough of the greenback stuff,
they start for the leave ashore.

And you'd think perhaps the blue-blouse chaps
had better clothes to wear,
for the uniforms of officers
could hardly be compared:

      Warriors bold with straps of gold
      that dazzle like the sun
      outshine the common sailor boys,
      the lads who serve the guns:
      oh, the men behind the guns.

Say not a word till the shot is heard
that tells the fight is on,
and the angry sound of another round
that says there must be (God? gone??)

Over the deep and the deadly sweep,
the fire and the bursting shell,
where the very air is a mad despair,
the throes of a living hell.

      But down and deep in a mighty ship
      unseen by the midday sun
      you'll find the boys who make the noise,
      the lads who serve the guns:
      oh, the men behind the guns.

And well they know the cyclone blow
Loose from the cannon's steel.
The know the hull of the enemy ship
Will quiver with the peal.

And the decks will rock with the lightning shock
And shake with the great recoil
While the sea grows red with the blood of the dead
And swallows up her spoil.

      But not until the final ship
      has made her final run
      can we give their rest to the very best:
      to the lads who serve the guns --
      oh, the men behind the guns.

Let's drink a toast to the admiral,
And here's to the captain bold,
And glory more for the commodore,
When the deeds of might are told.

They stand to the deck with the battle's wreck,
When the great shells roar and pound,
And never they fear when the foe is near
To lay their orders down--

      But off with your hats and three times three
      For every sailor's son,
      For the men below who fight the foe,
      The men behind the guns:
      Oh, the man behind the gun.

John Rooney

Guns of Verdun

Guns of Verdun point to Metz
From the plated parapets;
Guns of Metz grin back again
O'er the fields of fair Lorraine.
Guns of Metz are long and grey,
Growling through a summer day;
Guns of Verdun, grey and long,
Boom an echo of their song.
Guns of Metz to Verdun roar,
"Sisters, you shall foot the score;"
Guns of Verdun say to Metz
"Fear not, for we pay our debts."
Guns of Metz they grumble, "When?"
Guns of Verdun answer then,
"Sisters, when to guard Lorraine
Gunners lay you East again!"

Patrick R. Chalmers

Night Flight to Turin


The seventh operation for one crew;
Crews in the briefing room were all agog
The wing commander came in through the smog
He gave the crews a friendly little grin
And said 'The target for tonight — Turin.'

A muffled groan was heard for crews, though bold,
Knew that above the Alps the air was cold
And masks for oxygen they'd have to wear
Another mild discomfort they’d have to bear.

The briefing went its smooth and well worn way
Each expert had some useful things to say.
The route with tape was on the wall-map shown,
The bomb load, target details were made known.

The weatherman, (alas no satellite)
Was rather vague re weather for the flight -
It looked as though conditions might be grim -
Cumulus cloud and possibly cu-nimb.

Above the Alps crews must beware of ice -
A quite nonsensical piece of advice
For ice which forms in thick cloud can't be seen
As on the wings it forms a glassy screen.

The briefing over, crews had hours to wait
To doze, play cards or think about their fate.
Collecting parachutes was next to do
And getting flight rations for the crew.

Three tuppeny chocolate bars and coffee flask
What more could any hungry airman ask?
Pessimists had them on the outward track
Optimists saved them for the journey back.

And so our crew above the Alps we find
At 20,000 feet and flying blind
With deadly ice amassing on the wings
And more collecting on some other things.

The extra weight was telling on the kite
The altimeter showed a loss of height
But worse was yet to come, for now I fear
The skipper said 'We’ve lost an engine here.'

Another engine failed within a trice
The air intakes were blocked with solid ice
And soon, all engines gone, the aircraft stalled
'We'd best get out,' the struggling pilot called.

Rear gunner had the easiest job no doubt
He swung his turret, slipstream pulled him out.
But at the front escape was much more fraught
Crew members couldn’t do the things they ought.

Now in a spin, the aircraft held them tied
By G-force hard against the starboard side.
The navigator strained and pushed and swore
Trying to reach the escape hatch in the floor.

At last the spin began to be less tight
The hatch was opened to the crew's delight
And, thankful that he hadn't so far died
The navigator sat with legs outside.

All set to jump he felt a gentle tug
He had forgotten his intercom plug
He reached for the plug and heard, 'Hold on there
An engine's come back — we're still in the air.'

As it got warmer and ice all dispersed
It seemed that the crew were over the worst.
But that's not the end of their rotten luck
While they were in storm cloud lightning had struck.

The distant-reading compass was u/s,
The pilot's stand by compass in a mess -
Its needle wandering in an aimless way
The bombsight compass seemed to be OK.

The navigator, starting from a guess
Worked out a course for England, more or less
The bomb-aimer got courses from the nav
And told the waiting pilot what he'd have
To do in terms of turning left or right
To keep a steady heading through the night.

At last the English Channel came in view
And soon an airfield beacon was seen too,
A fighter station by the name of Ford.
And some crew members said, 'Oh, thank the Lord'
The crew, on landing, just shook hands all round
And then like Pope John Paul they kissed the ground.

A Tribute to our Cassino War Dead

Here, at Cassino War Cemetery,
Where the early morning shadows
of the Monte Cassino heights steal slowly
almost imperceptibly across the gateway
to the Liri Valley
lie buried the earthly remains
of our Canadian Comrades.
They gave their lives in a just war
to preserve the freedoms we so dearly cherish.
Now they lie side by side
with their British and Commonwealth Comrades.
The rich soil of Italy was made richer
by the flesh and blood
they had so freely given it.

Their last resting place,
is one of incomparable beauty,
so nobly designed, crafted and maintained.
Under the blue skies of spring and summer
the wayward breezes sigh and murmur
through the tall pines and acacias.
Within shade and out in the warming sun
stand rows upon rows of white headstones
that mark the places where they sleep.
Bright flowering shrubs and plants
flourish above them, and the green, green grass
on which we walk
is their comforting blanket.

They lie here in an alien land
far from the shores of the land called 'home'.
They are heroes.
They gave their 'all' as they stood
at the very threshold of what should have been
an abundant and fulfilling life.
Their dreams and the dreams of those
who loved them
have been shattered on the hard anvil of war.

They've known no weariness or pain,
nor exulting joy, nor tears of sadness,
nor the torments of anger, despair, and ill health
nor the soft caress of a woman's love,
nor the loving embrace of little children.
So much has been denied them.
They awake not to bright dawns,
nor hear the thunder of summer storms.
The leaves of autumn scatter not to their tread,
nor the joys of spring greet them in all its glory.
Nor do they feel the warming sun,
or the cold winter winds on their cheeks.
They are sleeping.

Though the world has trembled again and again
to the loud and frightful sounds of war,
they fear not, for their peace is forever.
They have fought the good fight,
laid down their arms, and are now resting,
a sleep that knows no waking, no tomorrow
We who have walked safely out of the shadows
of the Valley of Death,
will always remember them,
until that time we too shall climb
the long stairway to eternity.
 
Stan Scislowski

The Sinking Of The Reuben James


Have you heard of a ship called the good Reuben James
Manned by hard fighting men both of honor and fame?
She flew the Stars and Stripes of the land of the free
But tonight she's in her grave at the bottom of the sea.

Tell me what were their names, tell me what were their names,
Did you have a friend on the good Reuben James?
What were their names, tell me, what were their names?
Did you have a friend on the good Reuben James

Well, a hundred men went down in that dark watery grave
When that good ship went down only forty-four were saved.
'Twas the last day of October we saved the forty-four
From the cold ocean waters and the cold icy shore.

It was there in the dark of that uncertain night
That we watched for the U-boats and waited for a fight.
Then a whine and a rock and a great explosion roared
And they laid the Reuben James on that cold ocean floor.

Now tonight there are lights in our country so bright
In the farms and in the cities they're telling of the fight.
And now our mighty battleships will steam the bounding main
And remember the name of that good Reuben James.

Woody Guthrie

The Band Played Waltzing Matilda

When I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback
I waltzed my Matilda all over
Then in 1915 my country said: Son,
It's time to stop rambling, there's work to be done
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
And they sent me away to the war

And the band played Waltzing Matilda
When the ship pulled away from the quay
And amid all the tears, flag waving and cheers
We sailed off for Gallipoli

It well I remember that terrible day
When our blood stained the sand and the water
And how in that hell they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
Johnny Turk, he was ready, he primed himself well
He rained us with bullets, and he showered us with shell
And in five minutes flat, we were all blown to hell
He nearly blew us back home to Australia

And the band played Waltzing Matilda
When we stopped to bury our slain
Well we buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
Then it started all over again

Oh those that were living just tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
While around me the corpses piled higher
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head
And when I awoke in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, I wished I was dead
I never knew there was worse things than dying

Oh no more I'll go Waltzing Matilda
All around the green bush far and near
For to hump tent and pegs, a man needs both legs
No more waltzing Matilda for me

They collected the wounded, the crippled, the maimed
And they shipped us back home to Australia
The armless, the legless, the blind and the insane
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla
And when the ship pulled into Circular Quay
I looked at the place where me legs used to be
And thank Christ there was no one there waiting for me
To grieve and to mourn and to pity

And the Band played Waltzing Matilda
When they carried us down the gangway
Oh nobody cheered, they just stood there and stared
Then they turned all their faces away

Now every April I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me
I see my old comrades, how proudly they march
Renewing their dreams of past glories
I see the old men all tired, stiff and worn
Those weary old heroes of a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask myself the same question

And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
And the old men still answer the call
But year after year, their numbers get fewer
Someday, no one will march there at all

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong
So who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?

Eric Bogle

Rendezvous

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
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.

 Alan Seeger

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,
    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,
    Sneak home and pray you'll never know
    The hell where youth and laughter go.

 Siegfried Sassoon

"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 I 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)

Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. 

If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and life of the world may move forward into broad, sunlit uplands. 

But if we fall, then the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science.
 
Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves that, if the British Empire and its Commonwealth lasts for a thousand years, men will still say, 

“This was their finest hour!”


Winston Churchill

Kemal Atatürk's tribute to the ANZACs killed at Gallipoli

“Heroes who shed their blood and lost their lives!

You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country.
Therefore rest in peace.

There is no difference between the Johnnies and Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours.

You, the mothers, who sent their sons from far away countries wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. 

After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.”

Christmas in the trenches


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

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

I was lying with my mess mates 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 in harmony
The cannons rested silent and the gas cloud 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 thing sang was Stille Nach tis Silent Night says I
And in two tongues one song filled up that sky

There's someone coming towards us now the front line sentry said
All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side
His truce flag like a Christmas Star shone on the plane so bright
As he bravely trudged unarmed into the night.

Then one by one on either side, walked in to No Mans 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 football game we gave them hell.

We traded chocolates, cigarettes and photographs from home
These sons and father far away from families of their own
Ton Sanders played the squeeze box 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 began to settle back to war
But the question haunted every heart that lived that wonderous night
Whose family have I fixed within my sights.

Twas Christmas in the trenches and the frost so bitter hung
The frozen fields of France were warmed, the 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 forever more.

Oh my name is Francis Tolliver, from Liverpool I dwell
Each Christmas comes since World War I have learned its lesson well
For the one who calls the shots won't be among the dead and lame
And on each end of the rifle we're the same

John McDermott

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 recruiters 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!

Rudyard Kipling

The Haggis of Private McPhee


    "Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me?
    It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee.
    "And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun,
    As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun.
    "A haggis! A HAGGIS!" says Private McPhee;
    "The brawest big haggis I ever did see.
    And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns
    Tae haggis and whuskey -- the Birthday o' Burns.
    We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest
    O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best."

    "Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole;
    "I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol."
    Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun:
    "I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done."
    Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee:
    "I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree."
    But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair:
    "Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare;
    And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun',
    We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon.
    Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black,
    O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back."

    My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land,
    And the deid they were rottin' on every hand.
    And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky,
    And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by.
    There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells,
    And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells;
    But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole
    Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol.
    For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem
    Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them.

    Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer
    Calamity's aften maist cruelly near.
    And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine
    The Boches below them were howkin' a mine.
    And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae,
    The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away.
    Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom,
    A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb.

    "Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun.
    "Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done.
    It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee;
    Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee.
    "Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun;
    "And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run,
    It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see:
    I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me."
    Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid:
    "If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid.
    And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content
    If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent."
    "That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind.
    Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind;
    And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot --
    It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got."

    For a while they were silent; then up once again
    Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain:
    "And why should we miss it? Between you and me
    We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see.
    You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht,
    And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht."

    Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee,
    When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee.
    Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun',
    When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun.
    "Keep clear o' them corpses -- they're maybe no deid!
    Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid.
    Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup.
    A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup.
    Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine:
    Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine."

    There wis death and destruction on every hand;
    There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land.
    And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare,
    And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air.
    Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun
    When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'.
    And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot,
    And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot.
    "On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal;
    I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole."

    But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun,
    Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'.
    Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear:
    "Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here.
    It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air;
    It's steamin' for us, and we're -- jist -- aboot -- there."

    Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap!
    For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap."
    And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain,
    And onward he staggers in passion and pain.
    And the flare and the glare and the fury increase,
    Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease.
    And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight,
    And someone is shoutin' away on their right;
    And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear
    A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer;
    And swift through the crash and the flash and the din,
    The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in.

    "They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll
    Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole.
    When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair,
    And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair.
    And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot,
    And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot,
    When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell,
    And it -- dropped on the haggis and dinged it tae hell."

    And oh but the lads were fair taken aback;
    Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack,
    And up from the trenches like lions they leapt,
    And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept.
    On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before!
    On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar!
    And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang,
    And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang:
    And there wisna a man but had death in his ee,
    For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee.

Robert Service

The Patriot's Dream


The songs of the wars are as old as the hills
They cling like the rust on the cold steel that kills
They tell of the boys who went down to the tracks
In a patriotic manner with the cold steel on their backs

The patriot's dream is as old as the sky
It lives in the lust of a cold callous lie
Let's drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills

The train pulled away on that glorious night
The drummer got drunk and the bugler got tight
While the boys in the back sang a song of good cheer
While riding off to glory in the spring of their years

The patriot's dream still lives on today
It makes mothers weep and it makes lovers pray
Let's drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills

Well there was a sad, sad lady
Weeping all night long
She received a sad, sad message
From a voice on the telephone
Her children were all sleeping
As she waited out the dawn
How could she tell those children
That their father was shot down
So she took them to her side that day
And she told them one by one
Your father was a good man ten thousand miles from home
He tried to do his duty and it took him straight to hell
He might be in some prison, I hope he's treated well

Well there was a young girl watching in the early afternoon
When she heard the name of someone who said he'd be home soon
And she wondered how they got him, but the papers did not tell
There would be no sweet reunion, there would be no wedding bells
So she took herself into her room and she turned the bed sheets down
And she cried into the silken folds of her new wedding gown
He tried to do his duty and it took him straight to hell
He might be in some prison, I hope he's treated well

Well there was an old man sitting in his mansion on the hill
And he thought of his good fortune and the time he'd yet o kill
Well he called to his wife one day, "Come sit with me awhile"
Then turning toward the sunset, he smiled a wicked smile
"Well I'd like to say I'm sorry for the sinful deeds I've done
But let me first remind you, I'm a patriotic son"
 
They tried to do their duty and it took 'em straight to hell
They might be in some prison, I hope they're treated well

The songs of the wars are as old as the hills
They cling like the rust on the cold steel that kills
They tell of the boys who went down to the tracks
In a patriotic manner with the cold steel on their backs

The train pulled away on that glorious night
The drummer got drunk and the bugler got tight
While the boys in the back sang a song of good cheer
While riding off to glory in the spring of their years

The patriot's dream still lives on today
It makes mothers weep and it makes lovers pray
Let's drink to the men who got caught by the chill
Of the patriotic fever and the cold steel that kills.

Gordon Lightfoot

The man from Athabasca


 
Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming
Of a woodpecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree;
And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming
Of the mustering of legions and 'twas calling unto me;
'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea.

And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder,
For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar;
Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder,
And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War:
'Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are.

Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying
And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do ?
Oh the dogs they took to howling and the missis took to crying,
As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe;
Yes, the old girl stood a-bubbling till an island hid the view.

Says the factor, "Mike, you're crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty.
You're as grizzled as a badger and you're sixty year or so."
"But I haven't missed a scrap," says I, "Since I was one and twenty.
And shall I miss the biggest ? You can bet your whiskers ? no!"
So I sold my furs and started ... and that's eighteen months ago.

For I joined the Foreign Legion and they put me for a starter
In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away;
And the partner on my right hand was an apache from Montmartre;
And on my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburgh, U.S.A.
(Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.)

Well I'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago,
And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and blagues me all the day.
I'm their exhibition sniper and they work me like a Dago,
And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away.
Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say.

And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming
In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea,
Where the musk-ox run unchallenged and the cariboo goes homing;
And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be:
Men of every clime and color, how they harken unto me!

And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle,
Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore;
And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle,
And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more;
While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar.

And I tell of lakes fish-haunted where the big bull moose are calling,
And forests still as sepulchers with never trail or track;
And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling,
And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac;
And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back.

So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring,
And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe;
And I yarn a fur and feather when the marmites are a-soaring,
And they listen to my stories, seven poilus in a row,
Seven lean and lousy poilus with their cigarettes aglow.

And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike for Athabaska;
And those seven greasy poilus they are crazy to go too.
And I'll give the wife the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I'll ask her
The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo,
And I'll get my traps in order, and I'll start to work anew.

For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen a nation scattered,
And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore,
And a city all a-smolder, and ... as if it really mattered,
For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore;
And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly,
And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave it nevermore,
And I'll leave it nevermore.

Robert Service

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.


 John Gillespie Magee Jr. F/L RCAF  (1922-1941).

For All We Have and Are

For all we have and are,
For all our children's fate,
Stand up and meet the war.
The Hun is at the gate!
Our world has passed away
In wantonness o'erthrown. 

There is nothing left to-day
But steel and fire and stone. 

Though all we knew depart,
The old commandments stand:
"In courage keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand."
Once more we hear the word
That sickened earth of old:
"No law except the sword
Unsheathed and uncontrolled,"
Once more it knits mankind,
Once more the nations go
To meet and break and bind
A crazed and driven foe. 

Comfort, content, delight --
The ages' slow-bought gain --
They shrivelled in a night,
Only ourselves remain
To face the naked days
In silent fortitude,
Through perils and dismays
Renewd and re-renewed. 

Though all we made depart,
The old commandments stand:
"In patience keep your heart,
In strength lift up your hand."
No easy hopes or lies
Shall bring us to our goal,
But iron sacrifice
Of body, will, and soul. 

There is but one task for all --
For each one life to give.
Who stands if freedom fall?
Who dies if England live?


Rudyard Kipling

The Coward


    'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day?
    'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say;
    Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away,
        If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr.
    'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons;
    'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns,
    And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'Uns
        Afore 'e went off to the war.

    Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is by-by clothes;
    Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes;
    'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little nose
        Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore.
    And now all the papers 'is praises ring,
    And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the King
    And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing,
        Where they're patchin' 'im up once more.

    And 'e says: "Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer Ann?"
    And I says: "Well, I can't make it out, old man;
    You'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began,
        When you was a bit of a kid."
    And 'e whispers: "'Ere, on the quiet, Liz,
    They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz,
    And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz,
        But . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did.

    "Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says: `Look 'ere!
    They're far too quiet out there: it's queer.
    They're up to somethin' -- 'oo'll volunteer
        To crawl in the dark and see?'
    Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go,
    And up jumps a chap and 'e says: `Right O!'
    But I chips in straight, and I says `Oh no!
        'E's a missis and kids -- take me.'

    "And the next I knew I was sneakin' out,
    And the oozy corpses was all about,
    And I felt so scared I wanted to shout,
        And me skin fair prickled wiv fear;
    And I sez: `You coward! You 'ad no right
    To take on the job of a man this night,'
    Yet still I kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!)
        The trench of the 'Uns was near.

    "It was all so dark, it was all so still;
    Yet somethin' pushed me against me will;
    'Ow I wanted to turn! Yet I crawled until
        I was seein' a dim light shine.
    Then thinks I: `I'll just go a little bit,
    And see wot the doose I can make of it,'
    And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit:
        `Christmas!' sez I, `a mine.'

    "Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain:
    I wanted to make for 'ome again,
    But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain,
        So I crawled to the trench instead;
    Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un,
    And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun,
    And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one,
        And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead.

    "Then all the 'Uns that was underground,
    Comes up with a rush and on with a bound,
    And I swings that giddy old Maxim round
        And belts 'em solid and square.
    You see I was off me chump wiv fear:
    `If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, `it's dear.'
    And the trench was narrow and they was near,
        So I peppered the brutes for fair.

    "So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled wiv fright,
    And the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight,
    And we `captured a section o' trench' that night
        Which we didn't expect to get;
    And they found me there with me Maxim gun,
    And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one,
    And I fainted away when the thing was done,
        And I 'aven't got over it yet."

    So that's the 'istory Bill told me.
    Of course it's all on the strict Q. T.;
    It wouldn't do to get out, you see,
        As 'e hacted against 'is will.
    But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might,
    And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight --
    Say! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right?
        Wot's the matter with Bill!

Robert Service

The Connaught Rangers

I SAW the Connaught Rangers when they were passing by,
On a spring day, a good day, with gold rifts in the sky.
Themselves were marching steadily along the Liffey quay
An' I see the young proud look of them as if it were to-day!
The bright lads, the right lads, I have them in my mind,
With the green flags on their bayonets all fluttering in the wind.

A last look at old Ireland, a last good-bye maybe,
Then the gray sea, the wide sea, my grief upon the sea!
And when will they come home, says I, when will they see once more
The dear blue hills of Wicklow and Wexford's dim gray shore?
The brave lads of Ireland, no better lads you'll find,
With the green flags on their bayonets all fluttering in the wind!
Three years have passed since that spring day, sad years for them and me.

Green graves there are in Serbia and in Gallipoli.
And many who went by that day along the muddy street
Will never hear the roadway ring to their triumphant feet.
But when they march before Him, God's welcome will be kind,
And the green flags on their bayonets will flutter in the wind.


Winifred Mary Letts

The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna

NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,   
  As his corse to the rampart we hurried;   
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot   
  O'er the grave where our hero we buried.   

We buried him darkly at dead of night,            
  The sods with our bayonets turning,   
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light   
  And the lanthorn dimly burning.   

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,   
  Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;     
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest   
  With his martial cloak around him.   

Few and short were the prayers we said,   
  And we spoke not a word of sorrow;   
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,     
  And we bitterly thought of the morrow.   

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed   
  And smooth'd down his lonely pillow,   
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,   
  And we far away on the billow!     

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that 's gone,   
  And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him—   
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on   
  In the grave where a Briton has laid him.   

But half of our heavy task was done     
  When the clock struck the hour for retiring;   
And we heard the distant and random gun   
  That the foe was sullenly firing.   

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,   
  From the field of his fame fresh and gory;     
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,   
  But we left him alone with his glory.   


Charles Wolfe

Repression of War Experience


Now light the candles; one; two; there’s a moth;
What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame—
No, no, not that,— it’s bad to think of war,
When thoughts you’ve gagged all day come back to scare you;
And it’s been proved that soldiers don’t go mad
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.

Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand.
Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen,
And you’re as right as rain...
Why won’t it rain?... 

I wish there’d be a thunder-storm to-night,
With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark,
And make the roses hang their dripping heads.
Books; what a jolly company they are,
Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,
Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green,
And every kind of colour. Which will you read?
Come on; O do read something; they’re so wise. 

I tell you all the wisdom of the world
Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet
You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out,
And listen to the silence: on the ceiling
There’s one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters;
And in the breathless air outside the house
The garden waits for something that delays.
There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,—
Not people killed in battle,— they’re in France,—
But horrible shapes in shrouds— old men who died
Slow, natural deaths,— old men with ugly souls,
Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.

. . . .
You’re quiet and peaceful, summering safe at home;
You’d never think there was a bloody war on!...
O yes, you would ... why, you can hear the guns.
Hark! Thud, thud, thud,— quite soft ... they never cease—
Those whispering guns— O Christ, I want to go out
And screech at them to stop— I’m going crazy;
I’m going stark, staring mad because of the guns.

Siegfried Sassoon