Auld Lang Syne

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne*?

    CHORUS:
    For auld lang syne, my jo,
    for auld lang syne,
    we’ll tak' a cup o’ kindness yet,
    for auld lang syne.

And surely ye’ll be your pint-stoup!
and surely I’ll be mine!
And we’ll tak' a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
and pou’d the gowans fine;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary fit,
sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl’d in the burn,
frae morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
sin' auld lang syne.

And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere!
and gie's a hand o’ thine!
And we’ll tak' a right gude-willie waught,
for auld lang syne.

Nollaig Shona Dhuit

The Yuil E’en

T’wis the Yuil e’en, whan aw throu the hoose
Nae a beastie wis steerie, nae e’en a moose.
The hose war hing bi the lum wi care,
I’ howps ‘at St Nicholas suin wad bi thare.

The weans war nestled aw cosh i’ thair beids,
While veesions of succar-ploums dance i’ thair heids.
An hen in her curtch, an ah in ma cadie,
Haed juist sattkelt doun for a lang winter’s dover.
Whan oot on the green thare arose sic a brattle,
Ah breesit frae the beid tae see whit wis the maiter.

Awa tae the windae ah flew like a glent,
Rive appen the bairges an thraw up the chess.
The muin on the breest o the new-fawen snaw
Gae the lustre o twaloors tae objects ablo.

Whan, whit tae ma wunnert een shoud compear,
But a wee sleigh, an eicht wee reindeer.
Wi a wee auld driver, sae birkie an swipper,
Ah kent in a maument it must be St Nick.

Mair swith than eagles his courseirs thay cam,
An he whistled, an shootit, an cawed thaim by name!
“Nou Dasher! Nou, Dancer! Nou, Prancer an Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On Donner an Blitzen!
Tae the tap o the portche! Tae the tap o the waw!
Nou dash awa! Dash awa! Dash awa aw!”
As dry blades ‘at afore the wild skailwind flee,
Whan thay meet wi’ sticks, lowp tae the lift.

Sae up tae the hoose-tap the courseirs thay flew,
Wi’ the sleigh fou o toys, an St Nicholas tae.
An than, in a prinkle, ah haurd on the ruif
The brankit an pautit o ilk wee cluif.

As ah drew in ma heid, an wis turnt aroond,
Doun the lum St. Nicholas cam wi a lowp.
He wis dressed aw in fur, frae his heid tae his buits,
An hus claes war aw tairnisht wi ess an suit.

A bunnle o toys he hae flung on his back,
An he leukit like a cadger, just appent his pack.
His een—hou thay glentit! His dimples hou mirkie!
His cheeks war like roses, his nib like a cherry!
His droll wee gab wis drawn up like a bowe,
An the beard o his chin wis as white as the snaw.
The runt o a gun he huild ticht in his teeth,
An the feuch it encircled his heid like a wreath.
He hae a braid face an a wee roond kyte,
‘At sheuk, whan he laucht, like a bowlful o jeely!
He wis chuffie an gausie, a richt sonsie auld elf,
An ah laucht whan ah saw him, in maugre o masel!
A wink o his een an a twistle o his heid,
Suin gae me tae ken ah hae nocht tae dreid.

He spak nae a wird, but gaed straucht tae his wark,
An fillit aw the hose; than turnt wi a jirk.
An laying his finger aside o his nib,
An giein a nod, up the lum he rose!
He breest tae his sleigh, tae his team gae a whistle,
An awa thay aw flew like the doun o a thristle.
But ah haurd him golder, ‘ere he druive oot o sicht,
“Merry Christmas tae aw, an tae aw a Guid-nicht!”

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 - RCAF

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

 

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

Jerusalem

And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon England’s mountains green? And was the holy Lamb of God On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

And did the Countenance Divine Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold: Bring me my Arrows of desire: Bring me my Spear : O clouds unfold ! Bring me my Chariot of fire.

I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand Till we have built Jerusalem In England’s green & pleasant Land.

William Blake

Lament for Flodden

I’VE heard them lilting  at our ewe-milking,   
  Lasses a’ lilting before dawn o’ day;   
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—
  For the Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.   

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,           
  Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;   
Nae daffin’,  nae gabbin’, but sighing and sabbing,   
  Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.   

In har’st,  at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,   
  Bandsters are lyart, and runkled,  and gray;           
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—    
  The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.   

At e’en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming   
  ’Bout stacks wi’ the lasses at bogle to play;   
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie—           
  The Flowers of the Forest are weded away.   

Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border!   
  The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;   
The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,   
  The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.           

We’ll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;   
  Women and bairns are heartless and wae;   
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning—   
  The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.   

Jane Elliot

Say Not the Struggle Naught Availeth

SAY not the struggle naught availeth,   
  The labour and the wounds are vain,   
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,   
  And as things have been they remain.   

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;           
  It may be, in yon smoke conceal’d,   
Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers,   
  And, but for you, possess the field.   

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,   
  Seem here no painful inch to gain,           
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,   
  Comes silent, flooding in, the main.   

And not by eastern windows only,   
  When daylight comes, comes in the light;   
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly!           
  But westward, look, the land is bright!   


Arthur Hugh Clough

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

Not to Keep
    
They sent him back to her. The letter came
Saying ... And she could have him. And before
She could be sure there was no hiddin ill
Under the formal writing, he was in her sight,
Living. They gave him back to her alive--
How else? They are not known to send the dead--
And not disfigured visibly. His face?
His hands? She had to look, to ask,
"What is it, dear?" And she had given all
And still she had all--_they_ had--they the lucky!
Wasn't she glad now? Everything seemed won,
And all the rest for them permissible ease.
She had to ask, "What was it, dear?"

"Enough,
Yet not enough. A bullet through and through,
High in the breast. Nothing but what good care
And medicine and rest, and you a week,
Can cure me of to go again." The same
Grim giving to do over for them both.
She dared no more than ask him with her eyes
How was it with him for a second trial.
And with his eyes he asked her not to ask.
They had given him back to her, but not to keep.

Robert Frost

Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries

These, in the day when heaven was falling,
The hour when earth's foundations fled,
Followed their mercenary calling,
And took their wages, and are dead.


Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth's foundations stay;
What God abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.

A.E. Housman

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 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.

R Service

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 Song Of The Dead

Hear now the Song of the Dead -- in the North by the torn berg-edges --
They that look still to the Pole, asleep by their hide-stripped sledges.
Song of the Dead in the South -- in the sun by their skeleton horses,
Where the warrigal whimpers and bays through the dust of the sear
  river-courses.

Song of the Dead in the East -- in the heat-rotted jungle hollows,
Where the dog-ape barks in the kloof --
in the brake of the buffalo-wallows.
Song of the Dead in the West --
in the Barrens, the waste that betrayed them,
Where the wolverene tumbles their packs
from the camp and the grave-mound they made them;
Hear now the Song of the Dead!

    I

We were dreamers, dreaming greatly, in the man-stifled town;
We yearned beyond the sky-line where the strange roads go down.
Came the Whisper, came the Vision, came the Power with the Need,
Till the Soul that is not man's soul was lent us to lead.
As the deer breaks -- as the steer breaks -- from the herd where they graze,
In the faith of little children we went on our ways.
Then the wood failed -- then the food failed -- then the last water dried --
In the faith of little children we lay down and died.
On the sand-drift -- on the veldt-side -- in the fern-scrub we lay,
That our sons might follow after by the bones on the way.
Follow after -- follow after! We have watered the root,
And the bud has come to blossom that ripens for fruit!
Follow after -- we are waiting, by the trails that we lost,
For the sounds of many footsteps, for the tread of a host.
Follow after -- follow after -- for the harvest is sown:
By the bones about the wayside ye shall come to your own!

    When Drake went down to the Horn
    And England was crowned thereby,
    'Twixt seas unsailed and shores unhailed
    Our Lodge -- our Lodge was born
    (And England was crowned thereby!)

    Which never shall close again
    By day nor yet by night,
    While man shall take his life to stake
    At risk of shoal or main
    (By day nor yet by night).

    But standeth even so
    As now we witness here,
    While men depart, of joyful heart,
    Adventure for to know
    (As now bear witness here!)

    II

We have fed our sea for a thousand years
And she calls us, still unfed,
Though there's never a wave of all her waves
But marks our English dead:
We have strawed our best to the weed's unrest,
To the shark and the sheering gull.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid in full!

There's never a flood goes shoreward now
But lifts a keel we manned;
There's never an ebb goes seaward now
But drops our dead on the sand --
But slinks our dead on the sands forlore,
From the Ducies to the Swin.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' paid it in!

We must feed our sea for a thousand years,
For that is our doom and pride,
As it was when they sailed with the 'Golden Hind',
Or the wreck that struck last tide --
Or the wreck that lies on the spouting reef
Where the ghastly blue-lights flare.
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
If blood be the price of admiralty,
Lord God, we ha' bought it fair!
 

Rudyard Kipling

The Soldier’s Return: A Ballad


WHEN wild war’s deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I’d been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a’ my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.

A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again,
I cheery on did wander:
I thought upon the banks o’ Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.

At length I reach’d the bonie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass’d the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother’s dwelling!
And turn’d me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.

Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
That’s dearest to thy bosom:
My purse is light, I’ve far to gang,
And fain would be thy lodger;
I’ve serv’d my king and country lang—
Take pity on a sodger.”

Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me,
And lovelier was than ever;
Quo’ she, “A sodger ance I lo’ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it;
That gallant badge-the dear cockade,
Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t.”

She gaz’d—she redden’d like a rose—
Syne pale like only lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
“Art thou my ain dear Willie?”
“By him who made yon sun and sky!
By whom true love’s regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.

“The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love,
And mair we’se ne’er be parted.”
Quo’ she, “My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish’d fairly;
And come, my faithfu’ sodger lad,
Thou’rt welcome to it dearly!”

For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger’s prize,
The sodger’s wealth is honour:
The brave poor sodger ne’er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he’s his country’s stay,
In day and hour of danger.

Robert Burns

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 Maple Leafs are falling

The Maple Leafs are falling
On foreign soil again,
Scattered cross the desert
By an unforgiving wind.

This land is barren, unprotected,
Unlike his fields of wheat;
The sand is so unlike his Maritimes,
No majestic Rockie peaks.

He hears a lone Piper now,
Black boots marching through the snow,
The warm drape of the Maple Leaf,
Tells him all he has to know.

Four winds have gently cast the Leaf,
To land on home terrain,
Flying freely there, he will declare,
His death was not in vain.

J.S. McGregor

The Irish Guards

WE'RE not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so young at our trade.
For we had the honour at Fontenoy
Of meeting the Guards' Brigade.
'Twas Lally, Dillon, Bulkeley, Clare,
And Lee that led us then,
And after a hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's bound to be fighting,
And when there's no fighting, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

The fashion's all for khaki now,
But once through France we went
Full-dressed in scarlet Army cloth,
The English - left at Ghent.
They're fighting on our side today
But, before they changed their clothes,
The half of Europe knew our fame,
As all of Ireland knows!
Old Days! The wild geese are flying,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's memory undying.
And when we forget, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

From Barry Wood to Gouzeaucourt,
From Boyne to Pilkem Ridge,
The ancient days come back no more
Than water under the bridge.
But the bridge it stands and the water runs
As red as yesterday,
And the Irish move to the sound of the guns
Like salmon to the sea.
Old Days! The wild geese are ranging .
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish their hearts are unchanging,
And when they are changed, it is Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

We're not so old in the Army List,
But we're not so new in the ring,
For we carried our packs with Marshal Saxe
When Louis was our King.
But Douglas Haig's our Marshal now
And we're King George's men,
And after one hundred and seventy years
We're fighting for France again!
Ah, France! And did we stand by you,
When life was made splendid with gifts and rewards?
Ah, France! And will we deny you
In the hour of your agony, Mother of Swords?
Old Days! The wild geese are flighting,
Head to the storm as they faced it before!
For where there are Irish there's loving and fighting,
And when we stop either, it's Ireland no more!
Ireland no more!

The Guards Came Through

Men of the Twenty-first
    Up by the Chalk Pit Wood,
Weak with our wounds and our thirst,
    Wanting our sleep and our food,
After a day and a night --
    God, shall we ever forget!
Beaten and broke in the fight,
    But sticking it -- sticking it yet.
Trying to hold the line,
    Fainting and spent and done,
Always the thud and the whine,
    Always the yell of the Hun!
Northumberland, Lancaster, York,
    Durham and Somerset,
Fighting alone, worn to the bone,
    But sticking it -- sticking it yet.

Never a message of hope!
    Never a word of cheer!
Fronting Hill 70's shell-swept slope,
    With the dull dead plain in our rear.
Always the whine of the shell,
    Always the roar of its burst,
Always the tortures of hell,
    As waiting and wincing we cursed
Our luck and the guns and the Boche,
    When our Corporal shouted, "Stand to!"

And I heard some one cry, "Clear the front for the Guards!"
    And the Guards came through.

Our throats they were parched and hot,
    But Lord, if you'd heard the cheers!
Irish and Welsh and Scot,
    Coldstream and Grenadiers.
Two brigades, if you please,
    Dressing as straight as a hem,
We -- we were down on our knees,
    Praying for us and for them!
Lord, I could speak for a week,
    But how could you understand!
How should your cheeks be wet,
    Such feelin's don't come to you.
But when can me or my mates forget,
    When the Guards came through?

"Five yards left extend!"
    If passed from rank to rank.
Line after line with never a bend,
    And a touch of the London swank.
A trifle of swank and dash,
    Cool as a home parade,
Twinkle and glitter and flash,
    Flinching never a shade,
With the shrapnel right in their face
    Doing their Hyde Park stunt,
Keeping their swing at an easy pace,
    Arms at the trail, eyes front!

Man, it was great to see!
    Man, it was fine to do!
It's a cot and a hospital ward for me,
But I'll tell'em in Blighty, wherever I be,
    How the Guards came through.
 

Arthur Conan Doyle

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

Strange Meeting

It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.

Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.

Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.

And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

With a thousand pains that vision’s face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.

"Strange friend," I said, "Here is no cause to mourn."

"None", said the other, "save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild.

After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richer than here.

For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.

Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.

They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.

Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.

Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.

I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.

I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . .

Wilfred Owen

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; Oh 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

Is my team ploughing?

‘Is my team ploughing,
     That I was used to drive
And hear the harness jingle
     When I was man alive?’

Ay, the horses trample,
     The harness jingles now;
No change though you lie under
     The land you used to plough.

‘Is football playing
     Along the river shore,
With lads to chase the leather,
     Now I stand up no more?’

Ay, the ball is flying,
     The lads play heart and soul;
The goal stands up, the keeper
     Stands up to keep the goal.

‘Is my girl happy,
     That I thought hard to leave,
And has she tired of weeping
     As she lies down at eve?’

Ay, she lies down lightly,
     She lies not down to weep:
Your girl is well contented.
     Be still, my lad, and sleep.

‘Is my friend hearty,
     Now I am thin and pine,
And has he found to sleep in
      A better bed than mine?’

Yes, lad, I lie easy,
I lie as lads would choose;
I cheer a dead man’s sweetheart,
Never ask me whose.

by A.E. Housman

In Memoriam

So you were David's father,
And he was your only son,
And the new-cut peats are rotting
And the work is left undone,
Because of an old man weeping,
Just an old man in pain,
For David, his son David,
That will not come again.

Oh, the letters he wrote you,
And I can see them still,
Not a word of the fighting,
But just the sheep on the hill
And how you should get the crops in
Ere the year get stormier,
And the Bosches have got his body,
And I was his officer.

You were only David's father,
But I had fifty sons
When we went up in the evening
Under the arch of the guns,
And we came back at twilight -
O God! I heard them call
To me for help and pity
That could not help at all.

Oh, never will I forget you,
My men that trusted me,
More my sons than your fathers',
For they could only see
The little helpless babies
And the young men in their pride.
They could not see you dying,
And hold you while you died.

Happy and young and gallant,
They saw their first-born go,
But not the strong limbs broken
And the beautiful men brought low,
The piteous writhing bodies,
They screamed 'Don't leave me, sir',
For they were only your fathers
But I was your officer.


Ewart Alan Mackintosh

Last Post

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If poetry could tell it backwards, true, begin
that moment shrapnel scythed you to the stinking mud ...
but you get up, amazed, watch bled bad blood
run upwards from the slime into its wounds;
see lines and lines of British boys rewind
back to their trenches, kiss the photographs from home -
mothers, sweethearts, sisters, younger brothers
not entering the story now
to die and die and die.

Dulce - No - Decorum - No - Pro patria mori.

You walk away.
You walk away; drop your gun (fixed bayonet)
like all your mates do too -
Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, Edward, Bert -
and light a cigarette.

There's coffee in the square,
warm French bread
and all those thousands dead
are shaking dried mud from their hair
and queuing up for home. Freshly alive,
a lad plays Tipperary to the crowd, released
from History; the glistening, healthy horses fit for heroes, kings.

You lean against a wall,
your several million lives still possible
and crammed with love, work, children, talent, English beer, good food.
You see the poet tuck away his pocket-book and smile.

If poetry could truly tell it backwards,
then it would.

  Carol Ann Duffy

Agnus Dei


One never hangs where shelled roads part.
In this war he to lost a limb, but his disciples hide apart:
And now the soldiers bear with him.

Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem.
Lamb of God you take away the sins of the world grant them rest.

Near Golgotha strolls many a priest,
And in their faces is pride
that they where flesh-marked by the beast
by whom the gentle Christ’s denied.


Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona eis requiem.


The scribes on all the people shove
And brawl allegiance to the state.


Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi,


But they who love the greater love
Lay down their life: they do not hate.


dona eis requiem sempiternam.

Grant them rest eternal.



Dona nobis pacem.

Parta Quies

Good-night; ensured release,
Imperishable peace,
     Have these for yours,
While sea abides, and land,
And earth’s foundations stand,
     And heaven endures.

When earth’s foundations flee,
Nor sky nor land nor sea
     At all is found,
Content you, let them burn:
It is not your concern;
     Sleep on, sleep sound.

A.E. Housman

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

Here Dead We Lie

Here dead we lie
Because we did not choose
To live and shame the land
From which we sprung.

Life, to be sure,
Is nothing much to lose,
But young men think it is,
And we were young.

A. E. Housman

Innominatus

Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
'This is my own, my native land!'
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
From wandering on a foreign strand?

If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
High though his titles, proud his name,
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
The wretch, concentred all in self,
Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
And, doubly dying, shall go down
To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott

Hold the Line

We were farm boys in the spring of 'fourteen
A few miles from mother's door the furthest I'd ever been.
One short month of training and we're off to foreign shores to hold the line.

And now a year's gone by and I've never let my mind count the minutes of these murders, the brothers now behind.

"We'll all go home by Christmas. The weather will be kind. Will you hold the line?"

"Your mask protects you from the poison yellow smoke."
"They will time their charge to take you when they think the line has broken."
"None of them expecting that we got their trenches mined."
"And we'll hold the line."

They sent us out to murder on the empty foreign fields.
There is crimson in the umber of a kind that doesn't yield.
Our youth gave in to anger, our shoulder to the toil.
A million names and faces in a mile of bloody soil.

Have I been here a lifetime or just these thousand horrid days?
Will the guns ever go silent?

Will the winds of time erase the scars upon the battlefield?
The world within our mind while we hold the line?

And of all the faces that have come and gone (while in this tomb I've grown),
The one I've come to like the least's the one that is my own.
For within this bloodied hero a murderer you find and you hold the line.
Hold the line.

 
Nathan Rogers

"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

Fleurette

            (The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

            My leg? It's off at the knee.
            Do I miss it? Well, some. You see
                I've had it since I was born;
                And lately a devilish corn.
            (I rather chuckle with glee
                To think how I've fooled that corn.)

            But I'll hobble around all right.
                It isn't that, it's my face.
            Oh I know I'm a hideous sight,
                Hardly a thing in place;
            Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.
                Nurse won't give me a glass,
                But I see the folks as they pass
            Shudder and turn away;
                Turn away in distress . . .
                Mirror enough, I guess.

            I'm gay! You bet I AM gay;
                But I wasn't a while ago.
            If you'd seen me even to-day,
                The darndest picture of woe,
            With this Caliban mug of mine,
                So ravaged and raw and red,
            Turned to the wall -- in fine,
                Wishing that I was dead. . . .
            What has happened since then,
                Since I lay with my face to the wall,
            The most despairing of men?
                Listen! I'll tell you all.

            That poilu across the way,
                With the shrapnel wound in his head,
            Has a sister: she came to-day
                To sit awhile by his bed.
            All morning I heard him fret:
                "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

            Then sudden, a joyous cry;
                The tripping of little feet,
            The softest, tenderest sigh,
                A voice so fresh and sweet;
            Clear as a silver bell,
                Fresh as the morning dews:
            "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!
                Mon fre^re, comme je suis heureuse!"

            So over the blanket's rim
                I raised my terrible face,
            And I saw -- how I envied him!
                A girl of such delicate grace;
            Sixteen, all laughter and love;
                As gay as a linnet, and yet
            As tenderly sweet as a dove;
                Half woman, half child -- Fleurette.

            Then I turned to the wall again.
                (I was awfully blue, you see),
            And I thought with a bitter pain:
                "Such visions are not for me."
            So there like a log I lay,
                All hidden, I thought, from view,
            When sudden I heard her say:
                "Ah! Who is that malheureux?"
            Then briefly I heard him tell
                (However he came to know)
            How I'd smothered a bomb that fell
                Into the trench, and so
            None of my men were hit,
                Though it busted me up a bit.

            Well, I didn't quiver an eye,
                And he chattered and there she sat;
            And I fancied I heard her sigh --
                But I wouldn't just swear to that.
            And maybe she wasn't so bright,
                Though she talked in a merry strain,
            And I closed my eyes ever so tight,
                Yet I saw her ever so plain:
            Her dear little tilted nose,
                Her delicate, dimpled chin,
            Her mouth like a budding rose,
                And the glistening pearls within;
            Her eyes like the violet:
            Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette.



Robert Service

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 -

Calum's Dream

    Sometimes there are stories
    That simply must be told,
    O' sorrow,joy an' glories
    Past tae young fae old,
    Here is such a story,
    I'd like tae share wi you,
    About a son o' Raasay,
    An Eilean man sae true,
    He was known as Calum,
    Macleod that was his clan,
    The isle he loved was dyin',
    But Calum had a plan.

CHORUS-
    Calums road aye Calums road,
    Built wi sweat an' toil,
    For future generations,
    An' those driven fae the soil.

    Tae turn the tide o' history,
    As hard as that would seem,
    An' secure the islands future,
    That was Calums dream,
    So in the north at Arnish,
    In nineteen sixty four,
    He began tae dig the land,
    The factor cleared before,
    If he could join the-gether,
    The south end an' the north,
    Maybe life would spring again,
    In the homeland o' his birth?

    Depopulation rife again,
    Never far fae mind,
    If he began tae weaken,
    In God strength he would find,
    Wi barrow,pick an' shovel,
    Workin' night an' day,
    Wi nuthin' but his callus hands,
    Calum cleared the way,
    Six days he'd be workin',
    The saabath rest an' pray,
    Then Calums road completed,
    Two decades past the day.

    Calum died in "88"
    A legend amoung men,
    The self-belief that drove him,
    None would see again,
    But he lived tae see his dream,
    His vision had come true,
    The north o' Raasay breathes again,
    Calum thanks tae you,
    So tae that humble man,
    I dedicate my ode,
    Raise yer glasses tae him,
    Tae Calum an' his road.

    Calums road aye Calums road,
    Built wi sweat an' toil,
    For future generations,
    An' those driven fae the soil,
    Calums road aye Calums road,
    As people come tae view,
    The north o' Raasay breathes again,
    Aye calum thanks tae you!

 1320

Oh the year was 1320
In the Abbey o' Arbroath
When the sons of sovereign Scotland
First took their solemn oath.

For freedom we'll endeavour
For liberty we'll strive
And tae England, No Surrender
While one hundred true Scots survive.

On that glorious occasion
Was Scotland's future writ
Tae foreign domination
We never shall submit

Wi the words o promise spoken
Tae calm our bitter steel
While blades of grass lie broken
Beneath the Saxon heel

And should our chosen fail us
And kneel at London's door
Lest treason should assail us
We shall tak tae the steel once more

Fields O Bannockburn

Twas on a bonnie simmer's day,
me English came in grand array
King Edward's orders to obey ,
Upon the Field of Bannockburn.

chorus: Sae loudly let the Pibroch wake
Each loyal Clan frae hill and lake ,
And boldly fight for Scotia's sake
Upon the Field of Bannockburn.

King Edward raised his standard high,
Bruce shook his banners in reply -
Each army shouts for victory
Upon the Field of Bannockburn.

The English horse wi' deadly aim
Upon the Scottish army came;
But hundrteds in our pits were slain
Upon the Field of Bannockburn.

Loud rose the war cry of McNeil,
Who flew like tigers to the field
And made the Sass'nach army feel
There were dauntless hearts at Bannockburn.

McDonald's clan, how firm their pace-
Dark vengeance gleams in ev'ry face,
Lang had they thirsted to embrace
Their Sass'nach friends at Bannockburn.

The Fraser bold his brave clan led,
While wide their thistle banners spread-
They boldly fell and boldly bled
Upon the Field of Bannockburn.

The ne'er behind brave Douglas came,
And also with him Donald Graham,
Their blood-red painted swords did stain
The glorious Field of Bannockburn.

That day King Edward's heart did mourn,
With joy each Scottish heart did burn,
In mem'ry now let us return
Our thanks to Bruce at Bannockburn.

Will Ye go to Sheriffmuir

Will ye go tae Sheriffmuir,
Bauld John o'Innisture,
There tae see the noble Mar
And his Hieland laddies.
A' the true men o' the north,
Angus, Huntly, and Seaforth
Scourin' on tae cross the Forth
Wi' their white cockadies.

There ye'll see the banners flare;
There ye'll hear the bagpipes rare,
And the trumpets' deadly blare
Wi' the cannons' rattle.
There ye'll see the bauld McCraws,
Camerons and Clanranald's raws
And a' the clans, wi' loud huzzas,
Rushin' tae the battle.

There ye'll see the noble Whigs,
A' the heroes o' the brigs,
Raw hides and withered wigs,
Ridin' in array, man.
Ri'en hose and raggit hools,
Sour milk and girnin' gools,
Psalm-beuks and cutty-stools,
We'll see ne'er mair, man.

Will ye go tae Sheriffmuir,
Bauld John o' Innisture,
Sic a day and sic an hour
Ne'er was in the North, man.
Sic can sights will there be seen,
And gin some be nae mista'en,
Fragrant gales will come bedeen,
Frae the waters o' Forth, man. 

Lock the Door, Lariston

Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddesdale,
Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on.
The Armstrongs are flying, the widows are crying,
Castletown is burning and Oliver is gone!
Lock the door, Lariston, high on the weather gleam,
See how the Saxon plumes they bob on the sky.
Yeoman and carbinier, billman and halberdier,
Fierce is the foray and far is the cry!

Why d'you smile, noble Elliot o' Lariston?
Why do the joy candles gleam in your eye?
You bold Border ranger, beware of your danger,
Your foes are relentless, determined and nigh!
"I have Mangerton and Ogilvie, Raeburn and Netherbie,
Auld Sim o' Whitram and all his array,
Come all Northumberland, Teesdale and Cumberland
Here at the Breaken Tower end shall the fray."

Scowled the broad sun o'er the links o' green Liddesdale,
Red as the beacon-fires tipped he the wold,
Many a bold martial eye mirrored that morning sky,
Never more oped on its orbit of gold.
See how they wane the proud files o' the Windermere.
Howard! Ah woe tae your hopes o' the day.
Hear the wide welkin rend while the Scots shouts ascend -
"Elliot o' Lariston! Elliot for aye!'

Scotland The Brave
 
Let Italy boast of her gay gilded waters
Her vines and her bowers and her soft sunny skies
Her sons drinking love from the eyes of her daughters
Where freedom expires amid softness and sighs

Scotland's blue mountains wild where hoary cliffs are piled
Towering in grandeur are dearer tae me
Land of the misty cloud land of the tempest loud
Land of the brave and proud land of the free

Enthroned on the peak of her own highland mountains
The spirit of Scotia reigns fearless and free
Her green tartan waving o'er blue rock and fountain
And proudly she sings looking over the sea

Here among my mountains wild I have serenely smiled
When armies and empires against me were hurled
Firm as my native rock I have withstood the shock
Of England, of Denmark, or Rome and the world

But see how proudly her war steeds are prancing
Deep groves of steel trodden down in their path
The eyes of my sons like their bright swords are glancing
Triumphantly riding through ruin and death

Bold hearts and nodding plumes wave o'er their bloody tombs
Deep eyed in gore is the green tartan's wave
Shivering are the ranks of steel dire is the horseman's wheel
Victorious in battlefield Scotland the brave

Bold hearts and nodding plumes wave o'er their bloody tombs
Deep eyed in gore is the green tartan's wave
Shivering are the ranks of steel dire is the horseman's wheel

Victorious in battlefield Scotland the brave
Victorious in battlefield Scotland the brave

John Mcdermott