My mothers mother,
my sunshine for ever more

She was only three years old,
when here mummy past away.

My mothers mother,
got trough the war anyways.

My mothers mother,
was lucky, as she encountered here husband to be,
The first child of a Parisian prostitute.

Here husband, Arnould Vandenhole,
and me where the best friends ever,

When PEPE died in 1980, my world eclapsed,
My Sunshine faded away as NENENE passed away in 1994


I live by the sea now,
and every time i go near the shore,
words don't come.



For my beloved grandparents.

I love the classics and have studied Homer, so I really love Patrick Shaw Stewart's poem - I don't know the title, but this stanza stays with me always

'I will go back this morning
From Imbros over the sea
Stand in the trench, Achilles,
Flame-capped, and shout for me.'

for me it evokes an image of the great warior and his searing anguish at the death of his beloved friend.

The insane, awful waste of fine young lives in this war is beyond me. To lose the best and brightest of a whole generation, such madness. These sons, brothers, husbands, fathers.

Helen

Untitled


I saw a man this morning

Who did not wish to die:

I ask, and cannot answer,

If otherwise wish I.



Fair broke the day this morning

Against the Dardanelles;

The breeze blew soft, the morn's cheeks

Were cold as cold sea-shells.



But other shells are waiting

Across the Aegean Sea,

Shrapnel and high explosive,

Shells and hells for me.



O hell of ships and cities,

Hell of men like me,

Fatal second Helen,

Why must I follow thee?



Achilles came to Troyland

And I to Chersonese:

He turned from wrath to battle,

And I from three days' peace.



Was it so hard, Achilles,

So very hard to die?

Thou knowest and I know not--

So much the happier am I.



I will go back this morning

From Imbros over the sea;

Stand in the trench, Achilles,

Flame-capped, and shout for me.



Patrick Shaw-Stewart



I always liked this one too, Helen.
Marina

Oh, thank you, Marina. I don't know why I never learned the whole poem - I think there might have been just a couple of stanzas in my textbook, but its very firm in my memory, without even trying. I shall learn it all, now.

This is a wonderful thread. I remember studying Wilfrid Owen in high school, too. I think it was the first time poetry ever seemed really powerful to me.

best
Helen

Yes, he is powrful. I rmember vividly the impact of his poems. Lots of good stuff on this thread too!
Marina

I am really enjoying this thread. There was a lot of poetry in the Wipers Times, some of it quite good. Sadly, it was almost invariably anonymous, but one of my favourites was published in November 1917 (at which time it was the BEF Times). It says something to me about the British front line soldier and what makes him so resilient.

The Burning Question

Three Tommies sat in a trench one day,
Discussing the war, in the usual way,
They talked of the mud, and they talked of the Hun,
Of what was to do, and what had been done,
They talked about rum, and – ’tis hard to believe –
They even found time to speak about leave.
But the point which they argued from post back to pillar,
Was whether Notts County could beat Aston Villa.

The night sped away, and zero drew nigh,
Equipment made ready, all lips getting dry,
And watches consulted with each passing minute
Till five more to go, then ‘twould find them all in it;
The word came along down the line to “get ready!”
The sergeants admonishing all to keep steady,
But out rang a voice getting shriller and shriller:
“I tell yer Notts County can beat Aston Villa!”

The Earth shook and swayed, and the barrage was on
As they leapt o’er the top with a rush and were gone
Away into Hunland, through mud and through wire,
Stabbing and dragging themselves through the mire,
No time to heed those who are falling en route
Till, stopped by a strong point, they lay down to shoot,
Then, through the din came a voice: “Say, Jack Miller!
I tell yer Notts County can beat Aston Villa!”

The strong point has gone, and forward they press
Towards their objective, in numbers grown less
They reach it at last, and prepare to resist
The counter-attack which will come through the mist
Of the rain falling steadily; dig and hang on,
The word for support back to H.Q. has gone,
The air, charge with moment, grows stiller and stiller –
“Notts County’s no earthly beside Aston Villa.”

Two “Blighties”, a struggle through mud to get back
To the old A.D.S. down a rough duck-board track,
A hasty field dressing, a ride in a car,
A wait in a C.C.S., then there they are:
Packed side by side in a clean Red Cross train,
Happy in hopes to see Blighty again,
Still, through the bandages, muffled, “Jack Miller,
I bet you Notts County can beat Aston Villa!”

I confess to not having looked at every contribution to this thread but I haven't noticed any mention of one of my favourites by WB Yeats: An Irish Airman Foresees his Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed a waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death

The poem is in response to the death of Major Robert Gregory, the son of Yeats's patron, Lady Gregory. Yeats, of course, didn't fight. I wonder if he could have written quite so beautifully if he had.

Tom

Can I thank you all for these poems. I am a huge fan of WW1 poetry and there are several I have never seen before.

I am not ashamed to say that I am sat here with tears in my eyes.

My personal favourite is Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfrid Owen, although overall I prefer Siegfried Sassoon. The bitterness and anger he shows for those whom he held responsible and the contempt for those who never went near the front strike a real chord.

Just A quick word for Poziers (forgive me if I spelt it incorrectly) - that's very fine piece of work indeed.

Hi Folks -
Here's a couple from the April 14, 1915 issue of "Punch" -

A GENUINE ANTIQUE

(Messrs. Christie are holding a sale of art treasures and historical relics in aid of the funds of the British Red Cross Society and the Order of St. John)

Out yonder where the Reaper grim and grey
Sweeps o'er bare fields that held last Autumn's corn,
Brave souls uplift the stricken and forlorn,
And bind their wounds and nurse them back to day.
Here where no skies with imminent horrors shriek,
Collectors bring their treasures with glad heart,
For Love has ever been an ancient art,
And Mercy is a genuine antique.

(Unattributed)

and

MORE THOROUGHNESS

(The value of the stinging nettle as a vegetable is being emphasised in German War cookery notes.)

Yes, let the nettle's leaves appear,
Most succulently fine,
Each evening with the supper beer,
Each noontide when you dine,

For then, whene'er that charming thing,
Your Hymn of Hate, is sung,
They'll surely lend an added sting
To every Teuton tongue.

(Unattributed)

That issue is a Double Number - the supplement is "Our Navy" - 24 pages of great cartoons from the 1890's onwards. They're another story!!

Nigel P.

Seeing as this thread has been resurrected. Just to raise the tempo and then lower the tone, here are a couple of poems from Robert Service and Alan Herbert.

Am I right in saying the navy Reserves did not care for General Shute?

I liked the Service poem - the swinging rhythm makes it even more macabre.
Marina

Time to share this sonnet by M J Disney, the last two lines of which form my signature. I'm afraid I know nothing else about the poet. I only remember that I copied out this poem from a library book, probably about forty years ago. Apologies if it's a repeat. But hey, I don't care, it's worth repeating.

To An Unknown British Soldier

We shall not stay to see the peace we won,
Nor watch the world grow clean again from war;
Find no forgetfulness of things we saw,
In careless freedom under England's sun.
Let not the living mock the price we paid,
Or bring dishonour on our half done task;
Hold not from us the only gift we ask -
Assurance that the dead be not betrayed.
When others feel the joy of lover's kiss
Or gaze in gladness on the springtime flowers,
Or hear the children laugh in playtime hours,
We shall not grudge the happiness we miss.
But let no hatred wake us from our peace
Who gave our lives that enmity might cease.


I know that the poem makes reference to England and a British soldier but to me the sentiments expressed are universal and could apply to a fighting man or woman of any nationality.

Nice one, Jan. I haven't seen that one bfore.
Marina

Apparently an NCO or officer got so bored with sending the reports back so he decided to spruce them up a bit. I can't tell if that is a real story or not, but it did end up in a poem at least!

There is nothing I can tell you
That you really do not know -
Except that we are on the Ridge
And Fritz is down below.

I'm tired of "situations"
And of "wind" entirely "vane."
The gas-guard yawns and tells me
"It's blowing up for rain."

He's a human little fellow
With a thoughtful point of view,
And his report (uncensored)
I pass, please, on to you.

"When's old Fritzie coming over?
Does the General really know?
The Colonel seems to think so,
The Captain tells us 'No.'

"When's someone going to tell us
We can 'Stand-to' as before?
An hour at dawn and one at dusk,
Lor' blimey, who wants more?"

Not really a war poet, but much of Charles Causley's work was moulded by the experience of war. His father died of wounds in the 1920s and he served in The Royal Navy 1940-46. Refused to write his biography claiming his poems to be biographical. This one is from childhood memories and is about casualties who returned home and have no roll of honour and no possibility now of counting their numbers. I often wonder who the subject was, probably he existed as in the poem. Another poem; At The British War Cemetery, Bayeux is also on the forum somewhere.

Dick Lander

When we were children at the National School
We passed each day, clipped to the corner of
Old Sion Street, Dick Lander, six foot four,
Playing a game of trains with match-boxes.

He poked them with a silver-headed cane
In the seven kinds of daily weather God
Granted the Cornish. Wore a rusted suit.
It dangled off him like he was a tree.

My friend Sid Bull, six months my senior, and
A world authority on medicine,
Explained to me just what was wrong with Dick.
'Shell-shopped,' he said. 'You catch it in the war.'

We never went too close to Dick in case
It spread like measles. 'Shell-shopped, ain't you, Dick?'
The brass-voiced Sid would bawl. Dick never spoke.
Carried on shunting as if we weren't there.

My Auntie said before he went away
Dick was a master cricketer. Could run
As fast as light. Was the town joker. Had
Every girl after him. Was spoiled quite out

Of recognition, and at twenty-one
looked set to take the family business on
(Builders merchants, seed, wool, manure and corn).
'He's never done a day's work since they sent

'Him home after the Somme,' my Uncle grinned.
'If he's mazed as a brush, my name's Lord George.
Why worry if the money's coming in?'
At fireworks time we throw a few at Dick.

Shout, 'Here comes Kaiser Bill!' Dick stares us through
As if we're glass. We yell, 'What did you do
In the Great War?' And skid into the dark.
'Choo, choo,' says Dick. 'Choo, choo, choo, choo, choo,
choo.'

Charles Causley

A gem, deeply moving. Thanks Geoff.

I'll second that,
Marina

I must have first read this around 1990, just looked inside the cover of my MacMillan copy of Collected Poems by Charles Causley. Its inscribed with the date I purchased it: 1st July.

In a few minutes, it will be 90 years ago, so I thought I would pull this thread back up with more Charles Causley (only a few verses of the poem). Remembering all those who died on 31st May, 90 years ago tomorrow.

....
Suddenly around me
The Gunnery Jacks all spoke
Their terrible words of gunpowder
And sentences of smoke.
The deck blew up like a candle,
I heard the Gunner's Mate say,
It looks more like November the fifth
Than the thirty-first of May.

But the catherine wheels were made of iron,
The stars were made of steel,
And downward came a scarring rain
The sun will never heal.
Death came on like winter
Through the water-gate.
All I could do by the forecastle gun
Was stand alone, and wait.

Mother, all around me
My freezing comrades lie,
And though to each I speak his name
No one makes reply.
All around me, mother,
Their coats of sleep they wear
As if for a long journey
They must now prepare.

I put my hand in my flannel,
The air was black, was red,
And when I pulled it out again
I knew that I was dead.
They took me down to London,
They launched me up the nave,
They sank me in a wooden boat
Into a poor man's grave.
....

From The Ballad of Jack Cornwell
by Charles Causley.


John Travers Cornwell, 1st Class Boy, RN, sight-setter of
the forecastle gun in HMS 'Chester', was mortally wounded at the
Battle of Jutland, 31 May 1916. He was posthumously
awarded the Victoria Cross.
His age was under 16 1/2 years.

Nice one. Hadn't seen that before. Is there more of it?
Marina

I WOKE up one morning,
Unwound my sheet of clay,
Lifted up my tombstone lid
And asked the time of day.
I walked out one morning
When the sun was dark
Left my messmates sleeping
Deep in Manor Park.

In the Admiralty heaven
Lurked the gods of war,
Waiting for young Jack Cornwell
As they had once before.
High in the pusser's heaven
The naked war gods hung,
With palpitating eyes, stiff parts,
And leaking tongues.

When I went down to Devonport
My face was cold as slate,
They gave me a number for my name
As I went through the barrack gate.
Round the banks of the dry dock
Wandered the iron tree;
Close in its jacket of water
Jerked the idiot sea.

When I came out of the depot
My heart was beating bright.
The lily bloomed in the valley,
The holly flowers were white.
As we sailed to meet the enemy
The history books looked raw,
John Jellicoe put on his golden arm,
And Beatty his bulldog jaw.

Mother don't watch for postie,
I shan't have time to write,
I'm off to the Battle of Jutland,
And there's no shore leave tonight.
Don't weep on the kitchen table
If a letter I don't send.
Today is the Battle of Jutland
And there won't be a make and mend.

Who are all those swimmers
Knocking on our bulkhead,
Gazing face-down at their fortunes
On the stone sea bed?
With the ramming waters
They no longer toil.
Their breath is turned to quiet salt,
And their lungs to oil.

Suddenly around me
The Gunnery Jacks all spoke
Their terrible words of gunpowder
And sentences of smoke.
The deck blew up like a candle,
I heard the Gunner's Mate say,
It looks more like November the fifth
Than the thirty-first of May.

But the catherine wheels were made of iron,
The stars were made of steel,
And downward came a scarring rain
The sun will never heal.
Death came on like winter
Through the water-gate.
All I could do by the forecastle gun
Was stand alone, and wait.

Mother, all around me
My freezing comrades lie,
And though to each I speak his name
No one makes reply.
All around me, mother,
Their coats of sleep they wear
As if for a long journey
They must now prepare.

I put my hand in my flannel,
The air was black, was red,
And when I pulled it out again
I knew that I was dead.
They took me down to London,
They launched me up the nave,
They sank me in a wooden boat
Into a poor man's grave.

They pinned a medal on my chest,
And though my pillow was deep
They took the pennies off my eyes
And lifted me from my sleep.
They gave me a second funeral,
I heard the rifles plain
And up in the wild air went the birds
As I went down again.

The great Sir Edward Carson,
First Lord of the Admiralty,
Asked men and women who grumbled
If ever they heard of me.
It was the second year of the war;
Thiepval, the Somme, Verdun.
The people were encouraged,

And the Great War went on.

The Ballad of Jack Cornwell
by Charles Causley.


John Travers Cornwell, 1st Class Boy, RN, sight-setter of
the forecastle gun in HMS 'Chester', was mortally wounded at the
Battle of Jutland, 31 May 1916. He was posthumously
awarded the Victoria Cross.
His age was under 16 1/2 years.

My favourite is Robert Service.

"But it isn't playing the game," he said,
And he slammed his books away;
"The Latin and Greek I've got in my head
Will do for a duller day."
"Rubbish!" I cried; "The bugle's call
Isn't for lads from school."
D'ye think he'd listen? Oh, not at all:
So I called him a fool, a fool.


Now there's his dog by his empty bed,
And the flute he used to play,
And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he's dead,
Somewhere in France, they say:
Dick with his rapture of song and sun,
Dick of the yellow hair,
Dicky whose life had but begun,
Carrion-cold out there.


Look at his prizes all in a row:
Surely a hint of fame.
Now he's finished with, -- nothing to show:
Doesn't it seem a shame?
Look from the window! All you see
Was to be his one day:
Forest and furrow, lawn and lea,
And he goes and chucks it away.


Chucks it away to die in the dark:
Somebody saw him fall,
Part of him mud, part of him blood,
The rest of him -- not at all.
And yet I'll bet he was never afraid,
And he went as the best of 'em go,
For his hand was clenched on his broken blade,
And his face was turned to the foe.


And I called him a fool . . . oh how blind was I!
And the cup of my grief's abrim.
Will Glory o' England ever die
So long as we've lads like him?
So long as we've fond and fearless fools,
Who, spurning fortune and fame,
Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools,
Just bent on playing the game.


A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise.
His was the proudest part.
He died with the glory of faith in his eyes,
And the glory of love in his heart.
And though there's never a grave to tell,
Nor a cross to mark his fall,
Thank God! we know that he "batted well"
In the last great Game of all.

Thanks very much, Geoff. Strong stuff and strangely beautiful. The lines about the dead looking down on themselves on the sea bed are chilling!
And then comes Auchonvillers Service making the best of it in his poem. There myust have been a hundred ways of squaring things with the dead. Shiver!
Marina

I think Service is quite underated in this country.

Mick

Hi, Mick - I can remember a teacher t school who was fond of his ballads. he used to read us them - ones about western saloons and Mcgrew and stuff. Great fun!
Marina

Mick
That poem brought a tear to my eye. I was at the Lincs archive this afternoon, reading through 1914 editions of our school magazine for the first time.

There were in-jokes about the boarders, descriptions of stamp collecting, sports days and trips to the cinema. There were also pages of cricket match reports, the first eleven captained by S Goates. He was 'a sound bat, rather unlucky, very useful stumper; excellent fielder, keen hardworking captain'. He was a prefect of the boarders, and captain of the football team. In the speech day of November 1914 he was commended 'for good conduct and good work in school and on the sports field'.

Private Sydney Goates of the London Scottish was killed on 1st July 1916 at Gommecourt Wood and never found -
'Part of him mud, part of him blood,
The rest of him -- not at all.'

My Mate
I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots,

And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im.

(Look out there, lad! That sniper -- 'e's a dysey when 'e shoots;

'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.)

Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead,

To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud;

And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red,

Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot -- but it's blood.



And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals.

'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me;

And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals,

And even there we 'ad no disagree.

For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best,

I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid;

I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest,

I even stood god-farther to the kid.



So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?"

"Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im.

'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go,

('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim).

Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell,

But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread.

We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle,

And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead.



Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took?

I've only got meself, 'e stands for three.

I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook;

'E always WAS a better man than me.

'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark,

And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid;

And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark,

When . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid.



'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die.

'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud.

Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky,

And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud.

And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead,

And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand:

The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and ZIP! like that -- 'e's dead,

Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and.



There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun,

But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate.

You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done

Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate.

It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim;

Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid,

Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im,

To sorter be a farther to 'is kid.
Robert Service.

Now that gets to me every time

Mick

Service is underrated. There was a series set in Tyneside in the 30s on Radio 4 a few years ago and Service made an appearance, it was only then I realised he was a war poet of rare power.

I ran the Serre dig a couple of years ago looking for Owen's dugout that he describes in "The Sentry". We didn;t find the dugout but the Heidenkopf revealed a lot more stories.

Anyway, last week I was out at Serre with a school group and performed the Sentry for them, there where it happened. Amazing, I got to the end and we were all shaken by the power of Owens words and by being in the place. It may not be his best poem but at that moment in that place there was nothing to touch it.

Service is underrated. There was a series set in Tyneside in the 30s on Radio 4 a few years ago and Service made an appearance, it was only then I realised he was a war poet of rare power.

I ran the Serre dig a couple of years ago looking for Owen's dugout that he describes in "The Sentry". We didn;t find the dugout but the Heidenkopf revealed a lot more stories.

Anyway, last week I was out at Serre with a school group and performed the Sentry for them, there where it happened. Amazing, I got to the end and we were all shaken by the power of Owens words and by being in the place. It may not be his best poem but at that moment in that place there was nothing to touch it.

This a list of Robert Service poems on the web

http://www.artdamage.com/service/redcross/toc.htm

As a matter of interest i found a very nice Rifle Brigade cap badge behind the Heidenkopf in March this year.

Mick

Powerful writing creating powerful images.

Kim

I enjoyed 'Only A Boche' in particular.

There is also a wonderful recital of 'The Haggis of Private MacPhee' on the cd 'War And Glaur'.
Marina

Mick, Thanks for introducing me to Robert Service, I agree highly underated. Reading 'My Mate' felt like I was standing next to this Tommy as he told the sad story of his mate.

Each One of the Poems posted here mean so much to the individua and to all of us. It is very difficult to have a favourite. These words though understated seem to bring that sensless waste of life, slaugher to us.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knockneed, 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 gas - shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick boys! - An ectasy 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 mist panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In something smothering all my dreams, before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. if some smotherimg dreams 1n you too could pace behind the wagons that we fkung 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 bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lunds,
Bitten 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 decorumest Pro patria mori.


Wilfred Owen (1803-1918)

Terry W.

This thread title is Great War Poetry, and there is so much of it. But when did war poetry start? This is actually a 'folk song', probably written by a soldier around 1800 in the Napoleonic wars. (anyone not smoking a pipe, not supping real ale, not wearing a beard and a cable-knit jumper may leave the room now). Not much changes in 200 years. Several versions exist, some politically incorrect. This version recorded by the late great Sandy Denny in 1970.

Banks Of The Nile

Oh hark! The drums do beat, my love, no longer can we stay.
The bugle-horns are sounding clear, and we must march away.
We're ordered down to Portsmouth, and it's many is the weary mile.
To join the British Army on the banks of the Nile.

Oh Willie, dearest Willie, don't leave me here to mourn,
Don't make me curse and rue the day that ever I was born.
For the parting of our love would be like parting with my life.
So stay at home, my dearest love, and I will be your wife.

Oh my Nancy, dearest Nancy, sure that will never do.
The government has ordered, and we are bound to go.
The government has ordered, and the Queen she gives command.
And I am bound on oath, my love, to serve in a foreign land.

Oh, but I'll cut off my yellow hair, and I'll go along with you.
I'll dress myself in uniform, and I'll see Egypt too.
I'll march beneath your banner while fortune it do smile,
And we'll comfort one another on the banks of the Nile.

But your waist it is too slender, and your fingers they are too small.
In the sultry suns of Egypt your rosy cheeks would spoil.
Where the cannons they do rattle, when the bullets they do fly,
And the silver trumpets sound so loud to hide the dismal cries.

Oh, cursed be those cruel wars, that ever they began,
For they have robbed our country of many's the handsome men.
They've robbed us of our sweethearts while their bodies they feed the lions,
On the dry and sandy deserts which are the banks of the Nile.

To My Daughter Betty

by Tom Kettle (1880-9th September, 1916)

In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
To beauty proud as was your mother's prime -
In that desired, delayed incredible time
You'll ask why I abandoned you, my own,
And the dear breast that was your baby's throne
To dice with death, and, oh! They'll give you rhyme
And reason; one will call the thing sublime,
And one decry it in a knowing tone.
So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,
And tired men sigh, with mud for couch and floor,
Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
Died not for Flag, nor King, nor Emporor,
But for a dream born in a herdsman's shed,
And for the Secret Scripture of the poor.


Tom Kettle was an Irish politician, (elected to the house of Commons at the age of 26), a poet, a teacher and professor at University College Dublin. His wrote this poem for his infant daughter Betty whom he had never seen. Two days after writing it, he was struck by a German bullet and died while taking part in the Irish Brigade's capture of Ginchy.

Haven't seen that one before - nice one.
Marina

After our visit to the Sheffield Memorial Park Serre our guide tony read us this poem. I found it very moving and sums up our feelings about the Somme.

Take my hand and come with me
to a special place across the sea
a sacred place in hallowed ground
its not a church you'll understand
just a part of home in another land

A place where gravestones stand arrayed
like a phantom army on parade
stand close to me and patience keep
and soon you'll see a brave man weep
he cries for his comrade beneath the stones
and I tell you friend he's not alone

Scenes like this are commonplace
in our special meeting place
so as you stroll down memory lane
think of us who must remain
and now its time to say adieu
but remember friend, we died for you.

ANON.

My Favorite poem would be

Soldier's Dream by Wilfred Owen, Its in my Sig

Garron

Anon wrote some good stuff, didn't he/she?
Just about everythng Owen wrote was good too.

I find this poem one of the most moving Great War poems;
Before Action
By all the glories of the day,
And the cool evening's benison,
By the last sunset touch that lay
Upon the hills when day was done,
By beauty lavishly outpoured
And blessing's carelessly received,
By all the days that I have lived
Make me a soldier, Lord.

By all of man's hopes and fears,
And all the wonders poets sing,
The laughter of unclouded years,
And every sad and lovely thing;
By the romantic ages stored
With high endeavour that was his,
By all his mad catastrophes
Make me a man, O Lord.

I, that on my familiar hill
Saw with uncomprehending eyes
A hundred of Thy sunsets spill
Their fresh and sanguine sacrifice,
Ere the sun swings his noonday sword
Must say good-bye to all of this;-
By all delights I shall miss,
Help me to die, O Lord.

W N Hodgson (Killed in action 01/07/16)

JGM

It;s the last line that gets me
Marina

[quote name='auchonvillerssomme' date='May 31 2006, 04:12 PM' post='459273']
My favourite is Robert Service.


Mine too.

here's a little more Robert 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 -- DRAPPED 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.

I am available if any translations are necessary!
Marina

JGM
Very moving words indeed. Thanks for posting Hodson's poem.

GLORY

I canna' see ye, lad, I canna' see ye
For a' yon glory that's aboot yer heid
Yon licht that haps ye an' the Hosts that's wi' ye,
Aye, but ye live, an' it's mysel' that's deid

They went frae mill an' mart, frae wind-blawn places,
An' grey toon-closes; i' the empty street
Nae mair the bairns ken their steps, their faces,
Nor stand to listen to the trampin' feet.

Beside the broom and soughin' through the rashes
Yer voice comes back to me at ilka turn,
Across the brae and whaur the water washes
The arn-tree,* wi' its feet amangst the burn.

Whiles, ye come ben the hoose when day is fleein'
And a' the the road oot-by is still at nicht,
But weary een like mine is no for seein',
An', gin they saw, they wad be blind wi' licht.

Deith canna kill. The mools o' France lie o'er ye,
An' let ye live, O sodger o' the Lord!
For him that focht wi' sin an' death afore ye,
He gie'd the life; t'was Him that gie'd the sword.

Tho', gin ye see my face, or gin ye hear me
I daurna' ask, I dinna seek to ken--------
E'en tho' I dee o' sic a glory near me,
By nicht or day, come ben, my bairn, come ben!

*Alder tree

[Violet Jacob: Country Life, Saturday December 9th, Vol. XL, No. 1040, p. 694]


For Marina,
Dave

Cheers, Dave! This is a wonderful piece by a very fine but somewhat neglected poet! So glad you came across it!
Marina

Just did a quick google on Jacobs- she lost a son on the Somme, thus the poem i suppose. Makes it even more moving.

http://www.slainte.org.uk/scotauth/jacobdsw.htm

There's another poem mourning her son here:

http://www.litencyc.com/php/speople.php?re...ue&UID=5845

Marina

Thanks Marina,
This is an interesting thread, and who knows, I may become a convert. It does mean, though, that I will have to change all my previously-held beliefs about most poets and artists. [I'm sure there's still room for a little cynicism]

Cheers,
Dave

Marina

Thanks for the link to Violet Jacob's poem, "The Field by the Lirk o' the Hill" Enjoyed it very much - would like it even more if you could help with a couple of words: what is a lirk, and what is the meaning of whaups?

Kind regards
Jan