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For The Fallen
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Laurence Robert Binyon, 1869-1943
Very nice sentiments Moira
Her only Son
by Robert MacKay. Remembrance Day 1950.
She wont forget, that mother there,
With tear stained face and silvered hair,
He was her boy, whose name's carved there,
She wont forget.
She needs no hallowed shrine or cairn
To make her mother's heart to yearn,
He was her son, her darling bairn,
She wont forget.
She wont forget until she dies
Her laddie with the dark blue eyes,
That sleeps at peace 'neath foreign skies,
She'll ne'er forget.
Moira & Trinkie both lovely
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen
Wilfred Owen was killed on the 4th November whilst attempting to lead his men across the Sambre canal at Ors. The news of his death reached his parents on November 11th 1918, the day of the armistice.
"VOICES IN THE WIND"
the title of Ally Budge’s book was inspired by one of the lines of Lieutenant Ewart Alan MacKintosh, the soldier poet of the 5th Seaforth Highlanders.
THE WAITING WIFE
By Lieutenant Ewart Alan MacKintosh.
Written in Golspie in 1915
Out on the hillside the wild birds crying
A little low wind and the white clouds flying,
A little low wind from the southward blowing,
What should I know of its coming and going?
Over the battle the shrapnel crying,
A tune of lament for the dead and the dying,
And a little low wind that is moaning and weeping,
For the months that are cold and brave hearts sleeping.
I and my man were happy together
In the summer days and the warm June weather –
What is the end of our laughter and singing?
A little low wind from the southward winging.
The hearth is cold and my house is lonely,
And nothing for me but waiting only,
Feet round the house that come into it never,
And a voice in the wind that is silent forever.
trinkie ... Remembering
The wild war pipes were calling,
Our hearts were blithe and free
When we went up the valley
To death we could not see,
Clear lay the wood before us
In the summer weather,
But broken, broken, broken
Are the sons of the heather.
Another beautiful verse by Leiutenant Ewart Alan MacKintosh
Lavenderblue2
11-Nov-07, 10:38
"Please wear a poppy," the lady said
And held one forth, but I shook my head.
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.
A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on care-free feet.
His smile was full of joy and fun,
"Lady," said he, "may I have one?"
When she's pinned in on he turned to say,
"Why do we wear a poppy today?"
The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered, "This is Remembrance Day,
And the poppy there is the symbol for
The gallant men who died in war.
And because they did, you and I are free -
That's why we wear a poppy, you see.
"I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned and grew
and became a man - as you will, too.
"He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile,
But he'd seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day
When he smiled at me and said, Goodbye,
I'll be back soon, Mom, so please don't cry.
"But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
His letters told of the awful fight,
(I can see it still in my dreams at night),
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.
"Till at last, at last, the war was won -
And that's why we wear a poppy son."
The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, "Thanks, lady, I'm glad to know.
That sure did sound like an awful fight,
But your son - did he come back all right?"
A tear rolled down each faded check;
She shook her head, but didn't speak.
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me you'd have done the same;
For our thanks, in giving, if oft delayed,
Thought our freedom was bought - and thousands paid!
And so when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne,
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a poppy! Remember - and give!
~~By Don Crawford.~~
The tears are running down my cheeks
Now I've read the poems that sadness speak
Promising young men lost in the war
Cut down in their prime forever more.
They were their mothers' pride and joy
Their darling sons, their much loved boys
It makes me cherish mine all the more
My young men sons, whom I adore!
To Sydney
A well-worn coat, a pipe, his gun,
A letter written just before –
Resting now, the warfare done,
His cheery message comes no more.
He was a soldier, first and last;
You’re thinking of his sunny smile
Now that his gallant soul has passed
And left you wearying, the while.
He always, always played the game;
He was so simple and so fine
He never even thought of fame
The deed he did was half divine.
He only knew the soldier’s part,
He braved the awful shell to save
A black man, and his faithful heart
Is stilled deep in a glorious grave.
(In memory of Captain A. St. J. Gore,
Gurkha Rifles, killed in action, June 1915.)
Another tribute to a Service that is a touch close to my heart
THEY DID NOT MAN THE BOMBERS
They did not man the bombers that rendered cities dead,
Or hurricanes and spitfires in dogfights overhead,
Nor fight the war as infantry pushing at the front,
Or as marine commandos or paratroops that jump.
They did not form in ranks, divisions or platoons,
Or march along to `eyes right` with regimental tunes,
Civilian crews of seamen sailed to do their bit,
On coastal runs or convoys until their ship was hit,
A kitbag on the shoulder after travelling on the bus,
They stepped aboard a gangway with the minimum of fuss.
There was little recognition for men that risked their lives,
But heroes just the same as in trenches or the skies.
They sailed away on oceans with a puny little gun,
To face the lethal U-Boats sent out by the Hun,
They brought the cargoes home then returned for more,
Flying our red ensign all throughout the war.
Anon
"The Mither" c,1917
I’m prayin’ wi’ the love for the ending o’ the war,
aye prayin’ that the Lord‘ll send us victory soon.
But ma hert is sair tae burstin aneath its hidden scar,
and peace I ken will bring to me fresh opening o’ ma wound.
For peace’ll mean that ither fowk will welcome back their ain,
an gled herts’ll be rejoicing o’er the laddies a’ come hame.
For me an’ mine no laddie blithe will e’er come back again,
and ma hert is sair wi’ envy, tho’ I say it tae ma shame
Oh I can hear the cheerin’ that’ll greet them when they come
can see the flags aflying and hear the pipers play,
See the bairnies keepin’ step till the beatin’ o the drum,
and merchin by their brithers side an’ whistlin’ a’ the way.
An now they’re comin’ doon the close in fowers an’ threes or twa,
an droppin intil neighbours doors, bit nane’ll come till mine.
An Mithers airms aboot them ………………. Ma empty airms doon fa’;
Nae bairn o’ mine will fill them mair on this side o’ time.
Oh I dinna grudge the laddies their joyfu’ welcome hame,
we canna gie them thanks enough for a’ that they’ve been through,
But Oh! When you’re rejoicin’, dinna flaunt it just the same.
As in happy days gone by . .there are Mithers greetin’ too.
The Loss of the Royal Oak
By the Caithness Violinist c.1948
Dedicated to the undying memory of the 800 Officers and Men of the Battleship Royal Oak torpedoed by German submarine on October 14, 1939 in Scapa Flow.
The seas may break o’er Scapa Pier,
When the stiff nor’-easters blow,
But the men who went down with the Royal Oak,
Are asleep in the Scapa Flow.
They will wake no more to the battles roar,
While our Navy attacks the foe,
For the men who went down with the Royal Oak
Are asleep in the Scapa Flow.
Oh I know there’ll be hearts full of grief and pain,
And eyes full of tears of woe,
For their boys who went down with the Royal Oak
That’s asleep in the Scapa Flow.
But a mem’rys left that can never fade
Tho’ our hair grows white as snow,
We’ll remember the boys of the Royal Oak
Asleep in the Scapa Flow.
Let us toll the bell with a sorrowing knell
For those heroes down below,
And salute them all with a last farewell,
That sleep in the Scapa Flow.
Remembrance Day
By the Caithness Violinist c.1949
For two hallowed minutes, in village and town,
We’ll stand in the Silence with our heads bowed down,
Fond parents will sigh as they roll back the years,
And silent will fall sweet Remembrance tears.
How bravely they fought our proud histories tell,
But by death they were taken and bade us farewell,
But their names live forever on memory’s stands
Though we’ll ne’er see their smile or again clasp their hands.
No words ever spoken can ever repay,
Our Gallant defenders, the Services Three,
Their Heads will line on while ages roll,
On fame’s immortal and sacred scroll.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We have the Caithness Violinist to thank for many fine poems, especially his War Tributes. His name was Robert MacKay and if you can find a book, or any of his writings then I strongly urge you to buy it!
A Letter to the Caithness Boys on Service
By The Caithness Violinist c. 1940
Dear ‘Jocks’ at hame stations an’ awa’ overseas:-
I’m writin’ ye this letter just to let ye a’ ken we’re aye thinkin’ o’ ye a’ an’ prayin every nicht afore we draw the blankads ower us in bed that ye’ll a’ come back safe an’ soon’ til mak’ us a’ happy aince mair.
‘Sodgerin up’ is nae picnic, we a’ ken that, but a Kaitness sodger aye does his duty wherever that duty lies, and does it manfully and cheerfully, at all times during peace or war, an’ I ken ye’ll a’ dae yer job well baith at hame an’ abroad, an’ ye’ll never be contented in he’rt or mind til ye’ve crushed Hitlerism oot o’ a’ recognition.
We at hame in dear auld Kaitness will help ye in every way we can til bring this to pass as quickly as possible. Ye’ll often be thinkin’ o’ hame, boys, I ken, but maybe no’ sae muckle as faither an mither an’ wife an’ sister an’ sweetheart thinks aboot ye a’, for since ye a’ left they’re gey lonely an’ sad, I ken that. I wrote them a letterie some time ago in ‘is same paper. As’ as the song has it –
‘We’ll meet again, don’t know where don’t know when
But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day;
Keep smiling thro’ just like you used to do,
Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away.
Will you please say ‘Hello’ to the folks that I know,
Tell then I wont be long,
They’ll be happy to know that as you saw me go
I was singing this song –
We’ll meet again, don’t know where, don’t know when
But I know we’ll meet again some sunny day’’
That’s our fervent howp boys, an’ I can only add my fervent Amen to it –
I am etc,
Caithness Violinist.
Another tribute to a Service that is a touch close to my heart
THEY DID NOT MAN THE BOMBERS
They did not man the bombers that rendered cities dead,
Or hurricanes and spitfires in dogfights overhead,
Nor fight the war as infantry pushing at the front,
Or as marine commandos or paratroops that jump.
They did not form in ranks, divisions or platoons,
Or march along to `eyes right` with regimental tunes,
Civilian crews of seamen sailed to do their bit,
On coastal runs or convoys until their ship was hit,
A kitbag on the shoulder after travelling on the bus,
They stepped aboard a gangway with the minimum of fuss.
There was little recognition for men that risked their lives,
But heroes just the same as in trenches or the skies.
They sailed away on oceans with a puny little gun,
To face the lethal U-Boats sent out by the Hun,
They brought the cargoes home then returned for more,
Flying our red ensign all throughout the war.
Anon
Thank you for the above Golach - I'd like to remember my uncle James Budge, age 43yrs, Empire Gem 24 January 1942.
Were there any other Wick men on this ship?
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.
— Lt.-Col. John McCrae
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Flanders_Fields
Remembrance Day 1951
By Caithness Violinist aka Robert MacKay
"At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
we will remember them."
Before that sculptured stone she stands,
With tear dimmed eyes, and white clasped hands,
He was her dear and only boy,
Her life, her all, her greatest joy.
Upon that sacred scroll of fame,
She reads once more his treasured name,
And though he sleeps in death afar,
His memory is her brightest star.
O mother dear his race is won,
You’ve lost by war your only son,
I hear your murmured words and sigh,
"He was so young – so young to die!"
War always brings its load of fears,
And languish mixed with bitter tears,
But, Mother, he has not died in vain,
While faith, and hope and Peace remain.
Lavenderblue2
11-Nov-08, 21:13
Beautiful words of a 1914 Wartime song by Ivor Novello and recorded by Katie Melua for Children in Need.
Keep the Home Fires Burning
They were summoned from the hillside
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardships
As the soldiers pass along,
And although your heart is breaking
Make it sing this cheery song:
Keep the Home Fires Burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.
There's a silver lining
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out
'Til the boys come home.
Overseas there came a pleading,
"Help a nation in distress."
And we gave our glorious laddies
Honour bade us do no less,
For no gallant son of freedom
To a tyrant's yoke should bend,
And a noble heart must answer
To the sacred call of "Friend."
Keep the Home Fires Burning,
While your hearts are yearning,
Though your lads are far away
They dream of home.
There's a silver lining
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out
'Til the boys come home.
AfternoonDelight
19-Nov-08, 12:32
This one gets me everythime, it might well be my favourite poem...
Lament for the Gordons, by David Martin
I sing of the Gordons,
Lament to young soldiers,
Who never came back to the land of their kin,
O Lowland and Highland
On Singapore Island,
Your sons fell for freedom and Bonny Prince Tin!
Be silent now Greenock,
Dundee and Auld Reekie,
And silent the winches on Forth and on Clyde,
When Scotland is sleepin,
Sweet lassies are weepin,
For lads who will never lay down by their side.
How far from Malaya
To snowy Ben Doran?
How far from Lahore to Saltcoats or Ross?
No pipes and orations
On rubber plantations,
O chimes of St Andrew, how far Glasgow cross?
The Gordons are children
Of shipwrights and crofters,
Strong like the storm wind and tender as rain,
O that our cherished
Young eagles have perished,
And none of the gin sodden planters was slain.
I sing to the Gordons,
Lament to brave soldiers,
They will not come home to their land and their wives,
O Lowlands and Highlands,
And all the small islands,
Don't wait for the transport that never arrives.
I'm dragging this from the depths once more.
I'd be quite happy if someone is keen to start a new thread on Remembrance with their own take on the topic and what it means to them.
Lavenderblue2
02-Nov-09, 18:18
For Johnny
by John Pudney
Do not despair
For Johnny-head-in-air;
He sleeps as sound
As Johnny underground.
Fetch out no shroud
For Johnny-in-the-cloud;
And keep your tears
For him in after years.
Better by far
For Johnny-the-bright-star,
To keep your head,
And see his children fed.
From the War Film - Johnny in the Clouds (1946)
Lavenderblue2
02-Nov-09, 19:48
Hello God
Look God, I have never spoken to You.
But now I want to say; How do You do?
You see God, they told me You didn’t exist
And like a fool I believed all this.
Last night from a shell hole I saw Your sky
I figured right then, they had told me a lie,
Had I taken time to see things You made
I’d have known they weren’t calling a spade a spade.
I wonder God if You’d take my hand
Somehow I feel, that You will understand.
Funny I had to come to this hellish place
Before I had time to see Your face.
Well I guess, there isn’t much more to say
But I’m sure glad God, I met You today.
But I guess, the zero hour will soon be near
But I’m not afraid, since I know You’re here.
The signal! Well God, I have to go;
I like You lots, this I want You to know.
Look now, this will be a horrible fight
Who knows, I may come to Your House tonight…
Reported to have been found on the body of a dead soldier during the Great War.
Armistice Day
They’ll Never Come Home
By Robert MacKay
The Caithness Violinist.
With hearts full of anguish, and eyes full of tears,
They stand in ‘The Silence’ and roll back the years,
Their sighs are ascending to Heaven’s High Dome,
Lamenting their boys who will never come home.
They sleep, in the war fields o’ Flanders and France,
That played with us, sang with us, joined in our dance
‘Tis so sad to remember and hard to forget,
Such cheery companions, that most of us met.
When their deeds are recorded on History’s Page,
By the hands, or the brain of some college bred sage,
Of these soldiers and sailors, and men from the Drome,
Our children will hear of, that never came home.
Remember, remember, with hearts most sincere,
This day and this hour, as to them we draw near
Wherever you are, or wherever you roam,
Spare a thought for the boys who will never come home!
Anthem for Doomed Youth
By Wilfred Owen.
What passing bells for these who die as cattle?
- Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, -
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers of the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Lavenderblue2
03-Nov-09, 11:05
WE SHALL KEEP THE FAITH.
Oh! You who sleep in Flanders’ fields,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew,
We caught the torch you threw,
And holding high we kept
The faith with those who died.
We cherish too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valour led.
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders’ fields.
And now the torch and poppy red
Wear in honour of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught
We’ve learned the lesson that ye taught
In Flanders’ fields.
Miss Moina Belle Michael
Thanks Trinkie & LavenderBlue2.
Wilfred Owen is a particular favourite of mine but I enjoy reading the others too.
Cedric Farthsbottom III
03-Nov-09, 21:35
The guys in the front writing diarys.The guys in the front writing letters to mothers and lovers.Wilfred Owen in the front writing poems.Writing one of the most powerful poems written in literature history.
Never forgotten.God Bless
A Sailor’s Wishing
Oh! For a croft in Sutherland
How happy I would be
To own a croft, well shielded
By hills from the wild North Sea!
A little house, well builded
Of good strong Scottish stone;
Black peat stack at the corner,
Garden with cabbage grown.
Unfenced the fields, soft sighing
With fragrant grass in June,
And gold corn in September
Rustling through sunny noon.
Some sheep upon the hillside,
Some cattle in the byre;
And then – to wed my Mairi,
Dear queen of heart’s desire!
But still War’s guns are pounding
Heave ho! My lads away!
We serve our King and Country
“Come what come may.”
Nita H Padwick Bettyhill
Thanks Trinkie. Do you have any more with a local flavour?
Remembrance Day
To the imperishable memory of the fallen – 1914-18 and 1939-45.
By The Caithness Violinist. 11 Nov.1948
And these are they whose names ye read,
As ye go passing by,
Brave were they all Our Glorious Dead
And not afraid to die.
Death was the price they had to pay,
For Freedom and the Right
And we who live can justly say
They fought a noble fight.
A mother’s eyes will dim with tears
For him her only joy,
But in her heart throughout the years,
He’s still her darling boy.
O God in Heaven comfort those
That sigh and weep and mourn,
For dear ones now in Death’s repose
That never will return.
And these are they whose names ye read
On stones as ye pass by
They’ve shown the world by word and deed,
The way to fight and die.
Not a poem but a poignant reminder all the same.
"Poetry of Wilfred Owen (http://www.everypoet.com/archive/poetry/Wilfred_Owen/wilfred_owen_contents.htm)
Preface
This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak
of them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour,
dominion or power,
except War.
Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry.
The subject of it is War, and the pity of War.
The Poetry is in the pity.
Yet these elegies are not to this generation,
This is in no sense consolatory.
They may be to the next.
All the poet can do to-day is to warn.
That is why the true Poets must be truthful.
If I thought the letter of this book would last,
I might have used proper names; but if the spirit of it survives Prussia, --
my ambition and those names will be content; for they will have
achieved themselves fresher fields than Flanders.
Note. -- This Preface was found, in an unfinished condition, among Wilfred Owen's papers."
May God go with You, Son.
By C. Wright
You said ‘May God go with you, Son
And may you soon come safely home
Remember that where’er you go
You’ll never be alone.’
Well I carried those thoughts with me, Mum
But when the aeroplane took me higher
I couldn’t see the Angels, Mum
And I never heard their choir.
I looked for signs of Holiness
Wherever I was sent
And ‘though I saw all kinds of men
They knew not what love meant
I saw the bodies of children, Mum
And oil wells set on fire
But I couldn’t see the Angels, Mum
And I never heard their choir.
I tried to find a reason
For laying to waste Mankind
And always, Mum, your parting words
Were present in my mind.
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.
— Lt.-Col. John McCrae
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/In_Flanders_Fields
Reply to Flanders Fields
Oh! sleep in peace where poppies grow; The torch your falling hands let go
Was caught by us, again held high, A beacon light in Flanders sky
That dims the stars to those below. You are our dead, you held the foe,
And ere the poppies cease to blow, We'll prove our faith in you who lie
In Flanders Fields.
Oh! rest in peace, we quickly go To you who bravely died, and know
In other fields was heard the cry, For freedom's cause, of you who lie,
So still asleep where poppies grow,
In Flanders Fields.
As in rumbling sound, to and fro, The lightning flashes, sky aglow,
The mighty hosts appear, and high Above the din of battle cry,
Scarce heard amidst the guns below, Are fearless hearts who fight the foe,
And guard the place where poppies grow. Oh! sleep in peace, all you who lie
In Flanders Fields.
And still the poppies gently blow, Between the crosses, row on row.
The larks, still bravely soaring high, Are singing now their lullaby
To you who sleep where poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
- John Mitchell
Mosser
Remembrance Day
By the Caithness Violinist c. 1942
Remembrance Day, Remembrance Day
Must it return again
To fill my eyes with bitter tears
And my old heart with pain ?
His laughter still rings in my ears
And oft I see his smile
Tho’ cold he lies in Flander’s Field
He’s with me all the while.
Can I forget the songs he sang,
Or how he spoke to me,
While in my breast he lives anon,
Tho’ now a memory?
Remembrance Day, Remembrance Day,
Must it return again,
To fill my eyes with bitter tears
And my poor heart with pain ?
Trinkie
Remembering the Crew of 269 Squadron Royal Air Force who died near Wick in July 1940.
Brave young men, Rest in Peace.
Trinkie
Remember too the bravery of our Merchant Navy
On all the oceans white caps flow, you do not see crosses row on row,
But those who sleep beneath the sea, rest in peace, for your country is free.
The words of John Masefield
Even in peace scant quiet is at sea, in war, each revolution of the screw,
Each breath of air that blows the colours free,
May be the last life movement known to you
But, if you escape, tomorrow you will steer
to peril once again to bring us bread.
To dare again, beneath the sky of fear,
The moon moved graveyard of your brothers dead.
You were salvation to the army lost,
Trapped, but for you, upon the Dunkirk beach;
Death barred the way to Russia, but you crossed;
To Crete and Malta, and you succoured each.
Unrecognised, you put us in your debt,
Unthanked, you entered, or escaped the grave,
Whether your land remember, or forget,
You saved the land, or died trying to save.
Peace and War
How beautiful is Peace – Peace and her sister Love!
A glow of soft delight beams from their happy eyes;
Bright wreaths of summer flow’rs are twin’d amidst their hair;
Their sweet and smiling lips are curved in calm content;
Their ample, flowing robes trail o’er the grassy plains,
With gentle, soothing sound which lulls the world to sleep;
And so men do not raise a rev’rent glance towards Heaven!
Nor see beyond the stars the glory of God’s face.
How terrible is War – War and his brother Hate!
Fierce lust of battle gleams from their threatening eyes;
Foul writhing snakes of hell are twined around their brows;
Their cruel hands are dripping red with human gore;
Their flesh is torn by "reeking tube and iron shard,"
The clanging of their brazen shields murders all sleep;
And so men their aching eyes towards Heaven and see
Afar ‘midst rifted clouds the glory of God’s face.
Nuntius
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