| In Memorian Private D Sutherland - Killed in Action in the German
trench May 16th, and the others who died.
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 that 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 gets stormier,
And the Boches have got his body,
And I was his officer.
You were only Davids father,
But I had 50 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 father's,
For they could only see
The helpless little 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.
E.A.Mackintosh
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| Why Wear A Poppy?? "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'd pinned it 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 a 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, Mum, 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 cheek;
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, is oft delayed,
Though 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!
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John Singer Sargent's painting Gassed hangs in the Imperial War Museum in London; the canvas is over seven feet high and twenty feet long. This impressive painting depicts soldiers blinded by gas being led in lines back to the hospital tents and the dressing stations; the men lie on the ground all about the tents waiting for treatment.Of all the WW1poetry, Dulce Et Decorum Est is the poem I find most heartwrenching and haunting. Wilferd Owen vividly describes the effects of gas in what is one of the most powerful antiwar poems ever written.
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| 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 disappointed shells 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 floundering 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.("It is sweet and fitting to die for one's country.")
Wilfred Owen
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| MATEY By Patrick MacGill
Not comin' back to-night, matey,
And the reliefs are comin' through
We're all goin' out all right, matey,
Only we're leavin' you.
Gawd ! it's a bloody sin, matey,
Now that we've finished the fight,
We go when the reliefs come in, matey,
But you're stayin' ere to-night.
Over the top is cold, matey -----
You lie in the field alone,
Didn't I love you old matey,
Dearer that blood of my own.
You were my dearest chum, matey -----
(Gawd ! but your face is white)
But now, though reliefs 'ave come, matey-----
I'm goin' alone tonight.
I'd sooner, the bullet was mine, matey----
Goin' out on my own,
Leavin' you 'ere in the line, matey,
All by yourself, alone
Chum o' mine and you're dead, matey,
And this is the way we part.
The bullet went through your head, matey,
But, Gawd ! it went through my 'eart.
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| POPPIES OF WAR Cairo Cemetery, Gallipoli Day. 1918
In these hushed glades the holy cross keeps guard,
Above the graves where heroes sleeping lie.
Dear sons of far off homes are resting here,
Beneath the radiant blue of Egypt's sky.
Verdure, swift-growing, casts a tender veil
Over the warm brown earth that folds them deep,
Down the long lines between each simple cross
In splendour bloom the poppy flowers of sleep,
Scarlet and glowing, emblems of youths blood
Shed for the Empire, careless of the price:
"Flowers of oblivion"once - now evermore
Flowers of Remembrance of their sacrifice.
E.M.Warnock
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This is perhaps one of the most well known poems from WW1. Colonel John McCrae died while on active duty in May 1918.The day before he wrote "In Flanders Fields", one of his closest friends was killed and buried in a grave decorated with only a simple wooden cross. Wild poppies were already blooming between the crosses that marked the graves of those who were killed in battle.
"In Flanders Fields" was first published in December, 1915 in England's "Punch" magazine. Within months, "In Flanders Fields" became the most popular poem about the First World War. Many people felt the poem symbolized the sacrifices made by all those who participated in World War I.
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| In Flanders Fields by Lieut-Col. John McCrae
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.
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An American, Miss Moira Michael, read In Flanders’ Fields and wrote a reply entitled
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.
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| Survivors No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain
Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.
Of course they're 'longing to go out again,'
These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk.
They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed
Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,
Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud
Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride...
Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.
Siegfried Sassoon
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| The Hero 'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.
Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.
Siegfried Sassoon
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Waltzing Matilda This song was written by ERIC BOGLE - in the 1970's.
A "Matilda" was the name given to the pack of an Australian Bushman or Swagman. To "Waltz Matilda" was to carry your pack around the bush.
Eric's other songs "The Gift of Years" and "Willie McBride" (which is also known as "Green Fields of France") are also well worth a listen.
Click here to play -
Now when I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
And they marched me away to the war.
And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.
And how well I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water;
And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well;
He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell --
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.
But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.
And those that were left, well, we tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire.
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I woke up in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
Never knew there was worse things than dying.
For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.
So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn and to pity.
But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.
And so now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reviving old dreams of past glory,
And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,
They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask meself the same question.
But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear
Someday, no one will march there at all.
Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong,
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?
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William McBride by Eric Bogle,also called No Man's Land and the Green Fields of France
Well how do you do Private William McBride
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside,
I'll rest for a while in the warm summer sun
I've been walking all day, Lord and I'm nearly done
I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the great fallen of 1916
I hope you died well and I hope you died clean
Or young Willie McBride was it slow and obscene
Chorus:
Did they beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly,
did they sound the death march as they lowered you down ?
and did the band play the last post and chorus ?
And did the pipes play the flowers of the forest
Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined
And though you died back in 1916,
To that loyal heart are you forever 19
Or are you a stranger without even a name
Enshrined there forever behind a glass pane
In an old photograph torn and tattered and
stained
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame
Chorus
------
The sun's shining now on the green Fields of France
The warm wind blows gently and the red poppies dance
The trenches have vanished long under the plough
There's no gas, no barbed wire, there's no guns firing now
But here in this graveyard it's still no man's land
And the countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned
Chorus
------
And I can't help but wonder young Willie McBride
Do all who lie here with you know why they died
Did you really believe it when they told you the cause
Did you honestly think that one war would end wars
Well your suffering, your sorrow, your glory, your shame
Your killing, your dying, it was all done in vain..........
'Cos young Willie McBride it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again and again.
Chorus
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