Poems about war.

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
1

There has been a good deal of discussion about the horror that is war and the sacrifices made by those who served around here lately, and I thought I would start a thread for folks to share their favorite war poetry. It all started with Coldfire’s absolutely wonderful thread May 5, 1945, we shall remember. I tried to express some of my feelings on My Memorial Day,Lucky chimed in in his Hey, all you veterans… topic, and Veb reminded us that honor comes in many forms in Memorial Day and honor paid. In the Song lyrics that tear your heart out, stomp on it, and leave it weeping in the dust. thread reference was made to several fantastic songs honoring those who served and asking “why?”, I was only 19 by Redgum and And the Band played “Waltzing Matilda” by Eric Bogle. I had never heard either of these Australian songs before and they both brought tears to my eyes. Which brings us to…poetry. Throughout history, Mankind has had the ability to express thoughts in beautiful verses that cut right to your soul. This is the thread for you to share your favorites on the subject of war. I’ll start out with two poems about WWI, the first by Robert W. Service:

And the second is the classic by John McCrae:

Anyone else got any favorites?

2

You can say one thing for WW1: it had the best poets. Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Robert Graves, Rupert Brooke; those who survived were never better, those who died left us asking how good they could have been, and some were brought to a completely different level by it, like Service. Even Thomas Hardy got into it shortly before the war, producing work that enabled me to see what talent he squandered on those horrid novels.

My mother recited “In Flanders Fields” to me before bed, which probably explains a lot. She would also sing “Trees,” by Joyce Kilmer (of “The Fighting 69th” and killed in action while adjutant to “Wild Bill” Donovan, later of the OSS–see how EVERYTHING ties in with the CIA?) but the tune she knows and her voice made it a harrowing experience.

Since Kilmer is only, if at all, known for “Trees,” I’ll respectfully submit a couple of his.

MID-OCEAN IN WAR-TIME
(For My Mother)

THE fragile splendour of the level sea,
The moon’s serene and silver-veiled face,
Make of this vessel an enchanted place
Full of white mirth and golden sorcery.
Now, for a time, shall careless laughter be
Blended with song, to lend song sweeter grace,
And the old stars, in their unending race,
Shall heed and envy young humanity.

And yet to-night, a hundred leagues away,
These waters blush a strange and awful red.
Before the moon, a cloud obscenely grey
Rises from decks that crash with flying lead.
And these stars smile their immemorial way
On waves that shroud a thousand newly dead!
IN MEMORY OF RUPERT BROOKE
IN alien earth, across a troubled sea
His body lies that was so fair and young.
His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung;
His arm is still, that struck to make men free.
But let no cloud of lamentation be
Where, on a warrior’s grave, a lyre is hung.
We keep the echoes of his golden tongue,
We keep the vision of his chivalry.

So Israel’s joy, the loveliest of kings,
Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde.
To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings
With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord;
And David rests beneath Eternal wings,
Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.

3

The Charge of the Light Brigade

4

“OLD GLORY”

5

I have one, but I don’t know the exact title or writer. I first heard it on Green Linnet Records 20th Anniversary CD.
I think it’s by Eric Bogle.

The first line goes like this:

Well, how do you do, Private William McBride
Do you mind if I sit down here by your grave side.

(It’s lyrics haunt me.)
PS - War is stupid

6

Onward! Christian Soldiers

Onward! Christian Soldiers,
Strive to keep the peace!
Spread the Christian message,
That all wars must cease.
Between warring factions,
Men and women go.
Facing ev’ry danger,
Doubt and fear they know.

From within our nation,
Coast to coast to coast,
Send to them our prayer,
Joining heav’nly hosts.
Spirit, give them comfort,
Bid an end to fear.
Send to them assurance,
Of your presence near.

Of the great reversal
We will sing your praise.
Humble those with power,
May the meek you raise.
In a world of weapons,
They seek to disarm.
Go with our peacekeepers,
Keeping them from harm.

My dad used to sing this hymn. He was in WWII, The Governer General’s Horse Guards, March, 1943 - April, 1946

7

Would I be too flippant if I added a poem I wrote when I was ten?

WAR
War is hate for one another
is it fate or just each
In war we just can’t turn our head
Without thought for those now dead
Or of the now-widowed brides
Haunted all - ruined lives

8

Shirley, here it is. I had forgotten about it. Maybe “forgotten” should read “blocked out.” It’s a sad 'un. Americans may wonder at a seeming preoccupation the British have with WWI. If you think that they lost as many men on the first day of the Battle of Verdun as we lost in Vietnam, it comes into perspective.

Willie McBride
Melody - Irish traditional
Eric Bogle

Well how do you do Private William McBride,
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
And rest for awhile beneath the warm summer sun,
I’ve been walking all day and now I’m nearly done
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916;
Well I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean,
Or, young Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

Refrain:
Did they beat the drum slowly,
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the Death March
As they lowered you down?
Did the band play
“The Last Post And Chorus?”
Did the pipes play
“The Flowers Of The Forest?”

Did you leave 'ere a wife or a sweetheart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And although you died back in 1916,
In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Enclosed forever behind a glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn, and battered and stained,
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame?
Refrain:

Ah the sun now it shines on these green fields of France,
The warm summer breeze makes the red poppies dance,
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds;
There’s no gas, no barbed wire, there’re no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard is still No Man’s Land,
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man,
To a whole generation that was butchered and damned.
Refrain:

Ah, young Willie McBride, I can’t help wonder why,
Did all those who lay here really know why they died?
And did they believe when they answered the call,
Did they really believe that this war would end war?
For the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain,
The killing and dying were all done in vain,
For, young Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again and again and again and again.
Refrain:

For Chief Scott:

Charge of the Light Brigade
Alfred Lord Tennyson

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho’ the soldiers knew
Someone had blundered:
Theirs was not to make reply,
Theirs was not to reason why,
Theirs was but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,
Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab’ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunging in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not–
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that fought so well,
Came thro’ the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of the six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble Six Hundred!
I haven’t found “Old Glory” yet.

9

Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the flowers gone?
Girls have picked them every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young girls gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the young girls gone?
Taken husbands every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the young men gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the young men gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the young men gone?
Gone for soldiers every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the soldiers gone?
Gone to graveyards every one
When will they ever learn?
When will they ever learn?

Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time passing
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Long time ago
Where have all the graveyards gone?
Covered with flowers every one
When will we ever learn?
When will we ever learn?

10

Two poems by John Pudney, who served in the British Royal Air Force, 1939-45;

For Johnny (1941)

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.
Missing (1942)

Less said the better.
The bill unpaid, the dead letter,
No roses at the end
Of Smith, my friend.

Last words don’t matter,
And there are none to flatter.
Words will not fill the post
Of Smith, the ghost.

For Smith, our brother,
Only son of loving mother,
The ocean lifted, stirred,
Leaving no word.
Charles Causey

Song of the Dying Gunner A.A.1

Oh mother my mouth is full of stars
As cartridges in the tray
My blood is a twin-branched scarlet tree
And it runs, all runs away.

Oh Cooks to the Galley is sounded off
And the lads are down in the mess
But I lie done by the forward gun
With a bullet in my breast.
Henry Reed

Naming of Parts

Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday,
We had daily cleaning. And tomorrow morning,
We shall have what to do after firing. But today,
Today we have naming of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighboring gardens,
And today we have naming of parts.
This is the lower sling swivel. And this
Is the upper sling swivel, whose use you will see,
When you are given your slings. And this is the piling swivel,
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
Which in our case we have not got.
This is the safety-catch, which is always released
With an easy flick of the thumb. And please do not let me
See anyone using his finger. You can do it quite easy
If you have any strength in your thumb. The blossoms
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
Any of them using their finger.
And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this
Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it
Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this
Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
They call it easing the Spring.
They call it easing the Spring: it is perfectly easy
If you have any strength in your thumb: like the bolt,
And the breech, and the cocking-piece, and the point of balance,
Which in our case we have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
For today we have naming of parts.
Siegrfied Sassoon

Attack (from The Old Huntsman)

At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glow’ring sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!
The General

‘GOOD-MORNING; good-morning!’ the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
‘He’s a cheery old card,’ grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

I strongly recommend Paul Fussel’s brilliant book The Great War and Modern Memory, which examines the way in which the experience of the front line was expressed, in poetry and prose, by the troops themselves, and by the public at home.

For a deeply moving reading of war poetry, order the CD “Lest We Forget,” on Warner/Teldec (#0630 10201-2). It is unforgettable. Recitations of First and Second World War poetry, accompanied by suitable classical music by the BBC Symphony Orchestra. The readers are well-known British actors like Derek Jacobi and the late Sir John Gielgud (whose reading of “In Flanders Fields” will send shivers down your spine). It will be a special order import, but worth it.

11

SO MANY TIMES I’VE SEEN…
So many times I’ve seen hand-to-hand combat.
Once for real, and a thousand times in dreams.
Whoever says that war is not horrible,
Knows nothing about war.
-Yuliya Drunina-

Osip

12

I’m clueless when it comes to poetry but this thread is fantastic .

Thx all.

13

(As recorded by Steeleye Span)

A recruiting sergeant came my way,
To an inn nearby at the break of day.
He said: “Young Johnny you’re a fine young man,
Do you want to march along behind a military band,
With a scarlet coat, a big cocked hat
And a musket on your shoulder?”
A shilling he took and he kissed the book,
Oh Johnny, what will happen to ya?

What makes you go abroad, fighting for strangers,
When you could be safe at home, free from all dangers?

The recruiting sergeant marched away,
From the inn nearby at the break of day.
Johnny went too, with half ring,
He was off to be a soldier, he’d be fighting for the king,
In a far off war, in a far off land,
To face a foreign soldier.
But how will he fare when there’s lead in the air,
Oh poor Johnny, what will happen to ya?

What makes you go abroad, fighting for strangers,
When you could be safe at home, free from all dangers?

The sun shone high on a barren land,
As a thin red line took the military stand.
Sling shot, chain shot, grape shot too,
Swords and bayonets thrusting through,
Poor Johnny fell but the day was won
And the King is grateful to ya.
With your soldier deeds done, we’re sending you home,
Oh poor Johnny, what have they done to ya?

What makes you go abroad fighting for strangers,
When you could be safe at home, free from all dangers?

Oh, they said he was a hero and not to grieve
Over two wooden legs and an empty sleeve.
They carried him home and they sat him down
With a military pension and a medal from the crown.
You haven’t an arm, you haven’t a leg,
The enemy nearly slew ya.
You’ have to be put with a bowl to beg,
Oh poor Johnny what have they done to ya?

What makes you go abroad, fighting for strangers,
When you could be safe at home, free from all dangers?

14

Dropzone, thank you for finding the lyrics for me. I’m printing this entire thread out for future reference.

BTW, being out of touch with the real world, is registering for the draft still mandatory for 18 year old males. I thought I read soemthing about stopping it.

15

Rupert Brook wrote this while in the trenches where he also died in 1915, aged 28:
The Soldier
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
IMHO, Brook is worthy of deeper investigation as are his contemporaries Stephen Spender and, particulary, Wilfred Owen who also died later in WW1.

16

dropzone said:.

“Americans may wonder at a seeming preoccupation the British have with WWI. If you think that they lost as many men on the first day of the Battle of Verdun as we lost in Vietnam, it comes into perspective.”

Not sure if it’s a preoccupation but maybe it is. It is worth remembering the numbers. Britain lost 1 million soldiers at a time when the country’s population was probably less than 30 million.

Measuring that against today’s US population (of 260-270 million), the equivilant number of death’s would be 9 million soldiers in 4 years.

Just difficult to believe it happened.

17

An so far, not a Housman in the bunch. Well, let’s set that straight.

A. E. Housman

XXXV

      On the idle hill of summer,
           Sleepy with the flow of streams,
      Far I hear the steady drummer
           Drumming like a noise in dreams.
      Far and near and low and louder
           On the roads of earth go by,
      Dear to friends and food for powder,
           Soldiers marching, all to die.
      East and west on fields forgotten
           Bleach the bones of comrades slain,
      Lovely lads and dead and rotten;
           None that go return again.
      Far the calling bugles hollo,
           High the screaming fife replies,
      Gay the files of scarlet follow:
           Woman bore me, I will rise.

The Day of Battle

      "Far I hear the bugle blow
      To call me where I would not go,
      And the guns begin the song,
      'Soldier, fly or stay for long.'

      "Comrade, if to turn and fly
      Made a soldier never die,
      Fly I would, for who would not?
      'Tis sure no pleasure to be shot.

      "But since the man that runs away
      Lives to die another day,
      And cowards' funerals, when they come,
      Are not wept so well at home,

      "Therefore, though the best is bad,
      Stand and do the best, my lad;
      Stand and fight and see your slain,
      And take the bullet in your brain."

I forget the title to this one:

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.

Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries

These in the days when Heaven was falling,
That 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 foundation stayed.
What God abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.

18

FOLLOW ME
From Concord Bridge to Heartbreak Ridge-
Through swamps and mountain and sand
They fight and die where brave men lie,
Against all tyrants they stand

You can hear it in the heat of the jungle.
You can hear it across the sea.
It calls to ev’ry freedom loving man,
The cry of the U.S. Infantry-
“Follow me, follow me.”

These men are strong as the land they love,
They’ve fought through history.
Because of them in the years to come,
All children will be free.

You can hear it in the heat of the jungle.
You can hear it across the sea.
It calls to ev’ry freedom loving man,
The cry of the U.S. Infantry-
“Follow me, follow me.”

They march by land, they drop by air,
Victorious they will see-
The world rebuilt as all men dare
To follow the Infantry.

You can hear it in the heat of the jungle.
You can hear it across the sea.
It calls to ev’ry freedom loving man,
The cry of the U.S. Infantry-
“Follow me, follow me.”

and my most favorite:
THE INFANTRYMAN’S CREED

I am the Infantry.
I am my country’s strength in war,
her deterrent in peace.
I am the heart of the fight-
wherever, whenever.
I carry America’s faith and honor
against her enemies.
I am the Queen of Battle.

I am what my country expects me to be-
the best trained soldier in the world.
In the race for victory,
I am swift, determined, and courageous,
armed with a fierce will to win.

Never will i fail my country’s trust,
Always I fight on-
through the foe,
to the objective
to triumph over all.
If necessary, I fight to my death.

By my steadfast courage,
I have won 200 years of freedom.
I yield not-
to weakness
to hunger
to cowardice
to fatigue
to superior odds
for I am mentally tough, physically strong,
and morally straight.

I forsake not-
my country
my mission
my comrades
my sacred duty.

I am relentless
I am always there,
now and forever,
I AM THE INFANTRY!
FOLLOW ME!

19

Here’s a classic. It was my father’s favorite.

‘High Flight’
by Pilot Officer John Gillespie Magee Jr.
(A Yank in the RCAF, killed over England 12/11/41)

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 untrespassed sanctitiy of space
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.
Here’s one from what my wife calls my “greatest hits of the sixties” tape.

TENTING ON THE OLD CAMPGROUND
Walter Kittridge, 1864

We’re tenting tonight on the old campground,
Give us a song to cheer
Our weary hearts, a song of home,
And friends we love so dear.

Chorus:
Many are the hearts that are weary tonight,
Wishing for the war to cease,
Many are the hearts, looking for the right,
To see the dawn of peace.
Tenting tonight, tenting tonight,
Tenting on the old campground.

We’ve been tenting tonight on the old campground,
Thinking of days gone by;
Of the loved ones at home that gave us the hand,
And the tear that said “goodbye!”

Chorus:

We’ve been fighting today on the old campground,
Many are lying near,
Some are dead and some are dying,
Many are in tears.

Last Chorus:

Many are the hearts that are weary tonight,
Wishing for the war to cease,
Many are the hearts, looking for the right,
To see the dawn of peace.
Dying tonight, dying tonight,
Dying on the old campground.
And, because I found it, and always wanted to know the lyrics (I love the internet!). A little (!) jingoistic. You can see why he mostly stuck with music instead of lyrics.

‘The Stars and Stripes Forever’
by John Philips Sousa

Let martial note in triumph float
And liberty extend its mighty hand
A flag appears 'mid thunderous cheers,
The banner of the Western land.
The emblem of the brave and true
Its folds protect no tyrant crew;
The red and white and starry blue
Is freedom’s shield and hope.

Other nations may deem their flags the best
And cheer them with fervid elation
But the flag of the North and South and West
Is the flag of flags, the flag of Freedom’s nation.

Hurrah for the flag of the free!
May it wave as our standard forever,
The gem of the land and the sea,
The banner of the right.
Let despots remember the day
When our fathers with mighty endeavor
Proclaimed as they marched to the fray
That by their might and by their right
It waves forever.

Let eagle shriek from lofty peak
The never-ending watchword of our land;
Let summer breeze waft through the trees
The echo of the chorus grand.
Sing out for liberty and light,
Sing out for freedom and the right.
Sing out for Union and its might,
O patriotic sons.

Other nations may deem their flags the best
And cheer them with fervid elation,
But the flag of the North and South and West
Is the flag of flags, the flag of Freedom’s nation.

Hurrah for the flag of the free.
May it wave as our standard forever
The gem of the land and the sea,
The banner of the right.
Let despots remember the day
When our fathers with might endeavor
Proclaimed as they marched to the fray,
That by their might and by their right
It waves forever.

20

Read every year at ANZAC Day services in New Zealand (and I understand at Armistice services across Britain), are these lines from For The Fallen, a poem by Laurence Binyon (1869 - 1943):

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 on the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

Referring to these lines, the english poet, Roger McGough, wrote a poem which IIRC is called Picnics and goes:

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,
I try to remember them,
But their names are ordinary names,
And their causes are thighbones,
Tugged excitedly from the soil,
By french children,
On picnics.