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The Reveille

Trumpets of the Lancer Corps
Sound a loud reveille;
Sound it over Sydney shore,
Send the message far and wide
Down the Richmond River side.
Boot and Saddle, mount and ride,
Sound a loud reveille.
Whither go ye, Lancers gay,
With your bold reveille?
O'er the ocean far away
From your sunny southern home,
Over leagues of trackless foam
In a foreign land to roam,
With your bold reveille.

When we hear our brethren call,
Sound a clear reveille.
Then we answer, one and all,
Answer that the world may see,
Of the English stock are we,
At their side we still will be,
Sound a bold reveille.

English troops are buried deep.
Sound a soft reveille.
In this foreign land asleep,
Underneath Majuba Hill,
Lying sleeping very still,
Nevermore those squadrons will
Answer to reveille.

Onward without fear or doubt,
Sound a bold reveille.
'Till that shame is blotted out.
While our Empire's bounds are wide,
Britons all stand side by side,
Boot and saddle, mount and ride.
Hear the bold reveille.

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest; thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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The Lady of the Lake: Canto 1 (excerpt)

SONG

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:
Dream of battled fields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall,
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting fields no more:
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.

No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come
At the day-break from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum,
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping....

Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumbrous spells assail ye,
Dream not, with the rising sun,
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
Sleep! the deer is in his den;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest; thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.

poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Far Fetched

I wish to see the flag fly high
and never at half mast.
I wish to see the world at peace
and not repeat the past.

I wish to hear the bugler play
his morning reveille
and never hear the sound of taps
from war's sad memory.

I wish to see all fields of battle
come to life again
and filled with penitent faces
that bring hatred to an end.

Wishes are wishes.
Dreams are dreams
and usually come apart
at the seams,
but I still wish anyway.

poem by Edwina Reizer
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Confederate Memorial Day

The marching armies of the past
Along our Southern plains,
Are sleeping now in quiet rest
Beneath the Southern rains.

The bugle call is now in vain
To rouse them from their bed;
To arms they'll never march again-
They are sleeping with the dead.

No more will Shiloh's plains be stained
With blood our heroes shed,
Nor Chancellorsville resound again
To our noble warriors' tread.

For them no more shall reveille
Sound at the break of dawn,
But may their sleep peaceful be
Till God's great judgment morn.

We bow our heads in solemn prayer
For those who wore the gray,
And clasp again their unseen hands
On our Memorial Day.

poem by Anonymous Americas
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Initiate 2008

Reveille sounds a trumpet call
Rise from your beds reluctantly
This wake up call applies to all.
Strident with authority.

We do things militarily.
You will now wash and shave your face
You signed on voluntarily
and now you have to earn your place.

A raw recruit’s of little use
still tainted by civilian ways
A subject for stripeys abuse.
Of sympathy there’s little trace,

For drill instructors have no hearts.
Their job to turn boys into men
Reveille sounds and the day starts,
Your protests must remain unspoken.

You’ll be harassed from morn til night.
Your only duty to obey.
Until you learn to get it right
and do things in the army way.

If you survive and make the grade.
One of the few the very few
to reach the passing out parade.
Your parents will be proud of you

Though it was tough you had enough
pride in yourself to stick it out.
Showed you were made of sterner stuff
than those who failed without a doubt.

You proved yourself to be a man
So wear your uniform with pride,
you earned the right. You know you can
succeed although you were sorely tried.

You did what you set out to do
achieved the goal you had in mind
You toughed it out and saw it through.
Now you can leave boot camp behind

In coming years you will recall.
When you must face the enemy
and see your fellow soldiers fall.
Your boot camp days nostalgically.

25-Aug-08

http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Good night! which put the candle out?

Good night! which put the candle out?
A jealous zephyr, not a doubt.
Ah! friend, you little knew
How long at that celestial wick
The angels labored diligent;
Extinguished, now, for you!

It might have been the lighthouse spark
Some sailor, rowing in the dark,
Had importuned to see!
It might have been the waning lamp
That lit the drummer from the camp
To purer reveille!

poem by Emily Dickinson
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The Ride

In the east they can meditate
They can recreate the sound of all and bring us home
I think Ill go there some day
Maybe for a holiday
Maybe just light a candle, take a seat for the ride
And you dont need no money to fly, to truly fly away (recreate the sound of
All)
And you dont need no car to truly ride, truly ride away (recreate the sound of
All)
In the west we think were the best
Weve shown the whole wide world that money is all we care for
Someday the scientists will see theres no such thing as gravity
Theyll all just light a candle, take a seat for the ride
And you dont need no money to fly, to truly fly away (recreate the sound of
All)
And you dont need no car to truly ride, truly ride away (recreate the sound of
All)
As you ascend in silence, all doubt behind you
You reach the summit my friend and find your destiny
And you dont need no money to fly, to truly fly away (recreate the sound of
All)
And you dont need no car to truly ride, truly ride away (recreate the sound of
All)
And you dont need no money to fly, to truly fly away (recreate the sound of
All)
And you dont need no car to truly ride, truly ride away (recreate the sound of
All)
To truly ride away

song performed by by Live
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Elle m'a Attrapé

Elle m’a attrapé avant que je ne tombe
Elle m’a réveillé par la Chaleur de son âme
Elle m’a envouté par la Beauté de son corps
Elle m’a fait Apôtre de sa Mélodie
Elle m’a fait Hôte de son Mont de Vénus

Alors,
Je lui fabrique des bisous canadairs
Je lui parle de nos mémoires
Je lui largue des lettres pour trouver nos mots
Je lui ouvre mon cœur pour renverser nos maux
Je lui dédie ce sentiment qu’est l’Amour

poem by Etienne Dugland
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Harriet Beecher Stowe

She told the story, and the whole world wept
At wrongs and cruelties it had not known
But for this fearless woman's voice alone.
She spoke to consciences that long had slept:
Her message, Freedom's clear reveille, swept
From heedless hovel to complacent throne.
Command and prophecy were in the tone
And from its sheath the sword of justice leapt.
Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave,
But both came forth transfigured from the flame.
Blest be the hand that dared be strong to save,
And blest be she who in our weakness came--
Prophet and priestess! At one stroke she gave
A race to freedom and herself to fame.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Oh, How I Hate To Get Up In The Morning

I've been a soldier quite a while
And I would like to state
The life is simply wonderful
The Army food is great
I sleep with ninety-seven others in a wooden hut
I love them all
They all love me
It's very lovely but
Oh!How I hate to get up in the morning
Oh!How I'd love to remain in bed
For the hardest blow of all
Is to hear the bugler call
Ya gotta get up
Ya gotta get up
Ya gotta get up this morning
Someday I'm going to murder the bugler
Someday they're going to find him dead
I'll amputate his reveille
And step upon it heavily
And spend the rest of my life in bed
[alternate lines in 2nd chorus:]
And then I'll get that other pup
The guy who wakes the bugler up

song performed by by Irving Berlin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I'm Out of the Army Now

When first I doffed my olive drab,
I thought, delightfully though mutely,
"Henceforth I shall have pleasure ab-
Solutely."

Dull with the drudgery of war,
Sick of the name of fighting,
I yearned, I thought, for something more
Exciting.

The rainbow be my guide, quoth I;
My suit shall be a brave and proud one
Gay-hued my socks; and oh, my tie
A loud one.

For me the theater and the dance;
Primrose the path I would be wending;
For me the roses of romance
Unending.

Those were my inner thoughts that day
(And those of many another million)
When once again I should be a
Civilian.

I would not miss the o.d.;
(Monotony I didn't much like)
I would not miss the reveille,
And such the like.

I don't . . . And do I now enjoy
My walks along the primrose way so?
Is civil life the life? Oh, boy,
I'll say so.

poem by Franklin P. Adams
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Sounds that should not be missed

Sound of blossom of a flower,
I desire to hear,
the sound of nature.

Sound of rain's glassy water drop,
over a roof's top,
the sound of joy.

Sound of beat of our heart,
through our ears caught,
the sound of wonder.

Sound of delicious supper in boil,
after a great day's toil,
the sound of hunger.

Sound of a mother's loving ballad,
hearing the cry of her toddler,
the sound of love! ! !

poem by Shyam Balaji
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Fine Young Yesterday

Soft pacifists in murals of malaise:
I can barely see you sweaty over the bedroom of
My young days,
Because my ears are burning from cheap wine,
They don’t hear reveille or get up on time,
And they are past over like sated lions on Mondays,
And the tourists have all gone down their enthroned
Gullets like strawberry Sundays,
And up in the sky didn’t I say they are advertising
Your wedding day;
But anyway, hip hip hurray: and didn’t they once have
The world fair in Saint Louis or
Chicago; and weren’t we there high stepping through
The papier-mâché jungles-
And didn’t you know that Sara Teasdale is buried
Belle Fontaine, that she was married to someone she
Didn’t love,
And the way she thought of him along the stark midways
Of her younger days- I’m sure I know, if I can’t rightly
Say-
The traffic skips by like amphibians opening wide
And ululating on into crepuscule,
And I missed you in school today, but I guess it doesn’t
Matter, because I am not beautiful
And I don’t think you love me- at least not the way
I love you- forever- even if you once loved me that
Fine young yesterday.

poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
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The Fog

reveille
overnight rain continues
longevity
the heart is still beating
kedat twitch
many fart
demanding motion continues
calling my wife 'honey, fat'
where are you, is it going?
At the same time, the vendor rolls through, blowing his trumpet
tut, tut, who buy bread battered
ah, the world is still spinning
Furthermore, while the angel of death
pick mist
parted the curtains of the sky
invite Marley
though creed nurcahya
burning chest young children
with love, the light of love
in the hearts of idol
only puja,
coming out of the lips prayers romance
who always struggled with fog

poem by Prasetya Utama
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The Desperate Ones

Jacques Brel, Jouannest, Eric Blau, Mort Shuman
They hold each others hands
They walk without a sound
Down forgotten streets
Their shadows kiss the ground
Their footsteps
sing a song
Tat's ended before it's begun
They walk without a sound
The desperate ones
Just like the tiptoe moth
That dance before the flame
They burn their hearts so much
That death is just a name
And if love calls again
So foolishly they run, they run, they run
They run, they run, they run, they run
They run without a sound
The desperate ones
I know the road tey're on
I've walked their crooked mile
A hundred times or more
I drank their cup of bile
They watch their dreams go down
Be hind the settin sun
Yeh, yeh, yeh, they walk without a sound
The desperate ones
Le he who threw the stone at them
Stand up and take a bow
He knows the verb "to love"
Beu he'll never, never, never know how
On the bridge of nevermore
They disappear one by one
Disappear without a sound
The desperate ones
And underneath the bridge
The water's sweet and deep
This is their journey's end
The land of endless sleep
They cry to us for help
We think it's all in fun,
They cry, they cry, they cry, they cry
Without a sound
They disappear without a sound
They walk without a sound without a sound
Disappear without a sound
Cry without a sound
Yai, yaj, yaj, yaj, yaj, yaj, yaj
The desperate ones

song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Daffodil

Gold tassel upon March's bugle-horn,
Whose blithe reveille blows from hill to hill
And every valley rings--O Daffodil!
What promise for the season newly born?
Shall wave on wave of flow'rs, full tide of corn,
O'erflow the world, then fruited Autumn fill
Hedgerow and garth? Shall tempest, blight, or chill
Turn all felicity to scathe and scorn?

Tantarrara! the joyous Book of Spring
Lies open, writ in blossoms; not a bird
Of evil augury is seen or heard:
Come now, like Pan's old crew, we'll dance and sing,
Or Oberon's: for hill and valley ring
To March's bugle-horn,--Earth's blood is stirred.

poem by William Allingham
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On The Lonely Side Of Town

On the lonely side of town
When no one else is around
Her brown eyes cry those tears
Over her loves from the past years
Her heart is breaking without a sound

On the lonely side of town
She feels just like a clown
With tears pouring from her eyes
With no rhymn or reason why
But life has turned her upside down

On the lonely side of town
Her head is hanging down
Shaking from side to side
With not much left of her pride
There on that lonely side of town

On the lonely side of town
She is lost behind her frown
But in ways she may never know
Her love fine it's way to show
And by her love she is bound

On the lonely side of town
You can hear the old train sound
Reminding her of those days
When life glowed with brighter rays
Even on that lonely side of town

On the lonely side of town
She is loved by leaps and bounds
Even though she may not see
Love'S the only thing that's free
And it creaps up on her without a sound

poem by Norman Hale
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Veterans

When the last charge sounds
And the battle thunders o'er the plain,
Thunders o'er the trenches where the red streams flow,
Will it not be well with us,
Veterans, veterans,
If, beneath your torn old flag, we burst upon the foe?

When the last post sounds
And the night is on the battle-field,
Night and rest at last from all the tumult of our wars,
Will it not be well with us,
Veterans, veterans,
If, with duty done like yours, we lie beneath the stars?

When the great réveillé sounds
For the terrible last Sabbath,
All the legions of the dead shall hear the trumpet ring!
Will it not be well with us,
Veterans, veterans,
If, beneath your torn old flag, we rise to meet our King?

poem by Alfred Noyes
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Desperate Ones

Jacques brel, jouannest, eric blau, mort shuman
They hold each others hands
They walk without a sound
Down forgotten streets
Their shadows kiss the ground
Their footsteps
Sing a song
Tats ended before its begun
They walk without a sound
The desperate ones
Just like the tiptoe moth
That dance before the flame
They burn their hearts so much
That death is just a name
And if love calls again
So foolishly they run, they run, they run
They run, they run, they run, they run
They run without a sound
The desperate ones
I know the road teyre on
Ive walked their crooked mile
A hundred times or more
I drank their cup of bile
They watch their dreams go down
Be hind the settin sun
Yeh, yeh, yeh, they walk without a sound
The desperate ones
Le he who threw the stone at them
Stand up and take a bow
He knows the verb to love
Beu hell never, never, never know how
On the bridge of nevermore
They disappear one by one
Disappear without a sound
The desperate ones
And underneath the bridge
The waters sweet and deep
This is their journeys end
The land of endless sleep
They cry to us for help
We think its all in fun,
They cry, they cry, they cry, they cry
Without a sound
They disappear without a sound
They walk without a sound without a sound
Disappear without a sound
Cry without a sound
Yai, yaj, yaj, yaj, yaj, yaj, yaj
The desperate ones

song performed by by Nina Simone
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pejar Creek

Deep in the meadow grass
Easy stand the cattle,
Lightly lock the young bulls
In a mimic battle,
Pride gathers with each shock,
Every break and rally -
That’s where the Pejar runs,

Runs like a slip of silver through the valley.
Softly as a thrush sings
In the morning hushes,
Softly sing the waters
Round the reedy rushes,
Softly at the sand-bar,
Softly at the sally -
That’s where the Pejar runs,
Runs like a slip of silver through the valley.

Where awakes the morning
To dapple all the hills,
Where dewdrop, shaken,
Pendant slides and spills,
Where the golden bugles
Sunset calls reveille -
That’s where the Pejar runs,
Runs like a slip of silver through the valley.

Where the springtime blossoms
Like a mellow laughter,
Over all the grasses,
Over ridge and rafter,
Over all the tree-tops,
Down each ferny valley -
That’s where the Pejar runs,

Runs like a slip of silver through the valley.
Where the Pejar rises
Springs the Wollondilly,
Twinned upon the mountains
Babbling brook and ghyllie;

Where the bridge-heads rumble
Side by side they dally -
Out where the Pejar runs,
Runs like a slip of silver through the valley.

poem by Dame Mary Gilmore
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