The Man who Keeps his Head
THERE'S a man who fights for England, and
he'll keep her still atop,
He will guard her from dishonour in the market
and the shop,
He will save her homes from terror on the fields of
Daily Bread,
He's the man who sticks to business, he's the man
who keeps his head.
Let the foe who strikes at England hear her wheels
of commerce turn,
Let the ships that war with England see her factory
furnace burn;
For the foe most fears the cannon, and his heart
most quails with dread
When behind the man in khaki is the man who
keeps his head.
Brand him traitor and assassin who with miser's
coward mood
Has his gold locked up in secret and his larders
stored with food,
Who has cast adrift his workers, who lies sweating
in his bed,
And who snarls to hear the laughter of the man
Who keeps his head.
Let the poor man teach the rich man, for the poor
man's constant strife
Is from day to day to seek work, day by day to war
with life,
And the poor man's home hangs ever by a frail and
brittle thread,
And the poor man's often hungry, but the poor
man keeps his head.
When the ships come back from slaughter, and the
troops march home from war;
When the havoc strewn behind us threats the road
that lies before,
Every hero shall be welcomed, every orphan shall
be fed,
By the man who stuck to business, by the man who
kept his head.
poem by Harold Begbie from Poems of the Great War
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Related quotes
From the Bush
The Channel fog has lifted –
And see where we have come!
Round all the world we've drifted,
A hundred years from "home".
The fields our parents longed for –
Ah! we shall ne'er know how –
The wealth that they were wronged for
We'll see as strangers now!
The Dover cliffs have passed on –
In the morning light aglow –
That our fathers looked their last on
A weary time ago.
Now grin, and grin your bravest!
We need be strong to fight;
For you go home to picture
And I go home to write.
Hold up your head in England,
Tread firm on London streets;
We come from where the strong heart
Of all Australia beats!
Hold up your head in England
However poor you roam!
For no men are your betters
Who never sailed from home!
From a hundred years of hardships –
'Tis ours to tell the cost –
From a thousand miles of silence
Where London would be lost;
From where the glorious sunset
On sweeps of mulga glows –
Ah! we know more than England,
And more than Europe knows!
Hold up your head in London,
However poor you come,
For no man is your better
Who never sailed from home!
Our "home" and foreign fathers,
Where none but men dared go,
Have done more for the White Man
Than England e'er shall know!
poem by Henry Lawson
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Crying For Bread
"Please, lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
The suit fits you splendidly--that you'll allow.
Oh! don't say tomorrow! I see you are going;
But this will not hinder long--please pay me now.
Ma work'd all night for you! ev'ry minute;
Now she lies groaning with pain in her head;
And there by the pantry (with not a thing in it),
Sits poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
"On! driver, on! they have all gone before us,
And I will not be late at the ball," Beauty said;
And wintry winds echoed her answer in chorus
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!
"Please lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
I'll run and get change for you. Don't call me bold--
But how could you dance tonight all the time knowing
That we were left suffering, hungry and cold?
Ma looks so wild! she keeps calling for Daisy;
That was the name of my sister that's dead.
Oh! what shall I do, with my Ma going crazy,
And poor little Theodore cryiing for bread?
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
"Please lady! please pay my Ma for her sewing;
She must have some medicine--that let me buy.
Now, don't speak of beggars! 'tis money you're owing:
Do please, pay me part of it--else we must die."
On the wheels roll'd, and Fidele returned weeping;
Ah! in her absence a spirit had fled,
And morning light found her a weary watch keeping,
With poor little Theodore crying for bread!
Poor little Theodore crying for bread!"
poem by Henry Clay Work
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The Song Of An Emigrant
Far away! O far away,
Over the wide sea's bounding spray,
Many a league o'er the pelting foam.
We seek a country, we seek a home!
Farewell, England! our native land,
Lingering still on thy verdant strand,
We look our last on thy once-loved shore,
And vow in our hearts to return no more.
Far away! O far away!
Nothing invites us here to stay.
England, our mother, is hard as stone,
And shuts her ear to her children's moan,
And running on to destruction sure,
Pampers the rich, and grinds the poor!
Farewell, England! A last farewell!
We fly thy shores, but we wish thee well.
Far away! O far away!
We seek a world o'er the ocean spray.
Welcome, O land across the sea,
Where bread is plenty, and man is free;
Welcome, the woods and deserts drear,
And boundless fields of another sphere.
Our sails are set, and the breezes swell,
England, Our country--Farewell! Farewell!
poem by Charles Mackay
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New movement
I can't believe! ! England,
For poverty how can She stands.
The land of liberty and dignity,
Where are identity and humanity?
The poor become poorer,
the rich become richer.
Oh bad capitalization is in top of civilization,
Allah helps the poor in every nation.
If the poverty were a man, i 'd kill
Omar 's dictum curing for the ill.
The rich must help the poor
To have no envy, make the heart pure.
We respect you! ! England,
Rising humanity, you put a hand.
We don't go to the black ages,
when people put in cages,
Where they escape in caves.
We are at the era of enlightenment,
The revolutions are everywhere in new movement.
poem by khaled Elbalishy
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Emily
Emily shrugs and drags her heels as she takes the guided tour
It seemed like such an amazing deal
When she was looking at the brochure
Stuck on a bus with strangers
Wishing she could be ay home
With me poor little emily
How does it feel to be free?
Lyin in bed
The pain in my head
From running around all day
Tryin to find what was rightfully mine
But I ran out of things to say
Runnin around with strangers
Wishing she could run away with me..
Poor little emily,
How does it feel to be free
From familiar fingertips
To a persecuted grip?
From the pan into the fire
Now a thread becomes a wire
Under which you must crawl
Through a ditch and over the wall
Emily works her fingers
Right down to her aching bones
While my aching heads got me stuck
In bed working on being alone
Working around the clock
Wishing she had worked it out with me
Poor little emily
How does it feel to be free?
Poor little emily
How does it feel to be free?
Poor little emily
How does it feel to be free?
song performed by by Fastball
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Poor Baby
Orbison/c & r price
Glittery eyes; witchy smiles
A good time is all you are after
Skin tight thighs; little white lies
Put you in the center of the laughter
But your reign of queen is over
Your fortress has been broken down
You're still the center of the laughter
But your role has changed to the clown
Chorus
Ooh poor baby
Someone broke your heart in two
Ooh poor baby
Who would have thought it could happen to you
Poor baby
A pretty face; sweet talkin' ways
Got you a part of the action
A come-over-touch, glances and such
You always had to be the main attraction
Now you're the one who's crying
You lost at your own lonely game
You're still the center of attraction
But now i'm gone, you've got yourself to blame
Chorus
Ooh poor baby
Do what you said you'd never do
Ooh poor baby
You let someone get much too close to you
Poor baby
Poor baby,poor baby
Poor baby,poor baby
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tom Dooley
Hang your head, hang your head, Tom Dooley hang your head and cry
Killed poor Laura Foster, you know you're bound to die
Bury her on the hillside, make the people see
Put the coat over, tromp her with your feet
Hang your head Tom Dooley, hang your head and cry
Killed poor Laura Foster, don't you know your bound to die
Bury her on the hillside with other people's lives
Hang your head Tom Dooley, hang your head and cry
Killed poor Laurea Foster, don't you know you're bound to die
First time I went courting, pretty brave of me
Just to sing from her old oak tree
Hang your mama with kindness blame it on this morning
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Son Of A Poor Man
Hometown lady, leavin for the city
Bags in hand, shes boardin the train
Her last look through the window, I saw her eyes were as red as mine
I waved goodbye but I cant believe shes leaving.
But a woman cant be high-class
In a lonely farmers town
And the son of a poor man
Aint gonna turn your head around
But if you ever get lonely
Just pick up the telephone
And the son of a poor man will bring you home.
Maybe soon Ill see her on some television show
Painted lips and fingers singing for the world
A fashion plate for sure dancin for your plastic world
Call me up if you can but if not well Ill understand
But a woman cant be high-class
In a lonely farmers town
And the son of a poor man
Aint gonna turn your head around
But if you ever get lonely
Just pick up the telephone
And the son of a poor man will bring you home.
song performed by by Reo Speedwagon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Poor
Few, save the poor, feel for the poor:
The rich know not how hard
It is to be of needful food
And needful rest debarred.
Their paths are paths of plenteousness,
They sleep on silk and down;
And never think how heavily
The weary head lies down.
They know not of the scanty meal,
With small pale faces round;
No fire upon the cold, damp hearth
When snow is on the ground.
They never by the window lean,
And see the gay pass by;
Then take their weary task again,
But with a sadder eye.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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Kaw-liga
Hank williams
Kaw-liga was a wooden indian standing by the door
He fell in love with an indian maid over in the antique store
Kaw-liga just stood there and never let it show
So she could never answer yes or no
He always wore his sunday feathers and held a tomahawk
The maiden wore her beads and braids and hoped someday hed talk
Kaw-liga, too stubborn to ever show a sign
Because his heart was made of knotty pine
Poor old kaw-liga, he never got a kiss
Poor old kaw-liga, he dont know what he missed
Is it any wonder that his face is red?
Kaw-liga,that poor old wooden head
Kaw-liga was a lonely indian, never went nowhere
His heart was set on the indian maid with the coal black hair
Kaw-liga just stood there and never let it show
So she could never answer yes or no
Poor old kaw-liga, he never got a kiss
Poor old kaw-liga, he dont know what he missed
Is it any wonder that his face is red?
Kaw-liga,that poor old wooden head
Then one day a wealthy customer bought the indian maid
And took her oh so far away, but old kaw-liga stayed
Kaw-liga just stands there as lonely as can be
And wishes he was still an old pine tree
Poor old kaw-liga, he never got a kiss
Poor old kaw-liga, he dont know what he missed
Is it any wonder that his face is red?
Kaw-liga,that poor old wooden head
Kaw-liga, kaw-liga kaw-liga....
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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He’s Gone to England for a Wife
HE’S GONE to England for a wife
Among the ladies there;
And yet I know a lass he deemed
The rarest of the rare.
He’s gone to England for a wife;
And rich and proud is he.
But he was poor and toiled for bread
When first he courted me.
He said I was the best on earth;
He said I was “his life”;
And now he thinks of noble birth,
And seeks a lady wife!
He said for me alone he’d toil
To win an honest fame;
But now no lass on southern soil
Is worthy of his name!
I think I see his lady bride,
A fair and faultless face,
And nothing in her heart beside
The empty pride of race.
And she will grace his gilded home,
The wife his gold shall buy;
But will she ever dream of him,
Or love as well as I?
poem by Henry Lawson
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My Poor Brain
Real life is so hard
We hide in the stars
That's where our heads are
My head and your heart
CHORUS
This a black out
Don't let it go to waste
This is a black out
I want to detonate
When you are so far
I'm falling apart
Lose all my sonar
You jam my radar
CHORUS
Sometimes I feel like getting stuck
Between the handshake and the f*ck
You've got me on guard
I've got my headstart
My head and your heart
The same in the stars
CHORUS
Sometimes I wish that I could change
I can't save you from my poor brain
OK
song performed by by Foo Fighters from The Colour And The Shape
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hollywood Holiday
I rode my motorcycle through a watermelon patch
Right on the california freeway
I took my holy Bible on my blessed boogie woogie drive
Cause I know I know I know
Where I go oh lord theyre gonna bless me jive
Poor you poor me
Poor everybody who buy to be
Poor me poor you
Poor everybody who die to do
I parked my motorcycle on hollywood and vine
And sang till my red blood turned boiling blue
I took my sole survival and bore my cross on a string
Cause I know I know I know
What I dear I bear my charm to king
Poor you poor me
Poor everybody who buy to be
Poor me poor you
Poor everybody who die to do
song performed by by Gino Vanelli
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Rich and Poor
In me a sense has felt like each,
One causes others to wonder of strange beliefs,
In a feeding are the poor,
Poor are the opposite of the Rich.
In this side of the valley,
The Rich are better at living,
In opposition to the laughter
Of the Poor.
Poor is not Rich,
And Rich carries no Wealth
Of Heavenly Times.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Poor Little Girl
Poor little girl
With her head in the air
Theres a poorly sick world all around you
Poor horny boy
One thing on his mind
That poor little girl
He must find you
Chorus:
Theres a whole lotta love
Shaking inside of me
And I must figure out why its there
Theres a bottomless heart
Thats hooked into all of you
And its wondering how much you care
Poor little girl
With a whole in her heart
Theres a poorly sick world all around you
Poor horny boy
One thing on his mind
That poor little girl
He must find you
Theres a whole lotta love
Shaking inside of me
And I must figure out why its there
Theres a bottomless heart
Hooked into all of you
And its wondering how much you care
Poor little boy
Head in a whirl
Theres a phony slick world all around you
That poor little girl
With her head in the air
That poor little boy he must find you
Theres a whole lotta love
Shaking inside of me
And I must figure out why its there
Theres a bottomless heart
Hooked into all of you
And its wondering how much you care
Theres a need and desire I have
To express whats inside of me
I must figure it out while its still there
And an endless amout of
Of a joy that you touch me with
Thought its almost too much for me to bear
Poor litte girl
song performed by by George Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pro Rege Nostro
WHAT have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice again
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England: --
'Take and break us: we are yours,
England, my own!
Life is good, and joy runs high
Between English earth and sky:
Death is death; but we shall die
To the Song on your bugles blown, England --
To the stars on your bugles blown!'
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies,
You could know nor dread nor ease,
Were the Song on your bugles blown, England --
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song of your bugles blown, England --
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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Xyz
Once was, never the better by worse -
Adopted by the attitude which is used by the rich -
Stones are stones, yet they carry gold -
Why do we exchange to letter the poor, poor -
Struggle becomes normal, rags dressed to be formal -
Food is the sacred passage whereby some have to survive -
That which is thrown away by you as useless -
Builds another mans house -
A home, protection for his family -
What will be the outcome, to standby to fly -
And the rest of the humans die -
Of hunger, starvation is an equations -
One does not equal the other -
Rich does not equal poor -
XYZ
Yet, without the poor you will be dead
poem by Unic Cjonr
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What Have I Done For You
What have I done for you,
England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own?
With your glorious eyes austere,
As the Lord were walking near,
Whispering terrible things and dear
As the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Round the world on your bugles blown!
Where shall the watchful Sun,
England, my England,
Match the master-work you've done,
England, my own?
When shall he rejoice agen
Such a breed of mighty men
As come forward, one to ten,
To the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Down the years on your bugles blown?
Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:-
'Take and break us: we are yours,
'England, my own!
'Life is good, and joy runs high
'Between English earth and sky:
'Death is death; but we shall die
'To the Song on your bugles blown,
'England -
'To the stars on your bugles blown!
They call you proud and hard,
England, my England:
You with worlds to watch and ward,
England, my own!
You whose mailed hand keeps the keys
Of such teeming destinies
You could know nor dread nor ease
Were the Song on your bugles blown,
England,
Round the Pit on your bugles blown!
Mother of Ships whose might,
England, my England,
Is the fierce old Sea's delight,
England, my own,
Chosen daughter of the Lord,
Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient sword,
There's the menace of the Word
In the Song on your bugles blown,
England -
Out of heaven on your bugles blown!
poem by William Ernest Henley
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England of my Heart
I'm feeling love for the England of my heart
I'm tired of those who deride you for unfixed teeth and boiled food
Poor drinking habits and guardian Queen
When you are better, beautiful in your what-the-hell
Of unprincipled tolerance and half-assed prejudice -
Too lazy to be serious and a whole lot better than the full-assed kind.
Well England, only a third of you actually voted for Thatcher
And still fewer would admit it now. Although as I recall
You did it three times. Well England,
You coined the delicious name, B.Liar, when that bloke
Proclaiming the dawn of justice hustled us down the war crimes road
And I hear you embraced Joe Strummer and chicken masala
When fish and disco became hard to find.
Home of the National Trust, home to throngs of animal lovers
Constantly irritated by the sight of children. But you'll learn,
I know you'll learn to love 'em in time. You decolonized.
You never let us down.
I'm one of your happy Jews and
It took you just eight centuries to love us too.
This love for England grows in my heart
With every episode of East Enders glimpsed in exile
And with each new young nurse and African soccer star
England gathers in the talented poor, grudgingly.
The daily rags and politicos play to the stands, but the crowd
Does not really hate the immigrant, it is more concerned
With flowers in the garden and neighbours down the road.
England holds its messy barbeques on impromptu summer nights
And exports beautiful games it is never very good at
Litterbugs and lovers sprawl in the glorious green parks
Half-listening to Bolero and the 1812.
England is no expert at either love or war
But wins your heart and saves the world for fairness and sports
At the last gasp, the eleventh hour, just before closing time.
England is a home with half-open doors, constructed with delays and flaws
But open to perfection, one small step at a time.
Who could not love an imperfect child? And who could not find
A pennyworth of love for my dear old Aunt
Who calls me 'duckie' when she gets me on the blower
Who curls her toes when I reply, across the pond,
'Hi there my love, my England fair and fine'?
poem by Frank Bana
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Little By Little
Poor man's anger rising.
The ostrich hides his head.
Soon the red blood will be boiling.
And blue blood will be dead.
While we say.
(chorus)
Little by little by little,
And stone by stone.
Rich man's mountain comes crumbling down
Poor boy sleeps on straw,
The rich boy sleeps in bed.
That fat boy fills his belly,
My poor boys's a dead,
While we say.
(chorus)
Little by little by little,
And stone by stone.
Rich man's mountain comes crumbling down.
The rich man drives his car past,
The poor man on bare feet.
That rich man do get what he wants
The poor must know defeat,
While we say.
(chorus)
Little by little by little,
And stone by stone.
Rich man's mountain comes crumbling down.
song performed by by Ub40
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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