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The Colored Soldiers

IF the muse were mine to tempt it
And my feeble voice were strong,
If my tongue were trained to measures,
I would sing a stirring song.
I would sing a song heroic
Of those noble sons of Ham,
Of the gallant colored soldiers
Who fought for Uncle Sam!
In the early days you scorned them,
And with many a flip and flout
Said 'These battles are the white man's,
And the whites will fight them out.'
Up the hills you fought and faltered,
In the vales you strove and bled,
While your ears still heard the thunder
Of the foes' advancing tread.
Then distress fell on the nation,
And the flag was drooping low;
Should the dust pollute your banner?
No! the nation shouted, No!
So when War, in savage triumph,
Spread abroad his funeral pall —
Then you called the colored soldiers,
And they answered to your call.
And like hounds unleashed and eager
For the life blood of the prey,
Spring they forth and bore them bravely
In the thickest of the fray.
And where'er the fight was hottest,
Where the bullets fastest fell,
There they pressed unblanched and fearless
At the very mouth of hell.
Ah, they rallied to the standard
To uphold it by their might;
None were stronger in the labors,
None were braver in the fight.
From the blazing breach of Wagner
To the plains of Olustee,
They were foremost in the fight
Of the battles of the free.
And at Pillow! God have mercy
On the deeds committed there,
And the souls of those poor victims
Sent to Thee without a prayer.
Let the fulness of Thy pity
O'er the hot wrought spirits sway
Of the gallant colored soldiers
Who fell fighting on that day!
Yes, the Blacks enjoy their freedom,
And they won it dearly, too;
For the life blood of their thousands
Did the southern fields bedew.
In the darkness of their bondage,
In the depths of slavery's night,
Their muskets flashed the dawning,
And they fought their way to light.
They were comrades then and brothers.
Are they more or less to-day?
They were good to stop a bullet
And to front the fearful fray.
They were citizens and soldiers,
When rebellion raised its head;
And the traits that made them worthy,—
Ah! those virtues are not dead.
They have shared your nightly vigils,
They have shared your daily toil;
And their blood with yours commingling
Has enriched the Southern soil.
They have slept and marched and suffered
'Neath the same dark skies as you,
They have met as fierce a foeman,
And have been as brave and true.
And their deeds shall find a record
In the registry of Fame;
For their blood has cleansed completely
Every blot of Slavery's shame.
So all honor and all glory
To those noble sons of Ham —
The gallant colored soldiers
Who fought for Uncle Sam!

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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The Two Brave Soldiers

Air -- "The Texas Rangers"

My friends, I pray you listen,
A story I will tell;
It's of two noble soldiers,
And they were known full well;
They were killed in the rebellion,
As you shall plainly hear,
Those brave and noble soldiers,
No danger did they fear.

They enlisted in Grand Rapids,
In eighteen and sixty-two,
'Twas in the month of August,
About the middle, too;
These two brave, noble soldiers,
They joined the cavalry;
They fought to save their country,
United it yet may be.

One of them, a single man,
His name was Martin House;
The other one was married,
His name I'll tell you now.
Abram Bishop was his name;
He was a christian man;
Two soldiers, they were brave, and
They hailed from Michigan.

When they left their native place,
Their friends to them did say;
"Oh! do not go to war boys,
You'd better with us stay;
For if you join the army,
You never will return
To all your friends that love you,
You never will return."

Young House spoke unto his friends:
"I'd rather go," said he,
"I have no wife and children
To weep and mourn for me.
I hear my country calling
For her sons of liberty,
And I, for one must go, friends,
A coward I cannot be."

"We are not afraid of fighting
The rebels, no, not we;
They're bound to make our country
A place for slaves to be.
Our fathers fought before us,
To gain our liberty,
And we, the sons of freemen,
Must fight to keep it free."

"Farewell, farewell to all our friends
That we may leave behind,
If we do never return,
We pray you bear in mind,
If God sees fit to call us,
We are not afraid to die;
Our country, she is calling,
We must bid you all good bye."

It was in Old Virginia,
Those noble soldiers fell,
In the battle of Hanover town,
As many a man can tell.
They fought through many battles,
Obeyed their captain's call,
Alas! the missles struck them,
And caused them both to fall.

poem by Julia A Moore
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The soldiers fought

The soldiers fought a fight, and went for us,

They went not thinking of themselves, and no fuss;

Some were injured. Yet in such agony they fought,

And some carried back to safety, while the enemy was sought.

Those soldiers were so very brave, fighting in our place,

Marching altogether, In order and without grace;

They never knew if they'd get back home at all,

All they did was fighting to win, the problem wasn't small.

And a lot of those brave soldiers, lost arms and legs, it's so,

But some very brave soldiers, where they died we don't know;

And this is why the legacy, we remember them, at set of sun,

And thank all these brave soldiers, for the good that was done.

poem by Margaret Haig
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Home Sonnets--Address To Ireland

I

Mother of soldiers! once there was a time
When your sons' swords won fame in many a clime;
When Europe press'd on France, they fought alone
For her, and served her better than their own!
Those were the days your exiles made their fame
By gallant deeds which put our age to shame-
Those were the days Cremona city, saved,
Stood to attest what Irish valor braved!
When England's chivalry, sore wounded fled
Before the stormy charge O'Brien led-
When travellers saw in Ypres' coir display'd
The trophies of your song-renown'd brigade!
Mother of soldiers! France was proud to see
Your shamrock then twined with the fleur de lis!

II

Mother of soldiers! in the cause of Spain
The Moors in Oran's trench by them were slain;
For full an hundred years their fatal steel
Has charged beside the lances of Castile.
Carb'ry's, Tyrconnell's, Breffny's exiled lords
To Spain and glory gave their gallant swords;
And Spain, of honor jealous, gave them place
Before her native sons in glory's race;
Her noblest laurels graced your soldiers' head,
Her dearest daughters shared your soldiers' bed;
In danger's hour she call'd them to the front,
And gave to them the praise who bore the brunt:
Mother of soldiers! Spain to-day will be
A willing witness for thy sons and thee!

III

Mother of soldiers! on the Volga's banks
Your practised leaders form'd the Russian ranks;
And fallen Limerick gave the chiefs to lead
The hosts who triumph'd o'er the famous Swede.
That time even Austria gave them host on host,
The ruling baton, and the perilous post-
Buda, Belgrade, Prague, Deva-every trust
That man could earn, and found them bold as just.
Velettri, Zorndorff, Dantzic, still can tell
How Austria's Irish soldiers fought and fell,
And how the ruling skill that led them on
To conquer was supplied by your own son!
Mother of soldiers! while these trophies last,
You're safe against the sland'rers of the past!

IV

Mother of exiles! from your soil to-day
New myriads are destroy'd or swept away;
The crowded graveyards grow no longer green,
The daily dead have scanty space, I ween;
The groaning ships, freighted with want and grief,
Entomb in every wave a fugitive;
The sword no more an Irish weapon is-
The spirit of the land no longer lives;
Mother! 'twas kill'd before the famine came-
The stubble was prepared to meet the flame;
All manly souls were from their bodies torn,
And what avails it if the bodies burn?
Mother of soldiers! may we hope to be
Yet fit to strike for vengeance and for thee!

poem by Thomas D Arcy McGee
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Loyalty to the Flag

In the love of home and country and the flag of Uncle Sam,
Can the loyalty be doubted of a dusky son of Ham?
Wheresoever duty calls him, as a freedman or a slave,
The response is ever hearty when 'Old Glory' he would save.

'Twas the war of Revolution, when a Negro's blood was first,
To be shed for independence, when a yoke the land had cursed;
Crispus Attucks died in Boston, on State street he paid the debt,
Liberty his blood has planted and the tree is growing yet.

Ask the spirit of Pitcairn how he came to meet his death?
Where and who it was that brought him down to breathe the dying breath?
'Twas the Negro Salem's bullet at the charge of Bunker's Hill,
Bringing to the whites their freedom but to Negroes naught but ill.

In the battle of New Orleans, eighteen fourteen was the year,
When the Negro fought with valor till the victory was clear;
Jackson paid this glowing tribute—may the spirit never lag—
'None more strong and none more useful, none more loyal to the flag.'

O, how brave the Negro soldiers when the Civil war was fought!
Shall they fight such noble battles in the nation's cause for naught?
Hark! the battle cry of Charleston! at Fort Wagner is the place!
At Port Hudson and Fort Pillow how the rebel guns they face!

Fifty-fourth of Massachusetts—may such regiments be praised—
By its valor at Fort Wagner, North and South became amazed!
Hall began as color-bearer but was killed on duty grand,
To the spot went William Carney and the colors took in hand.

Wounded many times was Carney, shot in head, in arm and thigh,
On one knee he fell and crawling kept the colors flying high,
Blood upon the banner streaming while his words the action crowned;
'Boys I've kept aloft 'Old Glory' and it never touched the ground!'

Colonel Stafford was disabled, Dwight his men to battle led,
With great feeling at New Orleans, Stafford to the sergeant said,
'Guard, protect defend these colors,' 'Yes,' he answered, 'though I die
I will bring them back in honor or to God report the why.'

All the world has heard the story of the Cuban war with Spain,
Ah! the sound of Negro valor falls upon the ear again,
At Elkaney and San Juan how they helped to win the day,
Near the town of Santiago, held the enemy at bay!

Side by side with other soldiers being in complexion white,
Negroes died to take San Juan in the thickest of the fight,
Thus they gained the worthy plaudit from the loyal, brave and true;
'Negroes on the field of battle, dignify the nation's blue.'

Shall the prejudice existing in the country now, increase,
While the Negro's patriotism merits rest at home and peace?
Nay, the hydra-headed monster in the end will surely die,
We expect the right to triumph over evil by and by.

poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
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The Unsung Heroes

A song for the unsung heroes who rose in the country's need,
When the life of the land was threatened by the slaver's cruel greed,
For the men who came from the cornfield, who came from the plough and the flail,
Who rallied round when they heard the sound of the mighty man of the rail.

They laid them down in the valleys, they laid them down in the wood,
And the world looked on at the work they did, and whispered, 'It is good.'
They fought their way on the hillside, they fought their way in the glen,
And God looked down on their sinews brown, and said, 'I have made them men.'

They went to the blue lines gladly, and the blue lines took them in,
And the men who saw their muskets' fire thought not of their dusky skin.
The gray lines rose and melted beneath their scathing showers,
And they said, ''T is true, they have force to do, these old slave boys of ours.'

Ah, Wagner saw their glory, and Pillow knew their blood,
That poured on a nation's altar, a sacrificial flood.
Port Hudson heard their war-cry that smote its smoke-filled air,
And the old free fires of their savage sires again were kindled there.

They laid them down where the rivers the greening valleys gem.
And the song of the thund'rous cannon was their sole requiem,
And the great smoke wreath that mingled its hue with the dusky cloud,
Was the flag that furled o'er a saddened world, and the sheet that made their shroud.

Oh, Mighty God of the Battles Who held them in Thy hand,
Who gave them strength through the whole day's length, to fight for their native land,
They are lying dead on the hillsides, they are lying dead on the plain,
And we have not fire to smite the lyre and sing them one brief strain.

Give, Thou, some seer the power to sing them in their might,
The men who feared the master's whip, but did not fear the fight;
That he may tell of their virtues as minstrels did of old,
Till the pride of face and the hate of race grow obsolete and cold.

A song for the unsung heroes who stood the awful test,
When the humblest host that the land could boast went forth to meet the best;
A song for the unsung heroes who fell on the bloody sod,
Who fought their way from night to day and struggled up to God.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Soldier (not really a poem)

the american revolution was fought witha new breed of soldier.
this country was founded on that soldier.
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines calls the coward
that soldier is the one that those on the front lines call when they need help
because these soldiers dont miss.
these soldiers are trained harder than the most elite frontline man
these soldiers are tought to kill their enemy before there enemy sees them.
these soldiers are the ghosts in the night,
these soldiers are the wind in the day
these soldiers are everywhere.
these soldiers are the bush next to u.
these soldiers are the the tree across the field.
these soldiers are the lump of snow in the flat plain.
these soldiers are snipers.
snipers are the reason we are free.
snipers stop the enemy before the enemy gets close to u,

poem by Joshua Decker
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Rememberance Day

On remembrance day we honour all
Each gave their best enduring call
God bless each one for being there
All our service men did their share.

Soldiers young and soldiers old
Fought the war brave and bold
They fought in Air, Land and Sea
If not for them where would we be.

Some lived while others died
As they fought side by side
They fought many a day and night
Their mission sure their spirits bright.

The loved ones bore the greatest pain
So many thoughts will never wane
We're proud of all the forces who
Fought for the Red, White and Blue.

We'll never let their special day
Their time of honour slip away
Though we may not know each name
We thank all the forces just the same.

'Wrote for November 11 th'

poem by Hazel Connelly
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Is Freedom Free? ? ?

America, Land of the Free',
We know the phrase like the back of our hands
We say it pridefully with our flag flying high,
As we sing to the tune with the marching bands
Yet is freedom really free?

Our ancestors had to fight the English,
They had to earn what we take for granted today
Blood was shed and tears were cried,
But there was no alternate way
So tell me is freedom really free?

The Confederates and the Union went head to head,
The Civil War tore America in two
The African Americans had to fight for their rights,
They had to pay the price to do what they wanted to do
Yet we still think Freedom is really free?

Women fought for their right to be equals,
They fought for their rights to work and vote
They stumbled upon a lot of road blocks,
But they never gave up their hope
And you think Freedom is really free?

Even today we are still fighting for our freedom,
Soldiers abroad are defending our rights
Protecting our people and our homeland,
And losing thier lives in the fights
And still you say Freedom is really free?

It's something we don't always think about,
It's something we all take with a grain of salt
But what if one day, you would wake up and it was all gone,
Who do you think would be at fault?

You see little by little they're drawing the strings,
Your privacy can be invaded
Telephones tapped and cameras in your home,
If ever you are suspected

They say in order to keep us safe and our freedom intact,
They have to take such drastic measures
But stop and think for one minute,
What is the purpose of all these pleasures?
If Freedom isn't really free?

poem by Elizabeth U. Adams
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Madeleine Vercheres

I've told you many a tale, my child, of the
old heroic days
Of Indian wars and massacre, of villages ablaze
With savage torch, from Ville Marie to the
Mission of Trois Rivieres
But never have I told you yet, of Madeleine
Vercheres.

Summer had come with its blossoms, and gaily
the robin sang
And deep in the forest arches the axe of the
woodman rang
Again in the waving meadows, the sun-browned
farmers met
And out on the green St. Lawrence, the fisher-
man spread his net.

And so through the pleasant season, till the
days of October came
When children wrought their parents, and
even the old and lame
With tottering frames and footsteps, their
feeble labors lent
At the gathering of the harvest le bon Dieu
himself had sent.

For news there was none of battle, from the
forts on the Richelieu
To the gates of the ancient city, where the
flag of King Louis flew
All peaceful the skies hung over the seignerie
of Vercheres,
Like the calm that so often cometh, ere the
hurricanes rends the air.

And never a thought of danger had the
Seigneur sailing away,
To join the soldiers of Carignan, where down
at Quebec they lay,
But smiled on his little daughter, the maiden
Madeleine,
And a necklet of jewels promised her, when
home he should come again.

And ever the days passed swiftly, and careless
the workmen grew
For the months they seemed a hundred, since
the last war-bugle blew.
Ah! little they dreamt on their pillows, the
farmers of Vercheres,
That the wolves of the southern forest had
scented the harvest fair.

Like ravens they quickly gather, like tigers
they watch their prey
Poor people! with hearts so happy, they sang
as they toiled away.
Till the murderous eyeballs glistened, and the
tomahawk leaped out
And the banks on the green St. Lawrence
echoed the savage shout.

'Oh mother of Christ have pity,' shrieked
the women in despair
'This is no time for praying,' cried the young
Madeleine Vercheres,
'Aux armes! aux armes! les Iroquois! quick
to your arms and guns
Fight for your God and country and the lives
of the inocent ones.'

And she sped like a deer of the mountain, when
beagles press close behind
And the feet that would follow after, must be
swift as the prairie wind.
Alas! for the men and women, and litle ones
that day
For the road it was long and weary, and the
fort it was far away.

But the fawn had outstripped the hunters, and
the palisades drew near,
And soon from the inner gateway the war-
bugle rang out clear;
Gallant and clear it sounded, with never a note
of despair
'T was a soldier of France's challenge, from
the young Madeleine Vercheres.

'And this is my little garrison, my brothers
Louis and Paul?
With soldiers two- and a cripple? may the
Virgin pray for us all.
But we've powder and guns in plenty, and
we 'll fight to the latest breath
And if need be for God and country, die a
brave soldier's death.

'Load all the carabines quickly, and whenever
you sight the foe
Fire from the upper turret, and the loopholes
down below.
Keep up the fire, brave soldiers, though the
fight may be fierce and long
And they 'll think out little garrison is more
than a hundred strong.'

So spake the maiden Madeleine, and she roused
the Norman blood
That seemed for a moment sleeping, and sent
it like a flood
Though every heart around her, and they
fought the red Iroquois
As fought in the old time battles, the soldiers
of Carignan.

And they say the black clouds gathered, and a
tempest swept the sky
And the roar of the thunder mingled with the
forest tiger's cry
But still the garrison fought on, while the
lightning's jagged spear
Tore a hole in the night's dark curtain, and
showed them a foeman near.

And the sun rose up in the morning, and the
color of blood was he
Gazing down from the heavens on the little
company.
'Behold! my friend!' cried the maiden, ' 't is
a warning lest we forget
Though the night saw us do our duty, our
work is not finished yet.'

And six days followed each other, and feeble
her limbs became
Yet the maid never sought her pillow, and the
flash of the carabines' flames
Illuminated the powder-smoked face, aye, even
when hope seemed gone
And she only smiled on her comrades, and told
them to fight, fight on.

And she blew a blast on the bugle, and lo!
from the forest black
Merrily, merrily ringing, an answer came peal-
ing back
Oh! pleasant and sweet it sounded, borne on
the morning air,
For it heralded fifty soldiers, with gallant De
la Monniere.

And when he beheld the maiden, the soldier
of Carignan,
And looked on the little garrison that fought
the red Iroquois
And held their own in the battle, for six long
weary days,
He stood for a moment speechless, and mar-
velled at woman's ways.

Then he beckoned the men behind him and
steadily they advance
And with carabines uplifted, the veterans of
France
Saluted the brave young captain so timidly
standing there
And they fired a volley in honor of Madeleine
Vercheres.

And this, my dear, is the story of the maiden
Madeleine
God grant that we in Canada may never see
again
Such cruel wars and massacres, in waking or in
dream
As our fathers and mothers saw, my child, in
the days of the old regime.

poem by William Henry Drummond
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War Is Over

Old soldiers talk about the battles fought
To build a better world for me and you.
They sacrificed their lives to make a dream come true.
Now theyre forgotten men remembered by so few.
But the war is over and the fighting ended many years ago.
The war is over. the battles won but what is there to show?
Side by side they marched together fighting so their children
Could be free,
To build a better world, a new society
All classes unified to live in harmony
Now the war is over so lets forget and leave the past alone.
The war is over, its time for all the soldiers to go home.
Rich men, poor men make history,
Fighting for the land of hope and glory
A nations voice will sing as one,
A battle cry until weve won
The was is over and the patriotic comrades are no more.
The war is over
Now theyre going home to live just like before.
Arm in arm we sang our patriotic songs of love and sentiment.
Tears of joy to hide the sorrow,
New tomorrows till we meet again,
With a new world to build well say auf weidersein.
What did they do for us?
What did it prove to us?
As we stand beside the silent grave
The unknown soldier cant be saved.
The war is over
The war is over, its time for all the soldiers to go home.
The war is over.

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Patriot

I do not wear a uniform
Nor a helmet on my head
I never carry a weapon
Or have seen my brothers bled.
I never stand at attention
Nor have I marched in line
I never fought for freedom
As what I own is already mine.
I do not salute any man
I humble down only to GOD
So I walk my own separate path
Whether at home or even abroad.
I wear no stripes upon my arms
There are no medals upon my chest
As I am just a civilian
Nothing more, and nothing less.
I know my national anthem
Whenever it is spoken or even sung
And tears still come unto my eyes
As proudly my head is hung.
Inside my soul their is a torch
I will be a patriot until the day I die
And I too will walk those proud lines
While still with pride for my flag I will cry.
I have never fought in a war
But I have passed our soldiers graves
I give thanks to the country that I live in
And to those soldiers, I give my praise.

poem by Randy McClave
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World Wars

Soldiers Fight. Enemies Fight Back
World Wars Come To An End.
The Loved Ones Go And Fight For They're People.
They Shall Fight For Land
They Shall Fight For Glory
They Fight For The People That Live.
They Shall Not Let Anyone Down
They Must Do Much As They Can.
The Soldiers Fight.
The Soldiers Protect.
Once One Soldier Dies, Others Soldiers Die
they must bring peace to the land they protect.
We Remember The People Who Went To War.
Some Of The Families Lost A Member In War.
Some Of The Families Didn't Lost A Member In War.
In War, It's Hard To Survive In War.
You Gotta Be Strong And Brave.
The War Is All About The People We Care About And Keeping Enemies Away.

poem by Sonya Wesley
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Sonnet: Song in Memory of the Kargil-heros

O youthful soldiers of the Kargil-war!
Though some are dead, you now live in our heart;
What valor you display’d in hills afar!
By climbing mountain-sides steep with great art.

O glorious soldiers of Mother India!
Slept you eternally to make us sleep;
Shedding your blood in Himalaya;
The valley’s waters have turned blood-red, deep.

O mighty sons of sacred Indian soil
Our Mother India is proud of you all;
We cannot forget your sacrifice/ toil
By dying, you’ve preserved our frontier wall.

No more will our foes try getting across;
Your brothers too are ever-ready because.

7-25-2000

poem by John Celes
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Every Soldier Has A Dream

After a war a soldier sometimes has to cry as dreams of those memories waters in the eye.

It's very sad when this world of ours goes to war.
Peace is the thing that soldiers have fought and died for.

With hands held in the air a soldier cries a bit but people are blind to dreams that do not fit.

Some people abuse this world but one day they'll find that they've lost their battlefields and they are unklind.

Lost battlefields and dreams with no victories won, following the forgotten hero.
Here they come.

They bury the dream because they cannot recall what it was that made the Soldier stand proud and tall.

Soldiers come from all walks of life.
Sisters.
Brothers.
Soldiers with many dreams seldom shared with others.

Soldiers who had loved ones and families back home.
Some soldiers are just children
and still on their own.

Honoured I feel to remember soldiers this way.
I salute them have I your attention I say.

Stand at ease,
fall out.
Sir nobody knew his name.
Dear God you know who he was our dream was the same.

Undaunted was the soldier in the face of fear.
No turning back.
Each soldier shed a silent tear.

But I wonder why no one hears the soldiers cry.
Listen today as soldiers go to fight and die .

Try to imagine the soldiers forgotten dream.
Keep the memory of what the Soldier
had been.

It haunts us today and remains here in our time.
Ghosts with forgotten dreams remain.
Its such a crime.

What the soldier fought for is what we must redeem,
as we look back and try to recapture the dream.

The ship's sunk and they say,
we're glad we missed the cruise.
Don't take for granted things in life we shouldn't loose.

When the battle is over and the dreams don't sit.
Every soldier must cry just a little bit.

By Paul McCann

poem by Paul McCann
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The Battle of Cressy

'Twas on the 26th of August, the sun was burning hot,
In the year of 1346, which will never be forgot,
Because the famous field of Cressy was slippery and gory,
By the loss of innocent blood which I'11 relate in story.

To the field of Cressy boldly King Philip did advance,
Aided by the Bohemian Army and chosen men of France,
And treble the strength of the English Army that day,
But the lance thrusts of the English soon made them give way.

The English Army was under the command of the Prince of Wales,
And with ringing cheers the soldiers his presence gladly hails,
As King Edward spoke to the Prince, his son, and said,
My son put thou thy trust in God and be not afraid,
And he will protect thee in the midst of the fight,
And remember God always defends the right.

Then the Prince knelt on one knee before the King,
Whilst the soldiers gathered round them in a ring;
Then the King commanded that the Prince should be carefully guarded,
And if they were victorious each man would be rewarded.

These arrangements being made, the Prince rode away,
And as he rode past the ranks, his spirits felt gay;
Then he ordered the men to refresh themselves without delay,
And prepare to meet the enemy in the coming deadly fray.

Then contentedly the men seated themselves upon the grass,
And ate and drank to their hearts content, until an hour did pass;
Meanwhile the French troops did advance in disorganised masses,
But as soon as the English saw them they threw aside their glasses.

And they rose and stood in the ranks as solid as the rock,
All ready and eager to receive the enemy's shock;
And as the morning was advancing a little beyond noon,
They all felt anxious for the fight, likewise to know their doom.

Then the French considered they were unable to begin the attack,
And seemed rather inclined for to draw back;
But Court D'Alencon ordered them on to the attack,
Then the rain poured down in torrents and the thunder did crack.

Then forward marched the French with mock shrill cries,
But the English their cries most bravely defies;
And as the sun shone out in all its brilliant array,
The English let fly their arrows at them without the least dismay.

And each man fought hard with sword and lance pell mell,
And the ranks were instantly filled up as soon as a man fell;
And the Count D'Alencon, boldly charged the Black Prince.
And he cried, yield you, Sir Knight, or I'll make you wince,

Ha, by St. George! thou knowest not what thou sayest,
Therefore yield thyself, Sir Frenchman, for like an ass thou brayest;
Then planting his lance he ran at the Count without fear,
And the Count fell beneath the Black Prince's spear.

And the Black Prince and his men fought right manfully,
By this time against some forty thousand of the enemy,
Until the Prince recognised the banner of Bohemia floating in the air;
Then he cried that banner shall be mine, by St. George I do swear.

On! on! for old England, he cried, on! gentlemen on!
And spur your chargers quickly, and after them begone;
Then the foremost, a slight youth, to the Prince did reply,
My Prince, I'll capture that banner for you else I will die.

Ha! cried the Prince, is it thou my gallant Jack of Kent,
Now charge with me my brave lad for thou has been sent
By God, to aid me in the midst of the fight,
So forward, and wield your cudgel with all your might.

Then right into the midst of the Bohemian Knights they fought their way,
Brave Jack o' the Cudgel and the Prince without dismay;
And Jack rushed at the Standard Bearer without any dread,
And struck him a blow with his cudgel which killed him dead.

Then Jack bore off the Standard, to the Prince's delight,
Then the French and the Bohemians instantly took to flight;
And as the last rays of the sun had faded in the west,
The wounded and dying on both sides longed for rest.

And Philip, King of France, was wounded twice in the fray,
And was forced to fly from the field in great dismay;
And John of Hainault cried, come sire, come away,
I hope you will live to win some other day.

Then King Edward and his army, and the Prince his son,
Knelt down and thanked God for the victory won;
And the King's heart was filled with great delight,
And he thanked Jack for capturing the Bohemian Standard during the fight.

poem by William Topaz McGonagall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Bled For You

You may not understand why I would leave my family,
to fight in some exotic land, somewhere beyond the sea.
You may not comprehend just why I would do the things I do,
But today I fought for what was right…today I bled for you.

Some call me a hero, but few call me by name
I don't do it for the money and it sure aint for the fame.
I've seen the tree of liberty, and when the day is through,
I can say it was watered with my blood…that day I bled for you.

We soldiers serve with honor, like all those that served before.
Who stood upon the wall and kept the wolves from your front door.
Some sacrificed completely; give them the respect they're due.
Remember that they gave it all, the day they bled for you.

There are some that are not able, or don't want to understand,
Why we risk our very lives to defend this sacred, holy land.
They'll never feel the pride inside when we see red white and blue,
Waving over these free lands, because someone bled for you.

So take the time to think of those of us who still are over there,
Or those of us recovering, please lift us up in prayer.
And send it to the Savior…the only other person who,
Besides the soldier, paid the price, and chose to bleed for you.

Perry Biggerstaff

poem by Perry Biggerstaff
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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La Guerre Day

At dawn, gunfire woke everyone in Bor
The first bullet of bullets bulleted
And more bullets rained as rain rained
The blood streamed as a stream streamed
The bodies littered on roads as dung
The first martyr of martyrs martyred
The first wounded of wounded wounded
The first survivor of survivors survived
No mouths tested anything that day
The water smelled blood
The food smelled corpse

The blackest day in the history of this nation
The whitest day in the history of this nation
The saddest day in the history of this nation
The happiest day in the history of this nation
The end of slavery, the beginning of freedom
A black day for oppressors
A white day for the oppressed
A sad day for the oppressors
A happy day for the oppressed

The action of 105 Battalion on
La Guere Day – May 16th,1983
Began the beginning of Liberation, Independence, Culture and Identity not greedy indisciplinary salary demand as desert cocaine intoxicated men claimed. May 16th began the birth of SPLA Patriotic and gallant fighters whom 105 soldiers told “If it kills us, it’s called our land”.
The SPLA fighters took the word as slogan
They fought to achieve justice for all

Note on May 16 1983, the war broke between South and North in the Sudan

poem by David Aoloch Bion
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For The Man Who Fails

The world is a snob, and the man who wins
Is the chap for its money's worth:
And the lust for success causes half of the sins
That are cursing this brave old earth.
For it 's fine to go up, and the world's applause
Is sweet to the mortal ear;
But the man who fails in a noble cause
Is a hero that 's no less dear.

'T is true enough that the laurel crown
Twines but for the victor's brow;
For many a hero has lain him down
With naught but the cypress bough.
There are gallant men in the losing fight,
And as gallant deeds are done
As ever graced the captured height
Or the battle grandly won.

We sit at life's board with our nerves highstrung,
And we play for the stake of Fame,
And our odes are sung and our banners hung
For the man who wins the game.
But I have a song of another kind
Than breathes in these fame-wrought gales,--
An ode to the noble heart and mind
Of the gallant man who fails!

The man who is strong to fight his fight,
And whose will no front can daunt,
If the truth be truth and the right be right,
Is the man that the ages want.
Tho' he fail and die in grim defeat,
Yet he has not fled the strife,
And the house of Earth will seem more sweet
For the perfume of his life.

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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War Never Solves Anything

Of battles won and noble soldiers you hear the old balladeer sing
But war only brings death and suffering and war never solves anything
And the mental scars of war keep festering long after the battle does end
You badly injure or kill someone's loved one that person will not be your friend.

For God and the flag of their Nation too many in battle have died
And the Government honour war heroes in their false show of patriotic pride
But the fact is their young lives were wasted and the fact with us sadly remain
That old battles are never over and for old grieviances human blood spilt again.

War weaponry and explosives big business in a World where human life is taken cheap
By some a human life seen as of no more value than that of a cow's or a sheep
From history we have not learned the war supposed to end all wars long gone
Yet every day more violence and terror and war and war mongering lives on.

Of battles won and acts of war bravery so many songs written and sung
And war instigated by old men must always be fought by the young
But the song for the young dead war hero to the hero's mum to it has a bitter ring
And war is a waste of human life for war never solves anything.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Warrior's Prayer

Long since, in sore distress, I heard one pray,
'Lord, who prevailest with resistless might,
Ever from war and strife keep me away,
My battles fight!'

I know not if I play the Pharisee,
And if my brother after all be right;
But mine shall be the warrior's plea to thee--
Strength for the fight.

I do not ask that thou shalt front the fray,
And drive the warring foeman from my sight;
I only ask, O Lord, by night, by day,
Strength for the fight!

When foes upon me press, let me not quail
Nor think to turn me into coward flight.
I only ask, to make mine arms prevail,
Strength for the fight!

Still let mine eyes look ever on the foe,
Still let mine armor case me strong and bright;
And grant me, as I deal each righteous blow,
Strength for the fight!

And when, at eventide, the fray is done,
My soul to Death's bedchamber do thou light,
And give me, be the field or lost or won,
Rest from the fight!

poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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