The Three Tommies
That Barret, the painter of pictures, what feeling for color he had!
And Fanning, the maker of music, such melodies mirthful and mad!
And Harley, the writer of stories, so whimsical, tender and glad!
To hark to their talk in the trenches, high heart unfolding to heart,
Of the day when the war would be over, and each would be true to his part,
Upbuilding a Palace of Beauty to the wonder and glory of Art . . .
Yon's Barret, the painter of pictures, yon carcass that rots on the wire;
His hand with its sensitive cunning is crisped to a cinder with fire;
His eyes with their magical vision are bubbles of glutinous mire.
Poor Fanning! He sought to discover the symphonic note of a shell;
There are bits of him broken and bloody, to show you the place where he fell;
I've reason to fear on his exquisite ear the rats have been banqueting well.
And speaking of Harley, the writer, I fancy I looked on him last,
Sprawling and staring and writhing in the roar of the battle blast;
Then a mad gun-team crashed over, and scattered his brains as it passed.
Oh, Harley and Fanning and Barret, they were bloody good mates o' mine;
Their bodies are empty bottles; Death has guzzled the wine;
What's left of them's filth and corruption. . . . Where is the Fire Divine?
I'll tell you. . . . At night in the trenches, as I watch and I do my part,
Three radiant spirits I'm seeing, high heart revealing to heart,
And they're building a peerless palace to the splendor and triumph of Art.
Yet, alas! for the fame of Barret, the glory he might have trailed!
And alas! for the name of Fanning, a star that beaconed and paled,
Poor Harley, obscure and forgotten. . . . Well, who shall say that they failed!
No, each did a Something Grander than ever he dreamed to do;
And as for the work unfinished, all will be paid their due;
The broken ends will be fitted, the balance struck will be true.
So painters, and players, and penmen, I tell you: Do as you please;
Let your fame outleap on the trumpets, you'll never rise up to these --
To three grim and gory Tommies, down, down on your bended knees!
poem by Robert William Service
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A Broken Heart
I fought for King and country
On the battlefields in France
I’d volunteered for active service
For I saw this as a chance
To earn respect from those around me
And stare death full in the face
Being brave was nothing strange to me
And fear is no disgrace
I saw the clouds of chlorine rising
As we put those gas masks on
I saw men torn from their bodies
I’ve been deafened by the guns
There was mustard gas and shrapnel
And more barbed wire than in the bush
There was dysentery and typhus
And bodies oozing pus
That mud clung to your belly
And the rats they seemed to thrive
On bodies out in no-man’s land
Of soldiers not alive
My mates - some of them blinded
Some of them blown apart
And others they just disappeared
When the barrages did start
Some days, it would fall silent
And you could hear the German side
I’d guess they would be blokes like us
Just trying to survive
You’d put your head up in the trenches
And the odds were pretty high
That a sniper that you couldn’t see
Would send you to the sky.
Some of us were lucky
But so many badly died
It didn’t seem like murder
More like wilful suicide
It was hell there in those trenches
There was no glory in that war
No victory in battle
Just stripped naked and red raw
I didn’t go alone you know
I’d gone off there with some mates
We’d gone to show our bravery
And then were told to wait.
There was so much bloody paperwork
Before we could go to fight
They didn’t make it easy
Because we were not white
I’m back now in Australia
Sometimes at night I wake in fear
I can hear the guns and all y’know
And they still seem very near
In the army I was Billy
I had a real name
Now, once again, I’m just an Abo
And my life is much the same
The white men, they look down on us
Then give our women rum
They often take advantage
Then threaten us with guns.
Man! If I just had my life again
And all my mates were here
I don’t think I’d fight in that war
Nor lose myself in beer.
For I thought I’d be respected
By the whitefellas and such
But now I simply realise
We don’t matter very much
For the war, they’d made us citizens
So we could play our part
Now it’s over that’s been taken back
And I have a broken heart.
poem by David Keig
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Harley's been influential, but I'm not a big Harley fan.
quote by Noah Hathaway
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harleys & Indians
When I go to heaven / Harley Harley heaven / I want to meet a King /
Like the Panhead 48 / I want to meet the Fat One /
We can talk for hours / When my time has come, Babe /
I won't be running late.
Flying high / Riders in the sky / Na na na na.
When I go to heaven / Red-skin heaven / I want to meet the Chiefs /
Yea, I want to meet all Scouts /
I won't miss my friends cos I know where they'll be /
We're all part of the Indian Family.
Flying high / Riders in the sky / Na na na na.
It's alright, Baby / I'm OK, honey /
I'm only travellin' thru this state of mine /
Hey it's alright, Mama / I'm doin' fine now, Mama /
I'm only in a certain state of mind.
When I go to heaven / Hog Hog heaven /
I'll have a drink with Elvis while Marlon's on his way /
We're kickin' and we're revvin' / We're dressing up in style /
It's time to take a ride on that freeway in the sky.
Flying high / Riders in the sky / Na na na na / Come on, come on.
song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Troubadour
Glowing with love, on fire for fame
A Troubadour that hated sorrow
Beneath his lady's window came,
And thus he sung his last good-morrow:
'My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my true-love's bower;
Gaily for love and fame to fight
Befits the gallant Troubadour.'
And while he marched with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his favourite maid,
The minstrel-burden still he sung:
'My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight
I come, a gallant Troubadour.'
Even when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hewed his way,
'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay:
'My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.'
Alas! upon the bloody field
He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,
But still reclining on his shield,
Expiring sung the exulting stave:-
'My life it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love and fame to fall in fight
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.'
poem by Sir Walter Scott
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Harleys Indians
When I go to heaven / harley harley heaven / I want to meet a king /
Like the panhead 48 / I want to meet the fat one /
We can talk for hours / when my time has come, babe /
I wont be running late.
Flying high / riders in the sky / na na na na.
When I go to heaven / red-skin heaven / I want to meet the chiefs /
Yea, I want to meet all scouts /
I wont miss my friends cos I know where theyll be /
Were all part of the indian family.
Flying high / riders in the sky / na na na na.
Its alright, baby / Im ok, honey /
Im only travellin thru this state of mine /
Hey its alright, mama / Im doin fine now, mama /
Im only in a certain state of mind.
When I go to heaven / hog hog heaven /
Ill have a drink with elvis while marlons on his way /
Were kickin and were revvin / were dressing up in style /
Its time to take a ride on that freeway in the sky.
Flying high / riders in the sky / na na na na / come on, come on.
song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lines Written Extempore On Mr. Harley’s Being Stabbed, And Addressed To His Physician, 1710-11
On Britain Europe's safety lies,
Britain is lost if Harley dies:
Harley depends upon your skill:
Think what you save, or what you kill.
poem by Jonathan Swift
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Haley's Got A Harley
Well she don't need nothin from that man no more
No she took it all with her when she walked out the door
I say 1-800-PARTY, that's the number to call
Now Haley's got a Harley and she's leaving it all
Now she's headed out to Sturgis got it all wrapped up in leather
Got her Softail shined up, don't worry about the weather
Yeah she used to be the quiet type, the shyest of all
But now Haley's got a Harley, feelin' ten feet tall
Look at her now, look at her go
Out from the shadows, into the show
Ridin it hard, ridin it low
Flyin her colors, she's ready to roll
Just like the tattoo of an eagle on her shoulder
Yeah, her spirit's wild and free and the party's never over
Well, she's ridin' on the wind just a' wavin at em all
Cause now Haley's got a Harley and she's having a ball
Free as a Bird, watch her in flight
Across South Dakota, into the night
Ridin to live, livin to ride
She calls it heaven, ridin' for life
song performed by by 38 Special
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She Fell Apart
She fell apart the day her heart was broken,
She felt worthless,
She felt nothingness.
All she ever wanted was to be loved,
Yet in the end her heart was broken,
She locked away her heart,
She pushes everyone away,
She cuts her wrist,
She tells herself that she is worthless, hopeless fool,
She tries to kill herself,
She tries to wash away the pain she feels,
She went through a lot,
She locks herself in her room,
She cries when she is asleep,
She harley talks,
She has given up,
That girl is me,
I am the one that feels sad and all lonely inside.
poem by Jennifer Rondeau
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A Fire Within
When a fire is burning within
the mind will keep it lit.
Fanning the flame with every breath
will not allow it to quit.
And whosoever has no fire
posesses a mind that's numb.
No amount of fanning the breath
will allow them to become
wired, inspired and filled with passion
for any worldly thing.
They will spend their time here on earth
with never a song to sing.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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On The Earl Of Oxford And Mortimer's Giving His Daughter In Marriage In Oxford--Chapel.
See, in the Temple rais'd by Harley's Hand,
His beauteous Off--spring at the Altar stand:
There Mortimer resigns his darling Care;
To happy Portland gives the blooming Fair.
Where had the Parent's Pray'r like Favour found?
Where soar'd so high, as from that sacred Ground?
What Bosom, but Devotion's Ardor feels,
When, at the Shrine he hallow'd, Harley kneels?
At such a Sight superior Beings pleas'd,
To higher Notes their Hallelujahs rais'd.
poem by Mary Barber
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Sonnet 24: “Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled…”
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled,
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart,
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes:
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done,
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
poem by William Shakespeare
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The Song Of The Pacifist
What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?
Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?
If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;
Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:
By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!
If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;
That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height;
That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;
If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear,
By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . .
Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.
Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land:
When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand;
And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.
Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release
The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace,
And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.
Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain;
When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane:
Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.
When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be;
When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea
In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . that will be Victory.
poem by Robert William Service
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What Purpose Does A Rabbit Have
The same nightmare woke my father
every night for years.
He had no idea what it meant
and so he wrote the story down
and saved the note and hoped
some day he'd understand it.
But a note like that
can be misplaced.
Decades later Father
found the note
in a drawer of socks
he hadn't worn in years.
He found it underneath
his old glass eye the night
Mother came back on the Harley
to 'make their marriage work.'
He reminded Mother they had
been divorced for years
and then, despite her tears,
he told her, 'After all this time,
we both know now that you
were gone before you left.
But now you're back so
let me tell you all about
the nightmare I've had every night
since you took the bike and left.
I wrote the story down to tell the kids
when they grew up but they ran off
before I had a chance to ask them
if they knew what my dream might mean.
You'd like the kids. They're pretty smart.
Anyway my note says this:
'What purpose does a rabbit have
other than as prey?
What difference does a rainbow make
in a rabbit's day? '
You tell me now you love me,
always have and always will.
But the kids are gone forever
so take the Harley now and go.'
poem by Donal Mahoney
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Sonnet 24: Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is best painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill
To find where your true image pictured lies,
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.
Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art:
They draw but what they see, know not the heart.
poem by William Shakespeare
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Crackerbox Palace
I was so young when I was born
My eyes could not yet see
And by the time of my first dawn
Somebody holding me . . . they said
I welcome you to crackerbox palace
Weve been expecting you
You bring such joy in crackerbox palace
No matter where you roam know our love is true
While growing up or trying to
Not knowing where to start
I looked around for someone who
May help reveal my heart - someone said
While youre a part of cracerbox palace
Do what the rest all do
Or face the fact that crackerbox palace
May have no other choice than to deport you
I welcome you to crackerbox palace
Weve been expecting you
You bring us joy in crackerbox palace
No matter where you roam know our love is true
Sometimes are good . . . sometimes are bad
Thats all a part of life
And standing in between them all
I met a mr. grief - and he said
I welcome you to crackerbox palace
Was not expecting you
Lets rap and tap at crackerbox palace
Know that the lord is well and inside of you
(chorus)
song performed by by George Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If This Were Faith
God, if this were enough,
That I see things bare to the buff
And up to the buttocks in mire;
That I ask nor hope nor hire,
Nut in the husk,
Nor dawn beyond the dusk,
Nor life beyond death:
God, if this were faith!
Having felt thy wind in my face
Spit sorrow and disgrace,
Having seen thine evil doom
In Golgotha and Khartoum,
And the brutes, the work of thine hands,
Fill with injustice lands
And stain with blood the sea:
If still in my veins the glee
Of the black night and the sun
And the lost battle, run:
If, an adept,
The iniquitous lists I still accept
With joy, and joy to endure and be withstood,
And still to battle and perish for a dream of good:
God, if that were enough!
If to feel, in the ink of the slough,
And the sink of the mire,
Veins of glory and fire
Run through and transpierce and transpire,
And a secret purpose of glory in every part,
And the answering glory of battle fill my heart;
To thrill with the joy of girded men
To go on for ever and fail and go on again,
And be mauled to the earth and arise,
And contend for the shade of a word and a thing
not seen with the eyes:
With the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night
That somehow the right is the right
And the smooth shall bloom from the rough:
Lord, if that were enough!
poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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You don't buy a Harley with your mind, you buy it with your heart and your balls.
quote by Robert Patrick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beautiful, Fair and Kind
For all the world would say to me
She is beautiful, she is fair and she is kind
I reply to the world in no uncertain tone
That all of that is true I shall not deny
But alas her heart it is not mine
So what value I place upon such beauty
Cannot be accounted or held at ransom
For it is a passing thought in fact
It may well become forgotten
Or misused for whatever effect I desire
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
So the tired old saying goes
Do the blind only look upon me
What eyes see no beauty in my soul
Or is my lack of wealth my mental acclaim
A poor madman’s mind the reason
I remain without another’s heart
Still the world presents to me and says
She is beautiful, she is fair and she is kind
I acknowledge and agree whole hearted
But alas she is not ready for my mind
poem by Matthew Holloway
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The Color Sergeant
(On an Incident at the Battle of San Juan Hill)
Under a burning tropic sun,
With comrades around him lying,
A trooper of the sable Tenth
Lay wounded, bleeding, dying.
First in the charge up the fort-crowned hill,
His company's guidon bearing,
He had rushed where the leaden hail fell fast,
Not death nor danger fearing.
He fell in the front where the fight grew fierce,
Still faithful in life's last labor;
Black though his skin, yet his heart as true
As the steel of his blood-stained saber
.
And while the battle around him rolled,
Like the roar of a sullen breaker,
He closed his eyes on the bloody scene,
And presented arms to his Maker.
There he lay, without honor or rank,
But, still, in a grim-like beauty;
Despised of men for his humble race,
Yet true, in death, to his duty.
poem by James Weldon Johnson
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My Heart Is Resting, O My Lord
My heart is resting, O my God—
I will give thanks and sing;
My heart is at the secret source
Of every precious thing.
Now the frail vessel Thou hast made
No hand but Thine shall fill—
For the waters of the Earth have failed,
And I am thirsty still.
I thirst for springs of heavenly life,
And here all day they rise—
I seek the treasure of Thy love,
And close at hand it lies.
And a new song is in my mouth
To long loved music set—
Glory to Thee for all the grace
I have not tasted yet.
Glory to Thee for strength withheld,
For want and weakness known—
And the fear that sends me to Thy breast
For what is most my own.
I have a heritage of joy
That yet I must not see;
But the hand that bled to make it mine
Is keeping it for me.
There is a certainty of love
That sets my heart at rest—
A calm assurance for today
That to be poor is best—
A prayer reposing on His truth
Who hath made all things mine,
That draws my captive will to Him,
And makes it one with Thine.
I will give thanks for suffering now,
For want and toil and loss—
For the death that sin makes hard and slow,
Upon my Savior’s cross—
Thanks for the little spring of love
That gives me strength to say,
If they will leave me part in Him,
Let all things pass away.
Sometimes I long for promised bliss,
But it will not come too late—
And the songs of patient spirits rise
From the place wherein I wait;
While in the faith that makes no haste
My soul has time to see
A kneeling host of Thy redeemed,
In fellowship with me.
There is a multitude around
Responsive to my prayer;
I hear the voice of my desire
Resounding everywhere.
But the earnest of eternal joy,
In every prayer I trace;
I see the glory of the Lord:
On every chastened face.
How oft, in still communion known,
Those spirits have been sent
To share the travail of my soul,
Or show me what it meant!
And I long to do some work of love
No spoiling hand could touch,
For the poor and suffering of Thy flock
Who comfort me so much.
But the yearning thought is mingled now
With the thankful song I sing;
For Thy people know the secret source
Of every precious thing.
The heart that ministers for Thee
In Thy own work will rest;
And the subject spirit of a child
Can serve Thy children best.
Mine be the reverent, listening love,
That waits all day on Thee,
With the service of a watchful heart
Which no one else can see—
The faith that, in a hidden way
No other eye may know,
Finds all its daily work prepared,
And loves to have it so.
My heart is resting, O my God,
My heart is in Thy care—
I hear the voice of joy and health
Resounding everywhere.
“Thou art my portion,” saith my soul,
Ten thousand voices say,
And the music of their glad Amen,
Will never die away.
poem by Anna Laetitia Waring
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