Memorial Tablet
Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight,
(Under Lord Derby’s Scheme). I died in hell—
(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,
And I was hobbling back; and then a shell
Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell
Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light.
At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,
He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare:
For, though low down upon the list, I’m there;
‘In proud and glorious memory’ ... that’s my due.
Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:
I suffered anguish that he’s never guessed.
Once I came home on leave: and then went west...
What greater glory could a man desire?
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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Related quotes
The Ballad of Rosie
Whatever you require Squire
If you can set my heart on file
O'Rosie, Rosie, my predicament is dire
How can I set your heart on fire
Admire, Squire my one desire
Desire sets my heart on fire
I desire, I desire, O'Rosie the fire
In my heart, it's you I desire
You Squire, are a liar
Your wicked way is what you desire
poem by Riba Akabusi
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Joe Ramsbottom
Joe Ramshottom rented a bit of a farm
From its owner, Squire Goslett his name;
And the Gosletts came over with William the First,
And found Ramsbottoms here when they came.
One day Joe were ploughing his three-acre field
When the front of his plough hit a rock,
And on closer inspection o' t' damage he found
As the coulter had snapped wi' the shock.
He'd got a spare coulter at home in his shed,
But that were some distance away,
And he reckoned by t' time he had been there and back
He'd have wasted best part of the day.
The accident 'appened not far from the place
Where the Squire had his sumptuous abode;
He thought he might borrow a coulter from him,
And save going back all that road.
He were going to ask... but he suddenly stopped,
And he said " Nay-I'd better not call;
He might think it cheek I borrowed from him,
I'd best get my own after all."
He were going off back when he turned to himself
And said "That's a gormless idea;
The land you were ploughing belongs to the Squire,
It were 'is rock as caused all this 'ere!"
This 'eartened Joe up, so he set off again,
But he very soon stopped as before,
And he said 'Happen Squire'II have comp'ny to tea,
Nay I'd, better go round to t' back.
Then he answered himself in a manner quite stern
And said "Here's a nice how-de-do!
You can manage without him when all's said and done,
And where would he be without you?"
Joe knew this were right and he knew it were just,
But he didn't seem happy somehow,
So he said "Well, there's no harm in paying a call,
And I needn't say owt about plough."
This suggestion that he were afraid of the Squire
Were most deeply resented by Joe;
He said "Right! I'll show you... I'll go up at once,
At the worst he can only say 'No.''
Then he said "After all as I've done in the past
He would have a nerve to decline;
He ought to be thankful to give me his plough,
Seein'' damage his rock did to mine.
Then he said "Who is he To be puffed up wi' pride,
And behave as if he were King Dick
He's only a farmer the same as myself,
As I'll tell him an' all- Jolly quick."
Then he turned round and looked himself straight in the face,
And he said "What you're scared of beats me;
Ramsbottoms was landlords when Gosletts was nowt,
And it's him should be working for thee!"
Then he said "I'm surprised at myself, so I am,
To think I should so condescend
As to come hat in hand to a feller like 'im
And ask if he's owt he can lend."
This argument brought him to Squire's front door,
It were open and Squire stood inside;
He said "Hello, Joe... What brings thee right up here?"
"You'll know in a tick," Joe replied.
He said "P'raps you think yourself better than me,
Well, I'm telling you straight that you're not
And I don't want your coulter... Your plough-or your farm,
You can-do what you like with the lot."
poem by Marriott Edgar
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Fidele's Grassy Tomb
The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,
His eyes were alive and clear of care,
But well he knew that the hour was come
To bid good-bye to his ancient home.
He looked on garden, wood, and hill,
He looked on the lake, sunny and still:
The last of earth that his eyes could see
Was the island church of Orchardleigh.
The last that his heart could understand
Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand:
'Bury the dog at my feet,' he said,
And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.
Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed,
Staunch to love and strong at need:
He had dragged his master safe to shore
When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.
From that day forth, as reason would,
He was named 'Fidele,' and made it good:
When the last of the mourners left the door
Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.
They buried him there at his master's feet,
And all that heard of it deemed it meet:
The story went the round for years,
Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.
Bishop of Bath and Wells was he,
Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh;
And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed
That Bishop may write or Parson read.
The sum of it was that a soulless hound
Was known to be buried in hallowed ground:
From scandal sore the Church to save
They must take the dog from his masters grave.
The heir was far in a foreign land,
The Parson was wax to my Lord's command:
He sent for the Sexton and bade him make
A lonely grave by the shore of the lake.
The Sexton sat by the water's brink
Where he used to sit when he used to think:
He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out,
And his argument left him free from doubt.
'A Bishop,' he said, 'is the top of his trade:
But there's others can give him a start with the spade:
Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore,
And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more.
The grave was dug; the mason came
And carved on stone Fidele's name;
But the dog that the Sexton laid inside
Was a dog that never had lived or died.
So the Parson was praised,and the scandal stayed,
Till, a long time after, the church decayed,
And, laying the floor anew, they found
In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.
As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells
No more of him the story tells;
Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince,
And died and was buried a century since.
And whether his view was right or wrong
Has little to do with this my song;
Something we owe him, you must allow;
And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.
The Squire in the family chantry sleeps,
The marble still his memory keeps:
Remember, when the name you spell,
There rest Fidele's bones as well.
For the Sexton's grave you need not search,
'Tis a nameless mound by the island church:
An ignorant fellow, of humble lot---
But. he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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Sitting Duck - Parody Harry Graham - Ruthless Rhymes
Sitting Duck
Squire Squint, banging at a pheasant,
pranged, instead, a sitting duck, -
Said he, “It is a bit unpleasant
for hitting peasant to come unstuck ! ”
1 August 1991,21 July 2006 Parody Harry GRAHAM Ruthless Rhymes
Sitting Bull
Squire Squint, aiming at a pheasant,
maimed instead a stting bull,
turned tail, - but ‘tis the bull at present
frames the ears, keeps leg to pull!
1 August 1991,21 July 2006 Parody Harry GRAHAM Ruthless Rhymes
Laying Back
Squire Squint, swatting a mosquito,
missed the pest but slipped a disc, -
discomfort followed and a veto
from Doctor Best for reckless risk.
21 July 2006 Parody Harry GRAHAM Ruthless Rhymes
Ruthless Rhymes
Père repère quelques cris
de ses très chers, - frères ennemis,
Il noie les trois, ensuite il dit: -
‘Vus, pas sentis, - pauvres chéris! ’
17 August 1977
Ruthless Rhymes
Father heard his children scream
so he threw them in the stream,
saying, as he drowned the third,
‘Children should be seen, not heard’
Harry GRAHAM 1874_1936
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Laying Back - Parody Harry Graham - Ruthless Rhymes
Laying Back
Squire Squint, swatting a mosquito,
missed the pest but slipped a disc, -
discomfort followed and a veto
from Doctor Best for reckless risk.
21 July 2006 Parody Harry GRAHAM Ruthless Rhymes
Sitting Duck
Squire Squint, banging at a pheasant,
pranged, instead, a sitting duck, -
Said he, “It is a bit unpleasant
for hitting peasant to come unstuck ! ”
1 August 1991,21 July 2006 Parody Harry GRAHAM Ruthless Rhymes
Sitting Bull
Squire Squint, aiming at a pheasant,
maimed instead a stting bull,
turned tail, - but ‘tis the bull at present
frames the ears, keeps leg to pull!
1 August 1991,21 July 2006 Parody Harry GRAHAM Ruthless Rhymes
Ruthless Rhymes
Père repère quelques cris
de ses très chers, - frères ennemis,
Il noie les trois, ensuite il dit: -
‘Vus, pas sentis, - pauvres chéris! ’
17 August 1977
Ruthless Rhymes
Father heard his children scream
so he threw them in the stream,
saying, as he drowned the third,
‘Children should be seen, not heard’
Harry GRAHAM 1874_1936
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Beyond the blue
I
Speak of you, sir? You bet he did. Ben Fields was far too sound
To go back on a fellow just because he weren't around.
Why, sir, he thought a lot of you, and only three months back
Says he, "The Squire will some time come a-snuffing out our track
And give us the surprise." And so I got to thinking then
That any day you might drop down on Rove, and me, and Ben.
And now you've come for nothing, for the lad has left us two,
And six long weeks ago, sir, he went up beyond the blue.
Who's Rove? Oh, he's the collie, and the only thing on earth
That I will ever love again. Why, Squire, that dog is worth
More than you ever handled, and that's quite a piece, I know.
Ah, there the beggar is!--come here, you scalawag! and show
Your broken leg all bandaged up. Yes, sir, it's pretty sore;
I did it,--curse me,--and I think I feel the pain far more
Than him, for somehow I just feel as if I'd been untrue
To what my brother said before he went beyond the blue.
You see, the day before he died he says to me, "Say, Ned,
Be sure you take good care of poor old Rover when I'm dead,
And maybe he will cheer your lonesome hours up a bit,
And when he takes to you just see that you're deserving it."
Well, Squire, it wasn't any use. I tried, but couldn't get
The friendship of that collie, for I needed it, you bet.
I might as well have tried to get the moon to help me through,
For Rover's heart had gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.
He never seemed to take to me nor follow me about,
For all I coaxed and petted, for my heart was starving out
For want of some companionship,--I thought, if only he
Would lick my hand or come and put his head aside my knee,
Perhaps his touch would scatter something of the gloom away.
But all alone I had to live until there came a day
When, tired of the battle, as you'd have tired too,
I wished to heaven I'd gone with Ben, 'way up beyond the blue.
. . . . .
One morning I took out Ben's gun, and thought I'd hunt all day,
And started through the clearing for the bush that forward lay,
When something made me look around--I scarce believed my mind--
But, sure enough, the dog was following right close behind.
A feeling first of joy, and than a sharper, greater one
Of anger came, at knowing 'twas not me, but Ben's old gun,
That Rove was after,--well, sir, I just don't mind telling you,
But I forgot that moment Ben was up beyond the blue.
Perhaps it was but jealousy--perhaps it was despair,
But I just struck him with the gun and broke the bone right there;
And then--my very throat seemed choked, for he began to whine
With pain--God knows how tenderly I took that dog of mine
Up in my arms, and tore my old red necktie into bands
To bind the broken leg, while there he lay and licked my hands;
And though I cursed my soul, it was the brightest day I knew,
Or even cared to live, since Ben went up beyond the blue.
I tell you, Squire, I nursed him just as gently as could be,
And now I'm all the world to him, and he's the world to me.
Look, sir, at that big, noble soul, right in his faithful eyes,
The square, forgiving honesty that deep down in them lies.
Eh, Squire? What's that you say? He's got no soul? I tell you, then,
He's grander and he's better than the mass of what's called men;
And I guess he stands a better chance than many of us do
Of seeing Ben some day again, 'way up beyond the blue.
poem by Emily Pauline Johnson
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Valuation
THE old Squire said, as he stood by his gate,
And his neighbor, the Deacon, went by,
'In spite of my bank stock and real estate,
You are better off, Deacon, than I.
'We're both growing old, and the end's drawing near,
You have less of this world to resign,
But in Heaven's appraisal your assets, I fear,
Will reckon up greater than mine.
'They say I am rich, but I'm feeling so poor,
I wish I could swap with you even
The pounds I have lived for and laid up in store
For the shillings and pence you have given.'
'Well, Squire,' said the Deacon, with shrewd
common sense,
While his eye had a twinkle of fun,
'Let your pounds take the way of my shillings
and pence,
And the thing can be easily done!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Cotton and Corn
Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
As they met and exchang'd salute--
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
Poor Cotton, half famish'd on foot):
"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil
To hint at starvation before you,
Look down on a poor hungry devil,
And give him some bread, I implore you!"
Quoth Corn, then, in answer to Cotton,
Perceiving he meant to make free --
"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten
The distance between you and me!
To expect that we, Peers of high birth,
Should waste our illustrious acres,
For no other purpose on earth
Than to fatten curst calico-makers! --
That Biships to hobbins should bend --
Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity,
Great dealers in lawn, to befriend
Such contemptible dealers in dimity!
"No -- vile Manufacture! ne'er harbour
A hope to be fed at our boards; --
Base offspring of Arkwright the barber,
What claim canst thou have upon Lords?
"No -- thanks to the taxes and debt,
And the triumph of paper o'er guineas,
Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,
May defy your whole rabble of Jennys!"
So saying -- whip, crack and away
Went Corn in his chaise through the throng,
So headlong, I heard them all say,
"Squire Corn would be down, before long."
poem by Thomas Moore
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Sitting Bull - Parody Harry Graham - Ruthless Rhymes
Sitting Bull - Parody Harry Graham - Ruthless Rhymes
Sitting Bull
Squire Squint, aiming at a pheasant,
maimed instead a stting bull,
turned tail, - but ‘tis the bull at present
frames the ears, keeps leg to pull!
1 August 1991,21 July 2006 Parody Harry GRAHAM Ruthless Rhymes
Sitting Duck
Squire Squint, banging at a pheasant,
pranged, instead, a sitting duck, -
Said he, “It is a bit unpleasant
for hitting peasant to come unstuck ! ”
1 August 1991,21 July 2006 Parody Harry GRAHAM Ruthless Rhymes
Laying Back
Squire Squint, swatting a mosquito,
missed the pest but slipped a disc, -
discomfort followed and a veto
from Doctor Best for reckless risk.
21 July 2006 Parody Harry GRAHAM Ruthless Rhymes
Ruthless Rhymes
Père repère quelques cris
de ses très chers, - frères ennemis,
Il noie les trois, ensuite il dit: -
‘Vus, pas sentis, - pauvres chéris! ’
17 August 1977
Ruthless Rhymes
Father heard his children scream
so he threw them in the stream,
saying, as he drowned the third,
‘Children should be seen, not heard’
Harry GRAHAM 1874_1936
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Reasons
REASONS
If all the world were sparkling sun,
and all well finished once begun,
then I would wish upon a dream
with you as Queen, play perfect team.
If every bat could score home run,
if mice and men could plan their fun,
if every sparkle held a gleam
to light true thinklings till they teem,
If skies were blue, if banned were gun
if wonder, too, though shared eyes shone,
then hand in hand we would redeem
lost time and rhyme with flowing scheme.
But time and tide alas adds care
and age turns gravewards flower fair,
so show more reasons why I should
as squire dreams fire through ill and good?
Can brand new world new words prepare?
Will there be space to 'stop and stare'?
rare faith in flight where man, maid might
scare wraith, sin, blight, prayer scan, braid light?
January 19 2007
robi03_1578_robi03_0000 XXX_DJZ
Poem © Jonathan Robin Reasons
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Rough Justice story poem
Squire Cholmondely I presume
Was not prepared to meet his doom
when he was slaughtered by his groom.
Whose wife he made advances to
a thing no gentleman would do.
He got no more than he was due.
The groom decided he must pay
and slit his weasand one fine day
Then hid his corpse without delay.
Nobody liked the squire much
and he was often out of touch.
There was no hue and cry as such.
Nobody thought he might be dead.
The groom had dropped him so he said
to catch the coach for Maidenhead.
Where he indulged his appetite
for painted ladies of the night
Which he assumed to be his right.
The groom confessed on his death bed
that Squire Cholmondely was long dead
The priest absolved him readily.
The groom now dead had not revealed
where the body was concealed.
So that remains a mystery.
Now to this day nobody knows
the hiding place which the groom chose.
He hid it with great secrecy
Nobody cares sufficiently
to try to find where it might be
There’d be no useful purpose served.
The squire got what he deserved
I must conclude its for the best
Nobody knows where his bones rest.
Perhaps one day by happenstance
He will be found by some mischance.
Buried in some unhallowed plot.
But I would rather he was not.
The whole affair should be forgot
The past is past beyond recall
and I for one don’t care at all.
My granddad did what I would do
to anyone insulting you.
Sunday,08 November 2009
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
Cholmondely is pronounced Chumly
For some obscure reason
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Dead Musicians
I
From you, Beethoven, Bach, Mozart,
The substance of my dreams took fire.
You built cathedrals in my heart,
And lit my pinnacled desire.
You were the ardour and the bright
Procession of my thoughts toward prayer.
You were the wrath of storm, the light
On distant citadels aflare.
II
Great names, I cannot find you now
In these loud years of youth that strives
Through doom toward peace: upon my brow
I wear a wreath of banished lives.
You have no part with lads who fought
And laughed and suffered at my side.
Your fugues and symphonies have brought
No memory of my friends who died.
III
For when my brain is on their track,
In slangy speech I call them back.
With fox-trot tunes their ghosts I charm.
‘Another little drink won’t do us any harm.’
I think of rag-time; a bit of rag-time;
And see their faces crowding round
To the sound of the syncopated beat.
They’ve got such jolly things to tell,
Home from hell with a Blighty wound so neat...
. . . .
And so the song breaks off; and I’m alone.
They’re dead ... For God’s sake stop that gramophone.
poem by Siegfried Sassoon
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One By One
Lord one by one and two by two, I will draw all men Lord, to you,
Lord, to the one and only friend, all men will need come the end.
There’s no greater friend indeed, than one who knows our need,
And He not only knew the cost, but suffered and died for the lost.
I only desire to share The Truth, not concerned of men’s reproof.
And although they may criticize, a word of Truth may open eyes.
All of God’s Truth will be fulfilled, and just as God eternally willed.
Today the words they dispute, one day shall see indeed as Truth.
I pray that their hearts can see, their need they have for eternity,
A need beyond their place of birth, and beyond a temporal earth.
God’s Judgment is sure to come, when all men will see His Son,
And for all who refuse The Truth, they will see His strong reproof,
Until then my Lord I need to be, a guiding Light for all men to see,
And my Lord, according to your will, place my light high upon a hill.
Through your Light Lord I pray, that men will see your eternal way.
The only way men can be assured, of an eternal life with you Lord.
No longer will men see the light, but only a darkened eternal night.
Just like Jude, it is my desire, to snatch some from the eternal fire.
Then Lord one by one, two by two, men shall come to faith in you.
And with their eyes all will see, the home you prepared in Eternity.
(Copyright ©04/2006)
Seven Nation Army
I'm gonna fight 'em off
A seven nation army couldn't hold me back
They're gonna rip it off
Taking their time right behind my back
And I'm talking to myself at night
Because I can't forget
Back and forth through my mind
Behind a cigarette
And the message coming from my eyes
Says leave it alone
Don't want to hear about it
Every single one's got a story to tell
Everyone knows about it
From the Queen of England to the hounds of hell
And if I catch it coming back my way
I'm gonna serve it to you
And that ain't what you want to hear,
But that's what I'll do
And the feeling coming from my bones
Says find a home
I'm going to Wichita
Far from this opera for evermore
I'm gonna work the straw
Make the sweat drip out of every pore
And I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding, and I'm bleeding
Right before the lord
All the words are gonna bleed from me
And I will think no more
And the stains coming from my blood
Tell me go back home
song performed by by Flaming Lips
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Your body belongs to the Tsar, your soul to God, and your back to the squire.
The Bonny Hind
O May she comes, and may she goes,
Down by yon gardens green,
And there she spied a gallant squire
As squire had ever been.
And may she comes, and may she goes,
Down by yon hollin tree,
And there she spied a brisk young squire,
And a brisk young squire was he.
'Give me your green manteel, fair maid,
Give me your maidenhead;
Gif ye winna gie me your green manteel,
Gi me your maidenhead.'
He has taen her by the milk-white hand,
And softly laid her down,
And when he's lifted her up again
Given her a silver kaim.
'Perhaps there may be bairns, kind sir,
Perhaps there may be nane;
But if you be a courtier,
You'll tell to me your name.'
'I am na courtier, fair maid,
But new come frae the sea;
I am nae courtier, fair maid,
But when I court'ith thee.
'They call me Jack when I'm abroad,
Sometimes they call me John;
But when I'm in my father's bower
Jock Randal is my name.'
'Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad,
Sae loud's I hear ye lee!
For I'm Lord Randal's yae daughter,
He has nae mair nor me.'
'Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny may,
Sae loud's I hear ye lee!
For I'm Lord Randal's yae yae son,
Just now come oer the sea.'
She's putten her hand down by her spare
And out she's taen a knife,
And she has putn't in her heart's bluid,
And taen away her life.
And he's taen up his bonny sister,
With the big tear in his een,
And he has buried his bonny sister
Amang the hollins green.
And syne he's hyed him oer the dale,
His father dear to see:
'Sing O and O for my bonny hind,
Beneath yon hollin tree!'
'What needs you care for your bonny hyn?
For it you needna care;
There's aught score hyns in yonder park,
And five score hyns to spare.
'Fourscore of them are siller-shod,
Of thae ye may get three;'
'But O and O for my bonny hyn,
Beneath yon hollin tree!'
'What needs you care for your bonny hyn?
For it you needna care;
Take you the best, gi me the warst,
Since plenty is to spare.'
'I care na for your hyns, my lord,
I care na for your fee;
But O and O for my bonny hyn,
Beneath the hollin tree!'
'O were ye at your sister's bower,
Your sister fair to see,
Ye'll think na mair o your bonny hyn
Beneath the hollin tree.'
poem by Andrew Lang
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Wake Me!
Wake me when the war is over
Then tell me who won the fight,
“ hoorah ” for us if we have won,
and if we lost, then GOD wasn't on our side.
Then let me know just why we fought
And the reasons that we might die
Refresh my memory of this war once more
So never again must I ask why.
And if anyone asks if I did fight
While I was station way over there,
Thank them all and tell them of course I did
And thank them for keeping me in there prayer.
And tell them all no medals home will I bring
As I fought just for home and glory,
“MMM”, I like how that sounded
I think That will be my story.
I never fought for hate or for love
Never fought for the red, black, yellow or white
I never fought for riches or for wealth
I fought for my leaders, as they told me to fight.
Wake me when this war is over
Or tell me when the fighting is done
So I can discard my gun and put on my boots
And then head home, to my wife and son.
And tell them all I served my country well
Please tell them one lie after another
And tell them all I fought for GOD and Country
And also of course for my friends and mother.
And tell them while I was way over there
I fought hard each and every day
I killed for truth and I killed for justice
And every night for my sins to GOD I would pray.
So much sadness came from this war
Sadness I seen each and every way
How much I miss my family and home
And how I so hate in being afraid.
And when you do tell of my story
Don't tell it so sad to cause any to weep
Because during this war I did not a thing
Because as you know, all I did was sleep.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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March of Memories
Left, right - left, right . . .
We march today for memories (the grizzled Digger said)
Memories of lost dreams and comrades gone ahead
Comrades bloody war took, dreams that men have slain
(Left, right - left, right . . .) Not ours to dream again.
There was Shorty Hall and Len Pratt, Long Joe and Blue,
Skeet and Brolga Houlihan, and Fat and me and you:
Bright lads, the old bunch; eager lads and keen
That first day we marched down thro' this familiar scene.
Dreams were ours, and high hopes went with us overseas.
(Left, right - left, right . . . ) And now 'tis memories.
We march again for memories (the grizzled Digger sighed)
Memories of lost mates, of foolish hopes that died.
First, Shorty got his issue on the beach at Sari Bair.
(Left, right - left, right . . .) The vision of him there
Brought the dawn of disillusion. I needed little more
To blood me to the butchery, the filthiness called war.
Shorty, like a limp rag, slung there anyhow,
Sprawling on the warm sand like I can see him now.
Always was a merry mate, a rare lad for fun.
(Left, right - left, right . . .) And Shorty, that was one.
We march today for memories; and they come crowding fast
As each year adds another page to the story of the past.
Pratt went west at Mena Base; raved of home and peace.
(Left, right - left, right . . . ) His was a kind release.
For a Lone Pine shell-burst got him; and he was less than man.
'Twas a sniper's bullet bore the name of Brolga Houlihan.
We called him Happy Houlihan, the man who took a chance.
Then the Reaper paused and plotted for the rest of them in France -
Except Long Joe, the luckless, a youth ill-shaped for war.
(Left, right - left, right . . .) And Long Joe was four.
We march today for memories. Little else had we
When we marched home as veterans. Blue and you and me.
For Skeet went with a night raid, and none came back alive.
(Left, right - left, right . . .) So Skeet, he tallied five.
Five gone and four to fight; us and Blue and Fat,
Who vowed he was too big to hit; but a whizz-bang settled that.
Yet Fat was lucky to the end - an end that held no pain.
All hell erupted where he stood; and none saw him again.
And Blue marched, and you marched, and I, a war-torn three.
(Left. right - left, right . . . ) Marched with memory.
We march again with memories (the grizzled Digger spake)
One year? Ten years? How soon shall we awake
To glorious reality? For lately it would seem -
(Left, right - left, right . . .) - we march within a dream.
Where Shorty is, and Blue is, and Happy Houlihan,
That seems the only real land, with rest for weary man.
For Blue went out three years ago; and cruel slow to kill
Was the war-god, the grim god who claims victims still.
But you and I, old Digger friend, will soon march with the rest.
(Left, right - left, right . . .) In the Army of the West!
Today we march with memories, and years dull the pain.
But God help the young 'uns, mate, if they must march again,
(Left, right - left, right . . .) For the young must ever dream.
But we march with memories, and ghosts go at our side -
Len Pratt and Long Joe, whom men say have died.
And you walk like a ghost, mate; you do not turn to hear.
Or is it - Did the boys say you passed last year?
Out of this tangled dreaming has your troubled spirit flown?
(Left, right - left, right . . .) And I march alone.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Rolling English Road
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road,
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire,
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread,
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.
His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.
My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.
poem by G.K. Chesterton
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Seven Nation Army
Im gonna fight em off
A seven nation army couldnt hold me back
Theyre gonna rip it off
Taking their time right behind my back
And Im talking to myself at night
Because I cant forget
Back and forth through my mind
Behind a cigarette
And the message coming from my eyes
Says leave it alone
Dont want to hear about it
Every single ones got a story to tell
Everyone knows about it
From the queen of england to the hounds of hell
And if I catch it coming back my way
Im gonna serve it to you
And that aint what you want to hear,
But thats what Ill do
And the feeling coming from my bones
Says find a home
Im going to wichita
Far from this opera for evermore
Im gonna work the straw
Make the sweat drip out of every pore
And Im bleeding, and Im bleeding, and Im bleeding
Right before the lord
All the words are gonna bleed from me
And I will think no more
And the stains coming from my blood
Tell me go back home
song performed by by White Stripes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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