The Battered Brigade
The mark of a stake in the shoulder,
The brand of a wall on the knee,
Are scars to the careless beholder
And blemishes. So it may be ;
But every such blemish endorses
The pluck of a steed unafraid,
And the heart of a lover of horses
Goes out to the Battered Brigade.
Their knocks have been gathered in duty,
Their scars in the front of the fray;
It isn't your cleanest-legged beauty
That's first at the end of the day.
When five foot of timber before us
Has half of the pretty ones stayed,
If you want to catch up to the chorus
Come on with the Battered Brigade!
Turned out in the finest of fettle
'Tis sometimes the soundest that fails
And would rather hear hoofs on the metal
Than follow the rattle of rails;
But out on the grass with hounds racing
And fences as big as they're made
The cream of the gay steeple-chasing
Is left to the Battered Brigade.
Their line is the line of the foxes,
Their pace is the pace of the pack,
Though to-morrow they stand in their boxes
As stiff as the props of a stack;
And I 'll lay you my cheque at the banker's
They're forward next week undismayed.
Good luck to the blemished front-rankers!
Hats off to the Battered Brigade!
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Fire Brigade
Cast your mind back ten years
To the girl whos next to me in school
If I put me hand upon her leg
She hit me with a rule
Though tomorrow wont be long
Youre gonna have to play it cool
You get fascinated by her
She could set the place on fire
Run and get the fire brigade
Get the fire brigade
See the buildings start to really burn
Get the fire brigade
Get the fire brigade
If you jump youve got to wait your turn
Friends all seem to laugh
I fear Im apt to make a compromise
Try to reassure myself
My head must need some exercise
Half past ten in the morning
She just took me by surprise
True she set the place on fire
You get fascinated by her
Run and get the fire brigade
Get the fire brigade
See the buildings start to really burn
Get the fire brigade
Get the fire brigade
If you jump youve got to wait your turn
The lights across the street throw a rainbow
Id love you all to meet her
Ill be there, Ill be there
Notice that my eyes have been
A misty place since saturday
Brings a feeling we might lead
The fire engines anyway
Though tomorrow wont be long
Youre gonna have to play it cool
You get fascinated by her
She could set the place on fire
Run and get the fire brigade
Get the fire brigade
See the buildings start to really burn
Get the fire brigade
Get the fire brigade
If you jump youve got to wait your turn
Run and get the fire brigade
Get the fire brigade
See the buildings start to really burn
Get the fire brigade
Get the fire brigade
If you jump youve got to wait your turn
song performed by by Electric Light Orchestra
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Wallaby Brigade
You often have been told of regiments brave and bold,
But we are the bravest in the land;
We're called the Tag-rag Band, and we rally in Queensland,
We are members of the Wallaby Brigade.
Tramp, tramp, tramp across the borders,
The swagmen are rolling up, I see.
When the shearing's at an end we'll go fishing in a bend.
Then hurrah! for the Wallaby Brigade.
When you are leaving camp, you must ask some brother tramp
If there are any jobs to be had,
Or what sort of a shop that station is to stop
For a member of the Wallaby Brigade.
You ask me if they want men, you ask for rations then,
If they don't stump up a warning should be made;
To teach them better sense—why, "Set fire to their fence"
Is the war cry of the Wallaby Brigade.
The squatters thought us done when they fenced in all their run,
But a prettier mistake they never made;
You've only to sport your dover and knock a monkey over
There's cheap mutton for the Wallaby Brigade.
Now when the shearing's in our harvest will begin,
Our swags for a spell down will be laid;
But when our cheques are drank we will join the Tag-rag rank,
Limeburners in the Wallaby Brigade.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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The Charge Of The Light Brigade
HALF a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade ?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
.
poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The mission statement was ordered, and it sent the 800th MP Brigade, effective the first of July, up to Baghdad. I joined my brigade to take command at the end of June.
quote by Janis Karpinski
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Right Brigade
You can't disappear anymore
I see your face lurking outside the window
You say you're a trife I'm a bore
You touch yourself put your face in the pillow
But the funny thing about you is
You remembered to leave it behind
And the funny thing about me is
I'm a member of the Right Brigade!
Makes no difference to me
What side you choose
What side will lose
All there is to perceive is what I want
And I know how to get it
But the funny thing about you is
You remembered to leave it behind
And the funny thing about me is
I'm a member of the Right Brigade!
Right Brigade! Ahhh...
Right Brigade! Ahhh...
song performed by by Deftones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Charge Of The Mule Brigade
Half a mile, half a mile,
Half a mile onward,
Right through the Georgia troops
Broke the two hundred.
'Forward the Mule Brigade!
Charge for the Rebs,' they neighed.
Straight for the Georgia troops
Broke the two hundred.
'Forward the Mule Brigade!'
Was there a mule dismayed?
Not when their long ears felt
All their ropes sundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to make Rebs fly.
On! to the Georgia troops
Broke the two hundred.
Mules to the right of them,
Mules to the left of them,
Mules behind them
Pawed, neighed, and thundered.
Breaking their own confines
Breaking through Longstreet's lines
Into the Georgia troops
Stormed the two hundred.
Wild all their eyes did glare,
Whisked all their tails in air
Scattering the chivalry there,
While all the world wondered.
Not a mule back bestraddled,
Yet how they all skedaddled -
Fled every Georgian,
Unsabred, unsaddled,
Scattered and sundered!
How they were routed there
By the two hundred!
Mules to the right of them,
Mules to the left of them,
Mules behind them
Pawed, neighed, and thundered;
Followed by hoof and head
Full many a hero fled,
Fain in the last ditch dead,
Back from an ass's jaw
All that was left of them, -
Left by the two hundred.
When can their glory fade?
Oh, what a wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Mule Brigade,
Long-eared two hundred!
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Clare's Dragoons
When, on Ramillies' bloody field,
The baffled French were forced to yield,
The victor Saxon backward reeled
Before the charge of Clare's Dragoons.
The Flags we conquered in that fray
Look lone in Ypres' choir, they say,
We'll win them company to-day,
Or bravely die like Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed, and sabre bright!
The brave old lord died near the fight,
But, for each dropp he lost that night,
A Saxon cavalier shall bite
The dust before Lord Clare's Dragoons.
For never, when our spurs were set,
And never, when our sabres met,
Could we the Saxon soldiers get
To stand the shock of Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade!
Viva la, the Old one, too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the shamrock shine for ever new!
Another Clare is here to lead,
The worthy son of such a breed;
The French expect some famous deed,
When Clare leads on his bold Dragoons.
Our Colonel comes from Brian's race,
His wounds are in his breast and face,
The bearna baoghail[81] is still his place,
The foremost of his bold Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade!
Viva la, the Old one, too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the shamrock shine for ever new!
There's not a man in squadron here
Was ever known to flinch or fear;
Though first in charge and last in rere,
Have ever been Lord Clare's Dragoons;
But see! we'll soon have work to do,
To shame our boasts, or prove them true,
For hither comes the English crew,
To sweep away Lord Clare's Dragoons.
CHORUS.
Viva la, for Ireland's wrong!
Viva la, for Ireland's right!
Viva la, in battle throng,
For a Spanish steed and sabre bright!
Oh! comrades! think how Ireland pines,
Her exiled lords, her rifled shrines,
Her dearest hope, the ordered lines,
And bursting charge of Clare's Dragoons.
Then fling your Green Flag to the sky.
Be 'Limerick' your battle-cry,
And charge, till blood floats fetlock-high,
Around the track of Clare's Dragoons!
CHORUS.
Viva la, the New Brigade!
Viva la, the Old one, too!
Viva la, the rose shall fade,
And the shamrock shine for ever new!
song, lyrics by Thomas Davis
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Was Battered, And Bruised
For the late jimmy
They said I was too slow,
Wondered when i'd learn,
Though they never taught me.
Said I was rude to matters of principle,
And read my elegy before my epilogue.
Battered my weary spirit - and will,
Tore my single soul into shreds,
All I managed was barely a whisper - Oh my God!
By my very own that i loved,
whose very blood flows red like venom,
in my dark withered veins,
Was left for the double edged streets,
Lessons in the offing-cruel to the Dogs,
But now I stand on my two legs,
Like I never dreamt before,
Radiating illuminating strength,
Bettered by the bruises of battering,
And shaped by the avengers of yester'morrow,
By whom I was battered and bruised.
poem by Wesongah David
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The Battle of Alma
'Twas on the heights of Alma the battle began.
But the Russians turned and fled every man;
Because Sir Colin Campbell's Highland Brigade put them to flight,
At the charge of the bayonet, which soon ended the fight.
Sir Colin Campbell he did loudly cry,
Let the Highlanders go forward, they will win or die,
We'll hae nane but Hieland bonnets here,
So forward, my lads, and give one ringing cheer.
Then boldly and quickly they crossed the river,
But not one amongst them with fear did shiver,
And ascended the height, forming quietly on the crest,
While each man seemed anxious to do his best.
The battle was fought by twenty against one,
But the gallant British troops resolved to die to a man,
While the shot was mowing them down and making ugly gaps,
And shells shrieking and whistling and making fearful cracks.
On the heights of Alma it was a critical time,
And to see the Highland Brigade it was really sublime,
To hear the officers shouting to their men,
On lads, I'll show you the way to fight them.
Close up! Close up! Stand firm, my boys,
Now be steady, men, steady and think of our joys;
If we only conquer the Russians this day,
Our fame will be handed down to posterity for ever and aye.
Still forward! Forward! My lads was the cry,
And from the redoubt make them fly;
And at length the Russians had to give way,
And fled from the redoubt in wild dismay.
Still the fate of the battle hung in the balance,
But Sir Colin knew he had still a chance,
But one weak officer in fear loudly shouted,
Let the Guards fall back, or they'll be totally routed.
Then Sir Colin Campbell did make reply,
'Tis better, Sir, that every man of the Guards should die,
And to be found dead on this bloody field,
Than to have it said they fled and were forced to yield.
Then the Coldstreams on the highlanders' right
Now advanced to engage the enemy in the fight,
But then they halted, unable to go forward,
Because the Russians did their progress retard.
But now came the turning point of the battle,
While the Russian guns loudly did rattle;
Then Sir Colin turned to the plumed Highland array,
And in stirring tones to them did say--
Be steady, keep silence, my lads, don't be afraid,
And make me proud of my Highland Brigade;
Then followed the command, sharp and clear,
While the war notes of the 42d bagpipes smote the ear.
The soldiers, though young, were cool and steady,
And to face the enemy they were ever ready,
And still as the bare-kneed line unwavering came on
It caused the Russians to shake and look woebegone.
And now as the din of the fight grew greater,
Fear filled the hearts of the Russian giants in stature,
Because the kilted heroes they fought so well
That they thought they had come from the regions of hell.
Oh! it was a most beautiful and magnificent display
To see the Highland Brigade in their tartan array,
And their tall bending plumes in a long line,
The scene was inspiring and really sublime.
Then, terror-stricken by this terrible advancing line,
The Russians broke down and began to whine,
And they turned round and fled with a moaning cry,
Because they were undone and had to fly.
Then the crisis was past and the victory won,
Which caused Sir Colin Campbell to cry, Well done,
And, raising his hand, gave the signal to cheer,
Which was responded to by hurrahs, loud and clear.
poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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The anger in the Brigade against those who fought the Republic in the rear was sharpened by reports of weapons, even tanks, being kept from the front and hidden for treacherous purposes.
quote by Bill Alexander
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tommy Corrigan
You talk of riders on the flat, of nerve and pluck and pace --
Not one in fifty has the nerve to ride a steeplechase.
It's right enough, while horses pull and take their faces strong,
To rush a flier to the front and bring the field along;
Bur what about the last half-mile, with horses blown and beat --
When every jump means all you know to keep him on his feet.
When any slip means sudden death -- with wife and child to keep --
It needs some nerve to draw the whip and flog him at the leap --
But Corrigan would ride them out, by danger undismayed,
He never flinched at fence or wall, he never was afraid;
With easy seat and nerve of steel, light hand and smiling face,
He held the rushing horses back, and made the sluggards race.
He gave the shirkers extra heart, he steadied down the rash,
He rode great clumsy boring brutes, and chanced a fatal smash;
He got the rushing Wymlet home that never jumped at all --
But clambered over every fence and clouted every wall.
You should have heard the cheers, my boys, that shook the members' stand
Whenever Tommy Corrigan weighed out to ride Lone Hand.
They were, indeed, a glorious pair -- the great upstanding horse,
The gamest jockey on his back that ever faced a course.
Though weight was big and pace was hot and fences stiff and tall,
"You follow Tommy Corrigan" was passed to one and all.
And every man on Ballarat raised all he could command
To put on Tommy Corrigan when riding old Lone Hand.
But now we'll keep his memory green while horsemen come and go;
We may not see his like again where silks and satins glow.
We'll drink to him in silence, boys -- he's followed down the track
Where many a good man went before, but never one came back.
Amd, let us hope, in that far land where the shades of brave men reign,
The gallant Tommy Corrigan will ride Lone Hand again.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Pornography is the instruction. Rape is the practice, battered women are the practice, and battered children are the practice.
quote by Gloria Steinem
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tree
Ancient tree
Aching twisted limbs, gnarled and torn,
Wind battered, weathering and worn.
What stories can it tell?
Through generations of sunshine,
Through decades of rain,
Storm battered, weathered by pain.
What stories can it tell?
© 2012
poem by Nick Strong
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Embarrassed And Battered
Embarrassed and battered.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Embarrassed and battered.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Some people bring home their tempers to leave.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
While others show their hearts hanging on their sleeves.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Dragging on their backs every burden to keep.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Bringing on their moodiness when they turn the key.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Keeping everybody up so they can't sleep.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Embarrassed and battered.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Embarrassed and battered.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Some people bring home their tempers to leave.
Bringing on their moodiness when they turn the key.
Dragging on their backs every burden to keep.
While others show their hearts hanging on their sleeves.
Keeping everybody up so they can't sleep.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Embarrassed and battered.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Embarrassed and battered.
And nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Nothing you have done is deserving of that.
Embarrassed and battered.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Huntsman's Horse
The galloping seasons have slackened his pace,
And stone wall and timber have battered his knees
It is many a year since he gave up his place
To live out his life in comparative ease.
No more does he stand with his scarlet and white
Like a statue of marble girth deep in the gorse;
No more does he carry the Horn of Delight
That called us to follow the huntsman's old horse.
How many will pass him and not understand,
As he trots down the road going cramped in his stride,
That he once set the pace to the best in the land
Ere they tightened his curb for a lady to ride!
When the music begins and a right one's away,
When hoof-strokes are thudding like drums on the ground,
The old spirit wakes in the worn-looking grey
And the pride of his youth comes to life at a bound.
He leans on the bit and he lays to his speed,
To the winds of the open his stiffness he throws,
And if spirit were all he'd be up with the lead
Where the horse that supplants him so easily goes.
No double can daunt him, no ditch can deceive,
No bank can beguile him to set a foot wrong,
But the years that have passed him no power can retrieve-
To the swift is their swiftness, their strength to the strong!
To the best of us all comes a day and a day
When the pace of the leaders shall leave us forlorn,
So we'll give him a cheer - the old galloping grey -
As he labours along to the lure of the Horn.
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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Takin The Time
Youre working overtime
You know it doesnt do you no good
Youre slaving away for things that you need
Roof is falling down on round your head
Youre backed against the wall
Living your whole damn life
At someone elses beck and call
On the edge of the [night/knife]
Aaaaahhhh, come on
Come in, youre bruised and battered
You need some time to heal
Step out of the bullet train
Set yourself down, I know how you feel
Slow down your racing pulses
Overthrow all your of fears
For an hour, be a simple man
And Ill be a good set of ears
Aaaaahhhh, come on
Chorus
Takin the time to look
Takin the time to feel
[when/will] you rewrite your open book
Allow the scars to heal
Takin the time to look
Takin the time to feel
[when/will] you rewrite your open book
Allow the scars to heal
Youre movin heaven and earth
And straining every nerve
Always working double time
Burn the midnight oil down to the last [resort/resolve/result]
You cant go your [snowy/showy room] anymore
Wind your smoked glass windows down
If you cant handle opening the door
Aaaaaahhhh, come on
Chorus
Takin the time to look
Takin the time to feel
[when/will] you rewrite your open book
Allow the scars to heal
Takin the time to look
Takin the time to feel
[when/will] you rewrite your open book
Allow the scars to heal
song performed by by Howard Jones
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Flattered
I've been battered,
And shattered by it.
But the process of putting the pieces back,
Have healed.
And I find myself flattered by your comments.
It does feel good,
Knowing I can still appeal.
And I thank you for that.
You have reminded me I can attract.
I am flattered.
But I must also state...
If you keep that up,
You might find I'm easy to bait!
And the first to want to snuggle.
I've been battered,
And shattered by it.
But I did not say one thing,
About rejecting the notion...
Of being tenderized.
I am not that self sufficient.
Nor do I choose to be!
Although I have made some attempts...
The results of them did prove to be less gratifying!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Hounds going home in the Dark
Rustle of feet in the roadside grass,
Trample of horses' hoofs, and - Hark!
Blast of an anxious horn! Hounds pass;
Hounds going home in the dark.
Bold was our huntsman galloping free
On a difficult line to the hills to-day,
But his hand is trembling against his knee
At the hint of a light on the King's Highway.
‘ Car!' And the gold spreads over the sky ;
‘ Keep to the front there! Stop them, Mark!
' Toot-toot-too-oot ! - ' Halloo, there !-Hi ! ‘-
Hounds going home in the dark.
Crack of a whip as the headlights near-
Blind in the blaze they group and grope.
‘ Curse the feller, and can't he hear?
Put 'em across, there I-Cope, boys, cope! '
When never a star is hung in the sky,
With never a lamp or a lantern spark,
Huntsman and Whips go groping by,
Blowing them home in the dark.
poem by William Henry Ogilvie
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The Dam that Keele Built
This is the dam that Keele built.
This is the stream that brought the water to fill the dam that Keele built;
This is the Water and Sewer Brigade,
That measured the stream that brought the water to fill the dam that Keele built;
This is the Engineer by Trade --
Head of the Water and Sewer Brigade,
Who measured the stream that brought the water to fill the dam that Keele built;
These are the Calculations made
By the Eminent Engineer by Trade,
Head of the Water and Sewer Brigade,
Who measured the stream that brought the water to fill the dam that Keele built;
This is the scornful Mr Wade,
Who sneered at the Calculations made
By the Eminent Engineer by Trade,
Head of the Water and Sewer Brigade,
Who measured the stream that brought the water to fill the dam that Keele built;
This is the Minister quite dismayed
At the sight of the Scornful Mr Wade,
Who sneered at the Calculations made
By the Eminent Engineer by Trade,
Head of the Water and Sewer Brigade,
Who measured the stream that brought the water to fill the dam that Keele built;
This is the Sydneyite afraid
That a serious blunder will be made,
Because of the Minister, quite dismayed
At the sight of the Scornful Mr Wade,
Who sneered at the Calculations made
By the Eminent Engineer by Trade,
Head of the Water and Sewer Brigade,
Who measured the stream that brought the water to fill the dam that Keele built.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Last Of The Steam-powered Trains
Like the last of the good ol puffer trains,
Im the last of the blood and sweat brigade,
And I dont know where Im going, or why I came.
Im the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains.
Im the last of the good old renegades.
All my friends are all middle class and grey,
But I live in a museum, so Im okay.
Im the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains.
Like the last of the good ol choo-choo trains,
Huff and puff till I blow this world away,
And Im gonna keep on rollin till my dying day.
Im the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains.
Like the last of the good ol puffer trains,
Im the last of the soot and scum[? ] brigade,
And all this peaceful living is drivin me insane.
Im the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains.
Im the last of the good old fashioned steam-powered trains.
song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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