Poetry

[BDL]

Ode To A Soldier

I was that which others did not want to be.
I went where others feared to go.
And did what others failed to do.

I asked nothing from those who gave nothing.
And reluctantly accepted the though of eternal loneliness
should I fail.

I have sen the face of terror,
felt the stinging cold of fear.
And enjoyed the sweet taste of a moments love.

I have cried, pained and hoped
But most of all I have lived times others would say were best forgotten.
At least someday I will be able to say I was proud of what I was…

A soldier.

[BDL]

I knew a simple soldier boy
who grinned at life in empty joy
slept soundly through the lonesome hark
and whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum
through crumps and lice and lack of rum
he put a bullet through his brain
and no-one spoke of him again.

Oh smug face crowds with kindling eye
who cheer when soldier-lads march by
sneak home and pray you’ll never know
the Hell where youth, and laughter go.

Siegfried Sassoon

[BDL]

No Man’s Land (Green Fields of France) - Eric Bogle

Well, how’d you do, Private Willie McBride,
D’you mind if I sit down down here by your graveside?
I’ll rest for awhile in the warm summer sun,
Been walking all day, Lord, and I’m nearly done.
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916,
I hope you died quick and I hope you died “clean,”
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

CHORUS:
Did they beat the drum slowly, did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o’er ye as they lowered ye down?
Did the bugles sing “The Last Post” in chorus?
Did the pipes play the “Flowers O’ The Forest”?

And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that loyal heart are you forever nineteen?
Or are you a stranger, without even a name,
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?

Well, the sun’s shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plow;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard it’s still No Man’s Land;
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man.
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

And I can’t help but wonder now, Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you “the cause?”
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame,
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it’s all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

[BDL]

I WENT TO SEE THE SOLDIERS

I went to see the soldiers, row on row on row,
And wondered about each so still, their badges all on show.
What brought them here, what life before
Was like for each of them?
What made them angry, laugh, or cry,
These soldiers, boys and men.

Some so young, some older still, a bond more close than brothers
These men have earned and shared a love, that’s not like any others
They trained as one, they fought as one
They shared their last together
That bond endures, that love is true
And will be, now and ever.

I could not know, how could I guess, what choices each had made,
Of how they came to soldiering, what part each one had played?
But here they are and here they’ll stay,
Each one silent and in place,
Their headstones line up row on row
They guard this hallowed place.

Kenny Martin

[BDL]

In Memoriam
Private D. Sutherland, Killed in Action in the German trench May 16 1916 and Others Who Died

So you were David’s father,
and he was your only son,
and the new-cut peat’s a rotting,
and the work is left undone
Because of an old man weeping
just an old man in pain
For David, his son David,
who will not come again

Oh, the letters he wrote you,
and I can see them still,
not a word of the fighting,
just the sheep upon the hill
And how you should get the crops in,
'ere the year got stormier
And the Bosches have got his body
and I was his officer

You were only David’s father,
but I had fifty sons,
When we went up in the evening,
under the arch of the guns
And we came back in the twilight –
Oh God! I hear them call
To me for help and pity,
who could not help at all

Oh, never will I forget you,
my men that trusted me,
More my sons than your fathers,
for they could only see
the helpless little babies,
and the young men in their pride,
They could not see you dying
and hold you as you died

Happy young and gallant,
they saw their first-born go
But not the strong limbs broken,
the beautiful men brought low
the piteous writhing bodies,
They screamed “Don’t leave me, Sir”
For they were only your fathers
but I was your Officer

Ewart Alan Macintosh 1893 - 1917
The man who wrote these words was twenty-three years old.
He died in the Battle of Cambrai, November 1917, aged 24.

[BDL]

A Soldier’s Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas,
He lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house made of
Plaster and stone.

I had come down the chimney
With presents to give,
And to see just who
In this home did live.

I looked all about,
A strange sight I did see,
No tinsel, no presents,
Not even a tree.

No stocking by mantle,
Just boots filled with sand,
On the wall hung pictures
Of far distant lands.

With medals and badges,
Awards of all kinds,
A sober thought
Came through my mind.

For this house was different,
It was dark and dreary,
I found the home of a soldier,
Once I could see clearly.

The soldier lay sleeping,
Silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor
In this one bedroom home.

The face was so gentle,
The room in such disorder,
Not how I pictured
My thought of a soldier.

Was this the hero
Of whom I’d just read?
Curled up on a poncho,
The floor for a bed?

I realized the families
That I saw this night,
Owed their lives to these soldiers
Who were willing to fight.

Soon round the world,
The children would play,
And grownups would celebrate
A bright Christmas day.

They all enjoyed freedom
Each month of the year,
Because of the soldiers,
Like the one lying here.

I couldn’t help wonder
How many lay alone,
On a cold Christmas eve
In a land far from home.

The very thought
Brought a tear to my eye,
I dropped to my knees
And started to cry.

The soldier awakened
And I heard a rough voice,
" Santa don’t cry,
This life is my choice;

I fight for freedom,
I don’t ask for more,
My life is my god,
My country, my corps."

The soldier rolled over
And drifted to sleep,
I couldn’t control it,
I continued to weep.

I kept watch for hours,
So silent and still
And we both shivered
From the cold night’s chill.

I didn’t want to leave
On that cold, dark, night,
This guardian of honour
So willing to fight.

Then the soldier rolled over,
With a voice soft and pure,
Whispered, “carry on Santa,
It’s Christmas day, all is secure.”

One look at my watch,
And I knew he was right.
" Merry Christmas my friend,
And to all a good night."

[Cash]

Back

They ask me where I’ve been,
And what I’ve done and seen.
But what can I reply
Who knows it wasn’t I,
But someone just like me,
Who went across the sea
And with my head and hands
Killed men in foreign lands . . .
Though I must bear the blame
Because he bore my name.

Wilfred Wilson Gibson