My Boy Jack
1914-18
Have you news of my boy Jack?"
Not this tide.
"When d'you think that he'll come back?"
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.


"Has any one else had word of him?: "
Not this tide.
For what is sunk will hardly swim,
Not with this wind blowing, and this tide.


"Oh, dear, what comfort can I find?"
None this tide,
Nor any tide,
Except he did not shame his kind--
Not even with that wind blowing, and that tide.


Then hold your head up all the more,
This tide,
And every tide;
Because he was the son you bore,
And gave to that wind blowing and that tide!

lot of dust in here, Iluv Kipling


the young british soldier.
last verse


when you'r wounded an left on Afghanistans planes,
an' the women come out to cut up what remains,
jest roll to your rifele an' blow out your brains,
an' go to your Gaws like a soldier.
go,go,go like a soldier

Really hurts to hear Shane and the Pogues sing it

Article in the Sunday Times today on modern war poetry - should be available online tomorrow (I think).

Ref Sunday Times, it is already online. The link is - www.timesonline.co.uk/warpoetry

At the risk of being sentimental, can I thank everyone who's contributed to this thread so far. It never fails to impress me, the breadth that Arrse can cover, from the Naafi Bar through to learned discussions being used in Commons Select Committees, and being able to quote poetry at each other at one in the morning (cough, cough, birds, Top Gear, football0

Scots, Wha Hae Wi' Wallace Bled
by Robert Burns

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour,
See approach proud Edward's power—
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in ev'ry foe!
Liberty's in ev'ry blow!
Let us do or die!

On His Seventy-fifth Birthday - Walter Savage Landor

I strove with none; for none was worth my strife;
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.

When you almost die
you look at life with a differant eye,
important things seem realy mundane,
and simple things visions one must retain,
walking the dogs is an important pleasurs, and an old photograph
becomes a priceless tresure.

Death Of A Ball Turret Gunner, Randall Jarrett
---------------------------------------------

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State

And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.

Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,

I woke to black flack and the nightmare fighters.

And when I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

---------------------------------------------------

Not quite sure what the 'State' is, but the rythm of that last line is just stunning.

I always assumed it meant "becoming a tool of the government"?

When one faces death and lives,
you react in a way as never before,
your brain races at super speed,
time seems to slow like an Ang Lee film,
but after when you have beateb the Reaper,
the rush of euphoriais more addictive than dope andbetter than sex,
and all your comrads treat you with a new respect,
wich you almost certanly do not derserve

I thought it was more a state of consciousness, animated suspension perhaps, that the gunner fell into until the battle started and everything came crashing back to reality again?

Hoe not to enter a helicopter.

The stupid B****** went the wrong way,

our tail rotor took his head away,

through a cloud of scarlet froth,

as he no longer had a head,

I wonder whar told him he was realy dead,

his headlees corps then tried to stand.

this was all to mach for me i egressed right and ran away,

I think CaptainCalamity has it right. The 'State' is some kind of semi-conscious mode, possibly through being so cold, or the monotony of being an isolated ball gunner (on a bomber I assume, not being RAF) on a long flight. The last two lines are a brilliant piece of writing.

You might want to look at this if you have not already:

www.timesonline.co.uk/...frontline/

timesonline.typepad.co...poets.html

Also, from the Times Literary Supplement an interesting take on the Ist World War with mention of the classic war poets:

entertainment.timesonl...087161.ece

That one cut through the bombast, and better than the silly limericks did!

Could well be, although the capitalised "S" mitigates against that slightly - the last line in particular makes the speaker seem like an object, a thing to be used then thrown away. But like all the best poetry, it probably admits of multiple valid interpretations.

It is the Soldier,
not the reporter who has given us freedom of press

It is the Soldier,
not the poet who has given us freedom of speech

It is the Soldier,
not the campus organizer who gives us freedom to demonstrate

It is the Soldier who salutes the flag,
who serves beneath the flag,
and whose coffin is draped by the flag,
who allows the protester to burn the flag.

Father Dennis Edward O'Brien

Vitae Lampada

There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight -
Ten to make and the match to win -
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of the ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote -
'Play up ! play up ! and play the game !'

The sand of the Desert is sodden red -
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; -
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel's dead,
And the regiment's blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
'Play up ! play up ! and play the game !'

This is the world that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind -
'Play up ! play up ! and play the game !'

Sir Henry Newbolt



EVERYONE suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom,
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on—on—and out of sight.

Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted;
And beauty came like the setting sun:
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away ... O, but Everyone
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.

Siegfried Sassoon




Epitaph For the Unknown Soldier

To save your world, you asked this man to die:
Would this man, could he see you now, ask Why?

W.H. Auden

Last edited by Edna-Clouds on Tue Nov 11, 2008 10:30 pm; edited 1 time in total