From the RAF memorial at Runnymede:

WE SHALL NOT FORGET THEM


The first rays of the dawning sun
Shall touch its pillars,
And as the day advances
And the light grows stronger,
You shall read the names
Engraved on the stone of those who sailed on the angry sky
And saw harbour no more.
No gravestone in yew-dark churchyard
Shall mark their resting place;
Their bones lie in the forgotten corners of earth and sea.

But, that we may not lose their memory
With fading years, their monuments stand here,
Here, where the trees troop down to Runnymede.
Meadow of Magna Carta, field of freedom,
Never saw you so fitting a memorial,
Proof that the principals established here
Are still dear to the hearts of men.
Here now they stand, contrasted and alike,
The field of freedom's birth, and the memorial
To freedom's winning.

And, as evening comes,
And mists, like quiet ghosts, rise from the river bed,
And climb the hill to wander through the cloisters,
We shall not forget them. Above the mist
We shall see the memorial still, and over it
The crown and single star. And we shall pray
As the mists rise up and the air grows dark
That we may wear
As brave a heart as they.

Don't know who wrote it, but it says a lot.

A Soldier Died Today

He was getting old and paunchy,
And his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the Legion,
Telling stories of the past.

Of a war that he had fought in,
Abd the deeds that he had done,
And the exploits of his comrades,
They were heroes, every one.

And tho’ sometimes to his neighbours,
His tales became a joke,
All his friends were listening,
For they knew whereof he spoke.

But we’ll hear his tales no longer,
For old Bob has passed away,
And the worlds a little poorer,
For a Soldier died today.

He won’t be mourned by many,
Just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary,
And very quiet sort of life.

He held a job and raised a family,
Quietly going about his way,
And the world won’t note his passing,
Although a soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth,
Their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing,
And proclaim that they were great.

Papers tell of their life stories,
From the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier,
Goes un-noticed and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution,
To the welfare of our land,
Somebody who breaks his promise,
And betrays his fellow man?

Or the ordinary fellow,
Who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country,
And offers up his life?

The politicians wages,
And the style in which he lives,
Are often disproportionate,
With the service that he gives.

While the ordinary soldier,
Who offers up his all,
Is paid of with a medal,
And perhaps a pension...small.

Its so easy to forget them,
For it was so long ago,
That our Bobs and Jims and Johnnys,
Went to battle, but we know.

It was not the politicians,
With their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom,
That our country now enjoys.

Should you find yourself in danger,
With your enemies at hand,
Would you really want some cop out,
With his ever waffling stand?

Or would you want a soldier,
Who has sworn to defend,
His home and kin and country,
And fight until bitter end?

He was just a common soldier,
And his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us,
We may need his like again.

For when countries are in conflict,
Then we find the soldiers part,
Is to clean up all the troubles,
That the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honour,
While he’s here to hear the praise,
Then at least lets give him homage,
At the ending of his days.

Perhaps just a simple headline,
In the paper that might say,
“OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,
FOR A SOLDIER DIED TODAY”

[/b]

Song lyrics by Eric Boggle (to hear it sung go to http://www.google.co.uk/url?sa=U&sta..._th.htm&e=7415)

Now when I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
And they marched me away to the war.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.

And how well I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water;
And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well;
He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell --
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.

And those that were left, well, we tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire.
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I woke up in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
Never knew there was worse things than dying.

For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.

So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn and to pity.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.

And so now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reviving old dreams of past glory,
And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,
They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask meself the same question.

But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear
Someday, no one will march there at all.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by the billabong,
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?

"And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms."

William Butler Yeats, Politics

"Here dead lie we because we did not choose
to live and shame the land from which we sprung.
Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose;
But young men think it is, and we were young."

A.E. Housman, Collected Poems

Please wear a poppy

"Please wear a poppy," the lady said
And held one forth, but I shook my head.
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.

A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on care-free feet.
His smile was full of joy and fun,
"Lady," said he, "may I have one?"
When she's pinned in on he turned to say,
"Why do we wear a poppy today?"

The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered, "This is Remembrance Day,
And the poppy there is the symbol for
The gallant men who died in war.
And because they did, you and I are free -
That's why we wear a poppy, you see.

"I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned and grew
and became a man - as you will, too.

"He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile,
But he'd seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day
When he smiled at me and said, Goodbye,
I'll be back soon, Mum, so please don't cry.

"But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
His letters told of the awful fight,
(I can see it still in my dreams at night),
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.

"Till at last, at last, the war was won -
And that's why we wear a poppy son."
The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, "Thanks, lady, I'm glad to know.
That sure did sound like an awful fight,
But your son - did he come back all right?"

A tear rolled down each faded check;
She shook her head, but didn't speak.
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me you'd have done the same;
For our thanks, in giving, if oft delayed,
Thought our freedom was bought - and thousands paid!

And so when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne,
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country's call
That we at home in peace might live.
Then wear a poppy! Remember - and give!

~~By Don Crawford.~~

Here's a bizzare one, more war song than poetry, which I was told about a few years back. Apparently it comes from a tribal region in India or Pakistan, somewhere like that. Unfortunately I can only remember these quite strange lines:

I see a young boy across a river
With a bottom like a peach
Alas I cannot swim

Different cultures....

Originally Posted by Kermit

Here's a bizzare one, more war song than poetry, which I was told about a few years back. Apparently it comes from a tribal region in India or Pakistan, somewhere like that. Unfortunately I can only remember these quite strange lines:

I see a young boy across a river
With a bottom like a peach
Alas I cannot swim

Different cultures....

This is called"Zakhmi Dil" or "Wounded Heart".Malicious people say that its the Afghan National Anthem

Originally Posted by Wobblyhead

Don't know who wrote it, but it says a lot.
A Soldier Died Today

wobblyhead, Originally Titled, "JUST A COMMON SOLDIER"

by A. Lawrence Vaincourt 1985, thank you for posting it, it was a

favourite of an old sailor I knew.

Disabled
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.


About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees,
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,-
In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands.
All of them touch him like some queer disease.


There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now, he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.


One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join.-He wonders why.
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts,
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt,
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.


Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.


Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

author unknown...
Another draft also exists in the collection of Mr Reresby Sitwell at Renishaw