No, not that limp wristed teenage angst platoon riddled with poovery crap, or that rather suspicious letter that Hillaire Belloc wrote to my Grandfather.

I mean the meaty stuff written by "Yer man" Kipling

Boots
(Infantry Columns)
WE' RE foot-slog-slog-slog-sloggin' over Africa
Foot-foot-foot-foot-sloggin' over Africa
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up and down again!)
There's no discharge in the war !

Seven-six-eleven-five-nine-an'-twenty mile to-day-
Four-eleven-seventeen-thirty-two the day before
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up and down again !)
There's no discharge in the war !

Don't-don't-don't-don't-look at what's in front of you.
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again);
Men-men-men-men-men go mad with watchin' 'em,
An' there's no discharge in the war !

Count-count-count-count-the bullets in the bandoliers.
If-your-eyes-drop-they will get atop o' you !
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up and down again)
There's no discharge in the war !

Try-try-try-try-to think o' something different-
Oh-my-God-keep-me from goin' lunatic !
(Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again !)
There's no discharge in the war !

We-can-stick-out-'unger, thirst, an' weariness,
But-not-not-not-not the chronic sight of 'em-
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war !

'Tain`t-so-bad-by-day because o' company,
But night-brings-long-strings-o' forty thousand million
Boots-boots-boots-boots-movin' up an' down again
There's no discharge in the war !

I-'ave-marched-six-weeks in 'Ell an' certify
It-is-not-fire-devils, dark, or anything,
But boots-boots-boots-boots-movin'up an' down again,
An' there's no discharge in the war !

Blimmin Excellent. Anyone else got a favourite?

But it might be a bit too relevant *:-[

The Young British Soldier

WHEN the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts -
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts -
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes - as it will past a doubt -
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old -
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em - you'll swing, on my oath! -
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are - you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

War Song of the Saracens

We are they who come faster than fate: we are they who ride early or late:
We storm at your ivory gate: Pale Kings of the Sunset, beware!
Not on silk nor in samet we lie, not in curtained solemnity die
Among women who chatter and cry, and children who mumble a prayer.
But we sleep by the ropes of the camp, and we rise with a shout, and we tramp
With the sun or moon for a lamp, and the spray of the wind in our hair.


From the land where the elephants are, to the forts of Merou and Balghar,
Our steel we have brought and our star to shine on the ruins of Rum.
We have marched from the Indus to Spain, and by God we will go there again;
We have stood on the shore of the plain where the Waters of Destiny boom.
A mart of destruction we made a Jalula where men were afraid,
For death was a difficult trade, and the sword was a broker of doom;


And the Spear was a Desert Physician who cured not a few of ambition,
And drove not a few to perdition with medicine bitter and strong:
And the shield was a grief to the fool and as bright as a desolute pool,
And as straight as a rock of Stamboul when their cavalry thundered along:
For the coward was drowned with the brave when our battle, sheered up like a wave,
And the dead to the desert we gave, and the glory to God in our song.


JAMES ELROY FLECKER

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.


Rupert Brooke

Courage is the price that
life exacts for granting peace.
* The soul that knows it not
* * * * knows no release
* * * * * * * * from little things;
* *knows not the livid
* * * *loneliness of fear,
Nor mountain heights
* *where bitter joy
* * * * * *can hear
The sound of wings.

AMELIA EARHEART

My soul is sick of these modern years
With their tyranny and insensate hate,
And war machines that fill the heart with fears
For the whole world's sake and Mankind's fate.
Let us launch our canoe on the River Time;
I dare you to sail that mighty stream with me,
Let us go to that primitive but less evil time
Where I and my soul have always longed to be.

Let us sail to those years when the tools of war
Were the brave spear and ox-hide shield;
Not roaring guns that slay us from afar -
Which foul weapons, let only the cowards wield;

Let us sail to those years when Gandaya roamed -
A tusked mammoth - through Arfica's wilds;
Death dealt to men, who puny impis* formed
To stay his charge, with unavailing shields.

Let us sail to that year when Lu-Mukanda brave,
Against foul Lufiri, waged earth shaking war
And freed from bonds so many a cowering slave
While slaying the Iti - dread tyrants of yore.

Be you a witness, through Mukanda's eyes,
Of rites most evil in Zima-Mbje's halls
Share you his loves, and heave his many sighs,
Or shout with rapture as his war drum calls.

Witness the quarrels that split the tribe in twain
Into the Zulu and the Qwabe clan
Then wind your way through bush-wet-with-rain
Towards your kraal - a much wiser man.

*impi = Zulu regiment

From 'Indaba, My Children'

Brighten My Heart

My body is as tense as a cat's
As it stalks its prey.
Lord, relax my body.

My thoughts swirl like willow branches
Caught in *autumn winds.
Lord, still my thoughts.

My soul is as heavy as peat
Freshly dug from the bog.
Lord, lighten my soul.

My heart is as dark as soil
Sodden with the winter rains.
Lord, brighten my heart.


Celtic prayer.

Damn Prodigal,

Those Zulus can write.You can actually FEEL exactly what the writer means....

"Are we going to die Sergeant?"
"Now Now Lad, face front".....

Almost as good as Kipling *

Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.


Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!-An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.


In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.


If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below

We are the Dead, Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields

Take up your quarrel with the foe;
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch, be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields


John McCrae