Thread: Poetry - By/for/about soldiers etc

For the Fallen

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables at home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)

MARTUBA PATROL.

I’ll tell you a tale of a Martuba
Off gunners from old Blighty shores.
Of Stuka’s and bombs and machine guns
Of M.E’s and Macchis and more.
On through the night with ne’er a light
We crept till the break of day
With sand in our eyes, we searching the skies
For the birds, that in Martuba lay.
A roar in the air, means an M.E. is there
And he’s out to settle a score.
As the rounds of our guns, slow the start of the fun
And the Stukas come out and lots more.
And then comes the crack of Bafor Ack-Ack.
And the Bren Guns also let drive.
One Stuka his tricks end, with just two kicks
He comes down in a desert bound dive
We load up our rounds, for the Martuba we’re bound
And so on for more weary hours
Till at night we are quite on our marks.
With the dead on the deck, theirs and ours.
Aye we’re the boys, Old Englands sons.
Just some of the lads in the racket,
With our quads and our guns and our downed
You betcha we gave em a packet.

BBC - WW2 People's War - The Story of DOUGLAS HEWITT (my husband) — Part 2
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