Isandlwana

Scarlet coats, and crash o' the band,
The grey of a pauper's gown,
A soldier's grave in Zululand,
And a woman in Brecon Town.

My little lad for a soldier boy,
(Mothers o' Brecon Town!)
My eyes for tears and his for joy
When he went from Brecon Town,
His for the flags and the gallant sights
His for the medals and his for the fights,
And mine for the dreary, rainy nights
At home in Brecon Town.

They say he's laid beneath a tree,
(Come back to Brecon Town!)
Shouldn't I know?,I was there to see:
(It's far to Brecon Town!)
It's me that keeps it trim and drest
With a briar there and a rose by his breast,
The English flowers he likes the best
That I bring from Brecon Town.

And I sit beside him, him and me,
(We're back to Brecon Town.)
To talk of the things that used to be
(Grey ghosts of Brecon Town);
I know the look o' the land and sky,
And the bird that builds in the tree near by,
And times I hear the jackals cry,
And me in Brecon Town.

Golden grey on miles of sand
The dawn comes creeping down;
It's day in far off Zululand
And night in Brecon Town.

John McCrae

John McCrae was a Canadian poet, physician, and soldier during World War I. He is best known for writing the famous war memorial poem 'In Flanders Fields'. McCrae served as a surgeon during the Second Battle of Ypres in Belgium. His experiences in the war profoundly influenced his writing. Despite contracting pneumonia and falling ill, he continued to serve until his death from complications of the illness in 1918. His legacy endures through his evocative poetry.

John McCrae

Mine Host

John McCrae, Simple Poetry

Equality

John McCrae, Simple Poetry

Quebec

John McCrae, Simple Poetry

The Hope Of My Heart

John McCrae, Simple Poetry

English

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Isandlwana

                            Scarlet coats, and crash o' the band,
                                The grey of a pauper's gown,
                            A soldier's grave in Zululand,
                                And a woman in Brecon Town.

                    My little lad for a soldier boy,
                    (Mothers o' Brecon Town!)
                    My eyes for tears and his for joy
                    When he went from Brecon Town,
                    His for the flags and the gallant sights
                    His for the medals and his for the fights,
                    And mine for the dreary, rainy nights
                    At home in Brecon Town.

                    They say he's laid beneath a tree,
                    (Come back to B...

John McCrae

As The Troops Went Through

I heard this day, as I may no more,
The world's heart throb at my workshop door.
The sun was keen, and the day was still;
The township drowsed in, a haze of heat.
A stir far off on the sleepy hill,
The measured beat of their buoyant feet,
And the lilt and thrum
Of a little drum,
The song they sang in a cadence low,
The piping note of a piccolo.

The township woke, and the doors flew wide;
The women trotted their boys beside.
Across the bridge on a single heel
The soldiers came in a golden glow,
With throb of song and the chink of steel,
The gallant crow of the piccolo.
Good and brown they were,
And their arms swung bare.
Their fine young faces revived in me
A boyhood's vision of chivalry.

The lean, hard regiment tramping down,

Edward

The Lad From Inverness.

He would go, they could not keep him, for he came of fighting stock;
Though his widowed mother pleaded, he was firm as any rock.
Well he loved the patient woman who had nursed him on her breast,
Been quite blind to all his follies, - but he loved his country best.
"I'll come home again," he told her; "I'll come home again some day,"
Laid his face to her's and kissed her, said good-bye and marched away.
Stronger than the voice that pleaded, "Laddie, laddie, bide at home,"
Was the shrill voice of the bugle and the deep voice of the drum,
Calling to him all the day, calling to him in his dreams:
"Come, lad! Come, lad! Come! Come! Come!"

His face was like a maiden's face, so smooth it was, and fair;
The laughter in his eyes of gray, the sunshine in his hair;
But a man's heart, ...

Jean Blewett

The March Of The Dead

The cruel war was over - oh, the triumph was so sweet!
We watched the troops returning, through our tears;
There was triumph, triumph, triumph down the scarlet glittering street,
And you scarce could hear the music for the cheers.
And you scarce could see the house-tops for the flags that flew between,
The bells were pealing madly to the sky;
And every one was shouting for the Soldiers of the Queen,
And the glory of an age was passing by.

And then there came a shadow, swift and sudden, dark and drear;
The bells were silent, not an echo stirred.
The flags were drooping sullenly, the men forgot to cheer;
We waited, and we never spoke a word.
The sky grew darker, darker, till from out the gloomy rack
There came a voice that checked the heart with dread:
"Tear down, t...

Robert William Service

The Dublin Fusilier

Here's to you, Uncle Kruger! slainté! an' slainté galore.
You 're a dacint ould man, begorra; never mind if you are a Boer.
So with heart an' a half ma boucahl, we 'll drink to your health to-night
For yourself an' your farmer sojers gave us a damn good fight.

I was dramin' of Kitty Farrell, away in the Gap o' Dunloe,
When the song of the bugle woke me, ringin' across Glencoe;
An' once in a while a bullet came pattherin' from above,
That tould us the big brown fellows were send- in' us down their love.

'Twas a kind of an invitation, an' written in such a han'
That a Chinaman could n't refuse it- not to spake of an Irishman.
So the pickets sent back an answer. "We're comin' with right good will,"
Along what they call the kopje, tho' to me it looked more like a hill.

William Henry Drummond

In War Time.

Into the west the day goes down,
    Smiling and fading into the night,
Is it a cross, or is it a crown
    I have worn through all these hours of light!

Bending over my milk-white curds,
    In my dairy under the beech,
Still the thought of my heart took words,
    And murmured itself in musical speech.

And all my pans of golden cream,
    Set in a silver shining row,
Swam in my eyes like the shimmer and sheen
    Of arms and banners, and martial show.

The bee in his gold laced uniform,
    Drilled the ranks of clover blooms,
And carried my very heart by storm,
    Mocking the roll of the distant drums.

But something choked my singing down,
    Deeper than any song expressed.--
Is it a cross, or is it a crown
On my brow ...

Kate Seymour Maclean