Isandlwana

                           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
        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.

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The Warrior

                   John McCrae

        The Warrior

He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,
    But with the night his little lamp-lit room
Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze
    Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom
Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,
    And from the close-packed deck, about to die,
Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars
    Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:

Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,
    At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;
        Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,
Brave dreams are his — the flick'ring lamp burns low —
    Yet couraged for the battles of the day
        He goes to stand full face to face with life.

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In Flanders Fields

                       John McCrae

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 our 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.

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