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Great Military Poetry

One of my favourite poets is Robert Service:

These are from his collection, Rhymes of the Red Cross Man, 1916

Carry On!

It's easy to fight when everything's right,
And you're mad with the thrill and the glory;
It's easy to cheer when victory's near,
And wallow in fields that are gory.
It's a different song when everything's wrong,
When you're feeling infernally mortal;
When it's ten against one, and hope there is none,
Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:
Carry on! Carry on!
There isn't much punch in your blow.
You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind;
You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind.
Carry on! Carry on!
You haven't the ghost of a show.
It's looking like death, but while you've a breath,
Carry on, my son! Carry on!

And so in the strife of the battle of life
It's easy to fight when you're winning;
It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave,
When the dawn of success is beginning.
But the man who can meet despair and defeat
With a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing;
The man who can fight to Heaven's own height
Is the man who can fight when he's losing.

Carry on! Carry on!
Things never were looming so black.
But show that you haven't a cowardly streak,
And though you're unlucky you never are weak.
Carry on! Carry on!
Brace up for another attack.
It's looking like hell, but -- you never can tell:
Carry on, old man! Carry on!

There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt,
And some who in brutishness wallow;
There are others, I know, who in piety go
Because of a Heaven to follow.
But to labour with zest, and to give of your best,
For the sweetness and joy of the giving;
To help folks along with a hand and a song;
Why, there's the real sunshine of living.

Carry on! Carry on!
Fight the good fight and true;
Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer;
There's big work to do, and that's why you are here.
Carry on! Carry on!
Let the world be the better for you;
And at last when you die, let this be your cry:
CARRY ON, MY SOUL! CARRY ON!

The Song of the Soldier-born

Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant;
Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant;
Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.

Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion;
A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration;
A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion.

For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying:
The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying;
The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying.

So let me go and leave your safety behind me;
Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me;
Go till the word is War -- and then you will find me.

Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me;
Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . .
And when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me.

For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry;
With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry;
You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry.

You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking;
You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking;
You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking.

Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters,
And a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . .
There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters.

There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for;
There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for;
There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for.

Ah no! it's my dream that War will never be ended;
That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid;
That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended.

That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story;
That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary,
I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory.

So give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting;
Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting;
Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting.

My Bay'nit

When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nit
And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore;
But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it,
So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war.
For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours truly
Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime,
'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly
Part of me outfit every time.
Left, right, Hans and Fritz!
Goose step, keep up yer mits!
Oh my, Ain't it a shyme!
Part of me outfit every time.

At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy;
I've used it to open a bully beef can;
For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy;
For any old thing but for stickin' a man.
'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you
Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime,"
And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you!
Part of me outfit every time.

Lor, yus; DON'T they look glad?
Right O! 'Owl Kamerad!
Oh my, always the syme!
Part of me outfit every time.

I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit,
Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France;
I'm fairly down-'earted -- 'ow CAN yer explain it?
I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance.
As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders,
Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb;
And I uses me bay'nit -- to slit their suspenders --
Part of me outfit every time.

Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag!
'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag!
Oh my, ain't it a gyme!
Part of me outfit every time.
 
For me its not a well known one and was penned by my Great-Grandfather when he was stationed in South africa during the Boer War. Its about his Pal, a scotsman called John Gow who. like all scotsmen was fond of the devils buttermilk. now Great Grandad was a methodist lay preacher and as such was against drinking. However despite this they were really good pals.

I have a Scottish chum, John Gow,
His cot is next to mine,
Three months' acquaintance we've had now,
So here's to him a line.

We often have our little joke,
And much he laughs at me,
He thinks me quite funny bloke,
Though this I fail to see.

To "kirk" on a Sunday eve he goes,
The "church" I make my goal;
Each service coming to a close,
We take a pleasant stroll.

The pictures sometimes us decoy,
When to the Rink we hie,
Nor could we ought much more enjoy,
Than "Comin' Through The Rye".

But sometimes, not content with tea,
John quietly slips away,
And takes a pint, or two or three,
And come back feeling gay.

Whch habit is regrettable,
In this Edinburgh lad,
So otherwise acceptable,
But for this bit of bad.

We'll soon be parting now, I fear,
Safe home I hope he'll get,
Be good as now, and let no beer
His lips again e'er wet.
 
I'm a huge fan of Siegfried Sassoon myself. This one sums it up about WWI in my opinion. It's called The General.

"Good-morning; good-morning!" the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,
And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
"He’s a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
 
Greetings, I started the Great War at Sea Poetry Project a few months ago, trying to highlight why so little poetry relating to the war at sea gets included in World War 1 poetry anthologies. In my own research have started to look at sea themed poetry generally and war at sea poems from other wars.

http://greatwaratseapoetry.weebly.com/

http://greatwaratsea.blogspot.co.uk/

Have enjoyed reading this thread....

A current favourite of mine is 'The Mine Sweepers' by Editha Jenkinson, first published in 1916.

THE MINE-SWEEPERS,


A WORLD of heaving waves, wide skies of night,
Dark blue and shadow-filled and infinite,

Blown by the salt wind's breath.
Above — the light of stars, moon-tinted clouds,
Below — the gleaming silver surf which shrouds

The deep-laid mines of death.

And out of port and quay across the foam
Leaving familiar scenes, the joys of home.

The brave mine-sweepers go ;
Facing sea perils while our homesteads sleep,
Lone guardians of the Fleet, they vigil keep

In storm, and wind, and snow.

Signalled across the skies in flaming rift
And heralded by horns of winds which lift

Dark waves with fang-like spray
Rise heaven's tempests, but to seaman's gaze
No shade nor sound upon the vast sea-ways

Man's deadlier mines betray.

Yet out across the bar with every tide

Clearing the ship's way through the waters wide,

Fearless of storm or foe,
Guarding the traffic of the east and west,
Giving with hearts heroic of their best,

The brave mine-sweepers go.

And when the long night of the war's dark reign
Is ended, and the skies are clear again,

Of these it shall be said
No nobler lives were given for England's need,
Nor unrecorded shall be one brave deed

When the sea gives up its dead.

----------------------------------
 
Greetings, the Great War at Sea Poetry Project website now has a webpage about the Zeebrugge Raid of 23rd April 1918.
http://greatwaratseapoetry.weebly.com/zeebrugge.html

The blog will be updated soon, and will be expanded to include World War 2 at Sea poetry starting with the work of Alan Ross, who saw military action with the Arctic Convoy

Alan Ross -'Survivors'

" With the ship burning in their eyes

The white faces float like refuse

In the darkness - the water screwing

Oily circles where the hot steel lies.


They clutch with fingers frozen into claws

The lifebelts thrown from a destroyer,

And see, between the future's doors,

The gasping entrance of the sea.


Taken on board as many as lived, who

Had a mind left for living and the ocean,

They open eyes running with surf,

Heavy with the grey ghosts of explosion.


The meaning is not yet clear,

Where daybreak died in the smile -

And the mouth remained stiff

And grinning, stupid for a while.


But soon they joke, easy and warm,

As men will who have died once

Yet somehow were able to find their way -

Muttering this was not included in their pay.


Later, sleepless at night, the brain spinning

With cracked images, they won't forget

The confusion and the oily dead,

Nor yet the casual knack of living."

Taken from 'Alan Ross Poems selected and introduced by David Hughes' , 2005.
 
jesse said:
"Have you ever been out in the great unknown
With a hand on your dick and it isn't your own ?
Click to expand...

Want to live in Swilly, you must be f***g bent;

To live in council housing and never pay the rent.

A place so full of scrubbers, with pimps and w**kers too,

But when it come to fighting, they'd like to piss all over you!

So come you up to Swilly, which isn't so F 'ing bad,

Our girls are free and easy, with knickers that ain't ironclad,

Their skirts are shorter than mini's, their knockers will titillate

Though their amorous aims, lead to maternity claims, its a Swilly girl for you mate
 
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Just come across this thread. There's some wonderful poetry in it. There is one poem that means a lot to me and ever since I came across it I have kept a copy on me. I don't know who wrote it I'm afraid, but here it is: -


Remembrance

When you pin that poppy on and remember those who died Remember too, the men who fought beside them and survived.

They came home to start again and struggled with their minds to forget the horror of the days and hell they left behind.

Wounded though they did not bleed, they cried for close friends lost, but fought on bravely, for they knew freedom was worth the cost.

Though they are old and scarred for life, they suffered for us all.

And in dreams, the battles rage and fallen comrades call.

So when you hear that honour roll, the names of those who died Remember too, the men who fought beside them and survived.


Pete
 
So agree Pete. I know of one war memorial in Brighton in a redundant church, now the Fabrica Gallery, where the men of the parish who served and returned during World War 1 are also honoured along with those who did not.
It's great to see both remembered.
 
War at Sea Poetry blog updated; featuring World War 2 RN poet Alan Ross 'Arctic Waking ' and Restoration poet Sir Charles Sedley.

http://greatwaratsea.blogspot.co.uk/

Trying to look as some of the earlier 'War at Sea' poetry in English
One example would be John Donne (1572- 1631) 's poem 'A Burnt Ship', most probably about the Spanish ship 'San Felipe' : Donne witnessed the loss of the ship in 1597.

'A Burnt Ship'

"Out of a fired ship, which by no way
But drowning could be rescued from the flame,
Some men leap’d forth, and ever as they came
Near the foes’ ships, did by their shot decay;
So all were lost, which in the ship were found,
They in the sea being burnt, they in the burnt ship drown’d. "
 

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