Through a Glass, Darkly
General George Patton
(Patton's Poetry)
Through the travail of the ages,
Midst the pomp and toil of war,
Have I fought and strove and perished
Countless times upon this star.
In the form of many people
In all panoplies of time
Have I seen the luring vision
Of the Victory Maid, sublime.
I have battled for fresh mammoth,
I have warred for pastures new,
I have listed to the whispers
When the race trek instinct grew.
I have known the call to battle
In each changeless changing shape
From the high souled voice of conscience
To the beastly lust for rape.
I have sinned and I have suffered,
Played the hero and the knave;
Fought for belly, shame, or country,
And for each have found a grave.
I cannot name my battles
For the visions are not clear,
Yet, I see the twisted faces
And I feel the rending spear.
Perhaps I stabbed our Savior
In His sacred helpless side.
Yet, I've called His name in blessing
When after times I died.
In the dimness of the shadows
Where we hairy heathens warred,
I can taste in thought the lifeblood;
We used teeth before the sword.
While in later clearer vision
I can sense the coppery sweat,
Feel the pikes grow wet and slippery
When our Phalanx, Cyrus met.
Hear the rattle of the harness
Where the Persian darts bounced clear,
See their chariots wheel in panic
From the Hoplite's leveled spear.
See the goal grow monthly longer,
Reaching for the walls of Tyre.
Hear the crash of tons of granite,
Smell the quenchless eastern fire.
Still more clearly as a Roman,
Can I see the Legion close,
As our third rank moved in forward
And the short sword found our foes.
Once again I feel the anguish
Of that blistering treeless plain
When the Parthian showered death bolts,
And our discipline was in vain.
I remember all the suffering
Of those arrows in my neck.
Yet, I stabbed a grinning savage
As I died upon my back.
Once again I smell the heat sparks
When my Flemish plate gave way
And the lance ripped through my entrails
As on Crecy's field I lay.
In the windless, blinding stillness
Of the glittering tropic sea
I can see the bubbles rising
Where we set the captives free.
Midst the spume of half a tempest
I have heard the bulwarks go
When the crashing, point blank round shot
Sent destruction to our foe.
I have fought with gun and cutlass
On the red and slippery deck
With all Hell aflame within me
And a rope around my neck.
And still later as a General
Have I galloped with Murat
When we laughed at death and numbers
Trusting in the Emperor's Star.
Till at last our star faded,
And we shouted to our doom
Where the sunken road of Ohein
Closed us in it's quivering gloom.
So but now with Tanks a'clatter
Have I waddled on the foe
Belching death at twenty paces,
By the star shell's ghastly glow.
So as through a glass, and darkly
The age long strife I see
Where I fought in many guises,
Many names, but always me.
And I see not in my blindness
What the objects were I wrought,
But as God rules o'er our bickerings
It was through His will I fought.
So forever in the future,
Shall I battle as of yore,
Dying to be born a fighter,
But to die again, once more.
Return to Table of Contents
DRAFT DODGER RAG
Phil Ochs
© Appleseed Music, Inc.
(You'll notice I did specify "dubious" honor)
I'm just a typical American boy from a typical American town.
I believe in God and Senator Dodd and keeping old Castro down.
And when it came my time to serve I knew better dead than red,
But when I got to my old draft board, buddy, this is what I said:
Sarge, I'm only eighteen, I got a ruptured spleen,
And I always carry a purse.
I got eyes like a bat, my feet are flat,
And my asthma's getting worse.
Oh think of my career, my sweetheart dear,
My poor old invalid aunt.
Besides, I ain't no fool, I'm a goin' to school,
and I'm working in a defense plant.
I've got a dislocated disc and a racked up back,
I'm allergic to flowers and bugs,
And when a bombshell hits, I get epileptic fits
And I'm addicted to a thousand drugs.
I got the weakness woes, I can't touch my toes,
I can hardly touch my knees.
And if the enemy came close to me
I'd probably start to sneeze.
I hate Chou En Lai, and I hope he dies,
But one thing you gotta agree:
That someone's gotta go over there
And that someone isn't me.
So I wish you well, Sarge, give 'em Hell.
Kill me a thousand or more
And if you ever get a war without blood and gore
Well I'll be the first to go.
Return to Table of Contents
Dulce et Decorum Est
Wilfred Owen
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 I 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.
Return to Table of Contents
Tommy Atkins
Rudyard Kipling
I went into a public 'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, ``We serve no red-coats here.''
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
Oh it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy, go away'';
But it's ``Thank you, Mister Atkins,'' when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
Oh it's ``Thank you, Mr. Atkins,'' when the band begins to play.
I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music 'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy, wait outside'';
But it's ``Special train for Atkins'' when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
Oh it's ``Special train for Atkins'' when the trooper's on the tide.
Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Tommy how's yer soul?''
But it's ``Thin red line of 'eroes'' when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
Oh it's ``Thin red line of 'eroes'' when the drums begin to roll.
We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints:
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an ``Tommy, fall be'ind,''
But it's ``Please to walk in front, sir,'' when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
Oh it's ``Please to walk in front, sir,'' when there's trouble in the wind.
You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' ``Chuck him out, the brute!''
But it's ``Saviour of 'is country,'' when the guns begin to shoot;
Yes it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
But Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool--you bet that Tommy sees!
Return to Table of Contents
THE FOGGY DEW
From the Easter Uprising of 1916
'Twas down the glen one Easter morn
To a city fair rode I.
When Ireland's line of marching men
In squadrons passed me by.
No pipe did hum, no battle drum
Did sound its dread tattoo
But the Angelus bell o'er the Liffey's swell
Rang out in the foggy dew.
Right proudly high over Dublin town
They hung out a flag of war.
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky
Than at Suvla or Sud el Bar.
And from the plains of Royal Meath
Strong men came hurrying through;
While Brittania's sons with their long-range guns
Sailed in from the foggy dew.
'Twas England bade our wild geese go
That small nations might be free.
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves
On the fringe of the grey North Sea.
But had they died by Pearse's side
Or fought with Valera true,
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep
'Neath the hills of the foggy dew.
The bravest fell, and the solemn bell
Rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide
In the springing of the year.
And the world did gaze in deep amaze
At those fearless men and true
Who bore the fight that freedom's light
Might shine through the foggy dew.
Return to Table of Contents
It Makes A Fellow Proud To Be A Soldier
Tom Lehrer
Introduction
I have only comparatively recently emerged from the United States Army, so that I am now, of course, in the radioactive reserve. And, the usual jokes about the Army aside, one of the many fine things one has to admit is the way that the Army has carried the American democratic ideal to its logical conclusion, in the sense that not only do they prohibit discrimination on the grounds of race, creed, and color, but also on the grounds of ability.
Be that as it may, some of you may recall the publicity a few years ago attendant upon the Army's search for an official Army song to be the counterpart of the Navy's Anchors Aweigh and the Air Force's Up In The Air, Junior Birdman song. I was in basic training at the time, and I recall our platoon sergeant, who was an unfrocked Marine... (Actually, the change of service had come as quite a blow to him because it meant that he had to memorize a new serial number which took up most of his time.)
At any rate, I recall this sergeant's informing me and my roommates of this rather deplorable fact that the Army didn't have any official...excuse me, didn't have no official song and suggested that we work on this in our copious free time. Well, I submitted the following song, which is called It Makes A Fellow Proud To Be A Soldier which, I think, demonstrates the proper spirit, you'll agree. However, the fact that it did not win the contest I can ascribe only to blatant favoritism on part of the judges.
The heart of every man in our platoon must swell with pride,
For the nation's youth, the cream of which is marching at his side.
For the fascinating rules and regulations that we share,
And the quaint and curious costumes that we're called upon to wear.
Now Al joined up to do his part defending you and me.
He wants to fight and bleed and kill and die for liberty.
With the hell of war he's come to grips,
Policing up the filter tips,
It makes a fellow proud to be a soldier!
When Pete was only in the seventh grade, he stabbed a cop.
He's real R.A. material, and he was glad to swap
His switchblade and his old zip gun
For a bayonet and a new M-1.
It makes a fellow proud to be a soldier!
After Johnny got through basic training, he
Was a soldier through and through when he was done.
Its effects were so well rooted,
That the next day he saluted
A Good Humor man, an usher, and a nun.
Now, Fred's an intellectual, brings a book to every meal.
He likes the deep philosophers, like Norman Vincent Peale.
He thinks the army's just the thing,
Because he finds it broadening.
It makes a fellow proud to be a soldier!
Now, Ed flunked out of second grade, and never finished school.
He doesn't know a shelter half from an entrenching tool.
But, he's going to be a big success,
He heads his class at OCS.
It makes a fellow proud to be a soldier!
Our old mess sergeant's taste buds had been shot off in the war.
But his savory collations add to our esprit de corps.
To think of all the marvelous ways
They're using plastics nowadays.
It makes a fellow proud to be a soldier!
Our lieutenant is the up-and-coming type,
Played with soldiers as a boy, you just can bet.
It is written in the stars
He will get his captain's bars,
But he hasn't got enough box tops yet.
Our captain has a handicap to cope with, sad to tell.
He's from Georgia, and he doesn't speak the language very well.
He used to be, so rumor has,
The Dean of Men...at Alcatraz.
It makes a fellow proud to be,
What as a kid I vowed to be,
What luck to be allowed to be a soldier. (At ease!)
Return to Table of Contents
JOHNNY I HARDLY KNEW YE
While goin' the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin' the road to sweet Athy, hurroo, hurroo
While goin' the road to sweet Athy,
A stick in me hand and a drop in me eye,
A doleful damsel I heard cry,
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
With your drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo, hurroo
With your drums and guns and drums and guns, hurroo, hurroo
With your drums and guns and drums and guns,
The enemy nearly slew ye
Oh my darling dear, Ye look so queer
Johnny I hardly knew ye.
Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your eyes that were so mild, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your eyes that were so mild,
When my heart you so beguiled
Why did ye run from me and the child
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye
Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your legs that used to run, hurroo, hurroo
Where are your legs that used to run,
When you went for to carry a gun
Indeed your dancing days are done
Oh Johnny, I hardly knew ye
I'm happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo
I'm happy for to see ye home, hurroo, hurroo
I'm happy for to see ye home,
All from the island of Sulloon;
So low in flesh, so high in bone
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg, hurroo, hurroo
Ye haven't an arm, ye haven't a leg,
Ye're an armless, boneless, chickenless egg
Ye'll have to put with a bowl out to beg
Oh Johnny I hardly knew ye
They're rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo
They're rolling out the guns again, hurroo, hurroo
They're rolling out the guns again,
But they never will take our sons again
No they never will take our sons again
Johnny I'm swearing to ye
Return to Table of Contents
JOHNSON'S MOTOR CAR
'Nother Rebel Song
It was down by Brannigan's corner one morning I did stray.
I met a fellow rebel and to me he did say
He had orders from our Captain to assemble at Dunbar
But how were we to get there without a motor car.
Oh Barney dear be of good cheer I'll tell you what we'll do.
The Specials they are plentiful but the I.R.A. are few,
We'll send a wire to Johnson to meet us at Stranlar
And we'll give the boys a jolly good drive in Johnson's Motor Car.
When Doctor Johnson heard the news he soon put on his shoes
He said this is an urgent case, there is no time to lose,
He then put on his castor hat and on his breast a star,
You could hear the din going through Glen Fin of Johnson's Motor Car.
But when he got to the Railway Bridge, the rebels he saw there,
Ould Johnson knew the game was up for at him they did stare;
He said I have a permit to travel near and far,
To hell with your English permit, we want your motor car!
What will my loyal brethren think when they hear the news
My car it has been commandeered by the rebels at Dunluce,
We'll give you a receipt for it, all signed by Captain Barr
And when Ireland gets her freedom boy, you'll get your motor car.
Well they put that car in motion and they filled it to the brim
With guns and bayonets shining, which made ould Johnson grim.
Then Barney hoisted the Sinn Fein flag and it fluttered like a star,
And we gave three cheers for the I.R.A. and Johnson's motor car.
Return to Table of Contents
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN
Anne Crawford and Frederick W. Nicolls Crouch
(No...it's not a war song but if you've
seen Gettysburg you know why it's here.)
Kathleen Mavourneen! the grey dawn is breaking
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill,
The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking
Kathleen Mavourneen--what, slumbering still!
O hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?
O hast thou forgotten this day we must part?
It may be for years, and it may be forever;
Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?
It may be for years, and it may be forever;
Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?
Kathleen Mavourneen! awake from thy slumbers
The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light,
Ah! Where is the spell that once hung on my numbers?
Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night.
Mavourneen, mavourneen, my sad tears are falling
To think that from Erin and thee I must part.
It may be for years, and it may be forever;
Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?
It may be for years, and it may be forever;
Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?
Return to Table of Contents
Absolute War
A slightly different slant from
General George Patton
Now in war we are confronted with conditions which are strange.
If we accept them we will never win.
Since by being realistic, as in mundane combats fistic,
We will get a bloody nose and that's a sin.
To avoid such fell disaster, the result of fighting faster,
We resort to fighting carefully and slow.
We fill up terrestrial spaces with secure expensive bases
To keep our tax rate high and death rate low.
But with sadness and with sorrow we discover to our horror
That while we build, the enemy gets set.
So despite our fine intentions to produce extensive pensions
We haven't licked the dirty bastard yet.
For in war just as in loving, you must always keep on shoving
Or you'll never get your just reward.
For if you are dilatory in the search for lust and glory
You are up shit creek and that's the truth, Oh! Lord.
So let us do real fighting, boring in and gouging, biting.
Let's take a chance now that we have the ball.
Let's forget those fine firm bases in the dreary shell raked spaces.
Let's shoot the works and win! Yes, win it all!
Return to Table of Contents
RISING OF THE MOON
IRA Anthem
(You need to fill in the pipes and drums.)
"Tell me, tell me, Sean O'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so?"
"Hush mavoughal, hush and listen," and his face was all aglow
"I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon
With your pike upon your shoulder for the rising of the moon"
"Tell me, tell me, Sean O'Farrell, where the gatherin' is to be?"
"Near the old spot by the river, right well known to you and me"
"One more thing, the signal token?" "Whistle up the marching tune
For our pikes must be together by the rising of the moon"
Out from many a mud-walled cabin, eyes were lookin' through the night
Many a manly heart was throbin' for the blessed morning light
A cry arose along the river, like some banshee's mournful croon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon
All along the shining river one black mass of men was seen
And above them in the night wind floated our immortal green
Death to every foe and traitor. Onward, strike the marching tune
And hurrah me boys for freedom, it's the rising of the moon
Well they fought for dear old Ireland, and full bitter was their fate,
Oh what glorious pride and sorrow fills the name of ninety-eight.
But thank God e'en now are beating hearts in mankind's burning noon,
Who will follow in their footsteps, at the rising of the moon.
Return to Table of Contents
WHERE DO YOU GO
Roy Minier roy@widomaker.com
Where do you go when you're scared?
When flares and tracers fill the night air?
You're down in your hole, huddling low
The incoming thumps, the small arms crack
You keep an eye out for the bad guys to show
And you pray you're buddies are watching your back.
Where do you go when you're scared?
You go inward, to a time and a place far away
There is a feeling that I believe we all shared
When you do your damndest to hold fear at bay.
Chuck is out there, and he's madder than shit
There are more of him than there are of you
And he's creeping closer, bit by bit
As the flashes get closer, your fear grew.
Where do you go when you're scared?
You go inward, and outward, and out of your mind
There is no place to go, your ass has been bared
You're stuck in this hole, and you'll stare till you're blind.
Looking for the first clear target to shoot
You pray there are less than the rounds in you're magazine
It takes time to reload, and you might fumble to boot
And time you don't have, against the oncoming, deadly unseen.
Where do you go when you're scared?
Nowhere my friend...you have nowhere to go.
Return to Table of Contents
NO MAN'S LAND
(Eric Bogle)
© Larrikin Music, Ltd.
The finest war song of all time.
Well, how do you do, Private William McBride,
Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside?
And rest for awhile in the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done.
I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916,
Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean
Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?
cho: Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?
And did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind
In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined?
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that loyal heart are you forever 19?
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?
cho: Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?
The sun's shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plow;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard that's still No Man's Land
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man.
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.
cho: Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?
And I can't help but wonder, no Willie McBride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you "The Cause?"
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.
cho: Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fire o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus?
Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?
Return to Table of Contents
The Gettysburg Address
Abraham Lincoln
(That rarest of all things:
A great wartime political speech.)
Fourscore and seven years ago, our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new Nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now, we are engaged in a great Civil War, testing whether that Nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field as a final resting-place for those who gave their lives that that Nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated to the great task remaining before us; that from these honored dead, we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion; that this Nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom; and that government of the People by the People and for the People shall not perish from the earth.
Return to Table of Contents
The Dead
Two Sonnets by
Ruppert Brooke
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.
These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,
Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.
The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,
And sunset, and the colours of the earth.
These had seen movement, and heard music; known
Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;
Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;
Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.
There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter
And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,
Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance
And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white
Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,
A width, a shining peace, under the night.
Return to Table of Contents
