Favourite War Song/Poem Lyrics

[Toddy1]

Hey guys thought it would be a good idea to post your favourite war song or poem on this thread to share with others:

One of my favourites is a song by Travis Tritt which is based loosley on the war journal of Henry Kyd Douglas, Aide de camp to Stonewall:

The Day The Sun Stood Still

We were young and bound for glory
Itchin' for a fight like you
Bringin' hell and purgatory
To the boys who wore the blue
And I thought I'd seen it all
Till the day night wouldn't fall
Oh, how the sun did blaze
Wouldn't go down for days
I got shot and lost my rifle
When the first wave hit the rise
And the guns rolled out like thunder
And the black smoke burned my eyes
And I watched it all unfold
Just the way the Bible told
Joshua's endless day
Keepin' the night at bay
And the soldiers kept a comin'
Til the ground looked like a sea
Of blue and grey
And I watched it from a distance
Wonderin' if I would've fought or run away

The day the sun stood still
How they beat the bloody drums
And the seconds moved like hours
But the sunset never comes
And the cannons shake the ground
And the bullets test your will
Even shadows found no cover
On that Godforsaken hill
The day the sun stood still

And I watched them lean their shoulders
To the fearful hail of lead
And I prayed for night to save us
And I cried and bowed my head
Bt the sun just kept a-creepin'
'Cross a cold indifferent sky
Castin' a deadly glow
On all the men below
All the hours in a lifetime
Don't add up to one while minute in that sun
And the heroes and the cowards
Look the same when they have fallen by the gun
The day the sun stood still

And the north and south looked west
But the evening star was sleeping
And the daylight wouldn't rest
Out on the killing floor
The red sun on the the hill
Shinin' down on all the dead men
With a strange and eerie chill
The day the sun stood still

Do not judge what you brother does
Till you've walked a mile
Rank by bloody file
Who's to say if you'll run or stay and fight?

The day the sun stood still
Is just beneath the skin
In the soul of every soldier
Every battle that he's in
The day the sun stood still
Will haunt your dreams at night
And stalk your every sunrise
Though you will not know it till

[boone]

Let me get this straight: You're an Australian with the Jack as your avatar, quoting an American singing about the American Civil War? Have I got that right?
PS that song sucks ass.

[Toddy1]

I'm a Scot who lived in NZ and now Austraolia and I like the American Civil War...everyone is entitled to their opinion though so take it elsewhere if it doesn't appeal to you

[AroundTheCorner]

Let the bodies hit the floor - Drowning Pool

perfect song for going to war

[BlackFlag]

Paschendale by Iron Maiden

In a foreign field he lay
lonely soldier unknown grave
on his dying words he prays
tell the world of Paschendale

Relive all that he's been through
last communion of his soul
rust your bullets with his tears
let me tell you 'bout his years

Laying low in a blood filled trench
killing time 'til my very own death
on my face I can feel the falling rain
never see my friends again
in the smoke in the mud and lead
the smell of fear and the feeling of dread
soon be time to go over the wall
rapid fire and the end of us all

Whistles, shouts and more gun-fire
lifeless bodies hang on barbed wire
battlefield nothing but a bloody tomb
be reunited with my dead friends soon
many soldiers eighteen years
drowned in mud, no more tears
surely a war no one can win
killing time about to begin

Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again

The bodies of ours and our foes
the sea of death it overflows
in no-man's land God only knows
into jaws of death we go...

Crucified as if on a cross
allied troops, they mourn their loss
German war propaganda machine
such before has never been seen
swear I heard the angels cry
pray to God no more may die
so that people know the truth
tell the tale of Paschendale

Cruelty has a human heart
every man does play his part
terror of the men we kill
the human heart is hungry still

I stand my ground for the very last time
gun is ready as I stand in line
nervous wait for the whistle to blow
rush of blood and over we go...

Blood is falling like the rain
its crimson cloak unveils again
the sound of guns can't hide their shame
and so we die in Paschendale

Dodging shrapnel and barbed wire
running straight at canon fire
running blind as I hold my breath
say a prayer symphony of death
as we charge the enemy lines
a burst of fire and we go down
I choke I cry but no one hears
feel the blood go down my throat

Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again
Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again

See my spirit on the wind
across the lines beyond the hill
friend and foe will meet again
those who died at Paschendale


Also, The Trooper and, Aces High are up there. Both are also Iron Maiden songs.

[Bro Jangles]

War pigs count?

mine is probably Ballad of the Green Beret.

[BlackFlag]

War pigs count?



Hell yes it does.

[James]

And The Band Played Waltzing Mathilda, Eric Bogle.

Now when I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
And they marched me away to the war.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.

And how well I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water;
And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well;
He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell --
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.

And those that were left, well, we tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire.
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I woke up in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
Never knew there was worse things than dying.

For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.

So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn and to pity.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.

And so now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reviving old dreams of past glory,
And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,
They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask meself the same question.

But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear
Someday, no one will march there at all.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by that billabong,
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?

[Amateur]

Well maybe I 'm a bit off the general tune here, but still a great poem...

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
by W. B. Yeats


I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

[zad]

Hans Beimler Kammerad

Vor Madrid auf Barrikaden
In der Stunde der Gefahr
Mit den Inter-Kampf-Brigaden
Sein Herz voll Hass geladen,
Stand Hans, der Kommissar.
Stand Hans, der Kommissar.

Seine Heimat musst er lassen
Weil er Freiheitskämpfer war
Auf Spaniens blut'gen Strassen
Für das Recht der armen Klassen
Starb Hans, der Kommissar.
Starb Hans, der Kommissar.

Eine Kugel kam geflogen
Aus der "Heimat" für ihn her
Der Schuss war gut erwogen
Der Lauf war gut gezogen
Ein deutsches Schiessgewehr.
Ein deutsches Schiessgewehr.

Kann dir die Hand drauf geben
Derweil ich eben lad'
Du bleibst in unserm Leben
Dem Feind wird nicht vergeben
Hans Beimler, Kamerad.
Hans Beimler, Kamerad.

Translation:

In the barricades of Madrid
In the hour of the danger
With the International Brigades
His heart full of hate
Stand Hans the commisar
Stand Hans the commisar

He had to leave his Homeland
Because he was a freedom fighter
In the bloody roads of Spain
For the rights of the poor classes
Died Hans, the commisar
Died Hans, the commisar

A bullet came flying
For him from his Homeland
The shot was well aimmed
The barrel was well pulled
Of a german rifle
Of a german rifle

I can´t take your hand.
While I reload my rifle.
Your memory will remain on us.
The enemy will not be forgiven.
Comrade Hans Beimler.
Comrade Hans Beimler.

[wilhelm]

Drummer Hodge


They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined - just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.
Young Hodge the Drummer never knew -
Fresh from his Wessex home -
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.
Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge forever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellation reign
His stars eternally.

Thomas Hardy (Boer War)

[Notlim]

On July 31st 1943 a bloody round in the battle for the Solomon Islands
Was being fought in the tangled jungle of the island of New Georgia
This is the story of one of the young men who fought and died there
This song is respectfully dedicated to those heroic infantrymen
Who like Roger Young have sacrificed their lives
That their nation might remain forever free


Oh, they've got no time for glory in the infantry
Oh, they've got no time for praises loudly sung
But in every soldier's heart in all the infantry
Shines the name, shines the name of Roger Young

Shines the name - Roger Young
Fought and died for the men he marched among
In the everlasting glory of the infantry
Shines the name of Private Roger Young

Caught in ambush lay a company of riflemen
Just grenades against machine guns in the gloom
Caught in ambush till this one of twenty riflemen
Volunteered volunteered to meet his doom

Volunteered Roger Young
Fought and died for the men he marched among
In the everlasting courage of the infantry
Was the courage of Private Roger Young

It was he who drew the fire of the enemy
That a company of men might live to fight;
And before the deadly fire of the enemy,
Stood the man, stood the man we hail tonight.

Stood the man, Roger Young,
Fought and died for the men he marched among;
Like the everlasting spirit of the infantry,
Was the spirit of Private Rodger Young.

On the island of New Georgia in the Solomons
Stands a simple wooden cross alone to tell
That beneath the silent coral of the Solomons
Sleeps a man sleeps a man remembered well

Sleeps a man Roger Young
Fought and died for the men he marched among
In the everlasting glory of the infantry
Lives the story of Private Roger Young

[Eztyga]

Khe Sanh by Cold Chisel. An iconic pub rock song and an unofficial national anthem. woot




http://www.coldchisel.com.au/images/khesanh.gif

I left my heart to the sappers round Khe Sanh
And my soul was sold with my cigarettes to the blackmarket man
I've had the Vietnam cold turkey
From the ocean to the Silver City
And it's only other vets could understand

About the long forgotten dockside guarantees
How there were no V-dayheroes in 1973
How we sailed into Sydney Harbour
Saw an old friend but couldn't kiss her
She was lined, and I was home to the lucky land

And she was like so many more from that time on
Their lives were all so empty, till they found their chosen one
And their legs were often open
But their minds were always closed
And their hearts were held in fast suburban chains
And the legal pads were yellow, hours long, paypacket lean
And the telex writers clattered where the gunships once had been
But the car parks made me jumpy
And I never stopped the dreams
Or the growing need for speed and novacaine

So I worked across the country end to end
Tried to find a place to settle down, where my mixed up life could mend
Held a job on an oil-rig
Flying choppers when I could
But the nightlife nearly drove me round the bend

And I've travelled round the world from year to year
And each one found me aimless, one more year the more for wear
And I've been back to South East Asia
But the answer sure ain't there
But I'm drifting north, to check things out again

You know the last plane out of Sydney's almost gone
Only seven flying hours, and I'll be landing in Hong Kong
There ain't nothing like the kisses
From a jaded Chinese princess
I'm gonna hit some Hong Kong mattress all night long

Well the last plane out of Sydney's almost gone
Yeah the last plane out of Sydney's almost gone
And it's really got me worried
I'm goin' nowhere and I'm in a hurry
And the last plane out of Sydney's almost gone

[Jameten]

Johnny Boy is kind of good song

[Scrim]

Kipling
The Young British Soldier.

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier OF the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

[gaz]

I just want to beat Joe to posting this -

Roland was a warrior from the Land of the Midnight Sun
With a Thompson gun for hire, fighting to be done
The deal was made in Denmark on a dark and stormy day
So he set out for Biafra to join the bloody fray

Through sixty-six and seven they fought the Congo war
Fingers on their triggers, knee-deep in gore
For days and nights they battled the Bantu to their knees
They killed to earn their living and to help out the Congolese

Roland the Thompson gunner...

His comrades fought beside him - Van Owen and the rest
But of all the Thompson gunners Roland was the best
So the CIA decided they wanted Roland dead
That son-of-a-bitch Van Owen blew off Roland's head

Roland the headless Thompson gunner (Time, time, time
For another peaceful war
Norway's bravest son But time stands still for Roland
'Til he evens up the score)
They can still see his headless body stalking through the night
In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun
In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun

Roland searched the continent for the man who'd done him in
He found him in Mombassa in a barroom drinking gin
Roland aimed his Thompson gun - he didn't say a word
But he blew Van Owen's body from there to Johannesburg

Roland the headless Thompson gunner...

The eternal Thompson gunner, still wandering through the night
Now it's ten years later but he still keeps up the fight
In Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine and Berkeley
Patty Hearst heard the burst of Roland's Thompson gun
And bought it

[khalifah]

The Green Fields of France

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.
And 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?

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?
Did the rifles fir 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?

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.

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.
.............................................................

When I first heard this song covered by Dropkick Murphy, it practically left me in tears.

BlackFlag85, great Iron Maiden Songs!woot

[Stainless Steel Rat]

Here's three that come to mind:

Green Fields of France (also known as Willie McBride)

Well, how do you do Private William McBride?
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
And rest for awhile neath the warm summer sun
I've been walking all day, and I'm nearly done

And I see by your gravestone, you're only nineteen
When you joined the great fallen in nineteen sixteen
Well I hope you died quickly, I hope you died clean
Or poor Willy Mcbride, was it slow and obscene?

Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the pipes lowly?
Did they bugles carry you over as they lowered you down?
And did the band play '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 nineteen-sixteen
In that faithful heart are you always nineteen?

Or are you a stranger without a name?
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane
In an old photograph, torn and tattered, and stained.
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame.

Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the pipes lowly?
Did they bugles carry you over as they lowered you down?
And did the band play 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers Of The Forest'?

Well 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
There's no gas, no barb wire, there's no guns firing now

But here in this graveyard that's still no-man's land
The countless white crosses stand mute in the sand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man
The whole generation was butchered and damned

Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the pipes lowly?
Did they bugles carry you over as they lowered you down?
And did the band play 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers Of The Forest'?

And I can't help but wonder young Willy McBride
Do those that lie here know why that they died?
And did they really believe you when you told them the cause
Did they really believe that this war would end wars?

Well the suffering, and the sorrow, the glory of pain
The killing and dying they were all done in vain
For young Willy McBride it's all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again...

Did they beat the drums slowly?
Did they play the pipes lowly?
Did they bugles carry you over as they lowered you down?
And did the band play 'The Last Post' in chorus?
Did the pipes play 'The Flowers Of The Forest'?



And no war song/poem thread can have only one Kipling offering; here's my favorite:

The `eathen

The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone;
'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own;
'E keeps 'is side-arms awful: 'e leaves 'em all about,
An' then comes up the Regiment an' pokes the 'eathen out.

All along o' dirtiness, all along o' mess,
All along o' doin' things rather-more-or-less,
All along of abby-nay, kul, an' hazar-ho,
Mind you keep your rifle an' yourself jus' so!

The young recruit is 'aughty -- 'e draf's from Gawd knows where;
They bid 'im show 'is stockin's an' lay 'is mattress square;
'E calls it bloomin' nonsense -- 'e doesn't know, no more --
An' then up comes 'is Company an'kicks'im round the floor!

The young recruit is 'ammered -- 'e takes it very hard;
'E 'angs 'is 'ead an' mutters -- 'e sulks about the yard;
'E talks o' "cruel tyrants" which 'e'll swing for by-an'-by,
An' the others 'ears an' mocks 'im, an' the boy goes orf to cry.

The young recruit is silly -- 'e thinks o' suicide.
'E's lost 'is gutter-devil; 'e 'asn't got 'is pride;
But day by day they kicks 'im, which 'elps 'im on a bit,
Till 'e finds 'isself one mornin' with a full an' proper kit.

Gettin' clear o' dirtiness, gettin' done with mess,
Gettin' shut o' doin' things rather-more-or-less;
Not so fond of abby-nay, kul, nor hazar-ho,
Learns to keep 'is ripe an "isself jus'so!

The young recruit is 'appy -- 'e throws a chest to suit;
You see 'im grow mustaches; you 'ear 'im slap' is boot.
'E learns to drop the "bloodies" from every word 'e slings,
An 'e shows an 'ealthy brisket when 'e strips for bars an' rings.

The cruel-tyrant-sergeants they watch 'im 'arf a year;
They watch 'im with 'is comrades, they watch 'im with 'is beer;
They watch 'im with the women at the regimental dance,
And the cruel-tyrant-sergeants send 'is name along for "Lance."

An' now 'e's 'arf o' nothin', an' all a private yet,
'Is room they up an' rags 'im to see what they will get.
They rags 'im low an' cunnin', each dirty trick they can,
But 'e learns to sweat 'is temper an 'e learns to sweat 'is man.

An', last, a Colour-Sergeant, as such to be obeyed,
'E schools 'is men at cricket, 'e tells 'em on parade,
They sees 'im quick an 'andy, uncommon set an' smart,
An' so 'e talks to orficers which 'ave the Core at 'eart.

'E learns to do 'is watchin' without it showin' plain;
'E learns to save a dummy, an' shove 'im straight again;
'E learns to check a ranker that's buyin' leave to shirk;
An 'e learns to make men like 'im so they'll learn to like their work.

An' when it comes to marchin' he'll see their socks are right,
An' when it comes: to action 'e shows 'em how to sight.
'E knows their ways of thinkin' and just what's in their mind;
'E knows when they are takin' on an' when they've fell be'ind.

'E knows each talkin' corp'ral that leads a squad astray;
'E feels 'is innards 'eavin', 'is bowels givin' way;
'E sees the blue-white faces all tryin 'ard to grin,
An 'e stands an' waits an' suffers till it's time to cap'em in.

An' now the hugly bullets come peckin' through the dust,
An' no one wants to face 'em, but every beggar must;
So, like a man in irons, which isn't glad to go,
They moves 'em off by companies uncommon stiff an' slow.

Of all 'is five years' schoolin' they don't remember much
Excep' the not retreatin', the step an' keepin' touch.
It looks like teachin' wasted when they duck an' spread an 'op --
But if 'e 'adn't learned 'em they'd be all about the shop.

An' now it's "'Oo goes backward?" an' now it's "'Oo comes on?"
And now it's "Get the doolies," an' now the Captain's gone;
An' now it's bloody murder, but all the while they 'ear
'Is voice, the same as barrick-drill, a-shepherdin' the rear.

'E's just as sick as they are, 'is 'eart is like to split,
But 'e works 'em, works 'em, works 'em till he feels them take the bit;
The rest is 'oldin' steady till the watchful bugles play,
An 'e lifts 'em, lifts 'em, lifts 'em through the charge that wins the day!

The 'eathen in 'is blindness bows down to wood an' stone --
'E don't obey no orders unless they is 'is own.
The 'eathen in 'is blindness must end where 'e began
But the backbone of the Army is the Non-commissioned Man!


And last but not least, Carl Sandburg to remind us how much our wars and horrors mean to the planet we inhabit:



Grass


Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo.
Shovel them under and let me work -


I am the grass; I cover all.
And pile them high at *****sburg
And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun.
Shovel them under and let me work.
Two years, ten years, and passengers ask the conductor:


What place is this?
Where are we now? I am the grass.
Let me work.



ETA: I see khalif88 beat me to Green Fields of France; no matter, worth a second nomination.

[TDuck]

March of Cambreadth - Heather Alexander (I blame the bagpipes for making this song awesome!)

Axes flash, broadswords swing
Shining armors’ piercing ring
Horses run with polished shield
Fight those bastards ‘til they yield
Midnight mare, blood red roan
Fight to keep this land your own
Sound the horn and call the cry
How many of them can we make die?
Follow orders as you’re told
Make their yellow blood run cold
Fight until you die or drop
A force like ours is hard to stop
Close your mind to stress and pain
Fight ‘til you’re no longer sane
Let not one damn cur pass by
How many of them can we make die?
Guard your women and children well
Send these bastards back to Hell
We’ll teach them the ways of war
And they won’t come here anymore
Use your shield and use your head
Fight ‘til everyone is dead
Raise the flag up to the sky
How many of them can we make die?
Dawn has broke, the time has come
Move your feet to the marching drum
We’ll win the war and pay the toll
Fight as one in heart and soul
Midnight mare and blood red roan
Fight to keep this land your own
Sound the horn and call the cry
How many of them can we make die?
Axes flash, broadswords swing
Shining armors’ piercing ring
Horses run with polished shield
Fight those bastards ‘til they yield
Midnight mare and blood red roan
Fight to keep this land your own
Sound the horn and call the cry
How many of them can we make die?
How many of them can we make die?
How many of them can we make die?

[Nuclear_Warrior]

I'm guessing those march songs also fit here, these are two of my favorites


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CfBeeVKhPHE&feature=channel_page

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tkajXeVLpk4&feature=channel_page

[SilverBoy]

Anyone know the song about a soldier for who Ireland had to die..or something to that nature. I'll try to get more details. My grandfather used to sing it.

[percor]

mine is probably Ballad of the Green Beret.

Do anybody have all the original lyrics Barry Sadler wrote for this ballad?
Thank you
percor

[Trael]

Czerwone Maki na Monte Cassino
Czy widzisz te gruzy na szczycie?
Tam wróg twój się kryje, jak szczur!
Musicie! Musicie!! Musicie!!!
Za kark wziąć i strącic go z chmur!
I poszli szaleni, zażarci,
I poszli zabijać i mścić!
I poszli - jak zawsze – uparci!
Jak zawsze – za honor się bić.

Czerwone maki na Monte Cassino,
Zamiast rosy piły polską krew…
Po tych makach szedł żołnierz i ginął,
Lecz od śmierci silniejszy był gniew!
Przejdą lata i wieki przeminą,
Pozostaną słady dawnych dni!…
I tylko maki na Monte Cassino
Czerwieńsze będą, bo z polskiej wzrosną krwi!

Runęli przez ogień straceńcy!
Nie jeden z nich dostał i padł…
Jak ci, z Samossierry, szaleńcy!
Jak ci, spod Rokitny, sprzed lat!
Runęli z impetem szalonym
I doszli!… I udał się szturm!
I sztandar swój biało-czerwony
Zatknęli na gruzach wsród chmur!

Czerwone maki na Monte Cassino...

Czy widzisz ten rząd białych krzyży?
To Polak z honorem brał ślub!…
Idź naprzód!… Im dalej… im wyżej…
Tym więcej ich znajdziesz u stóp!
Ta ziemia do Polski należy,
Choć Polska daleko jest stąd,
Bo wolność… krzyżami się mierzy…!
Historia ten jeden ma błąd…!

Czerwone maki na Monte Cassino...

Ćwierc wieku, koledzy, za nami,
Bitewny ulotnił się pył
I klasztor białymi murami
Na nowo do nieba się wzbił...
Lecz pamięć tych nocy upiornych
I krwi, co przelała się tu -
Odzywa sie w dzwonach klasztornych,
Grających poległym do snu...!

Translation:
The Red Poppies on Monte Cassino

Do you see those ruins on the top?
There your foe hides like a rat!
You must, you must, you must!
Grab his neck and cast him from the clouds!
And they went, mad, heedless,
And they went, to kill and avenge,
And they went stubborn as ever,
As always - for honour - to fight.

Red poppies on Monte Cassino
Instead of dew, drank Polish blood...
On them, the soldier went and died,
But the anger was more potent than death!
Years will pass and ages will roll,
Traces of bygone days will stay,
Only the poppies on Monte Cassino
Will be redder having quaffed Polish blood.

They charged through fire, convicts,
Countless were hit and fell,
Like the cavalry at Samosierra,
They charged with furious momentum
Like those at Rokitno years ago.
And they got there. And they won.
And their white and scarlet standard
They placed on the ruins `midst clouds.

Red poppies on Monte Cassino...

Do you see this row of white crosses?
Polish soldiers did honour there wed.
Go forward - the further, the higher,
The more you'll find at your feet.
This soil belongs to Poland,
Though Poland is far away,
For Freedom is measured in crosses
History has this one fault.

Red poppies on Monte Cassino...

Quarter of a century, collegues, behind us,
The dust from the battle is gone
And the white walls of the monastery
Again reach to the sky...
But memory of those terrible nights
And blood which was spilled here -
Echoes in the monastery's bells
Putting the fallen to rest...!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ns8qj1Y5g6I

[Rittmester]

Auf Ansbach Dragoner

http://www.youtube.com/watch/v/yWO6RfsopPk

Auf, Ansbach-Dragoner!
Auf, Ansbach-Bayreuth!
Schnall um deinen Säbel
und rüste dich zum Streit!
Prinz Karl ist erschienen
auf Friedbergs Höh'n,
Sich das preußische Heer
mal anzusehen.
Drum, Kinder, seit lustig
und allesamt bereit:
Auf, Ansbach-Dragoner!
Auf, Ansbach-Bayreuth!

Drum, Kinder, seit lustig
und allesamt bereit:
Auf, Ansbach-Dragoner!
Auf, Ansbach-Bayreuth!

[qaborg]

Tommy
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:
O 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,
O it's "Thank you, Mister 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,
O 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, 'ow'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,
O 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,
O 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;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

-- Rudyard Kipling

[silentpartner]

"When you go home, tell them of us and say
For your tomorrow, these gave their today.
Went the day well? We died and never knew,
But, well or ill, freedom, we died for you."


- Simonides, Greek poet, 557 - 476 BC

In celebration of those who fell at Thermopylae.

[Oneto15]

Do anybody have all the original lyrics Barry Sadler wrote for this ballad?
Thank you
percor


Don't know if these are the complete lyrics but.......

Fighting soldiers from the sky
fearless men who jump and die
men who mean just what they say
the brave men of the Green Beret
Silver wings upon their chest
these are men Americas best
one hundred men will test today but
only three win the Green Beret
trained to live off natures land
trained in combat hand to hand
men who fight by night and day
courage take from the Green Beret

(Chorus)
Silver wings upon their chest
these are men Americas best
one hundred men will test today
but only three win the Green Beret

Back at home a young wife waits
her Green Beret has met his fate
he has died for those oppressed
leaving her this last request
put silver wings on my sons chest
make him one of Americas best
he'll be a man they'll test one day
have him win the Green Beret



Regards.

[scttgillies]

t
Hot evening wind blowing on the pan,
As comrades join in silent throng,
To bid farewell to fallen friends,
The sadness viewed in every face.


Six deep we stand the silent ranks,
Two thousand men of every badge,
Await the flying engine roar,
To signify the last farewell.


We look upon the saddened men,
Whose comrades lie in boxes wood,
And feel the loss of friends as well,
For people we did never know.


To watch upon this awful sight,
To know that in the oaken box,
Lies soldiers who one week before,
Felt love, felt hate, the cold and heat.


Seven men stand strong and true,
The bearers on this final trip,
The pain and loss etched in their face,
Their eyes as empty as the tomb.


The final epitaph to the dead,
As watchers stand with head bowed down,
The pipers pipe, the bugles play,
The coffin carried to the plane.


Farewell to thee, Fallen friend,
Lie still and feel no pain,
But yet this whole parade shall play,
Again, again, again.
,


his poem is called farewell.
Written by a soldier in Afghan last year to help come to grips with loosing a good friend.

[Rakkasans]

Piet

I DO not love my Empire’s foes,
Nor call ’em angels; still,
What is the sense of ’atin’ those
’Oom you are paid to kill?
So, barrin’ all that foreign lot
Which only joined for spite,
Myself, I’d just as soon as not
Respect the man I fight.

Ah there, Piet!—’is trousies to ’is knees,
’Is coat-tails lyin’ level in the bullet-sprinkled breeze;
’E does not lose ’is rifle an’ ’e does not lose ’is seat,
I’ve known a lot o’ people ride a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

I’ve ’eard ’im cryin’ from the ground
Like Abel’s blood of old,
An’ skirmished out to look, an’ found
The beggar nearly cold.
I’ve waited on till ’e was dead
(Which couldn’t ’elp ’im much),
But many grateful things ’e ’s said
To me for doin’ such.

Ah there, Piet! whose time ’as come to die,
’Is carcase past rebellion, but ’is eyes inquirin’ why.
Though dressed in stolen uniform with badge o’ rank complete,
I’ve known a lot o’ fellers go a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

An’ when there was n’t aught to do
But camp and cattle-guards,
I’ve fought with ’im the ’ole day through
At fifteen ’undred yards;
Long afternoons o’ lyin’ still,
An’ ’earin’ as you lay
The bullets swish from ’ill to ’ill
Like scythes among the ’ay.

Ah there, Piet!-be’ind ’is stony kop.
With ’is Boer bread an’ biltong, an’ ’is flask of awful Dop;
’Is Mauser for amusement an’ ’is pony for retreat,
I’ve known a lot o’ fellers shoot a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

He’s shoved ’is rifle ’neath my nose
Before I’d time to think,
An’ borrowed all my Sunday clo’es
An’ sent me ’ome in pink;
An’ I ’ave crept (Lord, ’ow I’ve crept!)
On ’ands an’ knees I’ve gone,
And spoored and floored and caught and kept
An’ sent him to Ceylon!

Ah there, Piet!—you’ve sold me many a pup,
When week on week alternate it was you an’ me “’ands up! “
But though I never made you walk man-naked in the ’eat,
I’ve known a lot of fellows stalk a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

From Plewman’s to Marabastad,
From Ookiep to De Aar,
Me an’ my trusty friend ’ave ’ad,
As you might say, a war;
But seein’ what both parties done
Before ’e owned defeat,
I ain’t more proud of ’avin’ won,
Than I am pleased with Piet.

Ah there, Piet!—picked up be’ind the drive!
The wonder wasn’t ’ow ’e fought, but ’ow ’e kep’ alive,
With nothin’ in ’is belly, on ’is back, or to ’is feet—
I’ve known a lot o’ men behave a dam’ sight worse than Piet.

No more I’ll ’ear ’is rifle crack
Along the block’ouse fence—
The beggar’s on the peaceful tack,
Regardless of expense;
For countin’ what ’e eats an’ draws,
An’ gifts an’ loans as well,
’E’s gettin’ ’alf the Earth, because
’E didn’t give us ’Ell!

Ah there, Piet! with your brand-new English plough,
Your gratis tents an’ cattle, an’ your most ungrateful frow,
You’ve made the British taxpayer rebuild your country seat—
I’ve known some pet battalions charge a dam’ sight less than Piet.

Rudyard Kipling (Boer War)

[khalifah]

When you go home, tell them of us and say
For your tomorrow, these gave their today.
Went the day well? We died and never knew,
But, well or ill, freedom, we died for you.


- Simonides, Greek poet, 557 - 476 BC

In celebration of those who fell at Thermopylae.


wow,

to me, this poem is timeless i can picture it in any conflict.
................................................................................

The Longest Day-Iron Maiden

In the gloom the gathering storm abates
In the ships gimlet eyes await
The call to arms to hammer at the gates
To blow them wide throw evil to its fate

All summers long the drills to build the machine
To turn men from flesh and blood to steel
From paper soldiers to bodies on the beach
From summer sands to armageddon's reach

Overlord, your master not your god
The enemy coast dawning grey with scud
These wretched souls puking, shaking fear
To take a bullet for those who sent them here

The world's alight, the cliffs erupt in flame
No escape, remorseless shrapnel rains
Drowning men no chance for a warrior's fate
A choking death enter hell's gate

Sliding we go, only fear on our side
To the edge of the wire,
and we rush with the tide
Oh the water is red,
with the blood of the dead
But I'm still alive, pray to God I survive

How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through
How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through

How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through
How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through

The rising dead, faces bloated torn
They are relieved, the living wait their turn
Your number's up, the bullet's got your name
You still go on, to hell and back again

Valhalla waits, valkyries rise and fall
The warrior tombs, lie open for us all
A ghostly hand reaches through the veil
Blood and sand, we will prevail

Sliding we go, only fear on our side
To the edge of the wire,
and we rush with the tide
Oh the water is red,
with the blood of the dead
But I'm still alive, pray to God I survive

How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through
How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through

How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through
How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through

SOLO

How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through
How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through

How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through
How long on this longest day
'Til we finally make it through

[Johnny_H02]

"Men Of Harlech"
Lyrics:
Men of Harlech stop your dreaming
Can't you see their spear points gleaming
See their warrior pennants streaming
To this battlefield
Men of Harlech stand ye steady
It cannot be ever said ye
For the battle were not ready
Welshmen never yield
From the hills rebounding
Let these war cries sounding
Summon all at Cambria's call
The mighty force surrounding
Men of Harlech on to glory
This will ever be your story
Keep these burning words before ye
Welshmen will not yield

[Oneto15]

The Rose Of No-Mans Land.

There's a rose that grows in no-man's land
And it's wonderful to see,
Tho' it's sprayed with tears
It will live for years
In my garden of memory
It's the one red rose the soldier knows,
It's the work of the Master's hand;
In the War's great curse,
Stands the Red Cross nurse
She's the rose of no-mans land.

A WWI favourite, written on the back of a family photo and carried by my Father-in-Law throughout his service during WWII.

It can be heard here;- http://www.ww1photos.com/TheRoseOfNoMansLand.html


Regards Oneto15.

[Laconian]

The Charge of the Light Brigade by Alfred Lord Tennyson
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

2.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

3.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

4.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

5.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

6.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.

I Wonder if They Ever Think of Me by Merle Haggard
There's not much a man can do inside a prison
Just take his mem'ry trips and fights the pain
And a word from home can mean so much to a prisoner
It's been years since that last letter came

Not a day goes by that I don't think of mama
And my nights are filled with thoughts of sweet Marie
And old friends I ran around with keep on running through my mind
But I just wonder if they ever think of me

I wonder if they know that I'm still living
and still proud to be a part of Uncle Sam
I wonder if they think I died of hunger
in this rotten prison camp in VietNam

Not a day goes by that I don't think of mama
And my nights are filled with thoughts of sweet Marie
And I remember daddy sayin' you'll come back a better man
And I just wonder if they ever think of me
oh I just wonder if they ever think of me

In Flanders Fields by LTC John McCrae
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.

And I echo The Band Played Waltzing Matilda and Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.

[Toddy1]

A Sough o' War

The corn was turnin', hairst was near,
But lang afore the scythes could start
A sough o' war gaed through the land
An' stirred it to its benmost heart.
Nae ours the blame, but when it came
We couldna pass the challenge by,
For credit o' our honest name
There could be but one reply.
An' buirdly men, fae strath an' glen
An' shepherds fae the bucht an' hill,
Will show them a', whate'er befa',
Auld Scotland counts for something still.

Half-mast the castle banner droops,
The Laird's lament was played yestreen,
An' mony a widowed cottar wife
Is greetin' at her shank aleen.
In Freedom's cause, for ane that fa's,
We'll gleen the glens a' send them three
To clip the reivin' eagle's claws,
An' drook his feathers i' the sea.
For gallant loons, in brochs an' toons,
Are leavin' shop an' yard an' mill,
A keen to show baith friend an' foe
Auld Scotland counts for something still.
The grim, grey fathers, bent wi' years,
Come stridin' through the muirland mist,
Wi' beardless lads scarce by wi' school
But eager as the lave to list.
We've fleshed o' yore the brave claymore
On mony a bloody field afar,
But ne'er did skirlin' pipes afore
Cry on sae urgently tae war.
Gin danger's there, we'll thole our share,
Gie's but the weapons, we've the will,
Ayont the main, to prove again
Auld Scotland counts for something still.

Meaning of unusual words:
hairst = harvest
sough o' war = sigh of war
benmost = inner
buirdly = stalwart
fae strath an' glen = from river valley and mountain valley
bucht = sheep pastures
shank aleen = knitting alone
reivin' = thieving
drook = drown
loons = young lads
brochs = burghs
lave = the rest
skirlin' = shrill
thole = endure
Ayont the main = beyond the sea

[Toddy1]

Even today, they say that the birds don't sing at the site of the Battle of Culloden Moor, where Prince Charles Edward Stuart's Highlanders perished in the last, vain battle of the Jacobite Uprising. Alice Macdonell of Keppoch, writing at the end of the 19th Century responds here to the bleakness of the place, after seeing it in the rain in autumn.


Culloden Moor
(Seen in Autumn Rain)

Full of grief, the low winds sweep
O'er the sorrow-haunted ground;
Dark the woods where night rains weep,
Dark the hills that watch around.

Tell me, can the joys of spring
Ever make this sadness flee,
Make the woods with music ring,
And the streamlet laugh for glee?

When the summer moor is lit
With the pale fire of the broom,
And through green the shadows flit,
Still shall mirth give place to gloom?

Sad shall it be, though sun be shed
Golden bright on field and flood;
E'en the heather's crimson red
Holds the memory of blood.

Here that broken, weary band
Met the ruthless foe's array,
Where those moss-grown boulders stand,
On that dark and fatal day.

Like a phantom hope had fled,
Love to death was all in vain,
Vain, though heroes' blood was shed,
And though hearts were broke in twain.

Many a voice has cursed the name
Time has into darkness thrust,
Cruelty his only fame
In forgetfulness and dust.

Noble dead that sleep below,
We your valour ne'er forget;
Soft the heroes' rest who know
Hearts like theirs are beating yet.

[Toddy1]

William Wallace's victory over King Edward I of England at the Battle of Stirling Bridge in 1297 has inspired many poets and song writers from "Blind Harry" to Robert Burns. This song was written by William Sinclair to a marching tune composed by J Marquis Chisholm.



Battle of Stirling

To Scotland's ancient realm,
Proud Edward's armies came;
To sap our freedom and overwhelm
Our martial forces in shame.
"It shall not be" brave Wallace cried!
"It shall not be" his chiefs relied!
By the name our fathers gave her,
Our steel shall drink the crimson stream,
We'll all her dearest right redeem,
Our own broadswords shall save her.


With hopes of triumph flush'd,
The squadrons hurried o'er
Thy Bridge Kildean, and heaving rush'd
Like wild waves to the shore.
"They come, they come" was the gallant cry,
"They come, they come" was the loud reply.
O strength thou gracious giver,
By love and freedoms stainless faith,
We'll dare the darkest night of death,
We'll drive them back forever.

All o'er the waving broom,
In chivalry and grace,
Shone England's radiant spear and plume
By Stirling's rocky base.
And stretching far beneath the view,
Proud Cressingham, thy banners flew.
When like a torrent rushing,
O God! from right and left the flame,
Of Scottish swords like lightning came,
Great Edward's legions crushing.

High praise, ye gallant band,
Who in the face of day,
With daring hearts and fearless hands
Have cast your chains away.
The foemen fell on ev'ry side,
In crimson hues the Forth was dyed.
Bedew'd with blood the heather,
While cries triumphant shook the air,
Thus shall we do, shall we dare,
Wherever Scotsmen gather.

[ronnieraygun]

The Green Fields of France

Well how do you do Private William McBride,
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
And rest for awhile beneath the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day and now I'm nearly done
I see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916;
Well I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean,
Or, young Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

(Chorus)
Did they beat the drum slowly,
Did they play the fife lowly?
Did they sound the Death March
As they lowered you down?
Did the band play "The Last Post And Chorus"?
Did the pipes play "The Flowers of The Forest"?

Did you leave a young wife or sweetheart behind,
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined.
Although you died back in 1915,
In that faithful heart are you forever nineteen.
Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Enclosed and forever behind the glass frame,
Of an old photograph torn, battered and stained,
And faded to yellow in a brown leather frame.

Ah the sun now it shines on these green fields of France,
The warm summer breeze makes the red poppies dance,
And look how the sun shines from under the clouds;
There's no gas, no barbed wire, there're no guns firing now.
But here in this graveyard is still No Man's Land,
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man,
To a whole generation that was butchered and damned

Ah, young Willie McBride, I can't help wonder why,
Did all those who lay here really know why they died?
And did they believe when they answered the call,
Did they really believe that this war would end war?
For the sorrow, the suffering, the glory, the pain,
The killing and dying were all done in vain,
For, young Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again and again and again and again.

[edit] i see khalifah beat me to it and stainless thought about it too - still a haunting tune

war pigs - lol
iron maiden
no one mentioned any of the old metallicrap from the 80s?

[Toddy1]

Scots wha' hae'

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie!
Now's the day, and now's the hour: See the front o' battle lour, See approach proud Edward's power Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn, and fleel Wha for Scotland's King and Law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me!
By Oppression's woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins But they shall be free!

[baboon6]

Two poems from the bloke in my avatar, Keith Douglas

How To Kill


Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.
Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears

and look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.

The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches.



Keith Douglas

Aristocrats
"I Think I Am Becoming A God"



The noble horse with courage in his eye,
clean in the bone, looks up at a shellburst:
away fly the images of the shires
but he puts the pipe back in his mouth.
Peter was unfortunately killed by an 88;
it took his leg away, he died in the ambulance.
I saw him crawling on the sand, he said
It's most unfair, they've shot my foot off.
How can I live among this gentle
obsolescent breed of heroes, and not weep?
Unicorns, almost,
for they are fading into two legends
in which their stupidity and chivalry
are celebrated. Each, fool and hero, will be an immortal.
These plains were their cricket pitch
and in the mountains the tremendous drop fences
brought down some of the runners. Here then
under the stones and earth they dispose themselves,
I think with their famous unconcern.
It is not gunfire I hear, but a hunting horn.



Keith Douglas Tunisia 1943

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Keith_Douglas

[Hadamar]

from Funeral Music, Geoffrey Hill

Not as we are but as we must appear,
Contractual ghosts of pity; not as we
Desire life but as they would have us live,
Set apart in timeless colloquy:
So it is required, so we bear witness,
Despite ourselves, to what is beyond us,
Each distant sphere of harmony forever
Poised, unanswerable. If it is without
Consequence when we vaunt and suffer, or
If it is not, all echoes are the same
In such eternity. Then tell me, love,
How that should comfort us – or anyone
Dragged half-unnerved out of this worldly place,
Crying to the end 'I have not finished'.


from Villon, Basil Bunting

Remember, imbeciles and wits,
sots and ascetics, fair and foul,
young girls with little tender ****,
that DEATH is written over all.

Worn hides that scarcely clothe the soul
they are so rotten, old and thin,
or firm and soft and warm and full —
fellmonger Death gets every skin.

All that is piteous, all that’s fair,
all that is fat and scant of breath,
Elisha’s baldness, Helen’s hair,
is Death’s collateral:

Three score and ten years after sight
of this pay me your pulse and breath
value received. And who dare cite,
as we forgive our debtors, Death?

Abelard and Eloise,
Henry the Fowler, Charlemagne,
Genée, Lopokova, all these
die, die in pain.

And General Grant and General Lee,
Patti and Florence Nightingale,
like Tyro and Antiope
drift among ghosts in Hell,

know nothing, are nothing, save a fume
driving across a mind
preoccupied with this: our doom
is, to be sifted by the wind,

heaped up, smoothed down like silly sands.
We are less permanent than thought.
The Emperor with the Golden Hands

is still a word, a tint, a tone,
insubstantial-glorious,
when we ourselves are dead and gone
and the green grass growing over us.

[California Joe]

Well played Gazbert...

Might I suggest this poem:

DULCE ET DECORUM EST by 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, outstripped5 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 a 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.

And this song, which never fails to send a chill up my spine:

BROTHERS IN ARMS by Mark Knopfler/Dire Straits

These mist covered mountains
Are a home now for me
But my home is the lowlands
And always will be
Some day you'll return to
Your valleys and your farms
And youll no longer burn
To be brothers in arms

Through these fields of destruction
Baptisms of fire
Ive watched all your suffering
As the battles raged higher
And though they did hurt me so bad
In the fear and alarm
You did not desert me
My brothers in arms

Theres so many different worlds
So many differents suns
And we have just one world
But we live in different ones

Now the suns gone to hell
And the moons riding high
Let me bid you farewell
Every man has to die
But its written in the starlight
And every line on your palm
Were fools to make war
On our brothers in arms

[trunk_munkey28]

I always liked "I was Only 19" or "A Walk in the Light Green". I first heard it on my first tour in Afghanistan when we worked with some ADF boys, and I happened to be in Australia for Remembrance Day in 2007, so it was played quite a bit.

Mum and Dad and Danny saw the passing out parade at Puckapunyal
It was a long march from cadets
The sixth battalion was the next to tour and it was me who drew the card
We did Canungra and Shoalwater before we left

And Townsville lined the footpaths as we marched down to the quay
This clipping from the paper shows us young and strong and clean
And there's me in me slouch hat with me SLR and greens
God help me - I was only nineteen

From Vung Tau riding Chinooks to the dust at Nui Dat
I'd been in and out of choppers now for months
And we made our tents a home, V.B. and pinups on the lockers
And an Asian orange sunset through the scrub

And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep?
And night time's just a jungle dark and a barking M.16?
And what's this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me what it means?
God help me - I was only nineteen

A four week operation, when each step can mean your last one on two legs
It was a war within yourself
But you wouldn't let your mates down 'til they had you dusted off
So you closed your eyes and thought about somethin' else

And then someone yelled out "Contact", and the bloke behind me swore
We hooked in there for hours, then a God almighty roar
And Frankie kicked a mine the day that mankind kicked the moon
God help me - he was goin' home in June

I can still see Frankie, drinkin' tinnies in the Grand Hotel
On a thirty-six hour rec. leave in Vung Tau
And I can still see Frankie, lying screaming in the jungle
'Til the morphine came and killed the bloody row

And the Anzac legends didn't mention mud and blood and tears
And the stories that my father told me never seemed quite real-
I caught some pieces in my back, that I didn't even feel
God help me - I was only 19
And can you tell me doctor why I still can't get to sleep
And the Channel 7 chopper chills me to my feet
And what's this rash that comes and goes can you tell me what it means
God help me - I was only nineteen

Also, theres pretty popular folk/country artist here in Southern Alberta; Corb Lund. His last album is Horse Soldier! Horse Soldier!. Had kinda of been into his music on his earlier albums, but was sold on Horse Soldier. When I opened the CD jacket, I saw that he had dedicated the album to a good buddy of mine who was KIA in Afghanistan.

Three of my favourite songs from that album.
I Wanna Be In The Cavalry
(lyrics by Corb Lund, music by Stan Rogers/Corb Lund)

I wanna be in the cavalry if they send me off to war
I wanna good steed under me like my forefathers before
I wanna good mount when the bugle sounds and I hear the cannons' roar
I wanna be in the cavalry if they send me off to war

I wanna horse in the volunteer force that's riding forth at dawn
Please save for me some gallantry that will echo when I'm gone
I beg of you sarge let me lead the charge when the battle lines are drawn
Lemme at least leave a good hoof beat they'll remember loud and long

I'd not a good foot soldier make, I'd be sour and slow at march
And I'd be sick on a navy ship, and the sea would leave me parched
But I'll be first in line if they'll let me ride, by god, you'll see my starch
Lope back o'er the heath with the laurel wreath underneath that vict’ry arch

Let me earn my spurs in the battle's blur where the day is lost or won
I'll wield my lance as the ponies dance and the blackguards fire their guns
A sabre keen, and a saddle carbine and an army Remington
Where the hot lead screams with the cold, cold steel let me be a cav’lryman

Let 'em play their flutes and stirrup my boots and place them back to front
For I won’t be back on the rider-less black (jack) and I'm finished in my hunt
I wanna be in the cavalry if I must go off to war
I wanna be in the cavalry, but I won't ride home no more

Student Visas
(written by Corb Lund)

They took away our dogtags, they had us grow our hair
They gave us student visas when we were over there
They staged us out of Hondo al este del Salvador
I guess you'd call us Contras but no one calls much no more
There ain’t no fun in killin’ folk and I don’t wanna do no more

My great great rode at Shiloh and Grandpa drove a tank
Daddy was air cavalry, flew choppers in the Nam {Da Nang}
I worked mostly clandestine, the branch I should not say {CIA}
We played with better guns and I could use the extra pay
Did Reagan give the order? Did cocaine pay the bill?
They said we's fightin' communists but it was kinda hard to tell
There ain’t no fun in killin’ folk and I don’t wanna do no more

This was before Blackhawks and RPGs were king
My buddy on the door gun, he never felt a thing
When our Huey caught a rocket and both the pilots killed
And it pitched us over sideways on some Nicaraguan hill
My back felt like it’s broken, my legs I could not feel
I kept on shooting communists but it was kind of hard to tell
There ain’t no fun in killin’ folk and I ain’t gonna do no more

I never did heal up right from injuries sustained
Officially in Germany, officially while we trained
I remember all their faces, I dream about them still
I guess we's fightin’ communists but it was kinda hard to tell
There ain’t no fun in killin’ folk, and I don’t wanna do no more

I speak the cold logistic that warriors speak so well
Foxtrot tango whiskey alpha golf tango hotel
A soldierly bravado, an unspeakable guilt
That village, it was communist but it was kinda hard to tell
There ain’t no fun in killin’ folk and I don’t wanna do no more
Believe me, I’ve done plenty boys and I ain’t gonna do no more
But of course if they back me in the corner they’ll be dead before they hit the floor

I Wanna Be In The Cavalry: Reprise
(lyrics by Corb Lund, music by Stan Rogers/Corb Lund)

I wanna be in the cavalry if they send me off to war
I wanna good steed under me like my forefathers before

Courageous at first we took their worst, our positions we held stout
We clung to belief and we hung on the speech from our trusted leaders’ mouths
Overwhelming odds and a hopeless cause and our cities overrun
There were them that said we was badly led and God were we outgunned

I lost count of the worthy mounts that from under me were cut
My favourite mare with her head in the air took the cannons in her gut
In the first two weeks on that bloody creek my brother lost his arm
Was only sixty days till all we prayed was get us home unharmed

O for the day that we signed our names and the well that we were wished
The men’s congrats and the pats on the backs and the ladies that we kissed
The band that played and the grande parade and the patriotic shouts
All faded fast, didn't even last till the uniforms wore out

And there were none to replace nor to help us face the winters cold and bleak
That chilled to the bone the pneumonia ****e and froze our bootless feet
Then the typhoid hit with its fevered fits, TB and dysentery
That proved in the end to have killed more men than the vilest enemy

We were finally forced to feed on horse and carcass we could scrounge
When the wagons stopped and we’d burnt their crops to charred and barren ground
With morale in doubt and our pride run out no honour did I see
All I seen were a thousand dreams piled dead in front of me

I wanna be in the cavalry if the send me off to war
I wanna be in the cavalry but I won’t ride home no more

Also, pretty much every Iron Maiden song, but especially the Trooper.
A lot of music by the Dropkick Murphys.
Rudyard Kipling is pretty poignant as well, especially that vers about Afghanistan.

[tyovan]

Take my hand and come with me
To a special place across the sea
A sacred place in hallowed ground
A place where love and sorrows found
It's not a church, you'll understand
Just a part of home in another land

A place where gravestone stand arrayed
Like a phantom army on parade
Stand close to me and patience keep
And soon you'll see a brave man weep
He cries for his comrades beneath the stone
And I tell you friend he's not alone

Scenes like this are common place
In our special meeting place
As you stroll down memory lane
Think of us who must remain
And now it's time to say adieu
But remember friends we died for you
- Unknown, saw this on a memorial cross from the Royal British Legion at the Menin Gate in Ieper (Ypres), Belgium. Never forget.

[gaijinsamurai]

And The Band Played Waltzing Mathilda, Eric Bogle.

Now when I was a young man I carried me pack
And I lived the free life of the rover.
From the Murray's green basin to the dusty outback,
Well, I waltzed my Matilda all over.
Then in 1915, my country said, "Son,
It's time you stop ramblin', there's work to be done."
So they gave me a tin hat, and they gave me a gun,
And they marched me away to the war.

And the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As the ship pulled away from the quay,
And amidst all the cheers, the flag waving, and tears,
We sailed off for Gallipoli.

And how well I remember that terrible day,
How our blood stained the sand and the water;
And of how in that hell that they call Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter.
Johnny Turk, he was waitin', he primed himself well;
He showered us with bullets, and he rained us with shell --
And in five minutes flat, he'd blown us all to hell,
Nearly blew us right back to Australia.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
When we stopped to bury our slain,
Well, we buried ours, and the Turks buried theirs,
Then we started all over again.

And those that were left, well, we tried to survive
In that mad world of blood, death and fire.
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
Though around me the corpses piled higher.
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me arse over head,
And when I woke up in me hospital bed
And saw what it had done, well, I wished I was dead --
Never knew there was worse things than dying.

For I'll go no more "Waltzing Matilda,"
All around the green bush far and free --
To hump tents and pegs, a man needs both legs,
No more "Waltzing Matilda" for me.

So they gathered the crippled, the wounded, the maimed,
And they shipped us back home to Australia.
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane,
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla.
And as our ship sailed into Circular Quay,
I looked at the place where me legs used to be,
And thanked Christ there was nobody waiting for me,
To grieve, to mourn and to pity.

But the band played "Waltzing Matilda,"
As they carried us down the gangway,
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared,
Then they turned all their faces away.

And so now every April, I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me.
And I see my old comrades, how proudly they march,
Reviving old dreams of past glory,
And the old men march slowly, all bones stiff and sore,
They're tired old heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask "What are they marching for?"
And I ask meself the same question.

But the band plays "Waltzing Matilda,"
And the old men still answer the call,
But as year follows year, more old men disappear
Someday, no one will march there at all.

Waltzing Matilda, waltzing Matilda.
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?
And their ghosts may be heard as they march by that billabong,
Who'll come a-Waltzing Matilda with me?

x2. Very moving song.

The Pogues did a great cover of it on their classic "Rum, Sodomy, & The Lash", along with a couple of other great soldiering songs, "Billy's Bones" and "The Gentleman Soldier". If you don't have this CD, go out and buy it!

[gaijinsamurai]

"Men Of Harlech"
Lyrics:
Men of Harlech stop your dreaming
Can't you see their spear points gleaming
See their warrior pennants streaming
To this battlefield
Men of Harlech stand ye steady
It cannot be ever said ye
For the battle were not ready
Welshmen never yield
From the hills rebounding
Let these war cries sounding
Summon all at Cambria's call
The mighty force surrounding
Men of Harlech on to glory
This will ever be your story
Keep these burning words before ye
Welshmen will not yield


The 2nd Btn, 24th Regiment of Foot at Rorke's Drift!!!!

[gaijinsamurai]

I just want to beat Joe to posting this -

Roland was a warrior from the Land of the Midnight Sun
With a Thompson gun for hire, fighting to be done
The deal was made in Denmark on a dark and stormy day
So he set out for Biafra to join the bloody fray

Through sixty-six and seven they fought the Congo war
Fingers on their triggers, knee-deep in gore
For days and nights they battled the Bantu to their knees
They killed to earn their living and to help out the Congolese

Roland the Thompson gunner...

His comrades fought beside him - Van Owen and the rest
But of all the Thompson gunners Roland was the best
So the CIA decided they wanted Roland dead
That son-of-a-bitch Van Owen blew off Roland's head

Roland the headless Thompson gunner (Time, time, time
For another peaceful war
Norway's bravest son But time stands still for Roland
'Til he evens up the score)
They can still see his headless body stalking through the night
In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun
In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun

Roland searched the continent for the man who'd done him in
He found him in Mombassa in a barroom drinking gin
Roland aimed his Thompson gun - he didn't say a word
But he blew Van Owen's body from there to Johannesburg

Roland the headless Thompson gunner...

The eternal Thompson gunner, still wandering through the night
Now it's ten years later but he still keeps up the fight
In Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine and Berkeley
Patty Hearst heard the burst of Roland's Thompson gun
And bought it

Damn, you beat me too!

RIP, Warren Zevon....

[boone]

Now this is the Law of the Jungle -- as old and as true as the sky;
And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die.
As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back --
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
............................

[gaijinsamurai]

Kipling
The Young British Soldier.

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier OF the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

I've always considered that to be my favorite poem.

[Hollis]

Dad, who was in the China Fleet before the war, mentioned they would sing song. Some had long lyrics.

One was Count Ivan Skavinsky Skavar and Abdul Abulbul Amir



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abdul_Abulbul_Amir

[that_one_guy]

surprised this wasn't mentioned yet:

Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.

[boone]

In prison cell I sadly sit,
A dead crest-fallen chappie!
And own to you I feel a bit-
A little bit - unhappy!


It really ain't the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction -
But yet we'll write a final rhyme
Whilst waiting cru-ci-fixion!


No matter what "end" they decide -
Quick-lime or "b'iling ile," sir?
We'll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir!


But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men,
Who come across in transport ship
To polish off the Dutchmen!


If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot 'em!
And if you wish to leave these shores,
For pity's sake, DON'T SHOOT 'EM!!


And if you'd earn a D.S.O.,
Why every British sinner
Should know the proper way to go
Is: "ASK THE BOER TO DINNER!"


Let's toss a bumper down our throat, -
Before we pass to Heaven,
And toast: "The trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon."


Harry Morant

[James]

I think it's interesting to compare songs written at the beginning of a conflict (some conflicts) to those written at the end, or written by veterans. Here's George Cohan's Over There - somewhat popular with members of the AEF in 1917, and very popular at home in America.

Johnnie get your gun, get you gun, get your gun,
Take it on the run, on the run, on the run,
Hear them calling you and me;
Every son of Liberty
Hurry right away, no delay, go today,
Make your daddy glad to have had such a lad
Tell your sweetheart not to pine,
To be proud her boy's in line.

Over There, Over There
Send the word, send the word,
Over There
That the Yanks are coming,
The Yanks are coming,
The drums rum tumming everywhere
So prepare,
Say a Prayer
Send the word,
Send the word to beware
We'll be over, we're coming over.
And we won't be back till it's over over there!

Johnnie get your gun, get you gun, get your gun,
Johnnie show the Hun, you're a Son-of-a-Gun,
Hoist the flag and let her fly
Like true heros do or die
Pack your little kit, show your grit, do your bit,
Soldiers to the ranks from the towns and the tanks,
Make your Mother proud of you and to Liberty be true.

Over There, Over There
Send the word, send the word,
Over There
That the Yanks are coming,
The Yanks are coming,
The drums rum tumming everywhere
So prepare,
Say a Prayer
Send the word,
Send the word to beware
We'll be over, we're coming over.
And we won't be back till it's over over there!

[RECON DOC]

Student Visas
(written by Corb Lund)

They took away our dogtags, they had us grow our hair
They gave us student visas when we were over there
They staged us out of Hondo al este del Salvador
I guess you'd call us Contras but no one calls much no more
There ain’t no fun in killin’ folk and I don’t wanna do no more

My great great rode at Shiloh and Grandpa drove a tank
Daddy was air cavalry, flew choppers in the Nam {Da Nang}
I worked mostly clandestine, the branch I should not say {CIA}
We played with better guns and I could use the extra pay
Did Reagan give the order? Did cocaine pay the bill?
They said we's fightin' communists but it was kinda hard to tell
There ain’t no fun in killin’ folk and I don’t wanna do no more

This was before Blackhawks and RPGs were king
My buddy on the door gun, he never felt a thing
When our Huey caught a rocket and both the pilots killed
And it pitched us over sideways on some Nicaraguan hill
My back felt like it’s broken, my legs I could not feel
I kept on shooting communists but it was kind of hard to tell
There ain’t no fun in killin’ folk and I ain’t gonna do no more

I never did heal up right from injuries sustained
Officially in Germany, officially while we trained
I remember all their faces, I dream about them still
I guess we's fightin’ communists but it was kinda hard to tell
There ain’t no fun in killin’ folk, and I don’t wanna do no more

I speak the cold logistic that warriors speak so well
Foxtrot tango whiskey alpha golf tango hotel
A soldierly bravado, an unspeakable guilt
That village, it was communist but it was kinda hard to tell
There ain’t no fun in killin’ folk and I don’t wanna do no more
Believe me, I’ve done plenty boys and I ain’t gonna do no more
But of course if they back me in the corner they’ll be dead before they hit the floor

.

Where did you find this?

[commanding]

Dad, who was in the China Fleet before the war, mentioned they would sing song. Some had long lyrics.

One was Count Ivan Skavinsky Skavar and Abdul Abulbul Amir



http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abdul_Abulbul_Amir

I remember that song from when I was a kid. I could ****ouce the words Abul Abulul Amir but had no idea what they related to.

[percor]

Don't know if these are the complete lyrics but.......

Fighting soldiers from the sky
fearless men who jump and die
men who mean just what they say
the brave men of the Green Beret.
Silver wings upon their chest
these are men Americas best
one hundred men will test today
but only three win the Green Beret.

Trained to live off natures land
trained in combat hand to hand
men who fight by night and day
courage take from the Green Beret.
Silver wings upon their chest
these are men Americas best
one hundred men will test today
but only three win the Green Beret.

Back at home a young wife waits
her Green Beret has met his fate
he has died for those oppressed
leaving her this last request.
Put silver wings on my sons chest
make him one of Americas best
he'll be a man they'll test one day
have him win the Green Beret.

Regards.
Thank you Oneto15. These are the lyrics that S/SGT Barry Sadler recorded in his 1960's Album (number 1 in the top 40 in 1966), and the ones that appears in the SF brochure I have.

I read somewhere that the original Ballad was longer (12 verses) but I coudn't find them. I also read that the original song was showed to Mr. Robin Moore (author of "The Green Berets" book) and with the permition of Sadler, he (Moore) selected two verses, wrote one and added a dramatic finale.
Regards

[matsalleh18]

Iced Earth-Ghost of Freedom i thought this was a good war song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3Y5GZzMcl8

[Rakkasans]

Blood On The Risers
(Sung to Glory, Glory, Hallelujah)


He was just a rookie trooper and he surely shook with fright.
He checked off his equipment and made sure his pack was tight.
He had to sit and listen to those awful engines roar.
You ain't gonna jump no more.


Chorus:
Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die.
Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die.
Gory, gory, what a hell of way to die.
He ain't gonna jump no more.

"Is everybody happy?" cried the sergeant looking up.
Our hero feebly answered, "Yes", and then they stood him up.
He jumped into the icy blast, his static line unhooked.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

Chorus

He counted long, he counted loud, he waited for the shock.
He felt the wind, he felt the cold, he felt the awful drop.
The silk from his reserve spilled out and wrapped around his legs.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

Chorus

The risers swung around his neck, connectors cracked his dome.
Suspension lines were tied in knots around his skinny bones.
The canopy became his shroud, he hurtled to the ground.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

Chorus

The days he lived and loved and laughed kept running through his mind.
He thought about the girl back home, the one he left behind.
He thought about the medicos and wondered what they'd find.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

Chorus

The ambulance was on the spot, the jeeps were running wild.
The medics jumped and screamed with glee, rolled up their sleeves and smiled.
For it had been a week or more since last a 'chute had failed.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

Chorus

He hit the ground, the sound was "Splat," his blood went spurting high.
His comrades they were heard to say, "A helluva way to die."
He lay there rolling 'round in the welter of his gore.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

Chorus

There was blood upon the risers, there were brains upon the 'chute.
Intestines were a-dangling from his paratrooper suit.
He was a mess, they picked him up and poured him from his boots.
And he ain't gonna jump no more.

[brad]

Anthem of Slovenian army:Naprej zastava Slave - Forward flag of Glory
Slava has two meanings which are lost in translation. First is glory, and second is brotherhood of all Slav nations. The song originates from late 19. century.

Forward, Flag of Glory
Forward!, flag of glory,
To battle, heroic blood!
For the fatherland's sake
Let the rifle speak!

With weapon and right hand
We bring the devil thunder
To write in blood the justice
Owed to our home.

Forward!, flag of glory,
To battle, heroic blood!
For the fatherland's sake
Let the rifle speak!

My dear mother begged,
hands coiling around neck,
my dearest one wept,
remain here my beloved!

Farewell mother, beloved and hale
my mother is the fatherland
my beloved honour and glory,
Let's go! Let's go! to battle for her!

Forward!, flag of glory,
To battle, heroic blood!
For the fatherland's sake
Let the rifle speak!
Forward! Forward

[Red-Phos]

Stan Ridgeway-Camouflage

[seraosha]

surprised this wasn't mentioned yet:

Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.

Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.

Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.

And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.

Good, I was about to post that.
Love that song.

[simple jumper]

Soldier - Shawn Hlookoff, the kid was 16 or so when he wrote it. Sends chills down my spine everytime I hear it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xG8b06uuJn8

[commanding]

question,....would anyone think a thread on running/marching Cadences, would be entertaining? You know...Up the hill, down the hill, over the hill, thru the hill. etc.
It might be but I don't want to start one and no one be interested.

[California Joe]

You mean with stuff like "I don't know but I've been told...Eskimo pussy is mighty cold"? :) I'm pretty sure there was a thread to that effect on here 3 or 4 years ago...Feel free...

[Dling]

http://www.youtube.com/watch/v/OcXm4DzZj94 (http://www.youtube.com/watch/v/OcXm4DzZj94)

[Alpheus]

March of Cambreadth - Heather Alexander (I blame the bagpipes for making this song awesome!)

Finally, someone else who knows that song! :)


United States Marine Corps Hymn.

From the halls of Montezuma,
To the shores of Tripoli;
We will fight our country's battles
In the air, on land, and sea;
First to fight for right and freedom
And to keep our honor clean;
We are proud to claim the title
Of United States Marine.
Our flag's unfurled to every breeze
From dawn to setting sun;
We have fought in every clime and place
Where we could take a gun;
In the snow of far-off northern lands
And in sunny tropic scenes;
You will find us always on the job
The United States Marines.
Here's health to you and to our Corps
Which we are proud to serve;
In many a strife we've fought for life
And have never lost our nerve;
If the Army and the Navy
Ever look on Heaven's scenes;
They will find the streets are guarded
By United States Marines.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qh-WT_hGztU



Sgt. McKenzie


Lay me down in the cold cold ground
Where before many more have gone
Lay me down in the cold cold ground
Where before many more have gone

When they come I will stand my ground
Stand my ground I’ll not be afraid

Thoughts of home take away my fear
Sweat and blood hide my veil of tears

Once a year say a prayer for me
Close your eyes and remember me

Never more shall I see the sun
For I fell to a Germans gun

Lay me down in the cold cold ground
Where before many more have gone
Lay me down in the cold cold ground
Where before many more have gone

Where before many more have gone
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xq3a_7242Lc

[Maj C]

no one has put Death of a Ball Turret Gunner?

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner
by Randall Jarrell

From my mother's sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

[brydog78]

The Battle Hymn of the Republic

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on.

(Chorus)
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!

His truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps,
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:
His day is marching on.

(Chorus)

His day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel:
"As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on."

(Chorus)

Since God is marching on.
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat:
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

(Chorus)

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me:
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.

(Chorus)

He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave,
He is Wisdom to the mighty, He is Succour to the brave,
So the world shall be His footstool, and the soul of Time His slave,
Our God is marching on.

(Chorus)

The Star Spangled Banner

O! say can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming.
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming.
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
O! say does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines in the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner! Oh long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: 'In God is our trust.'
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave![9]

[Gerry301]

My favoite

"Fuzzy-Wuzzy"

(Soudan Expeditionary Force)



We've fought with many men acrost the seas,
An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not:
The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot.
We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im:
'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses,
'E cut our sentries up at Sua~kim~,
An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed
We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined.

We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills,
An' a Zulu ~impi~ dished us up in style:
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller.
Then 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square.

'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own,
'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards,
So we must certify the skill 'e's shown
In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords:
When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush
With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear,
An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year.
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more,
If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore;
But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair,
For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square!

'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead;
'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive,
An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead.
'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb!
'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn
For a Regiment o' British Infantree!
So 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan;
You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man;
An' 'ere's ~to~ you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air --
You big black boundin' beggar -- for you broke a British square!

Rudyard Kipling

[Anomander]

Monsieur d'La Palice est mort,
Mort devant Pavie;
Un quart d'heure avant sa mort,
Il etait encore en vie


My french is horrible so theres likely some misspelling.

[matthew.manhorn]

Sgt MacKenzie and Mannsions of the lord from We were woldiers

Russian songs : Zhuravli, Kto Azavyotsia,

[Jacknola]

Click for song and lyrics...

http://www.groups.sfahq.com/sf_heraldry/ballad_fighting_soldiers.html

[BPrunner]

Good night Saigon by Billy Joel, its a tradition to sing this song at the Ball at my school.

We met as soul mates on Parris Island
We left as inmates from an asylum
And we were sharp, as sharp as knives
And we were so gung ho to lay down our lives

We came in spastic like tameless horses
We left in plastic as numbered corpses
And we learned fast to travel light
Our arms were heavy but our bellies were tight


We had no home front, we had no soft soap
They sent us Playboy, they gave us Bob Hope
We dug in deep and shot on sight
And prayed to Jesus Christ with all our might

We had no cameras to shoot the landscape
We passed the hash pipe and played our Doors tapes
And it was dark, so dark at night
And we held on to each other
Like brother to brother
We promised our mothers we'd write

And we would all go down together
We said we'd all go down together
Yes we would all go down together

Remember Charlie, remember Baker
They left their childhood on every acre
And who was wrong? And who was right?
It didn't matter in the thick of the fight

We held the day in the palm of our hand
They ruled the night, and the night
Seemed to last as long as six weeks...

...On Parris Island
We held the coastline, they held the highlands
And they were sharp, as sharp as knives
They heard the hum of our motors
They counted the rotors
And waited for us to arrive

And we would all go down together
We said we'd all go down together
Yes we would all go down together

[simple jumper]

My ex's Squadron at RMC used to sing that one as well.

[Laconian]

Jim Reeves - Distant Drums. Guy had one of the smoothest voices ever. This song was on every jukebox in every O-club I've ever been in.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9AqESKOaeGk

[mensk04]

Battling Bastards of Bataan
by Frank Hewlett, 1942


"We're the Battling Bastards of Bataan,
No mama, no papa, no Uncle Sam,
No aunts, no uncles, no cousins, no nieces,
No pills, no planes, no artillery pieces, And nobody gives a damn!"

[pekka elo]

My absolute favorite march and the traditional march of the Uusimaa Jaeger battallion where I serve.

The Jaeger march


Deep is our blow, our wrath invincible,
we have no mercy, no homeland.
Our fortune is at the point of our swords,
our hearts may not give in.
Our war cry rings, enchanting the country,
which is severing its chains.
:;: Our defiance may not tire,
until the people of Finland are free. :;:

When lowered with despair were heads of the other citizens, the country,
we Jägers still believed.
There was a dark night in the heart, a thousands pains,
but one thought proud, holy:
We shall rise as the revenge of Kullervo,
it is sweet to pass the fates of war.
:;: A new tale of Finland is to be born,
it grows, it rushes, it wins. :;:

Häme, Karelia, shores and lands of Viena,
one great is Finland´s reign.
Its ideology can´t be driven by brute force,
away from beneath the northern sky.
Its Lion Flag is carried
by strong hands of Jägers,
:;: Over thunderous, gory fields
towards the coast of rising Finland. :;:

Of course the lyrics are really striking only in Finnish because they beautifully exploit the nature of the language but there's no point in posting that here.

[OldCode]

I've always liked Joe Haldeman's "Two Sestinas", which may not belong in this listing, but is worth a read anyway. It's a copyrighted work so I'll just put the link here to a discussion of the poetic form of a sestina; Haldeman's poems are at the bottom.

http://www.writing-world.com/poetry/schimel4.shtml

Joe Haldeman writes scifi, his most notable book is "Forever War", which talks to the futility of war. He is a Viet Nam veteran.

[ramthor]

The 2nd Btn, 24th Regiment of Foot at Rorke's Drift!!!!

Charlotte Church, backed by the London Welsh Men's Chorus.
Definitely worth the view. The very last, incredible, note of this
performance always grabs me.

Rourk's Drift, as one fan put it ...
the last time that Wales beat the All-Blacks.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hz9_ELpil9w

.

[loganinkosovo]

The Spoken Word:

Everything written by Rudyard Kipling, of course.

He was the Soldier's Poet.


The Word that is Sung:


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sEHnB55eBfY


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cBGkhPx529g


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntt3wy-L8Ok


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZ5nDTQiTfU


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GtPBv0KEQNc


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s9coPzDx6tA


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yDBJ_FW8ato


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uKv-V9klz3E


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vBKBI7DOLHA


This really should have been the Welsh National Anthem.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hz9_ELpil9w

[orionhawk]

Finally, someone else who knows that song!he's not the only one.


Sgt. McKenzie
awesome song.

Kipling:
Cruisers

1899


As our mother the Frigate, bepainted and fine,
Made play for her bully the Ship of the Line;
So we, her bold daughters by iron and fire,
Accost and decoy to our masters' desire.

Now, pray you, consider what toils we endure,
Night-walking wet sea-lanes, a guard and a lure;
Since half of our trade is that same pretty sort
As mettlesome wenches do practise in port.

For this is our office: to spy and make room,
As hiding yet guiding the foe to their doom.
Surrounding, confounding, we bait and betray
And tempt them to battle the seas' width away.

The pot-bellied merchant foreboding no wrong
With headlight and sidelight he lieth along,
Till, lightless and lightfoot and lurking, leap we
To force him discover his business by sea.

And when we have wakened the lust of a foe,
To draw him by flight toward our bullies we go,
Till, 'ware of strange smoke stealing nearer, he flies
Or our bullies close in for to make him good prize.

So, when we have spied on the path of their host,
One flieth to carry that word to the coast;
And, lest by false doublings they turn and go free,
One lieth behind them to follow and see.

Anon we return, being gathered again,
Across the sad valleys all drabbled with rain --
Across the grey ridges all crisped and curled --
To join the long dance round the curve of the world.

The bitter salt spindrift, the sun-glare likewise,
The moon-track a-tremble, bewilders our eyes,
Where, linking and lifting, our sisters we hail
'Twixt wrench of cross-surges or plunge of head-gale.

As maidens awaiting the bride to come forth
Make play with light jestings and wit of no worth,
So, widdershins circling the bride-bed of death,
Each fleereth her neighbour and signeth and saith: --

"What see ye? Their signals, or levin afar?
"What hear ye? God's thunder, or guns of our war?
"What mark ye? Their smoke, or the cloud-rack outblown?
"What chase ye? Their lights, or the Daystar low down?"

So, times past all number deceived by false shows,
Deceiving we cumber the road of our foes,
For this is our virtue: to track and betray;
Preparing great battles a sea's width away.

Now peace is at end and our peoples take heart,
For the laws are clean gone that restrained our art;
Up and down the near headlands and against the far wind
We are loosed (O be swift!) to the work of our kind!

more Kipling:
The Bridegroom

Call me not false, beloved,
If, from thy scarce-known breast
So little time removed,
In other arms I rest.

For this more ancient bride
Whom coldly I embrace
Was constant at my side
Before I saw thy face.

Our marriage, often set--
By miracle delayed--
At last is consummate,
And cannot be unmade.

Live, then, whom life shall cure.
Almost, of memory,
And leave us to endure
Its immortality.

"Recessional", and "Hymn Before Action" are also great. "Sons of Martha" is a favorite of mine; although not strictly military, it certainly applies, especially to engineers.

[orionhawk]

oh, and:
SNIPE'S LAMENT



Now each of us from time to time has gazed upon the sea
and watched the mighty warships pulling out to keep this country free.
And most of us have read a book or heard a lusty tale,
about these men who sail these ships through lightning, wind and hail.
But there's a place within each ship that legend's fail to teach.
It's down below the water-line and it takes a living toll
- - a hot metal living hell, that sailors call the "Hole."
It houses engines run with steam that makes the shafts go round.
A place of fire, noise, and heat that beats your spirits down.
Where boilers like a hellish heart, with blood of angry steam,
are molded gods without remorse, are nightmares in a dream.

Whose threat from the fires roar, is like a living doubt,
that at any moment with such scorn, might escape and crush you out.
Where turbines scream like tortured souls, alone and lost in Hell,
are ordered from above somewhere, they answer every bell.
The men who keep the fires lit and make the engines run,
are strangers to the light and rarely see the sun.
They have no time for man or God, no tolerance for fear,
their aspect pays no living thing a tribute of a tear.
For there's not much that men can do that these men haven't done,
beneath the decks, deep in the hole, to make the engines run.
And every hour of every day they keep the watch in Hell,
for if the fires ever fail their ship's a useless shell.


When ships converge to have a war upon an angry sea,
the men below just grimly smile at what their fate will be.
They're locked below like men fore-doomed, who hear no battle cry,
it's well assumed that if they're hit men below will die.
For every day's a war down there when gauges all read red,
twelve-hundred pounds of heated steam can kill you mighty dead.


So if you ever write their songs or try to tell their tale,
the very words would make you hear a fired furnace's wail.
And people as a general rule don't hear of these men of steel,
so little heard about this place that sailors call the "Hole."
But I can sing about this place and try to make you see,
the hardened life of the men down there, 'cause one of them is me.
I've seen these sweat-soaked heroes fight in superheated air,
to keep their ship alive and right, though no one knows they're there.

And thus they'll fight for ages on till warships sail no more,
amid the boiler's mighty heat and the turbine's hellish roar.
So when you see a ship pull out to meet a war-like foe,
remember faintly if you can, "The Men Who Sail Below."

-Anonymous

I particularly like the parts about the fire's roar, the turbines' scream, and the fired furnaces' wail.

[loganinkosovo]

March of Cambreadth - Heather Alexander (I blame the bagpipes for making this song awesome!)

Axes flash, broadswords swing
Shining armors’ piercing ring
Horses run with polished shield
Fight those bastards ‘til they yield
Midnight mare, blood red roan
Fight to keep this land your own
Sound the horn and call the cry
How many of them can we make die?
Follow orders as you’re told
Make their yellow blood run cold
Fight until you die or drop
A force like ours is hard to stop
Close your mind to stress and pain
Fight ‘til you’re no longer sane
Let not one damn cur pass by
How many of them can we make die?
Guard your women and children well
Send these bastards back to Hell
We’ll teach them the ways of war
And they won’t come here anymore
Use your shield and use your head
Fight ‘til everyone is dead
Raise the flag up to the sky
How many of them can we make die?
Dawn has broke, the time has come
Move your feet to the marching drum
We’ll win the war and pay the toll
Fight as one in heart and soul
Midnight mare and blood red roan
Fight to keep this land your own
Sound the horn and call the cry
How many of them can we make die?
Axes flash, broadswords swing
Shining armors’ piercing ring
Horses run with polished shield
Fight those bastards ‘til they yield
Midnight mare and blood red roan
Fight to keep this land your own
Sound the horn and call the cry
How many of them can we make die?
How many of them can we make die?
How many of them can we make die?



http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUMFUvrBIwA

[Walter Sobchak]

While fighting their way back from the Chosin Reservoir in 1950, many of the WWII veteran Marines sang an embellished version of "Bless 'em All". As the song's popularity and the Marines' anger grew, it was often sung as "F__k 'em All". The last part of the last stanza was eerily prophetic.

Bless 'em All (1950 USMC Version)

Bless ‘em all, Bless ‘em all,
The Commies, the U.N. and all,
Them slant-eyed Chink soldiers hit Hagaru-ri
And now know the meaning of “U.S.M.C.”
So, we’re saying good-by to them all
As home through the mountains we crawl.
The snow is ass-deep to a man in a jeep
But who’s got a jeep?
Bless ‘em all!

Bless ‘em all, Bless ‘em all,
The long and the short and the tall.
We landed at Inchon and old Wolmi-do
Crossed the Han River and took Yongdong-po.
But we’re saying good-by to it all,
To Hamhung and Hungnam and Seoul.
There’ll be no gum-beatin’, we’re glad we’re retreatin’
So cheer up me lads
Bless ‘em all!

Bless ‘em all, Bless ‘em all,
The adm’rals an’ commodores all.
Bless General MacArthur and Bless Harry, too
Bless the whole brass-hatted Tokyo crew.
For we’re saying good-by to it all
We’re Truman’s “police force” on call.
So put back your pack on, the next stop is Saigon
An’ cheer up me lads
Bless ‘em all!

--------------------------------------------------------------
(across the thin red line is Kipling!)

My favorite Kipling poem is the Grave of the Hundred Head.

The Grave of the Hundred Head

There's a widow in sleepy Chester
Who weeps for her only son;
There's a grave on the Pabeng River,
A grave that the Burmans shun,
And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri
Who tells how the work was done.

A Snider squibbed in the jungle,
Somebody laughed and fled,
And the men of the First Shikaris
Picked up their Subaltern dead,
With a big blue mark in his forehead
And the back blown out of his head.

Subadar Prag Tewarri,
Jemadar Hira Lal,
Took command of the party,
Twenty rifles in all,
Marched them down to the river
As the day was beginning to fall.

They buried the boy by the river,
A blanket over his face--
They wept for their dead Lieutenant,
The men of an alien race--
They made a samadh in his honor,
A mark for his resting-place.

For they swore by the Holy Water,
They swore by the salt they ate,
That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib
Should go to his God in state;
With fifty file of Burman
To open him Heaven's gate.

The men of the First Shikaris
Marched till the break of day,
Till they came to the rebel village,
The village of Pabengmay--
A jingal covered the clearing,
Calthrops hampered the way.

Subadar Prag Tewarri,
Bidding them load with ball,
Halted a dozen rifles
Under the village wall;
Sent out a flanking-party
With Jemadar Hira Lal.

The men of the First Shikaris
Shouted and smote and slew,
Turning the grinning jingal
On to the howling crew.
The Jemadar's flanking-party
Butchered the folk who flew.

Long was the morn of slaughter,
Long was the list of slain,
Five score heads were taken,
Five score heads and twain;
And the men of the First Shikaris
Went back to their grave again,

Each man bearing a basket
Red as his palms that day,
Red as the blazing village--
The village of Pabengmay,
And the "drip-drip-drip" from the baskets
Reddened the grass by the way.

They made a pile of their trophies
High as a tall man's chin,
Head upon head distorted,
Set in a sightless grin,
Anger and pain and terror
Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin.

Subadar Prag Tewarri
Put the head of the Boh
On the top of the mound of triumph,
The head of his son below,
With the sword and the peacock-banner
That the world might behold and know.

Thus the samadh was perfect,
Thus was the lesson plain
Of the wrath of the First Shikaris--
The price of a white man slain;
And the men of the First Shikaris
Went back into camp again.

Then a silence came to the river,
A hush fell over the shore,
And Bohs that were brave departed,
And Sniders squibbed no more;
For the Burmans said
That a kullah's head
Must be paid for with heads five score.

There's a widow in sleepy Chester
Who weeps for her only son;
There's a grave on the Pabeng River,
A grave that the Burmans shun,
And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri
Who tells how the work was done.

[Walter Sobchak]

Here is a song that was written in the late 1860s. It speaks to the bitterness felt by many returning Confederate veterans who had to endure, on top of losing the war, the humiliations and depredations of "Reconstruction".

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YAfHigPsC_s

[mensk04]

The Philippine Scouts

The desperate fight is lost; the battle is done.
The brown lean ranks are scattered to the breeze.
Their cherished weapons resting in the sun.
Their moldering guidons hidden by the leaves.
No more the men who did not fear to die
Will plug the broken line while through the din
Their beaten comrades raise the welcome cry,
Make way, make way, the Scouts are moving in!"
The jungle takes the long defended lines
The trenches erode; the wires rust away,
The lush dank grasses and the trailing vines
Soon hide the human remains of the fray.
The Battle ended and the story told
To open to the Scouts as they unfold
The tired little soldiers enter in.
The men who were besieged on every side
Who knew the dissolution of retreat
And still retained their fierce exultant pride
And still were soldiers - even in defeat,
Now meet the vetrans of ten thousand years
Now find a welcome worthy of their trade
From men who fought with crossbows and with spears
With bullet and with arrow and with spade.
The grizzled veterans of Rome built upon
The Death-head horde of Attila the Hun
The Yellow Horror of the greatest Khan
The guardmen of the First Napoleon
All the men in every nameless fight
Since first Man strove against Man to prove his worth
Shall grett the tired Scouts as is their right
No finer soldiers ever walked the Earth.
And then the Scouts will be formed to be reviewed
Each scattered unit now once more complete
Each weapon and bright crisp flag renewed
And high above their cadence their feet
Will come the loud clear virile welcoming shout
From many throats, before the feats begin,
Their badge of Honor mid their comrades shout
"Make way, make way, the Scouts are moving in!"




A Soldier Reports To GOd
http://www.iwo.com/heroes.htm
The soldier stood and faced his god which must always come to pass, he hoped his shoes were shining just as brightly as his brass
"Step forward now you soldier, how shall I deal with you? Have you always turned the other cheek, to my church have you been true?"
The soldier squared his shoulders and said "No Lord I guess I ain't, because those of us who carry guns can't always be a saint
I've had to work most Sundays and at times my talk was tough and sometimes I've been violent cause the streets are awfully rough.
But I never passed a cry for help, although at times I shook with fear and sometimes God forgive me, I've wept unmanly tears
I know I don't deserve a place among the people here, they never wanted me around, except to calm their fears
If you got a place here Lord, it needn't be so grand, I never expected or had too much, but if you don't I'll understand".
There was a silence all around the throne where the saints had often trod, as the soldier waited silently for the judgment of his God.
"Step forward now you soldier, you've borne your burdens well, walk peacefully among heavens streets, you've done your time in Hell...."

[mensk04]

from both world wars....

Over There

Johnny, get your gun, get your gun, get your gun
Take it on the run, on the run, on the run Hear them calling you and me
Every Son of Liberty Hurry right away, no delay, go today
Make your Daddy glad to have had such a lad
Tell your sweetheart not to pine,
To be proud her boy's in line

Johnny, get your gun, get your gun, get your gun Johnny,
show the "Hun you're a son-of-a-gun Hoist the flag and let her fly Yankee Doodle do or die
Pack your little kit, show your grit, do your bit Yankee to the ranks from the towns and the tanks
Make your Mother proud of you
And the old red-white-and-blue

Over there, over there, Send the word, send the word over there
That the Yanks are coming, the Yanks are coming
The drum's rum-tumming everywhere
So prepare, say a prayer, Send the word, send the word to beware
We'll be over, we're coming over
And we won't come back till it's over, over there

[SniperLane]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CtEvMIImOc

[mensk04]

The White Man’s Burden: The United States & The Philippine Islands,
by Rudyard Kipling 1899

Take up the White Man’s burden—
Send forth the best ye breed—
Go send your sons to exile
To serve your captives' need
To wait in heavy harness
On fluttered folk and wild—
Your new-caught, sullen peoples,
Half devil and half child
Take up the White Man’s burden
In patience to abide
To veil the threat of terror
And check the show of pride;
By open speech and simple
An hundred times made plain
To seek another’s profit
And work another’s gain
Take up the White Man’s burden—
And reap his old reward:
The blame of those ye better
The hate of those ye guard—
The cry of hosts ye humour
(Ah slowly) to the light:
"Why brought ye us from bondage,
“Our loved Egyptian night?”
Take up the White Man’s burden-
Have done with childish days-
The lightly proffered laurel,
The easy, ungrudged praise.
Comes now, to search your manhood
Through all the thankless years,
Cold-edged with dear-bought wisdom, The judgment of your peers!

[Wildgoose]

One of my favorites from A.E. Housman.

THE ORACLES
'Tis mute, the word they went to hear on high Dodona mountain
When winds were in the oakenshaws and all the cauldrons tolled,
And mute's the midland navel-stone beside the singing fountain,
And echoes list to silence now where gods told lies of old.

I took my question to the shrine that has not ceased from speaking,
The heart within, that tells the truth and tells it twice as plain;
And from the cave of oracles I heard the priestess shrieking
That she and I should surely die and never live again.

Oh priestess, what you cry is clear, and sound good sense I think it;
But let the screaming echoes rest, and froth your mouth no more.
'Tis true there's better boose than brine, but he that drowns must drink it;
And oh, my lass, the news is news that men have heard before.

The King with half the East at heel is marched from lands of morning;
Their fighters drink the rivers up, their shafts benight the air,
And he that stands will die for nought, and home there's no returning.
The Spartans on the sea-wet rock sat down and combed their hair.

[zad]

Woody Guthrie made this song about the fate of the destroyer Reuben James, first USN ship lost in WWII. The Reuben James was part of the neutrality patrol, based in Iceland.


Based at Hvalfjordur, Iceland (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hvalfjordur,_Iceland), she sailed from Naval Station Argentia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Naval_Station_Argentia), Newfoundland (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dominion_of_Newfoundland) on October 23, 1941, with four other destroyers to escort eastbound convoy HX-156. While escorting that convoy at about 0525, October 31, 1941, Reuben James was torpedoed by U-552 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/German_submarine_U-552)Kapitainleutnant Erich Topp (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Erich_Topp) near Iceland (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iceland). Reuben James had positioned herself between an ammunition ship in the convoy and the known position of a "wolf pack (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolf_pack)" (groups of submarines that preyed on Allied shipping). Reuben James was hit forward by a torpedo and her entire bow was blown off when a magazine exploded. The bow sank immediately. The aft section floated for five minutes before going down. Of the 159-man crew, only 44 survivedfile:///C:/DOCUME%7E1/ADMINI%7E1/CONFIG%7E1/Temp/moz-screenshot-2.jpg commanded by


The Sinking of the Reuben James, Woody Guthrie


Have you heard of the ship called the good Reuben James,
Manned by hard fighting men both of honor and of fame?
She flew the Stars and Stripes of the Land of the Free,
But tonight she's in her grave at the bottom of the sea.

CHORUS:
Tell me what were their names, tell me what were their names,
Did you have a friend on the good Reuben James?
What were their names, tell me what were their names?
Did you have a friend on the good Reuben James?
One hundred men were drowned in that dark watery grave;
When that good ship went down, only forty-four were saved.
'Twas the last day of October we saved the forty-four
From the cold icy waters off that cold Iceland shore.

It was there in the dark of that uncertain night
That we watched for the U-boats and waited for a fight.
Then a whine and a rock and a great explosion roared
And they laid the Reuben James on that cold ocean floor.

Now tonight there are lights in our country so bright
On the farms and in the cities they're telling of the fight.
And now our mighty battleships will steam the bounding main
And remember the name of the good Reuben James.

[loganinkosovo]

Here's another good one......


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zbSrx9uH0Tw

[mensk04]

Over there
by ....

the day is comin
the drums are drummin
if you know one, say a prayer
there's mothers cryin
and fathers sighin' uh-huh
war is in the air
the trains are fillin up with boys
who've left behind their favorite toys
they're goin over there
over there
where someone has to die
over there, over there
where ours is not to reason why
over there, over there
where someone has to die

[timetraveller]

Paschendale by Iron Maiden

In a foreign field he lay
lonely soldier unknown grave
on his dying words he prays
tell the world of Paschendale

Relive all that he's been through
last communion of his soul
rust your bullets with his tears
let me tell you 'bout his years

Laying low in a blood filled trench
killing time 'til my very own death
on my face I can feel the falling rain
never see my friends again
in the smoke in the mud and lead
the smell of fear and the feeling of dread
soon be time to go over the wall
rapid fire and the end of us all

Whistles, shouts and more gun-fire
lifeless bodies hang on barbed wire
battlefield nothing but a bloody tomb
be reunited with my dead friends soon
many soldiers eighteen years
drowned in mud, no more tears
surely a war no one can win
killing time about to begin

Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again

The bodies of ours and our foes
the sea of death it overflows
in no-man's land God only knows
into jaws of death we go...

Crucified as if on a cross
allied troops, they mourn their loss
German war propaganda machine
such before has never been seen
swear I heard the angels cry
pray to God no more may die
so that people know the truth
tell the tale of Paschendale

Cruelty has a human heart
every man does play his part
terror of the men we kill
the human heart is hungry still

I stand my ground for the very last time
gun is ready as I stand in line
nervous wait for the whistle to blow
rush of blood and over we go...

Blood is falling like the rain
its crimson cloak unveils again
the sound of guns can't hide their shame
and so we die in Paschendale

Dodging shrapnel and barbed wire
running straight at canon fire
running blind as I hold my breath
say a prayer symphony of death
as we charge the enemy lines
a burst of fire and we go down
I choke I cry but no one hears
feel the blood go down my throat

Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again
Home, far away. From the war, a chance to live again
Home, far away. But the war, no chance to live again

See my spirit on the wind
across the lines beyond the hill
friend and foe will meet again
those who died at Paschendale


Also, The Trooper and, Aces High are up there. Both are also Iron Maiden songs.


Also "These Colours Don't run " , Run Silent Run Deep ,

[scttgillies]

The British Soldier lyrics

In a station in the city a British soldier stood
Talking to the people there if the people would
Some just stared in hatred, and others turned in pain
And the lonely British soldier wished he was back home again

Come join the British Army! said the posters in his town
See the world and have your fun come serve before the Crown
The jobs were hard to come by and he could not face the dole
So he took his country's shilling and enlisted on the roll

For there was no fear of fighting, the Empire long was lost
Just ten years in the army getting paid for being bossed
Then leave a man experienced a man who's made the grade
A medal and a pension some mem'ries and a trade

Then came the call for Ireland as the call had come before
Another bloody chapter in an endless civil war
The priests they stood on both sides the priests they stood behind
Another fight in Jesus's name the blind against the blind

The soldier stood between them between the whistling stones
And then the broken bottles that led to broken bones
The petrol bombs that burnt his hands the nails that pierced his skin
And wished that he had stayed at home surrounded by his kin

The station filled with people the soldier soon was bored
But better in the station than where the people warred
The room filled up with mothers with daughters and with sons
Who stared with itchy fingers at the soldier and his gun

A yell of fear a screech of brakes the shattering of glass
The window of the station broke to let the package pass
A scream came from the mothers as they ran towards the door
Dragging their children crying from the bomb upon the floor

The soldier stood and could not move his gun he could not use
He knew the bomb had seconds and not minutes on the fuse
He could not run and pick it up and throw it in the street
There were far too many people there too many running feet

Take cover! yelled the soldier, Take cover for your lives
And the Irishmen threw down their young and stood before their wives
They turned towards the soldier their eyes alive with fear
For God's sake save our children or they'll end their short lives here

The soldier moved towards the bomb his stomach like a stone
Why was this his battle God why was he alone
He lay down on the package and he murmured one farewell
To those at home in England to those he loved so well

He saw the sights of summer felt the wind upon his brow
The young girls in the city parks how precious were they now
The soaring of the swallow the beauty of the swan
The music of the turning world so soon would it be gone

A muffled soft explosion and the room began to quake
The soldier blown across the floor his blood a crimson lake
There was no time to cry or shout there was no time to moan
And they turned their children's faces from the blood and from the bones

The crowd outside soon gathered and the ambulances came
To carry off the body of a pawn lost in the game
And the crowd they clapped and cheered and they sang their rebel song
One soldier less to interfere where he did not belong

And will the children growing up learn at their mothers' knees
The story of the soldier who bought their liberty
Who used his youthful body as a means towards an end
Who gave his life to those who called him murderer not friend

[Rad Resistance]

Gary Owen theme song of the 7th cav.

[Dizzun]

Kind of a war song. From the musical "1776"


Is anybody there?
Does anybody care?
Does anybody see what I see?

They want to me to quit; they say
John, give up the fight
Still to England I say
Good night, forever, good night!
For I have crossed the Rubicon
Let the bridge be burned behind me
Come what may, come what may

Commitment!

The croakers all say we'll rue the day
There'll be hell to pay in fiery purgatory
Through all the gloom, through all the gloom
I see the rays of ravishing light and glory!

Is anybody there? Does anybody care?
Does anybody see what I see?

I see fireworks! I see the pagaent and
Pomp and parade
I hear the bells ringing out
I hear the cannons roar
I see Americans - all Americans
Free forever more

How quiet, how quiet the chamber is
How silent, how silent the chamber is

Is anybody there? Does anybody care?
Does anybody see what I see?

[Rad Resistance]

Up to mighty London Came an Irishman
one day As the streets are paved with gold
Sure, everyone was gay Singing songs
of Piccadilly (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piccadilly), Strand (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strand,_London) and Leicester Square (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leicester_Square)
Till Paddy got excited And he shouted
to them there... It's a long way to Tipperary... Paddy
wrote a letter To his Irish Molly-O, Saying,
"Should you not receive it Write and let me know!"
"If I make mistakes in spelling, Molly dear," said he,
"Remember, it's the pen that's bad,
Don't lay the blame on me!
It's a long way to Tipperary... Molly wrote
a neat reply To Irish Paddy-O Saying Mike Maloney
Wants to marry me and so Leave the Strand and Picadilly
Or you'll be to blame For love has fairly drove
me silly: Hoping you're the same!
It's a long way to Tipperary... An alternative concluding chorus,
bawdy by contemporary standards:
That's the wrong way to tickle Mary
That's the wrong way to kiss Don't you know
that over here lad They like it best
like this Hooray pour les francais Farewell
Angleterre (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angleterre) We didn't know how to tickle
Mary But we learnt how over there

It's a Long Way Tipperary

[Mark_Cain]

WHEN YOU ARE A LEGIONNAIRE


I marched so proud-
a Legionaire
my comrades by my side
We fought our battles brave and well
whilst blood flowed like some raging tide
Then with the battle fought and won
we'd turn our backs to leave
the famillies of our valiant foe
to crumple down and grieve.
And i cannot begin to think
within my tortured mind,
'bout happy times-
when last I laughed
for all i seem to find;
Are moments when i'm carried back
In'to some battle-field,
where I have witnessed pain and death
and many fates were sealed.
I too,- have been a victim
aggressor- sometimes to,
but don't dare tell me what pain is
when you've no incline what i've been through;
I've oft-times thought why did I do-
those things which I was taught,
but' when you are a Legionnaire
your a family that can't be bought.
Some nights- I wake up sweating
when their ghosts come back to me,
I've oft-times cried myself to sleep
when the dead won't let me be;
And I still see their faces
as they beg me to be saved,
but when you are a Legionnaire
your valiant foe cannot be saved.
And what of life and living now?
It's all so dull- mundane,
when all i wish is to return
to the Legion E'tranger again; And face some fearsome fighting foe
where i may chance to die,
a Stalwart-Warrior- a French Legionnaire
who longs no more-to cry......

[MikeRose85018]

I'm gonna go with Feuer Frei! By Rammstein. BA song

Getadelt wird wer Schmerzen kennt
vom Feuer das die Haut verbrennt
Ich werf ein Licht
in mein Gesicht
Ein heißer Schrei
Feuer frei!

Bäng bäng

Geadelt ist wer Schmerzen kennt
vom Feuer das in Lust verbrennt
Ein Funkenstoß
in ihren Schoß
Ein heißer Schrei
Feuer frei!

Bäng bäng
Feuer frei!

Gefährlich ist wer Schmerzen kennt
vom Feuer das den Geist verbrennt
Bäng bäng
Gefährlich das gebrannte Kind
mit Feuer das vom Leben trennt
Ein heißer Schrei
Bäng bäng
Feuer frei!

Dein Glück
ist nicht mein Glück
ist mein Unglück

Bäng bäng
Feuer frei!

[timetraveller]

I have a video which i bought a good many yrs ago titled Apocalypse untold story

there is a line from a song or poem which i still remember ..


If i die in a combat zone put me in a box and ship me home

[kramer]

1916- Motörhead
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqFoqtpUFY8

16 years old when I went to war,
To fight for a land fit for heroes,
God on my side,and a gun in my hand,
Counting my days down to zero,
And I marched and I fought and I bled
And I died & I never did get any older,
But I knew at the time, That a year in the line,
Is a long enough life for a soldier,
We all volunteered,
And we wrote down our names,
And we added two years to our ages,
Eager for life and ahead of the game,
Ready for history's pages,
And we fought and we brawled
And we whored 'til we stood,
Ten thousand shoulder to shoulder,
A thirst for the Hun,
We were food for the gun,and that's
What you are when you're soldiers,
I heard my friend cry,
And he sank to his knees,coughing blood
As he screamed for his mother
And I tell by his, side,
And that's how we died,
Clinging like kids to each other,
And I lay in the mud
And the guts and the blood,
And I wept as his body grew colder,
And I called for my mother
And she never came,
Though it wasn't my fault
And I wasn't to blame,
The day not half over
And ten thousand slain,and now
There's nobody remembers our names Í
And that's how it is for a soldier.

[baboon6]

RENDEZVOUS



I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air--
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath--
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear . . .
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous



By: Allan Seeger



Alan Seeger served in the First World War with the French Foreign Legion. He was killed in action in 1916.



http://www.english.emory.edu/LostPoets/Seeger.html

[Movieman]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agF4ZwySW_I

[loganinkosovo]

1916- Motörhead
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EqFoqtpUFY8

16 years old when I went to war,
To fight for a land fit for heroes,
God on my side,and a gun in my hand,
Counting my days down to zero,
And I marched and I fought and I bled
And I died & I never did get any older,
But I knew at the time, That a year in the line,
Is a long enough life for a soldier,
We all volunteered,
And we wrote down our names,
And we added two years to our ages,
Eager for life and ahead of the game,
Ready for history's pages,
And we fought and we brawled
And we whored 'til we stood,
Ten thousand shoulder to shoulder,
A thirst for the Hun,
We were food for the gun,and that's
What you are when you're soldiers,
I heard my friend cry,
And he sank to his knees,coughing blood
As he screamed for his mother
And I tell by his, side,
And that's how we died,
Clinging like kids to each other,
And I lay in the mud
And the guts and the blood,
And I wept as his body grew colder,
And I called for my mother
And she never came,
Though it wasn't my fault
And I wasn't to blame,
The day not half over
And ten thousand slain,and now
There's nobody remembers our names Í
And that's how it is for a soldier.


Impressive.....Obviously about the Somme.

Just wished it had been sung by someone with a much better voice and presence.

[loganinkosovo]

Up to mighty London Came an Irishman
one day As the streets are paved with gold
Sure, everyone was gay Singing songs
of Piccadilly (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piccadilly), Strand (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strand,_London) and Leicester Square (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leicester_Square)
Till Paddy got excited And he shouted
to them there... It's a long way to Tipperary... Paddy
wrote a letter To his Irish Molly-O, Saying,
"Should you not receive it Write and let me know!"
"If I make mistakes in spelling, Molly dear," said he,
"Remember, it's the pen that's bad,
Don't lay the blame on me!
It's a long way to Tipperary... Molly wrote
a neat reply To Irish Paddy-O Saying Mike Maloney
Wants to marry me and so Leave the Strand and Picadilly
Or you'll be to blame For love has fairly drove
me silly: Hoping you're the same!
It's a long way to Tipperary... An alternative concluding chorus,
bawdy by contemporary standards:
That's the wrong way to tickle Mary
That's the wrong way to kiss Don't you know
that over here lad They like it best
like this Hooray pour les francais Farewell
Angleterre (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Angleterre) We didn't know how to tickle
Mary But we learnt how over there

It's a Long Way Tipperary


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0vKfxKtGLU8

[loganinkosovo]

Got to say this is my absolute favorite.....


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UVeE8CWYj-I



Jack Dunn, son of a gun, over in France today,
Keeps fit doing his bit up to his eyes in clay.
Each night after a fight to pass the time along,
He's got a little gramophone that plays this song:

Take me back to dear old Blighty!
Put me on the train for London town!
Take me over there,
Drop me ANYWHERE,
Liverpool, Leeds, or Birmingham, well, I don't care!

I should love to see my best girl,
Cuddling up again we soon should be,


Tiddley iddley ighty,
Hurry me home to Blighty,
Blighty is the place for me!

Men lost at Passchendaele:
Germany: approx 260,000
Britain: approx 300,000, including
approx 36,500 Australians
approx 3,600 New Zealanders and
approx 16,000 Canadians.

90,000 British, New Zealand and Australian bodies were never identified, and 42,000 never recovered.

Aerial photography showed 1 million shell holes in 1 square mile.

[Abbadon the Despoiler]

Ktož jsú boží bojovníci (Ye Who Are Warriors of God)

Ye who are God's warriors and of his law,
Pray to God for help and have faith in Him;
That always with Him you will be victorious.

Christ is worth all your sacrifices, He will pay you back hundredfold.
If you give up your life for Him you will receive eternal life.
Happy is he who believes this truth.

The Lord commandeth you not to fear bodily harm,
And commandeth you to even put your life down for the love of your brothers.

Therefore, archers, crossbowmen, halberdiers of knightly rank,
Scythemen and macebearers from all walks of life,
Remember always the Lord benevolent.

Do not fear your enemies, nor gaze upon their number,
Keep the Lord in your hearts; for Him fight on,
And before enemies you need not flee.

Since ages past Czechs have said & had proverbs which state,
That if the leader is good, so too is the journey.

Remember all of you the password which was given out.
Obey your captains & guard one another.
Stay sharp and everyone keep formation.

You beggars and wrongdoers, remember your soul!
For greed & theft don't lose your life.
And pay no heed to the spoils of war.

And with this happily cry out - sayeth, "At thee! Have at thee!"
Savour the weapon in your hands and shout, "God is our Lord!"

http://i42.tinypic.com/2h5il93.jpg

[valtrex]

Thermopylae

Honour to those who in their lives have fixed
and guard strait passes of Thermopylae.
They from the path of duty never stray;
upright and scrupulous in every act,
but tolerant withal and merciful;
generous when possessed of affluence,
and still in small things generous when poor —
still helping to the utmost of their power;
speaking the truth despite all hindrances,
without ill-will, however, for the liars.

And greater honour is well due to them
when they foresee (and many of them foresee)
that in the end Ephialtes will appear,
that after all the Persian shall break through.

Cavafy (Translated by John Cavafy)

In the Year 200 B.C.

"Alexander of Philip, and the Greeks without Lacedaemonians"

We would be quite correct if we assumed
that nobody gave any thought at Sparta
to this inscription. "Without Lacedaemonians"
was understood. There were no Spartans there
to guide them and to order them about
as valued servants. Then again,
a Panhellenic expedition, if without
a Spartan king to lead it on,
would hardly seem of permanent significance.
Ah yes, of course, "without Lacedaemonians".

This is a point of view. One understands it well.

And thus: Without Lacedaemonians first at Granicus; or
at Issus, later on; or at the final battle, where
was swept away the dread array
that at Arbela by the Persians was amassed--
that from Arbela marched for victory, but soon was swept away.

Now, out of this amazing panhellenic drive,
victorious ever, and magnificent,
so highly praised, in glory crowned
in ways no other had been glorified,
and most incomparably so, we are now raised,
a new Hellenic world, supremely great.

We all--the Alexandrians, the Antiochians,
the Seleucidians, the numerous
remaining Greeks of Egypt and of Syria,
and those in Media, in Persis, and the rest--
amid extensive commonwealths,
amid the divers influences of well-thought-out relationships,
and we brought Greek, our Common Tongue,
right up to Bactria, and to the Indians as well.

So why waste words on the Lacedaemonians!

Cavafy (Translated by Memas Kolaites)

Axion Esti (It is truly meet)

"At daylight on St John's, the day after Epiphany, we got our orders to move up to the front again, out there where you don't find weekdays or holidays. We were to take over the line the Artans had been holding till then, from Himara to Tepeleni. The reason being they'd fighting since the first day, without a break, and only about half of them were left and they couldn't take it any longer.
Night upon night we would walk without stop, one after the other, like the blind. With difficulty ungluing the feet from the mud, where at times, they sank knee-deep. For more often it was drizzling in the streets outside, as it was drizzling in our soul. And the few times we would stop to relax, we wouldn't say a word, only grave and taciturn, shining with a small torch, we would share raisins one by one. Or there were times, if convenient, that we would quickly undo our clothes and scratch ourselves with rage for hours on end, till the blood started dripping. For the lice has reached our necks, and this was more unsufferable than tiredness. Then sometimes a whistle was heard in the dark, a sign that we were starting, and again like beasts we were shuffling ahead to gain time, before it dawned and we became the target of airplanes. For God didn't know of targets and such stuff, and as is his custom, he dawned the light of day always at the same time. Then hidden in the gullies, we were leaning the head towards the heavy side, where no dreams come out. Even the birds were angry with us, because we didn't pay any attention to their words -and maybe because we made the world ugly without reason. Villagers of another kind, with different iron tools in our hands, may they be damned.
And we realized that we were very close to the places where there are neither workdays and holidays, nor sick and healthy, nor rich and poor. Because the thundering sound far away, like a storm behind the mountains, grew stronger all the time, so that in the end we could discern the slow, heavy sound of the canons and the quick, crisp sound of the machine guns. And also because, more often now, we happened to encounter the slow processions of the wounded coming from the other side. The medics, with the red cross around their arm, would lay down the stretchers, spitting in their hands, their eyes wild for a smoke. And then, when they heard where we were heading for, they would shake their heads, telling horrific stories. But the only thing we were noticing were those voices, coming up in the dark, still hot from the bottom tar or the sulfur: "oh, oh, mother", "oh, oh, mother"... and sometimes, less often, a silent snuffle, just like a snore, that was, said the ones who knew, the sound of death.
Sometimes they would drag prisoners with them, freshly caught a few hours earlier, in the sudden attacks of our patrols. Their breath stank of wine, and their pockets were full of rations or chocolates. But we didn't have any ourselves; for the bridges behind us were cut, and the few mules we had were helpless in the snow and in the slippery mud.
Finally, at some point, we saw the distant smoke coming up at random places, and on the horizon the first red, shiny flares".

Α solitary swallow and a costly spring,
for the sun to turn it takes a job of work,
It takes a thousand dead sweating at the wheels,
It takes the living also giving up their blood.

God my Master Builder, You built me into the mountains,
God my Master Builder, You enclosed me in the sea!

Magicians carried off the body of May,
They buried the body in a tomb of the sea,
They sealed it up in a deep well,
Its scent fills the darkness and all the Abyss.

God my Master Builder, You too among the Easter lilacs,
God my Master Builder, You felt the scent of Resurrection!

Odysseus Elytis (Translated by Edmund Keely and George Savvides)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VTReB0eakWQ

[11 Bravo]

For me... all the contemporary "war" music simply is garbage metal/pop slop.
Poetry really is the ticket in this venue... and the most poignant war poetry is from the great war. Only one mention of one of the greats ( Wilfred Owen ). More of the greats would be Blunden , Graves ,Rosenberg and of course Sassoon.
Sassoon wrote so many , and one of my favorites of his :

THE KISS
To these I turn,to these I trust
Brother Lead and Sister Steel.
To this blind power I make appeal,
I guard her beauty free from rust.

He spins and burns and loves the air ,
and splits a skull to win my praise ;
but up the nobly marching days
she glitters naked, cold and fair.

Sweet sister grant your soldier this:
that in good fury he may feel
the body where he sets his heel.
Quail from your downward darting
Kiss.

[loganinkosovo]

For me... all the contemporary "war" music simply is garbage metal/pop slop.
Poetry really is the ticket in this venue... and the most poignant war poetry is from the great war. Only one mention of one of the greats ( Wilfred Owen ). More of the greats would be Blunden , Graves ,Rosenberg and of course Sassoon.
Sassoon wrote so many , and one of my favorites of his :

THE KISS
To these I turn,to these I trust
Brother Lead and Sister Steel.
To this blind power I make appeal,
I guard her beauty free from rust.

He spins and burns and loves the air ,
and splits a skull to win my praise ;
but up the nobly marching days
she glitters naked, cold and fair.

Sweet sister grant your soldier this:
that in good fury he may feel
the body where he sets his heel.
Quail from your downward darting
Kiss.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bEjb2RaNKk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZyaZcfi56c

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=acO1ScpFavk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zh_xmRBWWYk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yuw9oHaq5uY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PXi3oV02dfw

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgv-3uEQyHw

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xp80BJ4yAsY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_1auakC-RI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVwS_ptVJ3M

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ftLM5ylw_4I

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5C2COCbxak

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJgv_vedpfE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-_HELBuz3w

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7F1cIVM8JYY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVMFB7mHVaI

[11 Bravo]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bEjb2RaNKk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZyaZcfi56c

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=acO1ScpFavk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zh_xmRBWWYk

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yuw9oHaq5uY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PXi3oV02dfw

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zgv-3uEQyHw

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xp80BJ4yAsY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T_1auakC-RI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uVwS_ptVJ3M

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ftLM5ylw_4I

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o5C2COCbxak

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJgv_vedpfE

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R-_HELBuz3w

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7F1cIVM8JYY

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qVMFB7mHVaI


I assume these are links to "muzak". I'll stick to the written words on this genre thank you.

[Finn76]

These two are my favorite Finnish marches:

This is from Russia - Turkish war 1877 - 1878, Finnish battalion was send there also, they fought at Gornyi Dubnjak, Pravets and Plevna.

http://www.youtube.com/v/gztGzNljqW4





Narvan marssi, this is usually used on funerals, sad tone.

http://www.youtube.com/v/1o4yccttch4&feature=related

[mensk04]

YANKEE DOODLE
Fath'r and I went down to camp,
Along with Cap'n Goodin',
And there we saw the men and boys
As thick as hasty puddin'.
CHORUS:
Yankee Doodle keep it up,
Yankee Doodle dandy,
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy.
And there we saw a thousand men
As rich as Squire David,
And what they wasted every day,
I wish it could be saved.
CHORUS
The 'lasses they eat it every day,
Would keep a house a winter;
They have so much, that I'll be bound,
They eat it when they've mind ter.
CHORUS
And there I see a swamping gun
Large as a log of maple,
Upon a deuced little cart,
A load for father's cattle.
CHORUS
And every time they shoot it off,
It takes a horn of powder,
and makes a noise like father's gun,
Only a nation louder.
CHORUS
I went as nigh to one myself
As 'Siah's inderpinning;
And father went as nigh again,
I thought the deuce was in him.
CHORUS
Cousin Simon grew so bold,
I thought he would have cocked it;
It scared me so I shrinked it off
And hung by father's pocket.
CHORUS
And Cap'n Davis had a gun,
He kind of clapt his hand on't
And stuck a crooked stabbing iron
Upon the little end on't
CHORUS
And there I see a pumpkin shell
As big as mother's bason,
And every time they touched it off
They scampered like the nation.
CHORUS
I see a little barrel too,
The heads were made of leather;
They knocked on it with little clubs
And called the folks together.
CHORUS
And there was Cap'n Washington,
And gentle folks about him;
They say he's grown so 'tarnal proud
He will not ride without em'.
CHORUS
He got him on his meeting clothes,
Upon a slapping stallion;
He sat the world along in rows,
In hundreds and in millions.
CHORUS
The flaming ribbons in his hat,
They looked so tearing fine, ah,
I wanted dreadfully to get
To give to my Jemima.
CHORUS
I see another snarl of men
A digging graves they told me,
So 'tarnal long, so 'tarnal deep,
They 'tended they should hold me.
CHORUS
It scared me so, I hooked it off,
Nor stopped, as I remember,
Nor turned about till I got home,
Locked up in mother's chamber.

Gen. George P. Morris

[Rayber]

Metallica - One

I cant remember anything
Cant tell if this is true or dream
Deep down inside I feel to scream
This terrible silence stops me

Now that the war is through with me
Im waking up I can not see
That there is not much left of me
Nothing is real but pain now

Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please god,wake me

Back in the womb its much too real
In pumps life that I must feel
But cant look forward to reveal
Look to the time when Ill live

Fed through the tube that sticks in me
Just like a wartime novelty
Tied to machines that make me be
Cut this life off from me

Hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please god,wake me
Now the world is gone Im just one
Oh god,help me hold my breath as I wish for death
Oh please God help me

Darkness imprisoning me
All that I see
Absolute horror
I cannot live
I cannot die
Trapped in myself
Body my holding cell

Landmine has taken my sight
Taken my speech
Taken my hearing
Taken my arms
Taken my legs
Taken my soul
Left me with life in hell

Metallica - Disposable Heroes
Bodies fill the fields I see, hungry heroes end
No one to play soldier now, no one to pretend
Running blind through killing fields, bred to kill them all
Victim of what said should be
A servant `til I fall

[chorus:]
Soldier boy, made of clay
Now an empty shell
Twenty one, only son
But he served us well
Bred to kill, not to care
Just do as we say
Finished here, greeting death
Hes yours to take away

Back to the front
You will do what I say, when I say
Back to the front
You will die when I say, you must die
Back to the front
You coward
You servant
You blindman
[end chorus]

Barking of machinegun fire, does nothing to me now
Sounding of the clock that ticks, get used to it somehow
More a man, more stripes you bare, glory seeker trends
Bodies fill the fields I see
The slaughter never ends

[chorus]

Why, am I dying?
Kill, have no fear
Lie, live off lying
Hell, hell is here

I was born for dying

Life planned out before my birth, nothing could I say
Had no chance to see myself, moulded day by day
Looking back I realize, nothing have I done
Left to die with only friend
Alone I clench my gun

Metallica - For Whom The Bells Toll

Make his fight on the hill in the early day
Constant chill deep inside
Shouting gun, on they run through the endless grey
On the fight, for they are right, yes, by whos to say?
For a hill men would kill, why? they do not know
Suffered wounds test there their pride
Men of five, still alive through the raging glow
Gone insane from the pain that they surely know
[chorus:]
For whom the bell tolls
Time marches on
For whom the bell tolls

Take a look to the sky just before you die
It is the last time you will
Blackened roar massive roar fills the crumbling sky
Shattered goal fills his soul with a ruthless cry
Stranger now, are his eyes, to this mystery
He hears the silence so loud
Crack of dawn, all is gone except the will to be
Now they will see what will be, blinded eyes to see
[chorus]

Metallica - Blitzkrieg
Let us have peace, let us have life
Let us escape the cruel night
Let us have time, let the sun shine
Let us beware the deadly sign

The day is coming
Armageddons near
Infernos coming
Can we survive the blitzkrieg?
The blitzkrieg
The blitzkrieg

Save us from fate, save us from hate
Save ourselves before its too late
Come to our need, hear our plea
Save ourselves before the earth bleeds

The day is dawning
The time is near
Aliens calling
Can we survive the blitzkrieg?

[valtrex]

Spartan Paean (March)

Ἄγετ’ ὦ Σπάρτας εὐάνδρου
κοῦροι πατέρων πολιατᾶν,
λαιᾷ μὲν ἴτυν προβάλεσθε,
δόρυ δ’ εὐτόλμως πάλλοντες,
μὴ φειδόμενοι τᾶς ζωᾶς
οὐ γὰρ πάτριον τᾷ Σπάρτᾳ.

Go forth, children of citizens of Sparta,
the land of brave men.
With left hand
the shield put forward firmly,
the spear raise with your right!
Go forth and show your courage
without fearing for your life;
Cause fear for one's own life
does not become to Spartans

Tyrtaeus (translated by Nicholas Ioannides)

The fox knows many tricks,
the hedgehog one big one.

Archilochus of Paros

The Spartan Soldier

For it is fine to die in the front line,
a brave man fighting for his fatherland,
and the most painful fate's to leave one’s town
and fertile farmlands for a beggar's life,
roaming with mother dear and aged father,
with little children and with wedded wife.
He'll not be welcome anywhere he goes,
bowing to need and horrid poverty,
his line disgraced, his handsome face belied;
every humiliation dogs his steps.
This is the truth: the vagrant is ignored
and slighted, and his children after him.
So let us fight with spirit for our land,
die for our sons, and spare our lives no more.
You young men, keep together, hold the line,
do not start panic or disgraceful rout.
Keep grand and valiant spirits in your hearts,
be not in love with life -- the fight's with men!
Do not desert your elders, men with legs
no longer nimble, by recourse to flight:
it is disgraceful when an older man
falls in the front line while the young hold back,
with head already white, and grizzled beard,
gasping his valiant breath out in the dust
and clutching at his bloodied genitals,
his nakedness exposed: a shameful sight
and scandalous. But for the young man, still
in glorious prime, it is all beautiful:
alive, he draws men's eyes and women's hearts;
felled in the front line, he is lovely yet.
Let every man then, feet set firm apart,
bite on his lip and stand against the foe.

Tyrtaeus

Death and Resurrection of Constantine Palaeologus

As he stood there erect before the Gate
and impregnable in his sorrow

Far from the world where his spirit sought
to bring Paradise to his measure
And harder even than stone
for no one had ever looked
on him tenderly--at times his crooked teeth
whitened strangely

And as he passed by with his gaze a little
beyond mankind and from them all
extracted One who smiled on him
The Real one
whom death could never seize

He took care to ****ounce the word
sea clearly that all the dolphins
within might shine
And the desolation so great it might
contain all of God
and every water drop ascending steadfastly toward
the sun

As a young man he had gold glittering
and gleaming on the shoulders of the great
And one night
he remembers
during a great storm the neck of the sea
roared so it turned murky
but he would not submit to it:

The world's an oppressive place to live through
yet with a little pride it's worth it.

Dear God what now
Who had to battle with thousands
and not only his loneliness
Who?
He who knew with a single word
how to slake the thirst of entire worlds
What?

From whom they taken everything
And his sandals with their crisscrossed
straps and his pointed trident
and the wall he mounted every afternoon
like an unruly and pitching boat
to hold the reigns against the water


And a handful of vervain
which he had rubbed against a girl's cheek
at midnight
to kiss her
(how the waters of the moon gurled
on the stone steps three cliff-lengths
above the sea ...)

Noon out if night
And not one person by his side
Only his faithful words that mingled
all their colors to leave in his mind
a lance of white light

And opposite
along the whole wall's length
a host of heads poured in plaster
as far as his eye could see

"Noon out of night -- all life a radiance!"
he shouted and rushed into the horde
dragging behind him an endless golden line

And at once he felt
the final pallor
overmastering him
as it hastened from afar.

Now
as the sun's wheel turned more and more swiftly
the courtyards plunged into winter and once
again emerged red from the geranium

And the small cool domes
like blue medusae
reached each time into the silverwork
the wind so delicately worked as a painting
for other times more distant

Virgin maidens
their breasts glowing a summer dawn
brought him branches of fresh palm leaves
and those of the myrtle uprooted
from the depths of the sea

Dripping iodine
while under his feet he heard
the prows of black ships
sucked into the great whirlpool
the ancient and smoked sea-craft
from which still erect with riveted gaze
the Mothers of God stood rebuking

Horses overturned on dump-heads
a rabble of buildings large and small
debris and dust flaming in the air

And there lying ****e
always with an unbroken word
between his teeth
Himself
the last of the Hellenes!

Odysseus Elytis (translated by Edmund Keely & George Savvides)

[BlackFlag]

New favorite:


"Contracter" by Lamb of God.


Chopping lines in international sand
Feeding blood junky habits of the elephant man
Quenching his thirst with Black Water rising
Executive outcomes on a burning horizon

Yeah mother****er, let's take a ride
We're rolling route Irish, someone's got to die
Trick or treat, it's IEDs
So roll the dice for me please, cause
It's near 8 miles of pure luck with more bang for Sam's buck
Guaran-****ing-teed
Someone will bleed

Privatize to conceal all the lies
And big business is boomin' like its the 4th of July
No need for all the formalities
Jump the kangaroo courts and plant the lynching trees


Yeah mother****er, let's take a ride
Running red lights into a green zone, someone's got to die
Hidden Aegis, nothing here to see
So load the dice for me please, and
Let's snort the bottom line Crude cashed into refined
Guaran-****ing-teed
Just sign the deed

Ours is not to reason why
Ours is but to do if the pay rate's right
Black liquid assets **** the mujaheddin
Paint their picket fences red with the American dream

Lay the hammer hammer down, get the job done right
Jacked up and clocked in into a fire fight
Covert reactions and you never saw me
A glass parking lot in the American dream

[Undo]

Great thread, but the Texans seem underrepresented. This is a GREAT song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eL62m5umP4g

[Hadamar]

Thomas Love Peacock
The War Song of Dinas Vawr
read by Dylan Thomas
http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=4287179
The mountain sheep are sweeter,
But the valley sheep are fatter;
We therefore deemed it meeter
To carry off the latter.
We made an expedition;
We met a host, and quelled it;
We forced a strong position,
And killed the men who held it.

On Dyfed's richest valley,
Where herds of kine were browsing,
We made a mighty sally,
To furnish our carousing.
Fierce warriors rushed to meet us;
We met them, and o'erthrew them:
They struggled hard to beat us;
But we conquered them, and slew them.

As we drove our prize at leisure,
The king marched forth to catch us:
His rage surpassed all measure,
But his people could not match us.
He fled to his hall-pillars;
And, ere our force we led off,
Some sacked his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off.

We there, in strife bewild'ring,
Spilt blood enough to swim in:
We orphaned many children,
And widowed many women.
The eagles and the ravens
We glutted with our foemen;
The heroes and the cravens,
The spearmen and the bowmen.

We brought away from battle,
And much their land bemoaned them,
Two thousand head of cattle,
And the head of him who owned them:
Ednyfed, king of Dyfed,
His head was borne before us;
His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,
And his overthrow, our chorus.


Ezra Pound
Sestina: Altaforte
http://www.youtube.com/watch/v/ujxZd3tBG18
(excerpt read by Ezra Pound)

LOQUITUR: En Bertrans de Born.
Dante Alighieri put this man in hell for that he was a stirrer up of strife.
Eccovi!
Judge ye!
Have I dug him up again?
The scene is at his castle, Altaforte. "Papiols" is his jongleur. "The Leopard," the device of Richard Coeur de Lion.

I
Damn it all! all this our South stinks peace.
You whoreson dog, Papiols, come! Let's to music!
I have no life save when the swords clash.
But ah! when I see the standards gold, vair, purple, opposing
And the broad fields beneath them turn crimson,
Then howls my heart nigh mad with rejoicing.

II
In hot summer have I great rejoicing
When the tempests kill the earth's foul peace,
And the lightnings from black heav'n flash crimson,
And the fierce thunders roar me their music
And the winds shriek through the clouds mad, opposing,
And through all the riven skies God's swords clash.

III
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
And the shrill neighs of destriers in battle rejoicing,
Spiked breast to spiked breast opposing!
Better one hour's stour than a year's peace
With fat boards, bawds, wine and frail music!
Bah! there's no wine like the blood's crimson!

IV
And I love to see the sun rise blood-crimson.
And I watch his spears through the dark clash
And it fills all my heart with rejoicing
And pries wide my mouth with fast music
When I see him so scorn and defy peace,
His lone might 'gainst all darkness opposing.

V
The man who fears war and squats opposing
My words for stour, hath no blood of crimson
But is fit only to rot in womanish peace
Far from where worth's won and the swords clash
For the death of such sluts I go rejoicing;
Yea, I fill all the air with my music.

VI
Papiols, Papiols, to the music!
There's no sound like to swords swords opposing,
No cry like the battle's rejoicing
When our elbows and swords drip the crimson
And our charges 'gainst "The Leopard's" rush clash.
May God damn for ever all who cry "Peace!"

VII
And let the music of the swords make them crimson!
Hell grant soon we hear again the swords clash!
Hell blot black for always the thought "Peace!"

[mensk04]

Military Professionalism

Men who adopt the profession of arms
submit their own free will
to a law of perpetual constraints
of their own accord.

They resist their right
to live where they choose,
to say what they think,
to dress as they like.

It needs but an order
to settle them from their families
and dislocate their normal lives.

In the world of commands,
they must rise, march,
run, endure bad weather,
and go out without sleep or food,
be isolated in some distant post,
work until they drop.

They have ceased to become
masters of their own fate.

If they drop on their tracks,
their ashes shall be scattered
in the four winds,
that is all part and parcel of their job.

[mensk04]

On a Soldier Fallen in the Philippines
by William Vaughn Moody

Streets of the roaring town,
Hush for him, hus, be still!
He comes, who was stricken down
Doing the word of our will.
Hush! Let him have his state,
Give him his soldier's crown.
The grists of trade can wait
Their grinding at the mill,
But he cannot wait for his honor, now the trumpet has been blown.
Wreathe pride now for his granite brow, lay love on his breast of stone.

Toll! Let the great bells toll
Till the clashing air is dim.
Did we wrong this parted soul?
We will make it up to him.
Toll! Let him never guess
What work we set him to.
Laurel, laurel, yes;
He did waht we bade him do.
Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good;
Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's-blood.

A flag for the soldier's bier
Who dies that his land may live;
O, banners, banners here,
That he doubt not nor misgive !
That he heed not from the tomb
The evil days draw near
When the nation, robed in gloom,
With its faithless past shall strive.
Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark,
Home to the heart of his darling land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark.

[Robert.V]

I can't believe this hasn't been posted yet.

Voiced by Sir Lawrence Olivier

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7n3iA2N8uSA




Do not call me, father. Do not seek me.
Do not call me. Do not wish me back.

We're on a route uncharted, fire and blood erase our track.
On we fly, on wings of thunder, never more to sheath our swords.
All of us in battle fallen – not to be brought back by words.

Will there be a rendezvous? I know not. I only know we still must fight.
We are sand grains in infinity, never to meet, nevermore see light.

Farewell then my son. Farewell then my conscience.
My youth, and my solace my one and my only.

And let this farewell be the end of a story
Of solitude vast and which none is more lonely.
In which you remain, barred forever and ever
From light and from air, with your death pangs untold.
Untold and unsoothed, not to be resurrected.
Forever and ever, an 18 year old.

Farewell then. No trains ever come from those regions
Unscheduled or scheduled. No aeroplanes fly there.
Farewell then my son, for no miracles happen,
As in this world dreams do not come true come true.

Farewell.

I will dream of you still as a baby,
Treading the earth with little strong toes,
The earth where already so many lie buried.
This song to my son, is come to its close.


By Junior Lieutenant Vladimir Pavlovich Antokolovski




And as far as songs go ..Mark Bernes zhuravli

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JGUfVjFmgG0&feature=related

And now sung by Dmitri Hvorostovskii

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vvUB9YlArAE&feature=related


If that song doesn't make you shed a tear then you're one cold son of a bitch.

Then of course there is this little gem.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STIoRfyG2Cw

[khalifah]

The Next War
by Wilfred Owen

Out there, we've walked quite friendly up to Death, —
Sat down and eaten with him, cool and bland, —
Pardoned his spilling mess-tins in our hand.
We've sniffed the green thick odour of his breath, —
Our eyes wept, but our courage didn't writhe.
He's spat at us with bullets and he's coughed
Shrapnel. We chorussed when he sang aloft,
We whistled while he shaved us with his scythe.

Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!
We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.
No soldier's paid to kick against His powers.
We laughed, — knowing that better men would come,
And greater wars: when each proud fighter brags
He wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.

http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/11311-Wilfred-Owen-The-Next-War

[goat89]

^Thats a fairly new one I learned last year.
But I knew the shortened version first. ><

[chavaledeni]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KPbLg5ilm2w
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jjMIAz5ZWko

[happyslapper]

Can't believe nobody's posted these yet:



THE BRITISH GRENADIERS

http://www.youtube.com/v/Yv4LaLDG5xE

Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these. But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare. With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadiers. Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal. But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers. Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades. We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears. Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers. And when the siege is over, we to the town repair. The townsmen cry, "Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier! Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears! Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers. Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes. May they and their commanders live happy all their years. With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers.


IT'S A LONG WAY TO TIPPERARY

http://www.youtube.com/v/XVM-tFAdADg

Up to mighty London Came an Irishman one day As the streets are paved with gold Sure, everyone was gay Singing songs of Piccadilly (http://www.militaryphotos.net/wiki/Piccadilly), Strand (http://www.militaryphotos.net/wiki/Strand,_London) and Leicester Square (http://www.militaryphotos.net/wiki/Leicester_Square) Till Paddy got excited Then he shouted to them there...

It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go. It's a long way to Tipperary To the sweetest girl I know! Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square! It's a long long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there.

It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go. It's a long way to Tipperary To the sweetest girl I know! Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square! It's a long long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there.

Paddy wrote a letter To his Irish Molly-O, Saying, "Should you not receive it Write and let me know!" "If I make mistakes in spelling, Molly dear," said he, "Remember, it's the pen that's bad, Don't lay the blame on me!

It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go. It's a long way to Tipperary To the sweetest girl I know! Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square! It's a long long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there.

Molly wrote a neat reply To Irish Paddy-O Saying Mike Maloney Wants to marry me and so Leave the Strand and Piccadilly Or you'll be to blame For love has fairly drove me silly: Hoping you're the same!

It's a long way to Tipperary, It's a long way to go. It's a long way to Tipperary To the sweetest girl I know! Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square! It's a long long way to Tipperary, But my heart's right there...


HEART OF OAK

http://www.youtube.com/v/eQ75JZ3JP88

Come, cheer up, my lads, 'tis to glory we steer,
To add something more to this wonderful year;
To honour we call you, as freemen not slaves,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?

Heart of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men,
we always are ready; Steady, boys, steady!
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.

We never see the French but we wish them to stay,
They always see us and they wish us away;
If they run, we will follow, we will drive them ashore,
And if they won't fight, we can do no more.

Heart of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men,
we always are ready; Steady, boys, steady!
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.

They swear they'll invade us, these terrible foes,
They frighten our women, our children and beaus,
But should their flat bottoms in darkness get o'er,
Still Britons they'll find to receive them on shore.

Heart of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men,
we always are ready; Steady, boys, steady!
We'll fight and we'll conquer again and again.

Britannia triumphant, her ships sweep the sea,
Her standard is Justice -- her watchword, 'be free.'
Then cheer up, my lads, with one heart let us sing,
Our soldiers, our sailors, our statesmen, and king.


A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE

http://www.youtube.com/v/fAlSXeo-sBY

A Life on the Ocean Wave,
A home on the rolling deep,
Where the scattered waters rave
And the winds their revels keep
A Life on the Ocean Wave,
A home on the rolling deep,
Where the scattered waters rave
And the winds their revels keep
Like an eagle caged I pine
On this dull unchanging shore,
Oh give me the flashing brine
The spray and the tempest's roar
Once more on the deck I stand
Of my own swift gliding craft
Set sail farewell to the land
The gale follows fair abaft
We shoot through the sparkling foam
Like an ocean bird set free
Like an ocean bird, our home
We'll find far out on the sea
The land is no longer in view
The clouds have begun to frown
but with a stout vessel and crew
We'll say let the storm come down
And the song of our hearts shall be
While the wind and waters rave
A life on the heaving sea
A home on the bounding wave

[Johnny_H02]

Those three are up there with my faves ^^^ (throw in Men of Harlech and Keep the Home Fires Burning and you've got them all).

Another runner up, is this Japanese March/Tune. Don't know the lyrics so dont ask. Its a great piece of music though.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZNlNrZsQZQ

[T-5 Killer]

Well maybe I 'm a bit off the general tune here, but still a great poem...

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death
by W. B. Yeats


I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

^That is my favorite poem!

Far Away Coast-Dropkick Murphys
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3LbO8uN20MY

[AroundTheCorner]

1. Heute wollen wir marschieren
Einen neuen Marsch probieren
In dem schönen Westerwald
Ja da pfeift der Wind so kalt. (X2)

Refrain:
Ohhhh... du schöner Westerwald
Über deine Höhen pfeift der Wind so kalt
Jedoch der kleinste Sonnenschein
Dringt tief in's Herz hinein.

2. Und die Gretel und der Hans
Geh'n des Sonntags gern zum Tanz
Weil das Tanzen Freude macht
Und das Herz im Leibe lacht. (X2)

Refrain:
Ohhhh... du schöner Westerwald
Über deine Höhen pfeift der Wind so kalt
Jedoch der kleinste Sonnenschein
Dringt tief in's Herz hinein.

http://www.youtube.com/v/ky-zdHMNFNM

Edit: The thick, marked parts is come up twice.

[khalifah]

I came across a set of poems in my Medieval class the other day, and one caught my eye. I think it would be appropriate here.

This one is about a Muslim Knight in the later years of Al-Andalus who had died in battle and is being brought home.

The Lamentation For Celin

At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred,
At twilight at the Vega gate there is a trampling heard;
There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow,
And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe.
"What tower is fallen, what star is set, what cheif come these bewailing?"
"A tower is fallen, a star is set. Alas! alas for Celin!"

Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw;
Dejectedly they enter, end mournfully they go;
In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath the hollow porch,
Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch;
Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,
For all had heard the misery. "Alas! alas for Celin!"---

Him yesterday a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood,
'Twas at the solemn jousting, around the nobles stood;
The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair
Looked from their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share;
But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing,
For he was Granada's darling knight."Alas! alas for Celin!"
Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two,
With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view;
Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil,
Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale;
When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing,
And all the people, far and near, cry---"Alas!alas for Celin!"

Oh! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall,
The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all;
His dark dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale,
The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail,
And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks upon their wailing,
Its sound is like no earthly sound--- "Alas! alas for Celin!"

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands the Moor stands at his door,
One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore---
Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew
Upon their broidered garments of crimson, green, and blue---
Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing,
From door and lattice, high and low---"Alas! alas for Celin!"

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry;
Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye.
'Twas she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long ago;
She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know.
With one deep shriek she through doth break, when her ears recieve their wailing---
"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die---Alas! alas for Celin!"

[tluassa]

http://www.bunkerart.nl/der_gott_der_eisen_wachsen_liess.jpg

from a Normandy Bunker ...

http://home.hetnet.nl/~bue/todttextdergott.jpg

German:

Ernst Moritz Arndt
Der Gott, der Eisen wachsen ließ
Der Gott, der Eisen wachsen ließ,
der wollte keine Knechte,
drum gab er Säbel, Schwert und Spieß
dem Mann in seine Rechte,

drum gab er ihm den kühnen Mut,
den Zorn der freien Rede,
dass er bestände bis aufs Blut,
bis in den Tod die Fehde.

So wollen wir, was Gott gewollt,
mit rechten Treuen halten
und nimmer um Tyrannensold
die Menschenschädel spalten.

Doch wer für Schand und Tande ficht,
den hauen wir in Scherben,
der soll im deutschen Lande nicht
mit deutschen Männern erben!

O Deutschland heil’ges Vaterland,
o deutsche Lieb’ und Treue!
Du hohes Land, du schönes Land,
wir schwören dir aufs Neue:

Dem Buben und dem Knecht die Acht,
der speise Kräh’n und Raben!
So ziehen wir aus zur Hermannsschlacht
Und wollen Rache haben.
Lasst brausen, was nur brausen kann,
in hellen, lichten Flammen!

Ihr Deutsche alle Mann für Mann,
zum heil’gen Krieg zusammen!
Und hebt die Herzen himmelan
Und himmelan die Hände,
und rufet alle Mann für Mann:
Die Knechtschaft hat ein Ende.

Lasst wehen, was nur wehen kann,
Standarten weh’n und Fahnen,
wir wollen heut uns Mann für Mann
zum Heldentod ermahnen.

Auf! Fliege hohes Siegspanier,
voran den kühnen Reihen!
Wir siegen oder sterben hier
Den süßen Tod der freien.


Translation:

The god that let iron grow, didn´t want servants (Knecht=knekt)
Thatfor he gave sabre, sword and spear into the right (hand) of the man
Thatfor he gave him the fond bravery, the rage of the free speech
That he exists until the blood, until death the feud/vendetta/conflict

So we want, that is wanted by god, to hold in right trust
And never split the human skulls in tyrantpay
But who is fighting for trumpery and disgrace, that one we beat (until he´s) in pieces
That one shall not inherit with German men in the German land

Oh Germany, holy fatherland! Oh German love and loyality
You high land, you beautiful land! We pledge to you again!
Attention to the boy and the servant! Meal for crows and ravens!
So we march out to the ‘’Hermann Battle’’ and want to have revenge.

Let roar what can roar in bright and light flames!
You Germans all man for man, for the fatherland together!
And lift your hearts to the heaven and to the heaven the hands!
And shout all man for man: The servitude has an end!

[Johnny_H02]

La vieille Garde/ La Victoire est à Nous/ The Girl I left behind me
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HXmljXjwZko

[khalifah]

The Soldiers return:A Ballad by Robert Burns


WHEN wild war’s deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi’ mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning;
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I’d been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a’ my wealth,
A poor and honest sodger.


A leal, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain’d wi’ plunder;
And for fair Scotia hame again,
I cheery on did wander:
I thought upon the banks o’ Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.


At length I reach’d the bonie glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass’d the mill and trysting thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother’s dwelling!
And turn’d me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.


Wi’ alter’d voice, quoth I, “Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn’s blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
That’s dearest to thy bosom:
My purse is light, I’ve far to gang,
And fain would be thy lodger;
I’ve serv’d my king and country lang—
Take pity on a sodger.”


Sae wistfully she gaz’d on me,
And lovelier was than ever;
Quo’ she, “A sodger ance I lo’ed,
Forget him shall I never:
Our humble cot, and hamely fare,
Ye freely shall partake it;
That gallant badge-the dear cockade,
Ye’re welcome for the sake o’t.”


She gaz’d—she redden’d like a rose—
Syne pale like only lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
“Art thou my ain dear Willie?”
“By him who made yon sun and sky!
By whom true love’s regarded,
I am the man; and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded.


“The wars are o’er, and I’m come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted;
Tho’ poor in gear, we’re rich in love,
And mair we’se ne’er be parted.”
Quo’ she, “My grandsire left me gowd,
A mailen plenish’d fairly;
And come, my faithfu’ sodger lad,
Thou’rt welcome to it dearly!”


For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger’s prize,
The sodger’s wealth is honor:
The brave poor sodger ne’er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger;
Remember he’s his country’s stay,
In day and hour of danger.

[khalifah]

Adieu to a Soldier by Walt Whitman


ADIEU, O soldier!
You of the rude campaigning, (which we shared,)
The rapid march, the life of the camp,
The hot contention of opposing fronts—the long manoeuver,
Red battles with their slaughter,—the stimulus—the strong, terrific game,
Spell of all brave and manly hearts—the trains of Time through you, and like of you,
all
fill’d,
With war, and war’s expression.

Adieu, dear comrade!
Your mission is fulfill’d—but I, more warlike,
Myself, and this contentious soul of mine,
Still on our own campaigning bound,
Through untried roads, with ambushes, opponents lined,
Through many a sharp defeat and many a crisis—often baffled,
Here marching, ever marching on, a war fight out—aye here,
To fiercer, weightier battles give expression.

[khalifah]

Bless God, he went as a soldier by Emily ****enson


Bless God, he went as soldiers,
His musket on his breast --
Grant God, he charge the bravest
Of all the martial blest!

Please God, might I behold him
In epauletted white --
I should not fear the foe then --
I should not fear the fight!

[khalifah]

The Young British Soldier by Rudyard Kipling



When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier OF the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
And march to your front like a soldier.
Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
For noise never startles the soldier.
Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
And wait for supports like a soldier.
Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
Go, go, go like a soldier,
So-oldier of the Queen!

[Creampuff]

In the days that have now gone
when the Maoris went to war
They fought and fought until the last man died
for the honour of their tribe
And so we carry on
the conditions they have laid
And as we go on day by day
You will always hear us say...

Maori Battalion march to victory
Maori Battalion staunch and true
Maori Battalion march to glory
Take the honour of the people with you
We will march, march, march to the enemy
And we'll fight right to the end.
For God! For King! And for Country!
AU - E! Ake, ake, kia kaha e!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rDoV0EBu44

[KEEPER0311]

EAS Song
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RoxdT2xhra8

[therifleman]

The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down (American Civil War)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nnS9M03F-fA

Virgil Caine is the name,
and I served on the Danville train,
'Til Stoneman's cavalry
came and tore up the tracks again.
In the winter of '65,
We were hungry, just barely alive.
By May the tenth, Richmond had fell,
it's a time I remember, oh so well,

The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,
and the bells were ringing,
The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,
and the people were singin'.

They went
La, La, La, La, La, La,
La, La, La, La, La, La,
La, La,

Back with my wife in Tennessee,
When one day she called to me,
"Virgil, quick, come see,
there goes Robert E. Lee!"
Now I don't mind choppin' wood,
and I don't care if the money's no good.
Ya take what ya need and ya leave the rest,
But they should never have taken the very best.

The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,
and the bells were ringing,
The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,
and the people were singin'.

Like my father before me,
I will work the land,
Like my brother above me,
who took a rebel stand.
He was just eighteen, proud and brave,
But a Yankee laid him in his grave,
I swear by the mud below my feet,
You can't raise a Caine back up
when he's in defeat.

[KEEPER0311]

The Ballad of Rodger Young

No, they've got no time for glory in the Infantry.
No, they've got no use for praises loudly sung,
But in every soldier's heart in all the Infantry
Shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young.

Shines the name--Rodger Young!
Fought and died for the men he marched among.
To the everlasting glory of the Infantry
Lives the story of Private Rodger Young.

Caught in ambush lay a company of riflemen--
Just grenades against machine guns in the gloom--
Caught in ambush till this one of twenty riflemen
Volunteered, volunteered to meet his doom.

Volunteered, Rodger Young!
Fought and died for the men he marched among.
In the everlasting annals of the Infantry
Glows the last deed of Private Rodger Young.

It was he who drew the fire of the enemy
That a company of men might live to fight;
And before the deadly fire of the enemy
Stood the man, stood the man we hail tonight.

On the island of New Georgia in the Solomons,
Stands a simple wooden cross alone to tell
That beneath the silent coral of the Solomons,
Sleeps a man, sleeps a man remembered well.

Sleeps a man, Rodger Young,
Fought and died for the men he marched among.
In the everlasting spirit of the Infantry
Breathes the spirit of Private Rodger Young.

No, they've got no time for glory in the Infantry,
No, they've got no use for praises loudly sung,
But in every soldier's heart in all the Infantry
Shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young.

Shines the name--Rodger Young!
Fought and died for the men he marched among.
To the everlasting glory of the Infantry
Lives the story of Private Rodger Young.

[Consigliere]

"Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner"

Written By Warren Zevon & David Lindell

Roland was a warrior from the Land of the Midnight Sun
With a Thompson gun for hire, fighting to be done
The deal was made in Denmark on a dark and stormy day
So he set out for Biafra to join the bloody fray

Through sixty-six and seven they fought the Congo war
With their fingers on their triggers, knee-deep in gore
For days and nights they battled the Bantu to their knees
They killed to earn their living and to help out the Congolese

Roland the Thompson gunner...

His comrades fought beside him - Van Owen and the rest
But of all the Thompson gunners, Roland was the best
So the CIA decided they wanted Roland dead
That son-of-a-bitch Van Owen blew off Roland's head

Roland the headless Thompson gunner
Norway's bravest son
Time, time, time
For another peaceful war
But time stands still for Roland
'Til he evens up the score
They can still see his headless body stalking through the night
In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun
In the muzzle flash of Roland's Thompson gun

Roland searched the continent for the man who'd done him in
He found him in Mombassa in a barroom drinking gin
Roland aimed his Thompson gun - he didn't say a word
But he blew Van Owen's body from there to Johannesburg

Roland the headless Thompson gunner...
The eternal Thompson gunner
still wandering through the night
Now it's ten years later but he still keeps up the fight
In Ireland, in Lebanon, in Palestine and Berkeley
Patty Hearst heard the burst of Roland's Thompson gun and bought it

http://www.actionext.com/names_w/warren_zevon_lyrics/roland_the_headless_thompson_gunner.html

[Domen]

I have found this below the obituary of a German Gebirgspionier KIA during the Gefecht bei Rodzick near Gorlice, Poland, on 08.09.1939:

Mit frohem Mut zog ich hinaus
Leb' wohl geliebtes Elternhaus.
Lebt wohl ihr Lieben weinet nicht.
Gehorsam ist Soldatenpflicht
In Gorlice, Polen, die Schlacht war heiss
Da laernte sich das Edelweiss
Auf manchen Muetzen blutig rot
Mein Los war der Soldatentod.
Ich war bereit und folgte gern,
Dem Rufe meines hoechsten Herrn.
Die Siegesfahrte winkt mir schon,
Der Himmel ist Soldatenlohn
Doch ein Trost ist uns geblieben;
Droben in des Himmels Hoeh'n.
Werden wir mit allen Lieben.
Unsern Alfons wieder sehen.

[Wachmistrz]

link:
http://www.prezydentfiles.ires.pl/mp3/2._na_grunwaldzkiem_polu.mp3


Na Grunwaldzkiem polu!
author: Łukasz Górnicki
(from XV/XVI century?)

We wtorków dzień apostolski, rzekł marszałek: Królu
Polski !- wielki tu jest lud przed nami, trzeba by był
Pan Bóg z nami!

Król widząc iż blisko było aby się to dokończyło, Acz
się Niemcy hardzie brali, niż polskiej mocy doznali.
Rozkazał dać znak potkania A mało było czekania, Bo
poszli ochotnie k’sobie tak wybrane czoła obie.

Zaczęła się bitwa sroga, krew, śmierć, dusza wnet
nie droga, a mąż się do męża kwapił, czem kto mógł
swego połapił. Na Grunwaldzkiem polu!

[translation - beta version :-) ]

On Grunwald's Field

On Tuesday, Feast of Sending the Apostles {on 15 July},
the marshal said: King of Poland!
great crowd is in front of us, but the God should be with us!

King saw that is near to the solution, though the Germans arrogantly took, before they experienced polish power,
Ordered to sign to beginning the battle, and there wasn't any waiting.

Then they moved willingly against, from both sides.
Started a stern battle: blood, death and the soul was nothing to worth.
Knight rushed to fight with knight and reached the enemy best of all.

On Grunwald's field!



Battle of Grunwald (1410) - there was many posts about this battle on MP.net so I only post a link to Wiki: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Grunwald

[layman]

The Spanish touch : "El Novio de la Muerte" , one of the hyms of "La Legión".

Nadie en el Tercio sabía
quien era aquel legionario
tan audaz y temerario
que a la Legión se alistó.

Nadie sabía su historia,
más la Legión suponía
que un gran dolor le mordía
como un lobo, el corazón.

Más si alguno quien era le preguntaba
con dolor y rudeza le contestaba:

Soy un hombre a quien la suerte
hirió con zarpa de fiera;
soy un novio de la muerte
que va a unirse en lazo fuerte
con tal leal compañera.

Cuando más rudo era el fuego
y la pelea más fiera
defendiendo su Bandera
el legionario avanzó.

Y sin temer al empuje
del enemigo exaltado,
supo morir como un bravo
y la enseña rescató.

Y al regar con su sangre la tierra ardiente,
murmuró el legionario con voz doliente:

Soy un hombre a quien la suerte
hirió con zarpa de fiera;
soy un novio de la muerte
que va a unirse en lazo fuerte
con tal leal compañera.

Cuando, al fin le recogieron,
entre su pecho encontraron
una carta y un retrato
de una divina mujer.

Y aquella carta decía:
"...si algún día Dios te llama
para mi un puesto reclama
que a buscarte ****to iré".

Y en el último beso que le enviaba
su postrera despedida le consagraba.

Por ir a tu lado a verte
mi más leal compañera,
me hice novio de la muerte,
la estreché con lazo fuerte
y su amor fue mi Bandera!

[therifleman]

Rising of The Moon
Rebellion of 1798

And come tell me Sean O'Farrell, tell me why you hurry so
Hush a bhuachaill, hush and listen and his cheeks were all aglow
I bear orders from the captain, get you ready quick and soon
For the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon
At the rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon
For the pikes must be together at the rising of the moon

And come tell me Sean O'Farrell, where the gathering is to be
At the old spot by the river quite well known to you and me
One more word for signal token, whistle out the marching tune
With your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon
At the rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon
With your pike upon your shoulder at the rising of the moon

Out from many a mud walled cabin eyes were watching through the night
Many a manly heart was beating for the blessed morning's light
Murmurs ran along the valley to the banshee's lonely croon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon
By the rising of the moon, by the rising of the moon
And a thousand pikes were flashing by the rising of the moon

All along that singing river, that black mass of men was seen
High above their shining weapons flew their own beloved green
Death to every foe and traitor, whistle out the marching tune
And hoorah me boys for freedom 'tis the rising of the moon
'Tis the rising of the moon, 'tis the rising of the moon
And hoorah me boys for freedom 'tis the rising of the moon

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoQL8hG9O6w

[scttgillies]

Call to arms before bannockburn


Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your Gory Bed,
Or to Victorie.
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lour;
See approach proud Edward's pow'r.
Chains and slavery!
http://home.globalcrossing.net/~macisme/macbar.gif
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's King and Law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa'
Let him follow me!
http://home.globalcrossing.net/~macisme/macbar.gif
By Opression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do or dee!


.

[Titani]

In the days that have now gone
when the Maoris went to war
They fought and fought until the last man died
for the honour of their tribe
And so we carry on
the conditions they have laid
And as we go on day by day
You will always hear us say...

Maori Battalion march to victory
Maori Battalion staunch and true
Maori Battalion march to glory
Take the honour of the people with you
We will march, march, march to the enemy
And we'll fight right to the end.
For God! For King! And for Country!
AU - E! Ake, ake, kia kaha e!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rDoV0EBu44




That's really amazing!!

[RusMarine0341]

First time poster - be gentle :) - I wrote this while I was on OP Adams in Fallujah. I was there in 2006-2007 in what is now being called the third battle of fallujah. I think that's bull**** - it was more of a turkey shoot, and we weren't the ones holding the rifles. I am was a Reservist who volunteered to go with 1/24 and was assigned to weapons company as a dismount. Apparently they couldn't trust me with anything more than a rifle. I am glad they didn't. I don't think that I could have been able to bear that responsibility as well as my friends and brothers and my heroes. In Iraq, I was mostly an observer with a front seat view of the frustration and patience that it takes for something like the sunni awakening to take place. I'd like to think that I contributed in some small part, in reality I probably didn't do much at all. I came home in April of 2007 with a couple of medals that I don't think I deserved and a bad taste in my mouth for everything that has ROE, EOF, NCIS and especially the street named Fran. For those who have been there, I am sure you can relate and I would like to especially make it clear that my admiration is without limits for the guys that did the majority of the fighting in that city in 04. Some of them were my squad leaders during my second tour and I cannot comprehend what it took to do what they did.

In either case, these 0 dark ****ing retard musings written under the light of pilfered chemlights somehow got things off my chest. Maybe they can help somebody relate or remember their own dark days. And more importantly come to terms with them as I have not yet done. I figured I'd get these off the dusty notebook that's been sitting tucked away in a long forgotten seabag and let others read them.

I'd also like to point out that I am no poet, nor claim to be nor aspire to be one. Which is my excuse for poor grammar and syntax.


UNCLE SAM’S MISGUIDED CHILDREN

We came over here full of hope and adventure
To seize the glory we sought in this venture
Only too late we discovered how war is hell
Already mourning our friends who recently fell.

Not knowing when the next one will die
Not knowing who-where-how nor why
We continue to travel outside the wire
Going home alive being our only desire

We’re tired of the filth, the mud and the heat
We’re tired of the snipers bullet we all try to cheat
We’re tired of the nightmares that play in our head
Our only hope is acceptance that tonight we’ll be dead.

The thoughts of home being our main occupation
We curse the day that we chose this vocation
We think of loved ones, as outside in the street
Machine guns, explosions drum out the daily beat.

We are truly Uncle Sam’s misguided children
Realizing too late this isn’t world war two or the chosin’
We signed up for pussy and money and college,
And ended up with nightmarish knowledge

So many more came home wounded and broken
Showing the scars on their bodies and minds as a token
Accomplishing what they said could never be done
Spreading democracy at the point of a gun.

Do you remember that day back in October
We saw our first dead and quickly were sobered
From the youthful ideals of guts and glory
As we picked up our brothers, dead, gutted and gory?

Many more friends quickly followed their path
Into flag covered coffins as the months went past
Now that our tour here is so nearly finished
We find our zest for patrols is greatly diminished.

I often wonder how the politicians can say
That those who continue to fall even today
Those who were blown up or were shot, “Did not die in vain!”
When I can still see their mud covered guts being cleared by the rain.


/don't have a title for this one



And if I come home from this desert hell
I’ll still remember the screams after the mortars fell
How they carried my friend all bloody and broken
With whom moments ago I was smokin’ and jokin’

We were nineteen year old boys who came here bright eyed
Who quickly matured when we started to die
Now we go home as fatalistic old men
Whose only hope is to see home again.







DO YOU RECALL THAT BLACK DAY IN FALL?

Do you recall
That black day in Fall?

How the Captain looked as he cut the guy loose,
Whose crushed intestines made some sort of a noose?
How the one lifeless eye stared up from behind,
The pink frothy lung forced up as he died?

Do you recall
That black day in Fall?

How we cleaned the remains off the blood spattered doors
How we picked up the guts up off of the floors?
How the heavens seemed to cry in despair
For our dead brothers in that ditch over there?

How the air smelled so thickly of burnt flesh and blood?
How we found the driver swallowed up by the mud?
How the humvee slammed down again and again
Kept smashing the driver till just a pulp remained?

Yes my dear brother, I will always recall
How we all were changed that black day in Fall.

Better off - Over there

We came back in April - early this year
So happy to see home, so finally near
To get off that bus and into formation
And look at our loved ones with tears of elation

Then for many the war came back
Again and again as we hit the sack
The gunfire, explosions, the monotany
The sweet stench of blood - hells cacophony.

And then I realized, it wasnt so bad
At least "Over there" people listened
To the problems you had.

They didn't come up and with some toothy grin
Say thanks for your service, you going again?
And then just like that they're out of your life,
Happy that their views were bona fide.


Is once not enough? A lifetime of pain?
Of seeing my brothers bleeding out in the rain?
So that at every event after coming home,
The images will never leave you alone?

I didn't do it for you, I wanted to say
I did it for those whose final stay
Is in Arlington under a pretty white stone
Who in their dying moments were never alone.

I’d hate to think of the inconvenience it’d bring
For you to remember that it’s not a small thing
To ask someone about the their aggrievance
Without really caring about their experience

I want to go back, to that simple life
To that country filled with hate and with strife
Because its so simple so perfectly clear
You wont understand - you simply weren't there.

I want to leave,
This world of the many
To go back to the few
That know the cost of your plenty

So don't judge me for the things that I had to do.
I did them so now you’ll never have to.
I am not asking for thanks, for money and fame
I am just asking - let me go back "Over There" again.


- Dmitry

[Atlantic Friend]

Commie that he was, Aragon's "Un jour, un jour", written during the Spanish Civil War, always touches a nerve (my traduction, which I'll be the first to admit sucks pipe):

What has made Man truly great and sublime
All of his refusals, his songs and his heroes
Stand above that body, and against its murderers
Stand in Granada today, stand against that crime

This now mute mouth, this now silent Llorca
Feeling the universe with silence
Against the violent now turns violence
Oh, the furor that comes from a murdered poet

There'll come a day, a day in orange
A day of palm and leaf crown
A day of naked elbow, when people love each other
A day just like a bird perched on the highest branch

Oh, how I despaired of my wild brethren
And I saw future seemed being brought to its knees
The Beast so triumphant, the Stone ready to blow
And the soldiers' fire now threatening our shores

So, it should always be this atrocious bargain
This incessant dispute raging over the land
Between those assassins that even panthers fear
And whose dagger trembles after they wielded it

There'll come a day, a day in orange
A day of palm and leaf crown
A day of naked elbow, when people love each other
A day just like a bird perched on the highest branch

So, it should always be war, strife and quarreling
Some poor excuses for kings, servile heads bowing
So the woman's child shall be born in vain
And forever locusts should devour the wheat crops

So, the gaols always, and flesh under the vise
And idols always to justify slaughter
A mantel of lies thrown over the corpses
A gag for every mouth, for every hand a nail.

There'll come a day, a day in orange
A day of palm and leaf crown
A day of naked elbow, when people love each other
A day like a bird perched on the highest branch

[Scoobz187]

Ohh i really love that "Its a long way to tipperary" song from the brits. Was quit funny to hear it in the movie "Das Boot" from Peterson ^^ Cracked the nuts out of the 1.WO^^




Up to mighty London
Came an Irishman one day
As the streets are paved with gold
Sure, everyone was gay
Singing songs of Piccadilly (http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piccadilly),
Strand (http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Strand_%28London%29) and Leicester Square (http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leicester_Square)
Till Paddy got excited
And he shouted to them there...
It’s a long way to Tipperary (http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tipperary),
It’s a long way to go.
It’s a long way to Tipperary
To the sweetest girl I know!
Goodbye Piccadilly (http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piccadilly),
Farewell Leicester Square (http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leicester_Square)!
It’s a long long way to Tipperary,
But my heart's right there.
Paddy wrote a letter
To his Irish Molly-O,
Saying, „Should you not receive it
Write and let me know!“
„If I make mistakes in spelling,
Molly dear,“ said he,
„Remember, it's the pen that's bad,
Don't lay the blame on me!“
It’s a long way ...
Molly wrote a neat reply
To Irish Paddy-O
Saying Mike Maloney
Wants to marry me and so
Leave the Strand and Picadilly
Or you'll be to blame
For love has fairly drove me silly:
Hoping you're the same!
It’s a long way ...



http://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/It%E2%80%99s_a_Long_Way_to_Tipperary

And another great song about war and his effects was sung by Johnny Cash. This song really touched my heart because of the certain feelings and problems a vet has to fight after his duty. Great song awesome performed by a great artist. Its the Song "Drive on".

I got a friend named Whiskey Sam
He was my boonierat buddy for a year in Nam
He said is my country just a little off track
Took 'em twenty-five years to welcome me back
But, it's better than not coming back at all
Many a good man
I saw fall And even now,
every time I dream I hear the men
and the monkeys in the jungle scream

Drive on, don't mean nothin'
My children love me , but they don't understand
And I got a woman who knows her man
Drive on, don't mean nothin', drive on

I remember one night,
Tex and me Rappelled in on a hot L.Z.
We had our 16's on rock and roll
But, with all that fire,
was scared and cold
We were crazy, we were wild
And I have seen the tiger smile
I spit in a bamboo viper's face
And I'd be dead , but by God's grace

Drive on, don't mean nothin'
My children love me, but they don't understand
And I got a woman who knows her man
Drive on, don't mean nothin', drive on

It was a real slow walk in a real sad rain
And nobody tried to be John Wayne
I came home, but Tex did not
And I can't talk about the hit he got
I got a little limp now when
I walk Got a little tremolo when
I talk But my letter read from Whiskey Sam
You're a walkin' talkin' miracle from Vietnam

Drive on, don't mean nothin'
My children love me, but they don't understand
And I got a woman who knows her man
Drive on, don't mean nothin', drive on

(not to forget the song about Ira Hayes so i post it also)


Ira Hayes,
Ira Hayes

[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Gather round me people there's a story I would tell
About a brave young Indian you should remember well
From the land of the Pima Indian
A proud and noble band
Who farmed the Phoenix valley in Arizona land

Down the ditches for a thousand years
The water grew Ira's peoples' crops
'Till the white man stole the water rights
And the sparklin' water stopped

Now Ira's folks were hungry
And their land grew crops of weeds
When war came, Ira volunteered
And forgot the white man's greed

[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

There they battled up Iwo Jima's hill,
Two hundred and fifty men
But only twenty-seven lived to walk back down again

And when the fight was over
And when Old Glory raised
Among the men who held it high
Was the Indian, Ira Hayes

[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Ira returned a hero
Celebrated through the land
He was wined and speeched and honored; Everybody shook his hand

But he was just a Pima Indian
No water, no crops, no chance
At home nobody cared what Ira'd done
And when did the Indians dance

[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Then Ira started drinkin' hard;
Jail was often his home
They'd let him raise the flag and lower it
like you'd throw a dog a bone!

He died drunk one mornin'
Alone in the land he fought to save
Two inches of water in a lonely ditch
Was a grave for Ira Hayes

[CHORUS:]
Call him drunken Ira Hayes
He won't answer anymore
Not the whiskey drinkin' Indian
Nor the Marine that went to war

Yeah, call him drunken Ira Hayes
But his land is just as dry
And his ghost is lyin' thirsty
In the ditch where Ira died

[Soldat_Américain]

In the days that have now gone
when the Maoris went to war
They fought and fought until the last man died
for the honour of their tribe
And so we carry on
the conditions they have laid
And as we go on day by day
You will always hear us say...

Maori Battalion march to victory
Maori Battalion staunch and true
Maori Battalion march to glory
Take the honour of the people with you
We will march, march, march to the enemy
And we'll fight right to the end.
For God! For King! And for Country!
AU - E! Ake, ake, kia kaha e!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-rDoV0EBu44





I don't like it, the guys in the front were cool because they knew what they were doing, but whether it is on purpose or not the people in the middle not doing the Haka looks bad.

Hakas are great but everyone should be doing the actions, again I don't know if it was on purpose.

Again, that's just my opinion

Royal Tongan Marines
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5J4_1KMLv0

This is the ceremony at Al Faw Palace for when the Royal Tongan Marines mission ended in Iraq.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnjFYmyaNKc

[hillman32]

Very Impressive poetary.

[Creampuff]

I don't like it, the guys in the front were cool because they knew what they were doing, but whether it is on purpose or not the people in the middle not doing the Haka looks bad.

Hakas are great but everyone should be doing the actions, again I don't know if it was on purpose.

Again, that's just my opinion

Royal Tongan Marines
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5J4_1KMLv0

This is the ceremony at Al Faw Palace for when the Royal Tongan Marines mission ended in Iraq.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnjFYmyaNKc

Good post bro! Thanks for spot lighting the Tongan Marines, I hear those boys did their nation proud. Been looking to post a vid of them in the Marines thread but wasn't sure the Gyrines would accept it.

Edit - In Tongan nomenclature, this is refered to as the( Kai Lau) or war dance.

[coltfan111]

I like the old Irish folk song "Mrs McGrath". Technically it's an anti war song I suppose. Bruce Springsteen actually did a pretty cover of it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-w2DY9J-fgE&feature=fvw

LYRICS.

Mrs. McGrath," the sergeant said,
"Would you like a soldier
of your son, Ted?
With a scarlet cloak and a fine cocked hat,
Mrs. McGrath wouldn't you like that?"

Mrs. McGrath lived on the shore
And after seven years or more
she spied a ship come into the bay
with her son from far away


"Oh, Captain dear, where have you been.
Have you been out sailin' on the Mediteren'.
Have you any news of my son Ted.
Is he livin' or is he dead?"

Now came Ted without any legs
And in their place two wooden pegs
She kissed him a dozen times or two
Saying "My God Ted is it you?"

"Now were you drunk or were you blind
When you left your two fine legs behind?
Or was it walking upon the sea
That wore your two fine legs away?"

"No I wasn't drunk and I wasn't blind
When I left my two fine legs behind.
a cannon ball on the fifth of May
Tore my two fine legs away."

"Now Teddy boy," the widow cried
"Your two fine legs was your mother's pride
Them stumps of a tree won't do at all
Why didn't you run from the cannon ball?"

All foreign wars, I do proclaim
Live on blood and a mother's pain
I'd rather have my son as he used to be
than the king of America and his whole navy

[Arnie100]

Everytime I played Panzer Front or watched Batle of the Bulge, this song gets stuck in my head: Panzerlied.

Lyrics in German and English:

Ob's stürmt oder schneit,
Ob die Sonne uns lacht
Der Tag glühend heiß
Oder eiskalt die Nacht
Bestaubt sind die Gesichter
Doch froh ist unser Sinn
Ist unser Sinn
Es braust unser Panzer
Im Sturmwind dahin

Mit donnernden Motoren
Geschwind wie der Blitz
Dem Feinde entgegen
Im Panzer geschützt
Voraus den Kameraden
Im Kampf steh'n wir allein
Steh'n wir allein
So stoßen wir tief
In die feindlichen Reihn

Wenn vor uns ein feindliches
Heer dann erscheint
Wird Vollgas gegeben
Und ran an den Feind!
Was gilt denn unser Leben
Für unsres Reiches Heer?
Ja Reiches Heer?
Für Deutschland zu sterben
Ist uns höchste Ehr.

Mit Sperren und Minen
Hält der Gegner uns auf
Wir lachen darüber
Und fahren nicht drauf
Und droh'n vor uns Geschütze
Versteckt im gelben Sand
Im gelben Sand
Wir suchen uns Wege
Die keiner sonst fand

Und läßt uns im Stich
Einst das treulose Glück
Und kehren wir nicht mehr
Zur Heimat zurück
Trifft uns die Todeskugel
Ruft uns das Schicksal ab
Ja Schicksal ab
Dann wird uns der Panzer
Ein ehernes Grab.

Whether it storms or snows
Whether the sun shines upon us
The day burning hot
Or the night freezing cold
Dusty are our faces
But happy we are at heart
We're at heart
Our tank roars ahead
Along with the storm wind

With thundering engines
Fast as a lightning bolt
The enemy engaging
Within our armor plates
Come on comrades
In the battle, all alone
We stand all alone
That's how we strike deep
Into the enemy's ranks

When an enemy tank
Appears ahead of us
Full throttle is given
And we close with the foe
What value then is our life
For the army of our nation
Yes army of our nation
For to die for Germany
Is our highest honour

With obstacles and tanks
The enemy blocks our path
We laugh about it
And simply pass them by
And if we are threatened by guns
Hidden in the yellow sand
In the yellow sand
We find ourselves a path
That no one else found

And if we are abandoned
By that unfaithful luck
And if we don't return
To our homeland again
If a bullet strikes us down
If our fate calls upon us
Yes our fate upon us
Then for us the tank will be
An honorable grave


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lSLHasN9UXQ