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Some new ones for the group. This is one that was written during WWI. It was written by someone in the 63rd (Royal Naval) Division. Here is an excerpt from the link:
One of the real troubles with the army came in the form of General Shute. He joined the Division during the Somme of 1916 and insisted on wearing the army rank. So they wore on one arm the naval rank and the army rank in the other, even though they loathed the other arm. The sailors did not go "for all the spit and polish" of the army, as they were pulling the army out of the shit by supplying the best fighting Division in the British Army. Living in trenches, it was near impossible to keep the rifles clean but "Schultz the Hun" would insist that they were kept clean and complained at every opportunity about the state of the rifles, dress and general kit. He inspected the Division when they took over the Souchez Sector from the Portuguese. The trenches were a mess even to the sailors of the 63rd, and had no time to clear things up, when along came "Schultz". He went back and wrote an official complaint about the disgusting state of the 63rd's trenches to the High Command. A. P. Herbert (who became a writer) wrote a poem about the episode, which was eventually turned into a song. It started being sung by the 63rd Div, then by the whole Army, so "Schultz" liveth for ever in the song. The song is sang in tune of "Wrap me up in my tarpaulin jacket"
Here is the poem:
The General inspecting the trenches
exclaimed with a horrified shout,
"I refuse to command a Division
Which leaves its excreta about."
And certain responsible critics
Made haste to reply to his words
Observing that his Staff advisers
Consisted entirely of turds.
But nobody took any notice
No one was prepared to refute,
That the presence of shit was congenial
Compared with the presence of Shute.
For shit may be shot at odd corners
And paper supplied there to suit,
But a shit would be shot without mourners
If somebody shot that shit Shute.
Pretty good, huh? I thought that a little levity would be good; some of these poems can be fairly heavy.
Here's another one - not as light but not real depressing either. It's very widely know; at least it's widely know of.
It commemorates the charge of British light cavalry against a fortified Russian position, with artillery, during the Crimean War.
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.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered:
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.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke,
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
That's got to be one of the greatest war poems ever put to paper.
More later. . .
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