For The Fallen by Robert Laurence Binyon
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
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A Soldier's Kiss
by Henry Chappell
Only a dying horse! pull off the gear,
And slip the needless bit
from frothing jaws,
Drag it aside there,
leaving the road way clear,
The battery thunders on
with scarce a pause.
Prone by the shell-swept highway there it lies
With quivering limbs, as
fast the life-tide fails,
Dark films are closing
o’er the faithful eyes
That mutely plead for aid
where none avails.
Onward the battery rolls, but one there speeds
Needlessly of comrades
voice or bursting shell,
Back to the wounded friend
who lonely bleeds
Beside the stony highway
where he fell.
Only a dying horse! he swiftly kneels,
Lifts the limp head and
hears the shivering sigh
Kisses his friend, while
down his cheek there steals
Sweet pity’s tear,
"Goodbye old man, Goodbye".
No honours wait him, medal, badge or star,
Though scarce could war a
kindlier deed unfold;
He bears within his breast,
more precious far
Beyond the gift of kings, a
heart of gold.
