REMEMBRANCE. November 11th 2006

For The Fallen

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.

Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)




In Flanders Fields


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.

John McCrae, May 1915


The Soldier


If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England.
There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

Rupert Brooke


As a serving Royal Naval Reserve Officer this became my favourite hymn and I can tell you that it is sung with no greater pride that at Chapel in Britannia Royal Naval College, Dartmouth where my heart burst with pride in the uniform of the Senior Service of HM Forces.

Eternal Father, Strong to Save

Eternal Father, strong to save, Whose arm does bind the restless wave, Who bids the mighty ocean deep Its own appointed limits keep; O hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea.

O Savior, whose almighty word The winds and waves submissive heard, Who walked upon the foaming deep, And calm amid the rage did sleep; O hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea.

O Holy Spirit, who did brood Upon the waters dark and rude, And bid their angry tumult cease, And give for wild confusion peace; O hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea.

O Trinity of love and pow'r, Your children shiled in danger's hour; From rock and tempest, firs, and foe, Protect them wheresoe'er they go; Thus, evermore shall rise to Thee Glad hymns of praise from land and sea.

John Bacchus Dykes, 1861


I VOW TO THEE MY COUNTRY

I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,
entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love:

the love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,
that lays upon the altar the dearest and the best;

the love that never falters, the love that pays the price,
the love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

And there’s another country, I’ve heard of long ago,
most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know;

we may not count her armies, we may not see her King;
her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering;

and soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase,
and her ways are ways of gentleness and all her paths are PEACE.

Cecil Spring-Rice (1859-1918)

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.