History

Poem - 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.

Poem - 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.

 

Word of the day is 'podsnappery' (19th century, from Dickens): 'insular complacency and blinkered self-satisfaction'

Word of the day is 'podsnappery' (19th century, from Dickens): 'insular complacency and blinkered self-satisfaction'.

 


 

Word of the day is ‘quockerwodger’

Word of the day is ‘quockerwodger’ (19th century): a wooden puppet whose limbs jerk at the whim of the puppet master and, by extension, a politician whose strings of action are pulled by somebody else.

 

Poem - Days of Kindness

Days of Kindness

(Stranger Music, 1993)

Poem - Ech day me comëth tydinges thre

 

Ech day me comëth tydinges thre,
For wel swithë sore ben he:
The on is that Ich shal hennë,
That other that Ich not whennë,
The thriddë is my mestë carë,
That Ich not whider Ich shal farë.

Poem - Somer is y-comen in

 

Sing cuckóu, nou! Sing cuckóu!

Sing cuckóu! Sing cuckóu nou!

Somer is y-comen in,

Loudë sing, cuckóu!

Growëth sed and blowëth med

And springth the wodë nou

Sing cuckóu!

Ewë bletëth after lamb,

Lowth after cálve cóu;

Bullok stertëth, bukkë vertëth,

Merye sing, cuckóu!

Cuckóu, cuckóu,

Wél singést thou, cuckóu,

Ne swik thou never nou!

Poem - Miri it is while sumer i-last With foulës song

 

Miri it is while sumer i-last

With foulës song;

Oc now neghëth windës blast

And weder strong.

Ei, ei, what this night is long,

And Ich with wel michel wrong

Sorwe and murne and fast.

Poem - Foulës in the frith, The fishës in the flod

 

Foulës in the frith,

The fishës in the flod,

And I mon waxë wod;

Much sorwe I walkë with

For beste of bon and blod.

Poem - Westron wynde, when wylt thow blow The smalle rayne downe can rayne?

Old poem - mediaeval or even older.

'Westron wynde, when wilt thou blow,
The small raine down can raine.
Cryst, if my love were in my armes
And I in my bedde again!'

 

Westron wynde, when wylt thow blow
The smalle rayne downe can rayne?
Cryst yf my love were in my armys
And I yn my bed agayne!

Quoted in The Lie of the Land

 


Syndicate content