# WW1 Poetry



## Zer02005 (25 Oct 2007)

Well right now I am doing a project in school(for remembrance day) and I am looking for poetry by canadian soldiers written during WW1. Now I know theres large ammounts out there and anything is welcome(some of your fav's.) but if some could include some written by new-brunswickers that would be awesome too. Thanks in advanced!


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## Blackadder1916 (25 Oct 2007)

Whether this project is for a class in History or English Literature, you definitely have to work on your grammar and spelling.  If you "know theres large ammounts out there" (SIC), find it.  Google and/or go to a library.  Hopefully you are already aware that the author of probably the best known and most popular poem from that conflict was a Canadian, John McCrae.  His (poetic) work was not limited to that one poem.   I leave it to you to find what he wrote.  If your request here is for unpublished or obsure poets, that's an interesting approach.  If not, go do your homework.


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## 3rd Herd (25 Oct 2007)

Do not know specifically about those from New Bruinswick but I am currently reading an absolutely fascinating "social history" of the PPCLI in the First World War. It is titled As Long as Faith and Freedom
Last—Stories From The Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry From June 1914 To September 1919 by R. F. Zubkowski CD. The title of the book is the title of a poem contained in the book. You may find some other interesting information in it.


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## marshall sl (26 Oct 2007)

The Haggis Of Private McPhee
Robert Service
“Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither’s postit tae me?
It fair maks me hamesick,” says Private McPhee.
“And whit did she send ye?” says Private McPhun,
As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun.
“A haggis! A Haggis!” says Private McPhee;
“The brawest big haggis I ever did see.
And think! it’s the morn when fond memory turns
Tae haggis and whuskey—the Birthday o’ Burns.
We maun find a dram; then we’ll ca’ in the rest
O’ the lads, and we’ll hae a Burns’ Nicht wi’ the best.”

“Be ready at sundoon,” snapped Sergeant McCole;
“I want you two men for the List’nin’ Patrol.”
Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun:
“I’m thinkin’, ma lad, we’re confoundedly done.”
Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee:
“I’m thinkin’ auld chap, it’s a’ aff wi’ oor spree.”
But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair:
“Jist lea’ yer braw haggis for me tae prepare;
And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun’,
We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon.
Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black,
O’ the haggis that’s waitin’ ye when ye get back.”

My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy’s Land,
And the deid they were rottin’ on every hand.
And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky,
And the winds o’ destruction went shudderin’ by.
There wis skelpin’ o’ bullets and skirlin’ o’ shells,
And breengin’ o’ bombs and a thoosand death-knells;
But cooryin’ doon in a Jack Johnson hole
Little fashed the twa men o’ the List’nin’ Patrol.
For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem
Wis the thocht o’ the haggis that waitit for them.

Yet alas! in oor moments o’ sunniest cheer
Calamity’s aften maist cruelly near.
And while the twa talked o’ their puddin’ divine
The Boches below them were howkin’ a mine.
And while the twa cracked o’ the feast they would hae,
The fuse it wis burnin’ and burnin’ away.
Then sudden a roar like the thunner o’ doom,
A hell-leap o’ flame . . . then the wheesht o’ the tomb.

“Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?” says Private McPhun.
“Ay, Geordie, they’ve got me; I’m fearin’ I’m done.
It’s ma leg; I’m jist thinkin’ it’s aff at the knee;
Ye’d best gang and leave me,” says Private McPhee.
“Oh leave ye I wunna,” says Private McPhun;
“And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run,
It’s no faur I wud gang, it’s no muckle I’d see:
I’m blindit, and that’s whit’s the maitter wi’ me.”
Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid:
“If we bide here for lang, we’ll be bidin’ for deid.
And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content
If I’d tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent.”
“That’s droll,” says McPhun; “ye’ve jist speakit ma mind.
Oh I ken it’s a terrible thing tae be blind;
And yet it’s no that that embitters ma lot—
It’s missin’ that braw muckle haggis ye’ve got.”
For a while they were silent; then up once again
Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi’ pain:
“And why should we miss it? Between you and me
We’ve legs for tae run, and we’ve eyes for tae see.
You lend me your shanks and I’ll lend you ma sicht,
And we’ll baith hae a kyte-fu’ o’ haggis the nicht.”

Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin’ a wee,
When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee.
Oh the glaur it wis fylin’ and crieshin’ the grun’,
When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun.
“Keep clear o’ them corpses—they’re maybe no deid!
Haud on! There’s a big muckle crater aheid.
Look oot! There’s a sap; we’ll be haein’ a coup.
A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup.
Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein’ fine:
Before the nicht’s feenished on haggis we’ll dine.”

There wis death and destruction on every hand;
There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy’s Land.
And the shells bickered doun wi’ a crump and a glare,
And the hameless wee bullets were dingin’ the air.
Yet on they went staggerin’, cooryin’ doun
When the stutter and cluck o’ a Maxim crept roun’.
And the legs o’ McPhun they were sturdy and stoot,
And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot.
“On, on, ma brave lad! We’re no faur frae the goal;
I can hear the braw sweerin’ o’ Sergeant McCole.”

But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun,
Wi’ a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun’.
Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear:
“Jist think o’ the haggis! I smell it from here.
It’s gushin’ wi’ juice, it’s embaumin’ the air;
It’s steamin’ for us, and we’re—jist—aboot—there.”
Then Private McPhun answers: “Dommit, auld chap!
For the sake o’ that haggis I’ll gang till I drap.”
And he gets on his feet wi’ a heave and a strain,
And onward he staggers in passion and pain.
And the flare and the glare and the fury increase,
Till you’d think they’d jist taken a’ hell on a lease.
And on they go reelin’ in peetifu’ plight,
And someone is shoutin’ away on their right;
And someone is runnin’, and noo they can hear
A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer;
And swift through the crash and the flash and the din,
The lads o’ the Hielands are bringin’ them in.

“They’re baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll
Hoo they rave aboot haggis?” says Sergeant McCole.
When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair,
And they a’ wonnert why he wis greetin’ sae sair.
And he says: “I’d jist liftit it oot o’ the pot,
And there it lay steamin’ and savoury hot,
When sudden I dooked at the fleech o’ a shell,
And it—dropped on the haggis and dinged it tae hell.”

And oh but the lads were fair taken aback;
Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack,
And up from the trenches like lions they leapt,
And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept.
On, on, wi’ their bayonets thirstin’ before!
On, on tae the foe wi’ a rush and a roar!
And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang,
And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang:
And there wisna a man but had death in his ee,
For he thocht o’ the haggis o’ Private McPhee.
Online text © 1998-2007 Poetry X. All rights reserved.
From Rhymes of a Red Cross Man


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## Hawk (26 Oct 2007)

Fabulous! Although a Service fan, I hadn't read that one! Amazing what people will do for the "Chieftan o'the puddin' race"!


Hawk


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## Zer02005 (29 Oct 2007)

Thank you Marshal. I loved that poem.As for you blackadder that was an unnessacary remark and I really couldn't care what you think of my grammer.


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## Lumadue (29 Oct 2007)

LT.?(unsure) John McCrae "In Flander's Field"

possibly the most well known WW1 poem

EDIT: sorry, didnt see it on the 2nd post, but thats the title


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## 3rd Herd (29 Oct 2007)

"Bernard Freeman Trotter was killed in action in France on May 7th, 1917. By his early death he was only twenty-six Canada lost a brave soldier and one of the most promising of her younger poets. Those who knew him best may be pardoned if they link him in their thought with Rupert Brooke and Alan Seeger. As the former died for England in the Aegean, and the latter, an American, gave his life for France at the Somme, so Bernard Trotter laid himself on the altar of heroic and unselfish sacrifice for his native land and the sacred cause for which the Empire fights.............." 
W. S. W. McLAY. Toronto, August, 1917. 

"A CANADIAN TWILIGHT
PEACE .... Peace .... the peace of dusky shores
And tremulous waters where dark shadows lie;
The stillness of low sounds .... the ripple s urge
Along the keel, the distant thrush s call,
The drip of oars ; the calm of dew-filled air ;
The peace of afterglow; the golden peace
Of the moon s ringer laid across the flood.
Yet ah! how few brief, fleeting moments since,
That same still finger lay at Langemarck,
And touched the silent dead, and wanly moved
Across the murky fields and battle lines
Where late my Country s bravest kept their faith.
heavenly beauty of our northern wild,
1 held it once the perfect death to die
In such a scene, in such an hour, and pass
From glory unto glory Time, perhaps,
May yet retrieve that vision oh! but now
These quiet hills oppress me : I am hedged
As in that selfish Eden of the dawn
Wherein man fell to rise; and I have sucked
The bitter fruit of knowledge, and am robbed
Of my rose-decked contentment, when I hear
Though far, the clash of arms, the shouts, the groans
A world in torment, dying to be saved.​
Oh God! the blood of Outram* in these veins
Cries shame upon the doom that dams it here
In useless impotence, while the red torrent runs
In glorious spate for Liberty and Right !
Oh, to have died that day at Langemarck !
In one fierce moment to have paid it all
The debt of life to Earth, and Hell, and Heaven!
To have perished nobly in a noble cause!
Untarnished, unpolluted, undismayed,
By the dank world s corruption, to have passed,
A flaming beacon-light to gods and men !
For in the years to come it shall be told
How these laid down their lives, not for their homes,
Their orchards, fields and cities : They were driven
To slaughter by no tyrant s lust for power;
Of their free manhood s choice they crossed the sea
To save a stricken people from its foe.
They died for Justice Justice owes them this:
That what they died for be not overthrown.&quot;
Peace .... Peace .... not thus may I find peace
Like a caged leopard chafing at its bars
In ineffectual movement, this clogged spirit
Must pad its life out, an unwilling drone,
In safety and in comfort; at the best
Achieving patience in the gods despite
And at the worst somehow the debt is paid.
Lake Cecebe, June 1915.
(Written while frail health prevented enlistment.)​
Source:Trotter, Bernard Freeman. A Canadian Twilight and Other Poems of War and of Peace
http://ia300232.us.archive.org/1/items/canadiantwilight00trotuoft/canadiantwilight00trotuoft.pdf


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## redleafjumper (29 Oct 2007)

This is a useful source for a variety of writers, including some Canadians:

The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry: Revised Edition (Penguin Twentieth-Century Classics) (Paperback)
by Various (Author), Jon Silkin (Editor) "Even compassion must now be circumspect, for if it doesn't try to do away with, or limit, the war that causes the suffering, it's indulgent..." 
   
   
 Cheers,

Redleafjumper


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