# A Canadian Soldier-Good Poems



## SOLDIER702

When I was on my Basic I was out having a smoke with a guy and he read me a sort of poem about what it is to be a canadian soldier. I can't remember what it was called but I'd really like to know so I can find it and print it off for my self. It really made me proud to hear it. Anyone know?


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## Sig_Des

It is the soldier, not the reporter
who has given us the freedom of press.
It is the soldier, not the poet,
who has given us the freedom of speech.
It is the soldier, not the campus organizer,
who has given us the freedom to demonstrate.
It is the soldier, not the lawyer,
who has given us the right to a fair trial.
It is the soldier who salutes the flag,
who serves under the flag,
whose coffin is draped by the flag,
and who allows the protester to burn the flag.

"The Soldier"~ by Charles M. Province

That's the only one I know


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## pbi

Mopo: I think that is probably an American poem. Our military tradition has tended to emphasize sacrifice and service as an "internal virtue" rather than for the more blatanly patriotic and idealistic reasons quoted in the poem. 

I have heard another one (courtesy of Mike O'Leary), based on the "I'm Canadian" beer commercial: it seemed more to the point. I keep it posted above my desk in my office back home.

Mike: can you reproduced it for us here?

Cheers.
'


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## Michael OLeary

Its not mine, but something that was making the e-mail circuit shortly after the "I am Canadian" commercial became so popular:


Hey
I am not a boy scout
or a peacekeeper
I don't live in a perfect world
I don't kill babies
or eat K-Rations
And I don't know anyone in NDHQ or the Land Staff, but I'm certain they're really, really nice
I have a combined arms outlook
Not a limited regimental focus
I speak English or French, but it shouldn't matter
And I pronounce it â Å“warâ ?
Not peace support operation
I proudly wear my countries flag on my uniform
I believe in peace keeping and in policing
And diversity, if it doesn't affect operational capability
I believe in resolving conflict through the use of arms
And that the Beaver is a really useful engineer vehicle
This is trench, not a foxhole
A Warrant Officer is not a senior NCO
And a DFSV is not a tank!
Canada is the best country
The first nation to deploy (mostly)
And has the best army in the world
My name is Bloggins
And I am a soldier!!
Thank-you


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## Piccillo

those were both good, ima dig down and see if i can find any poems i saved off various forums.

sorry this is so long, got it off a gaming forums a long time ago. its a really good read and makes me proud when i read it.

Who is an average soldier? 

The average age of the active military man or woman seems to be 15 years old when you look at them, although it is probably nearer 19 or 20. 

The guys are short haired, tight-muscled kids who, under normal circumstances are considered by society as half men, half boys. Alternatively, in the case of a young lady, she probably has dyed hair, maybe cut shorter than she would like, and looks as though she weighs 90 pounds, still Mummy and Daddys little girl; neither yet dry behind their ears. Neither is old enough to buy a beer, but both are old enough to die for their country. 

They never really cared much for work and would rather wax their own car than wash their father's or mothers; would rather go out partying than help clean up the house, but they have never collected unemployment either. 

They are recent High School graduates; probably average students, pursued some form of sport activities, drive a ten year old jalopy, and have a steady girlfriend/boyfriend that either broke up with them when they left, or swears to be waiting when they return from half a world away. 

They listen to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and have huge Howitzers to help them do their job. 

They are 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when they were at home because they are working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk. 

They have trouble spelling, and always have all the things young people want to do, thus letter writing is a pain for them, but they can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark. 

They can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if they must. They dig foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like professionals. 

They can march until they are told to stop or stop until they are told to march. 

They obey orders instantly and without hesitation, if in a military setting, but they are not without spirit or individual dignity. 

They are self-sufficient. 



They have two sets of fatigues: they wash one and wear the other. 

They keep their canteens full and their feet dry. 

They sometimes forget to brush their teeth, in fact, they sometimes have no water to do so, but they never forget to clean their rifle. 

They can cook their own meals, live on battlefield rations, survive whilst working and fighting on one meal a day, mend their own clothes, even manage without the luxuries that they are used to at home, more importantly, they can fix their own hurts. 

If you're thirsty, they will share their water with you; if you are hungry, their food. They will even split their ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low. 

They have learned to use their hands like weapons and weapons like they were their hands. They can save your life - or take it, because that is their job. 

They will often do twice the work of, in terrible a civilian conditions, draw half the pay, and still find ironic humor in it all. 

They have seen more suffering and death then they should have in their short lifetime. They have stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create them. 

They have wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and are unashamed. 

They feel every note of the National Anthem vibrate through their body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'square-away' those around them who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, they defend their right to be disrespectful. 

Just as their Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather did, and maybe their Mother, or Grandmother, they are paying the price for our freedom. 

Beardless or not, he is not a boy, pony tail or not, she is not a girl. 

They are the Fighting Soldiers that have kept this country free for over 200 years. 

They ask nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding. 

They are all someones kids, boyfriends/girlfriends, spouses, parents, they all have loved ones who are hurting just as much as they are whilst they are thousands of miles from home. All will tell you they have lost members of their "family" whilst fighting, for the military "family" of friends and unknown comrades is important to them


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## the 48th regulator

each and every one a fantastic post, I copied and pasted all the poems and saved them.

Things you hear over the years and really never write down.

thanks mates for providing them here

tess


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## pbi

Picillo: Great, and in many ways true about our troops, but again IMHO probably  a US poem. Any more Canadian stuff out there? Or are we a mute lot? Cheers.


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## jfladeroute

pbi said:
			
		

> Picillo: Great, and in many ways true about our troops, but again IMHO probably  a US poem. Any more Canadian stuff out there? Or are we a mute lot? Cheers.



Just a Common Soldier
(A Soldier Died Today)
by A. Lawrence Vaincourt

He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the Legion, telling stories of the past.
Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, every one.

And tho' sometimes, to his neighbors, his tales became a joke,
All his Legion buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.
But we'll hear his tales no longer for old Bill has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer, for a soldier died today.

He will not be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary and quite uneventful life.
Held a job and raised a family, quietly going his own way,
And the world won't note his passing, though a soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state,
While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great.
Papers tell their whole life stories, from the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed and unsung.

Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land
A guy who breaks his promises and cons his fellow man?
Or the ordinary fellow who, in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life?

A politician's stipend and the style in which he lives
Are sometimes disproportionate to the service that he gives.
While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all,
Is paid off with a medal and perhaps, a pension small.

It's so easy to forget them for it was so long ago,
That the old Bills of our Country went to battle, but we know
It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys,
Who won for us the freedom that our Country now enjoys.

Should you find yourself in danger, with your enemies at hand,
Would you want a politician with his ever-shifting stand?
Or would you prefer a soldier, who has sworn to defend
His home, his kin and Country and would fight until the end?

He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin,
But his presence should remind us we may need his like again.
For when countries are in conflict, then we find the soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honour while he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage at the ending of his days.
Perhaps just a simple headline in a paper that would say,
Our Country is in mourning, for a soldier died today.

©1985 A. Lawrence Vaincourt

http://www.vaincourt.homestead.com/


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## jfladeroute

Another one:

Prayer Before Battle

by Major Alex Campbell
O.C. "A" Company, Hastings & Prince Edward Regiment
Killed in action: December 25, 1943 at the Moro River, Italy

When, 'neath the rumble of the guns,
I lead my men against the "Huns" -
It's then I feel so all alone, weak and scared,
And oft I've wondered how I dared
Accept the task of leading men.

I wonder, worry, fret, and then
I pray, O God, who promised oft
To humble men to list an ear,
Now in my troubled state of mind,
Draw near, O God draw near, draw near.

Make me more willing to obey,
Help me to merit my command,
And if this be my fatal day,
Reach out, O God, Thy helping hand
And help me down the deep dark vale.

These men of mine must never know
How much afraid I really am.
Help me, so that they will say,
"He was a man."


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## Da_man

I wear combats, not fatigues and I work for a "lef-tenant", not a "loo-tenant".

I drive an Iltis, not a Jeep or a Humvee and the weapon I carry for my protection is a C7, not an M16.

I observe from, or take cover in, a trench and not a foxhole.

I don't just speak English or French, nor am I bilingual. I can speak many languages.

Although I am trained to fight in a war, I don't cause them.

When I am not deployed on a mission of peace, I travel all over my country; fighting forest fires, battling floods, rescuing lost souls or repairing damages caused by an ice storm.

I try not to take sides and believe in treating all humanity equally.

I don't just go on patrols; I also clear landmines to make the area safe for everyone.

In my off-duty hours while deployed, I occupy myself by rebuilding schools or playgrounds and, I teach children in a war-torn country about peace and harmony.

I am my country's best ambassador and I am respected the world over for what I do best.

I carry my country's flag shamelessly and hold my head up high wherever I go.

My name is Frank, and I am... a proud Canadian peacekeeper.


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## Northern Touch

I have this one on my door so I see it everytime I enter my room.  

He is profane and irreverent, living as he does in a world full of capriciousness, frustration and disillusionment. He is perhaps the best-educated of his kind in history, but will rarely accord respect on the basis of mere degrees or titles. He speaks his own dialect, often incomprehensible to the layman.

He can be cold, cruel, even brutal and is frequently insensitive. Killing is his profession and he strives very hard to become even more skilled at it. His model is the grey, muddy, hard-eyed slayer who took the untakeable at Vimy Ridge, endured the unendurable in the Scheldt and held the unholdable at Kapyong. He is a superlative practical diplomat; his efforts have brought peace to countless countries around the world. He is capable of astonishing acts of kindness, warmth and generosity. He will give you his last sip of water on a parched day and his last food to a hungry child; he will give his very life for the society he loves.

Danger and horror are his familiars and his sense of humour is accordingly sardonic. What the unknowing take as callousness is his defence against the unimaginable; he whistles through a career filled with graveyards.

His ethos is one of self-sacrifice and duty. He is sinfully proud of himself, of his unit and of his country and he is unique in that his commitment to his society is Total. No other trade or profession dreams of demanding such of its members and none could successfully try.

He loves his family dearly, sees them all too rarely and as often as not loses them to the demands of his profession. Loneliness is the price he accepts for the privilege of serving.

He accounts discomfort as routine and the search for personal gain as beneath him; he has neither understanding of nor patience for those motivated by self-interest, politics or money. His loyalty can be absolute, but it must be purchased. Paradoxically, the only coin accepted for that payment is also loyalty.

He devours life with big bites, knowing that each bite might be his last and his manners suffer thereby. He would rather die regretting the things he did than the ones he dared not try. He earns a good wage by most standards and, given the demands on him, is woefully underpaid.

He can be arrogant, thoughtless and conceited, but will spend himself, sacrifice everything for total strangers in places he cannot even pronounce. He considers political correctness a podium for self-righteous fools, but will die fighting for the rights of anyone he respects or pities.

He is a philosopher and a drudge, an assassin and a philanthropist, a servant and a leader, a disputer and a mediator, a Nobel Laureate peacekeeper and the Queen's Hitman, a brawler and a healer, best friend and worst enemy. He is a rock, a goat, a fool, a sage, a drunk, a provider, a cynic and a romantic dreamer. Above it all, he is a hero for our time. You, pale stranger, sleep well at night only because he exists for you, the citizen who has never met him, has perhaps never thought of him and may even despise him. He is both your child and your guardian. His devotion to you is unwavering. He is a Canadian soldier.

--author unknown--


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## scm77




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## McplJackson

I know this one is about christmas and it is quite long but evwry time my dad went over seas he would send this to me. ENJOY
Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone, 
In a one bedroom house made of plaster & stone. 
I had come down the chimney with presents to give 
And to see just who in this home did live. 

I looked all about a strange sight I did see, 
No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree. 
No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand, 
On the wall hung pictures of far distant lands. 

With medals and badges, awards of all kind 
A sober thought came through my mind. 
For this house was different, so dark and dreary, 
I knew I had found the home of a soldier, once I could see clearly. 

I heard stories about them, I had to see more 
So I walked down the hall and pushed open the door. 
And there he lay sleeping silent alone, 
Curled up on the floor in his one bedroom home. 

His face so gentle, his room in such disorder, 
Not how I pictured a Canadian soldier. 
Was this the hero of whom I'd just read? 
Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed? 

His head was clean shaven, his weathered face tan, 
I soon understood this was more than a man. 
For I realized the families that I saw that night 
Owed their lives to these men who were willing to fight. 

Soon 'round the world, the children would play, 
And grownups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day. 
They all enjoyed freedom each month of the year, 
Because of soldiers like this one lying here. 

I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone 
On a cold Christmas Eve in a land far from home. 
Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye, 
I dropped to my knees and started to cry. 

The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice, 
"Santa don't cry, this life is my choice; 
I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more, 
my life is my God, my country, my Corps." 

With that he rolled over and drifted off into sleep, 
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep. 
I watched him for hours, so silent and still, 
I noticed he shivered from the cold night's chill. 

So I took off my jacket, the one made of red, 
And I covered this Soldier from his toes to his head. 
And I put on his T-shirt of gray and black, 
With a Canadain flag and an Army patch embroidered on back. 

And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride, 
And for a shining moment, I was Canadain Army deep inside. 
I didn't want to leave him on that cold dark night, 
This guardian of honor so willing to fight. 

Then the soldier rolled over, whispered with a voice so clean and pure, 
"Carry on Santa, it's Christmas Day, all is secure." 
One look at my watch, and I knew he was right, 
Merry Christmas my friend, and to all a good night!


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## jfladeroute

You know, I just knew that someone was going to post that one - I'm just surprised it took so long.

Now, how can I say this nicely? (Hmmm, seems I can't actually say this nicely. Oh, well.) It's glurge, pure and simple. For those unfamiliar with the term, its coinage comes courtesy of Barbara Hamill, later Barbara Mikkelson of snopes fame; see http://www.wordspy.com/words/glurge.asp and  http://www.snopes.com/glurge/. The term has caught on (probably due to the sickening amount of glurge that well-meaning people spam their friends with - see http://glurge.com/).

When it comes to this particular specimen, I loathe it, despise it, abhor it. Every non-military friend and acquaintance with email access has sent it to me and I would happily consign it to the seventh circle of heck. I don't do "cute", I don't do "glurge", and I think that whoever came up with those horrid "Chicken Soup" books should be forced to read http://www.rinkworks.com/peasoup/. Out loud. To a room full of grandmothers and Girl Guides.

For those who feel I've been harsh, I will offer http://www.snopes.com/holidays/christmas/soldier.asp - at least it gives the history of the piece.

But I still hate it.   >


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## JasonH

I liked 'em


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## Piccillo

i liked them all, and saved each one ^_^


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## SOLDIER702

Its been awhile since I was on but I wanted to say thanks to Northern Touch, that was the poem I was looking for I appreciate it.


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## D-n-A

good poems


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## m_a_c

Great Poems, thank you for posting them.

m_a_c


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## ibucephalus

Well, this one isn't written by a Canadian but it is my favourite war poem. You have to read it out loud to get the full effect of the language. Preferably with an English accent. Sadly the fellow was killed leading his platoon in an attack just a week before the signing of the armistice. 

_Greater Love_

by Wilfred Owen

Red lips are not so red
   As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of the wooed and wooer
Seems shame to their love pure.
O Love, you eyes lose lure
   When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!

Your slender attitude
   Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,
Rolling and rolling there
Where god seems not to care;
Till the fierce love they bear
   Cramps them in death's extreme dicrepitude.

Your voice sings not so soft, -
   Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft, -
Your dear voice is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs whom none now hear,
   Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.

Heart, you were never hot
   Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;
And though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
   Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.


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## GDawg

Northern Touch said:
			
		

> I have this one on my door so I see it everytime I enter my room.
> 
> He is profane and irreverent, living as he does in a world full of capriciousness, frustration and disillusionment. He is perhaps the best-educated of his kind in history, but will rarely accord respect on the basis of mere degrees or titles. He speaks his own dialect, often incomprehensible to the layman.
> 
> He can be cold, cruel, even brutal and is frequently insensitive. Killing is his profession and he strives very hard to become even more skilled at it. His model is the grey, muddy, hard-eyed slayer who took the untakeable at Vimy Ridge, endured the unendurable in the Scheldt and held the unholdable at Kapyong. He is a superlative practical diplomat; his efforts have brought peace to countless countries around the world. He is capable of astonishing acts of kindness, warmth and generosity. He will give you his last sip of water on a parched day and his last food to a hungry child; he will give his very life for the society he loves.
> 
> Danger and horror are his familiars and his sense of humour is accordingly sardonic. What the unknowing take as callousness is his defence against the unimaginable; he whistles through a career filled with graveyards.
> 
> His ethos is one of self-sacrifice and duty. He is sinfully proud of himself, of his unit and of his country and he is unique in that his commitment to his society is Total. No other trade or profession dreams of demanding such of its members and none could successfully try.
> 
> He loves his family dearly, sees them all too rarely and as often as not loses them to the demands of his profession. Loneliness is the price he accepts for the privilege of serving.
> 
> He accounts discomfort as routine and the search for personal gain as beneath him; he has neither understanding of nor patience for those motivated by self-interest, politics or money. His loyalty can be absolute, but it must be purchased. Paradoxically, the only coin accepted for that payment is also loyalty.
> 
> He devours life with big bites, knowing that each bite might be his last and his manners suffer thereby. He would rather die regretting the things he did than the ones he dared not try. He earns a good wage by most standards and, given the demands on him, is woefully underpaid.
> 
> He can be arrogant, thoughtless and conceited, but will spend himself, sacrifice everything for total strangers in places he cannot even pronounce. He considers political correctness a podium for self-righteous fools, but will die fighting for the rights of anyone he respects or pities.
> 
> He is a philosopher and a drudge, an assassin and a philanthropist, a servant and a leader, a disputer and a mediator, a Nobel Laureate peacekeeper and the Queen's Hitman, a brawler and a healer, best friend and worst enemy. He is a rock, a goat, a fool, a sage, a drunk, a provider, a cynic and a romantic dreamer. Above it all, he is a hero for our time. You, pale stranger, sleep well at night only because he exists for you, the citizen who has never met him, has perhaps never thought of him and may even despise him. He is both your child and your guardian. His devotion to you is unwavering. He is a Canadian soldier.
> 
> --author unknown--



I know I am resurrecting a dead thread here, does anyone have any idea who wrote this? We had this posted up at the FOB I was at in Afghanistan and when I put it up on my facebook I had a great deal of positive feedback about it. It would be great to give credit where it is due as this moving piece of literature makes the rounds.


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## PMedMoe

According to this link (see page 7), it was Don Adlam.


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## PMedMoe

Here's another good one:

THE  FINAL  INSPECTION

The soldier stood and faced God,
Which must always come to pass
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To My Church have you been true?"

The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
"No, Lord, I guess I ain't.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can't always be a saint.

I've had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.

But, I never took a penny,
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills got just too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

I know I don't deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand.
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't, I'll understand.

There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.

"Step forward now, you soldier,
You've borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets;
You've done your time in Hell."


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## Dariusz

Here is a short one for this time of the year / remembrance day, from the book "Black Devil Brigade" :


My Buddy

You've been a friend, both good and true
In time of strife, you've seen me through
When we advanced, you stood the test
You did not quit, you did your best
I leave you here, to meet the dawn
Now 'tis night, and I must move on
And at your head, I place this cross
It bears your name, I bear the loss.
                                    --Anonymous


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## MikeL

Does anyone know the poem that Sgt Lorne Ford read at the end of the documentry Canadians in Afghanistan?


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## leroi

I like this one. Don't know much about either author or era. I'm guessing WW1. (It may not be Canadian, though.)


The Debt Unpayable

      What have I given,
          Bold sailor on the sea? 
      In earth or heaven,
          That you should die for me? 
      What can I give,
          O soldier, lean and brave, 
      Long as I live,
          To pay the life you gave? 
      What tithe or part
          Can I return to thee, 
      O stricken heart,
          That thou shouldst break for me? 
      The wind of Death
          For you has slain life's flowers, 
      It withereth
          (God grant) all weeds in ours. 


	*F.W. Bourdillon*


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## MikeL

"We cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies" 


Monsters in the Dark
by MCpl Jeff Walsh

I know that they are out there:
I will not be ignorant anymore:
Pulling the blanket over my head will not keep them
from coming ashore;
Instead I choose to confront them
as afraid as I might be;
Because if I don't stop the monsters
our children can never be free.


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## MikeL

"When a soldier was injured and could not get back to safety, 
his buddy went out to get him, against his officer's orders. 
He returned mortally wounded and his friend, whom he had carried back,
 was dead. The officer was angry. "I told you not to go," he said. 
"Now I've lost both of you. It was not worth it." 
The dying man replied, "But it was, sir, because when I got to him he 
said, 'Jim, I knew you'd come.'." - Leslie D. Weatherhead


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## CadetMez

Wow, all those poems are so moving, really makes you think.


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## TrexLink

PMedMoe said:
			
		

> According to this link (see page 7), it was Don Adlam.


It was not Don Adlam. I was there when it was written, in Petawawa years ago. The soldier who wrote it did not wish to be identified, feeling that it was something for all and, in a sense, from all Canadian soldiers.


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## PMedMoe

TrexLink said:
			
		

> It was not Don Adlam. I was there when it was written, in Petawawa years ago. The soldier who wrote it did not wish to be identified, feeling that it was something for all and, in a sense, from all Canadian soldiers.



Okay then, no big deal.  Maybe in the link I provided it was _submitted_ by Don Adlam.


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## TrexLink

Entirely possible; no biggie either way.  There have been a couple of others claiming credit in past, which is pretty sad when you think about it.


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## PMedMoe

TrexLink said:
			
		

> There have been a couple of others claiming credit in past, which is pretty sad when you think about it.



It is sad, however, when someone does not claim the work at the original publication, they leave it open for that kind of thing.


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## TrexLink

True.


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## hlss_h513

ok i dont know if this poem is realy apropriate but i found it a long time ago.  its about the british invasion of afghanistan in the 1800's


Rudyard Kipling

THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER


When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
   Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
    Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
    Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
    Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
         So-oldier ~OF~ the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
   A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
    Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
   An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
    Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
   An' it crumples the young British soldier.
    Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You ~must~ wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
   An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
    Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
   That it's beer for the young British soldier.
    Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
   Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
    'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er:  that's Hell for them both,
   An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
    Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck,
Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck,
Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck
   And march to your front like a soldier.
    Front, front, front like a soldier . . .

When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch,
Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch;
She's human as you are -- you treat her as sich,
   An' she'll fight for the young British soldier.
    Fight, fight, fight for the soldier . . .

When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine,
The guns o' the enemy wheel into line,
Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine,
   For noise never startles the soldier.
    Start-, start-, startles the soldier . . .

If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white,
Remember it's ruin to run from a fight:
So take open order, lie down, and sit tight,
   And wait for supports like a soldier.
    Wait, wait, wait like a soldier . . .

When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains,
And the women come out to cut up what remains,
Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
   An' go to your Gawd like a soldier.
    Go, go, go like a soldier,
    Go, go, go like a soldier,
    Go, go, go like a soldier,
         So-oldier ~of~ the Queen!


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## Monsoon

hlss_h513 said:
			
		

> ok i dont know if this poem is realy apropriate but i found it a long time ago.  its about the british invasion of afghanistan in the 1800's


Well that depends on what aspect of the poem you'd like to highlight. If you post it as an observation on the difficulties of service life, then I doubt anyone's going to complain.

However, if you've posted it as a political commentary along the lines of that tiresome refrain from the Taliban's media kit that "Afghanistan-is-ungovernable-and-no-one's-ever-been-able-to-conquer-it-so-why-is-the-west-there?", then the fact that it's a poem isn't likely to blind anyone to the fact that it's also an elaborate insult.

So why don't you tell us what inspired you to post this?


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## JBoyd

I posted this on my facebook as a note quite a while ago, I know its not specifically about a Canadian soldier, but it is about a soldier none-the-less.

You stay up for 16 hours
He stays up for days on end.

You take a warm shower to help you wake up.
He goes days or weeks without running water and washes up with a wet one.

You complain of a headache and call in sick.
He has blisters on his feet from walking miles in full gear and keeps going.

You put on your anti war/don't support the troops shirt, and go meet up
with your friends.
He still fights for your right to wear that shirt.

You make sure your cell phone is in your pocket.
He clutches the cross hanging on his chain next to his dog tags.

You talk trash about your buddies that aren't with you.
His buddies are closer then a brother and he would lay down his life for anyone of them.

You walk down the beach, staring at all the pretty girls.
He patrols the streets and mountains, searching for insurgents and terrorists.

You complain about how hot it is.
He wears his heavy gear, not daring to take off his helmet to wipe his brow.

You go out to lunch, and complain because the restaurant got your order wrong.
He gets to eat a cold MRE or beef jerky.

Your maid makes your bed and washes your clothes.
He wears the same things for weeks, but makes sure his weapons are clean.

You go to the mall and get your hair redone.
He doesn't have time to brush his teeth today.

You're angry because your class ran 5 minutes over.
He's told he will be held over an extra 2 months.

You call your girlfriend and set a date for tonight.
He waits for the mail to see if there is a letter from home.

You hug and kiss your girlfriend like you do everyday.
He holds his letter close and smells his love's perfume.

You criticize your government and say that war never solves anything.
He sees the innocent tortured and killed by their own people and remembers why he is fighting.

You hear the jokes about the war and make fun of men like him.
He hears the gunfire, bombs and screams of the innocent that he is trying to protect.

You see only what the media wants you to see.
He sees lives experiencing freedom and democracy for the first time.

You are asked to go to the store by your parents. You don't.
He does exactly what he is told.

You stay at home and watch TV.
He takes whatever time he is given to call, write home, sleep and eat.

You crawl into your soft bed, with down pillows, and get comfortable.
He tries to sleep but is awakened by mortars and helicopters all night long.

You sit there and judge him, saying the world is probably a worse place because of men like him.
If only there were more men like him


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## Biggoals2bdone

These are all great and sensationally inspirational, but any more that are NON army, aka AF or Navy?


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## hlss_h513

hamiltongs said:
			
		

> Well that depends on what aspect of the poem you'd like to highlight. If you post it as an observation on the difficulties of service life, then I doubt anyone's going to complain.
> 
> its just a poem i found in english class last month doing reasearch on kipling and i thought i would post it.
> im not realy political i just think all members of the military are great.


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## leroi

I discovered this newly released book-it's a treasure trove of some very poignant moments in Canadian history-the kind of book I like to keep on the bedside table and read a little at a time.

Details on link: http://www.oupcanada.com/catalog/9780195431711.html

The book is slim and unassuming; the poetry is powerful and the editor, Joel Baetz, claims it's "the first anthology solely devoted to Canadian war poetry ... "

Towards the end of the anthology the editor includes some war letters and writings about the WW I.

Here is one poetic sample:

A Canadian

The glad and brave young heart
Had come across the sea,
He longed to play his part
in crushing tyranny.

The mountains and the plains
Of his beloved land
Were wine within his veins
And gave an iron hand.

He scorned the thought of fear,
He murmured not at pain,
The call of God was clear,
The path of duty plain.

Beneath the shower of lead
Of poison and of fire,
He charged and fought and bled
Ablaze with one desire.

O Canada, with pride
Look up and greet the morn,
Since of thy wounded side
Such breed of men is born.
​
                                                                                                                                    Frederick George Scott
                                                                                                                                   *Composed at VLAMERTINGHE, NEAR YPRES: 27 April 1915

*"The place and date suggest this poem was written on the occasion of the Second Battle of Ypres in late April 1015," according to Baetz.


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## 2ndChoiceName

I know I'm resurrecting a dead thread, but there's got to be more poems out there!

I've got one, which specifically refers to the US cavalry, but could still apply:

Halfway down the trail to Hell,
In a shady meadow green
Are the Souls of all dead troopers camped,
Near a good old-time canteen.
And this eternal resting place
Is known as Fiddlers' Green.
Marching past, straight through to Hell
The Infantry are seen.
Accompanied by the Engineers,
Artillery and Marines,
For none but the shades of Cavalrymen
Dismount at Fiddlers' Green.
Though some go curving down the trail
To seek a warmer scene.
No trooper ever gets to Hell
Ere he's emptied his canteen.
And so rides back to drink again
With friends at Fiddlers' Green.
And so when man and horse go down
Beneath a saber keen,
Or in a roaring charge of fierce melee
You stop a bullet clean,
And the hostiles come to get your scalp,
Just empty your canteen,
And put your pistol to your head
And go to Fiddlers' Green.


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## leroi

Captain T.A. Girling of the 'Canadian Army Veterinary Corps' written in 1916 from somewhere in Ypres:

Dumb Heroes

There's a D.S.O. for the Colonel,
A Military Cross for the Sub,
A medal or two when we all get through
And a bottle of wine with our grub.

There's a stripe of gold for the wounded,
A rest by the bright seashore,
And a service is read when we bury our dead
Then our country has one hero more.

But what of our poor dumb heroes
That we send without choice to the fight,
That strain at the load on the shell swept road
As they take up their rations at night.

They are shelling on Hell Fire Corner.
Their shrapnel fast bursts o'er the square.
And the bullets drum as the transports come
With the food for the soldiers there.
It's the daily work of the horses.
And they answer the spur and the rein
With quickened breath mid the toll of death
In the mud and the holes and the rain.

But they walk with the spirit of heroes.
They care not for medals or cross
But for duty alone into perils unknown
They go never counting the loss.

They're shell-shocked, they're bruised and they're broken,
They're wounded and torn as they fall,
But they're true and they're brave to the very grave
And in silence they're heroes all through.

Author Bio: http://twgpp.org/information.php?id=2923232


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## 2ndChoiceName

Original poem by me, written for an english class assignment. It is loosely based off an experience I had at a Remembrance Day ceremony while I was still in Cadets.

The Soldier

Cold November wind whips at my face.
My jacket threatens to open.
I stand watching,
As they lay wreaths upon the granite.

From the crowd comes a man,
Short, and old, with eyes steely grey.
He wears a beret upon his head,
And his chest adorned with medals.
Earned in blood years ago,
They now wink at me in the morning sun.
And from his beret,
An arched cat bares its teeth in an eternal hiss

He steps to the monument.
He seems in awe as he gazes up.

He lays the wreath and steps back.
Then, a call from an unheard Sergeant-Major:
He snaps to attention.
A wrinkled hand flies to a wrinkled brow,
And his lips form words I cannot hear.
For they are not meant for us.

I know not where this man has been,
Nor what he has done.

But I know this:
He is a soldier, now and forever.


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