The following poem was found an old newspaper clipping. It was written in 1952 about the 13th July morning in Lurgan in 1951. The author had been asked several times for it so thought the easiest thing to do was to send it to the Lurgan Mail for publishing. We can tell by the poem…
‘Tls a lay of martial glory, not from ancient Greece nor RomeBut a cherished fireside story of each loyal British home – ‘Tis a scene of Derry’s valour when her war flag was unfurledAnd her fame was traced for-ever in the Annals of the World.When her brightest maiden honours were portrayed in tears of blood,When…
My daddy’s suit is in the cleaners Sure I’m collecting it today His Orange Sash in the wardrobe And a record’s playing ‘Dolly’s Brae’ At the top of our wee Belfast Street The wood is piled up high Sure it won’t belong now Till the 12th day of July I’m a little boy again Painting…
Joseph Fowler of Brackagh LOL 18, Portadown wrote a poem accounting his memory of the 12th July 1923 when an Orange Demonstration was held at Altnaveigh in memory of those who were massacred on the 17th June the previous year.
by 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 desolationAnd a glory…
By Alan Seeger I have a rendezvous with DeathAt some disputed barricade,When Spring comes back with rustling shadeAnd apple-blossoms fill the air –I have a rendezvous with DeathWhen Spring brings back blue days and fair.It may be he shall take my handAnd lead me into his dark landAnd close my eyes and quench my breath…
By Siegfried Sassoon To these I turn, in these I trust;Brother Lead and Sister Steel.To his blind power I make appeal;I guard her beauty clean from rust.He spins and burns and loves the air,And splits a skull to win my praise;But up the nobly marching daysShe glitters naked, cold and fair.Sweet Sister, grant your soldier…
by Wilfred Owen What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? – Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, – The shrill, demented choirs of wailing…
By Issac Rosenberg The darkness crumbles away.It is the same old druid Time as ever,Only a live thing leaps my hand,A queer sardonic rat,As I pull the parapet’s poppyTo stick behind my ear.Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knewYour cosmopolitan sympathies.Now you have touched this English handYou will do the same to a…
By Wilfred Owen Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,Till on the haunting flares we turned our backsAnd towards our distant rest began to trudge.Men marched asleep. Many had lost their bootsBut limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hootsOf tired,…