St. Crispen's Day Speech
William Shakespeare, 1599
     
WESTMORELAND . O that we now had here
    But one ten thousand of those men in England
    That do no work to-day!
 
KING . What's he that wishes so?
    My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
    If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
    To do our country loss; and if to live,
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
    God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
    But if it be a sin to covet honour,
    I am the most offending soul alive.
    No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
    God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
    As one man more methinks would share from me
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
    Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
    And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
    We would not die in that man's company
    That fears his fellowship to die with us.
    This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
    Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
    And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
    He that shall live this day, and see old age,
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
    And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
    Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
    And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
    Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
    But he'll remember, with advantages,
    What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
    Familiar in his mouth as household words-
    Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
    Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
    This story shall the good man teach his son;
    And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
    From this day to the ending of the world,
    But we in it shall be remembered-
    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
    For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
    Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his condition;
    And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
    Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Any Woman to a Soldier

The day you march away let the sun shine, 
Let everything be blue and gold and fair, 
Triumph of trumpets calling through bright air, 
Flags slanting, flowers flaunting not a sign 
That the unbearable is now to bear, 
The day you march away. 

The day you march away this I have sworn, 
No matter what comes after, that shall be 
Hid secretly between my soul and me 
As women hide the unborn 
You shall see brows like banners, lips that frame 
Smiles, for the pride those lips have in your name. 
You shall see soldiers in my eyes that day 
That day, O soldier, when you march away. 

The day you march away cannot I guess? 
There will be ranks and ranks, all leading on 
To one white face, and then the white face gone, 
And nothing left but a gray emptiness 
Blurred moving masses, faceless, featureless 
The day you march away.

Grace Ellery Channing





He Was A Mate

He was a mate, a real good mate 'e was,
A friendly sort of feller, liked a joke;
And if it had to happen, it's a shame
It had to happen to such a decent bloke.

But - ah, fair dinkum, don't it make you wonder
What God in Heaven's thinkin' about up there;
The way He chooses who to sacrifice
To me somehow it doesn't quite seem fair.

You'd think He'd want to take a bloke like me
Who'd be no loss to no-one here on Earth;
But no, He always seems to pick the best
Whose life amounts to ten times what mine's worth.

But I suppose He'd say it's not His fault,
It's us and how we treat our fellow man;
And if too many good blokes' lives are lost
We can't just blame it all on His great plan.

He slung us here on Earth and said "Righto,
Get on with it you blokes, the world is yours";
But all we've done is fight among ourselves
And destroy each other with our endless wars.

Now, there's a sort of aching here inside,
I can't quite put my finger on what's wrong;
But a soldier can't afford to feel this way,
He's got to grit his teeth and carry on.

So how's a bloke supposed to deal with this?
I know they trained me well, I can't complain;
But this is somethin' you don't learn about
When they teach you how to play the soldier's game.

They teach you how to shoot and how to kill,
You even learn which enemy to hate;
But nowhere in their training do you learn
How to live with the loss of a real good mate.

Lachlan Irvine

God Save the Flag

Washed in the blood of the brave and the blooming, 
Snatched from the altars of insolent foes, 
Burning with star-fires, but never consuming, 
Flash its broad ribbons of lily and rose.

Vainly the prophets of Baal would rend it, 
Vainly his worshippers pray for its fall; 
Thousands have died for it, millions defend it, 
Emblem of justice and mercy to all;

Justice that reddens the sky with her terrors, 
Mercy that comes with her white-handed train, 
Soothing all passions, redeeming all errors, 
Sheathing the sabre and breaking the chain.

Borne on the deluge of all usurpations, 
Drifted our Ark o'er the desolate seas, 
Bearing the rainbow of hope to the nations, 
Torn from the storm-cloud and flung to the breeze!

God bless the Flag and its loyal defenders, 
While its broad folds o'er the battle-field wave, 
Till the dim star-wreath rekindle its splendors, 
Washed from its stains in the blood of the brave!

Oliver Wendell Holmes