Bob,
That brought a tear to my eyes. so sad.and so inspiring.
I feel I knew John.
Bob,
That brought a tear to my eyes. so sad.and so inspiring.
I feel I knew John.
How moving was Bobs' poem. It reminded me of one that I came across years ago by a Flt Lt. J.N. Wortley RAFVR. It comes to mind, as an aviator, every time I look up at aircraft vapour trails in the sky. It relates to the Battle of Britain fighter pilots.
'Vapour Trails'
Mischevious, laughing boys, who grew
To quick manhood, to be 'The Few
Who flew above all human call
Through Summer's height to Autumn's fall,
Infring'd the sanctity of space
In freedom's name- and died in grace;
Falling like leaves upon the Weald
To russet-spot an English field,
Their brief gay valiant season spent
For us. Our task, their Monument,
Nature herself has taken o'er
And has decreed for evermore,
'The Few shall be remembered by
White chalk marks in a Summer sky.
Last edited by Jeff Glasser; 01-22-2009 at 05:18 PM.
ANOTHER GOOD ONE jEFF
HERE IS THE FILM OF THE lIGHT HORSE CHARGE AT BEERSHEBA, WHERE JOHN WAS KILLED.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vvjE3h0Ahz8
Also this is a good one
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1grNs_U7oT0
Last edited by captain kong; 01-17-2009 at 10:58 PM.
>From The Queen's Royal Lancers Website:
Goodbye to my England, So long my old friend
Your days are numbered, being brought to an end
To be Scottish, Irish or Welsh that's fine
But don't say you're English, that's way out of line.
The French and the Germans may call themselves such
So may Norwegians, the Swedes and the Dutch
You can say you are Russian or maybe a Dane
But don't say you're English ever again.
At Broadcasting House the word is taboo
In Brussels it's scrapped, in Parliament too
Even schools are affected, staff do as they're told
They must not teach children about England of old.
Writers like Shakespeare, Milton and Shaw
The pupils don't learn about them anymore
How about Agincourt, Hastings , Arnhem or Mons ?
When England lost hosts of her very brave sons.
We are not Europeans, how can we be?
Europe is miles away over the sea
We're the English from England, let's all be proud
Stand up and be counted - Shout it out loud !
Let's tell our Government and Brussels too
We're proud of our heritage and the Red, White and Blue
Fly the flag of Saint George or the Union Jack
Let the world know - WE WANT OUR ENGLAND BACK !!!!
If you are English pass it on please
Bob F
How sad, how true.
Hav'nt returned to this thread for a few days as I did'nt tick the e-mail notification bit. doh!
The Greenland Whale Fishery - folksong
this version 1906, there are many versions that differ in details and order of verses
'Twas eighteen hundred and twenty four,
On March the eighteenth day,
We hoist our colours to the top of the mast,
And to Greenland bore away, brave boys,
And to Greenland bore away.
Oh, the look-out up on the mainmast stood
With a spy-glass in his hand.
'There's a whale, there's a whale, and a whale-fish,' he cried.
And she blows at every span, brave boys,
And she blows at every span.'
The captain stood on the quarterdeck,
And the ice was in his eye.
'Overhaul, overhaul, let your jib-sheet fall,
And put your boats to sea, brave boys,
And put your boats to sea!'
Oh, the boats got down and the men aboard,
And the whale was full in view.
Resolved, resolved was each whalerman bold
To steer where the whale-fish blew, brave boys,
To steer where the whale-fish blew.
Now the harpoon struck and the lines played out,
But she gave such a flourish with her tail,
She capsized our boat and we lost five men,
And we could not catch that whale, brave boys,
And we could not catch that whale.
Oh, the losing of that sperm-whale fish
It grieved our captain sore,
But the losing of those five jolly tars,
Oh, it grieved him ten times more, brave boys,
Oh, it grieved him ten times more.
'Up anchor now,' the captain cried,
'For the winter's star do appear,
It is time for to leave this cold country,
And for England we will steer, brave boys,
And for England we will steer.'
Oh, Greenland is a barren place,
It's a place that bears no green,
Where there's ice and snow, and the whale-
And the daylight's seldom seen, brave boys,
And the daylight's seldom seen.
div>
from the Cool Antarctica site.
What an excellent poem Ken, I could feel the atmosphere, it brings the picture of the convoys right into the home. hard times and brave men,
most of todays younger generation and the polititions just dont care, very sad.
I will save this to my collection.
"A destroyer dashing down the line like a sheepdog with its flock."
I especially like this 'picture'.
Good on ye Ken.
Thanks again Ken,
I could realy feel the deck move, the sounds of the sea as it smashes against the bow, taste the salt on my lips as I tried to get off the focsle head to the bridge at 2.30 am as she started to ship green ones over whilst on look out. Thanks for the memory.
Hi Ken
Your poems capture the feel and the sights of life at sea. Well done. Enjoyed.
Chris
Christopher T. George
Editor, Ripperologist
Editor, Loch Raven Review
http://christophertgeorge.blogspot.com/
Chris on Flickr and on MySpace
Hi Ken
your "In The Stokehold" reminded me of when I was Fireman on a coal burner, one of Savages, Zillah Steamship Co, the "BEACHFIELD".
A great Poem brought it all back, I could taste the ash and coal dust, feel the heat and sweat.
Here is a piece from the account of the voyage in `Ships and the Sea` thread..........................
..........Then he got rid of the Mad Irish Fireman, he was in the focsle and started an argument with the coal bogey and because it would not stand up and fight he kicked the crap out of it, flaming coals and hot ash and smoke was all over the focsle, fire was burning every where. We had to leap up on deck and throw a heaving line with a bucket attached over the side and the pass the bucket of water down the hatch to pour on the flames. After a few of these the focsle was full of smoke and steam.
"That`ll teach the ba5tard not to fight wid me". said Paddy
The Captain kicked him down the gangway. I was going to follow, `I`ll promote you to Fireman` said Captain Marshall, `it is a good experience`.
It sure was, four hours on and four hours off, two furnaces, do your own trimming. Feed `em, throw a pitch on, a little twist of the wrist and jerk and spread the coal evenly across the fires, rake and slice, dump your own ashes at the end of the four hour watch, keep her on the blood, 180 psi, and watch the water level, I got myself a belt with the buckle at the back. A buckle at the front could blister your belly with heat of the furnace on the metal. No lights down there, just the light from the flames in the furnace, like something out of Dante. After dumping the ashes and handing over with a load of coal on the plates for the next man it would be twenty minutes later, then fight my way forard between the waves and then crash on my filthy mattress still covered in ash and coal dust, at seven bells, three hours later, get down to the galley have a bacon butty and then stagger down the fiddly to the furnaces...................
There is ever a sense of the beast about steam. I always looked upon Waverley station Edinburgh as a stable for dragons. But, to have control of such a beast on the wide sea that must be something indeed.
By the by, I have been reading lately in the papers about the 'unsinkable', with learned seafarers expounding on matters of the helm. They talk of confusion between tiller and wheel steering, the development of sonar after the iceberg and of the many lives saved because of those many lives lost.
Hi Brian and Ken,
Poetry and prose, some marvellous pieces there, you each, in your own way, captured the the moments as ancient amber captured those creatures so long ago. I was there with you both, could feel the heat as you fed the fires, feel the gentle rise and fall of the ship as she made progress through the lazy swells.
thank you
BrianD
Another good one Ken.
Isnt Seafaring a wonderful profession, Men can write stories, poems, books and films all about it.
Imagine being a plasterer, a plumber, or bricky or stood behind a machine in a factory. We never hear poems of those jobs,
Sorry for any of those trades people , no wish to offend but are there any yarns, books, poems etc of those trades?
The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists! Saturday Night and Sunday Morning,
How Green was my Valley,The Stars looked Down
BrianD
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