financeguy
ONE love, blood, life
IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
No Man's Land by Eric Bogle
Well, how do you do Pvt. Wm. McBride?
Do you mind if I sit down here by your grave side?
I’ve been walking all day in the hot summer sun,
walking all day and I’m nearly done.
I can see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
when you joined the glorious fallen in 1916.
Well, I hope you died quick. I hope you died clean.
For Wm. McBride was it slow and obscene?
Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o’er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing the Last Posting Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
Did you leave a wife or a sweet heart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And though you died back in 1916
in some faithful heart are you every nineteen?
Or are you a stranger without even a name
entombed forever behind a glass pane
in an old photograph torn and tattered and stained
and fading to yellow in a bound leather frame?
Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o’er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing the Last Posting Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
The sun’s shining down on these green fields of France.
The warm winds blow gently and the red poppies dance.
Trenches have vanished under the plow,
There’s no gas, no barbed wire or guns firing loud.
But here in the graveyard that is ever No Man’s Land
Countless white crosses in mute witness stand
to man’s pained indifference to his fellow man,
and a whole generation that’s butchered and damned.
Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o’er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing the Last Posting Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
Can’t help wondering for Wm. McBride,
Did all those who died here know just why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you The Cause?
Did you really believe that war would end wars?
Oh the suffering and the sorrow and the glory and shame
The killing and the dying was all done in vain.
For Wm McBride it all happened again
and again and again and again and again.
Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o’er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing the Last Posting Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
Did the bugles sing the Last Posting Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
No Man's Land by Eric Bogle
Well, how do you do Pvt. Wm. McBride?
Do you mind if I sit down here by your grave side?
I’ve been walking all day in the hot summer sun,
walking all day and I’m nearly done.
I can see by your gravestone you were only nineteen
when you joined the glorious fallen in 1916.
Well, I hope you died quick. I hope you died clean.
For Wm. McBride was it slow and obscene?
Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o’er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing the Last Posting Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
Did you leave a wife or a sweet heart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined?
And though you died back in 1916
in some faithful heart are you every nineteen?
Or are you a stranger without even a name
entombed forever behind a glass pane
in an old photograph torn and tattered and stained
and fading to yellow in a bound leather frame?
Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o’er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing the Last Posting Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
The sun’s shining down on these green fields of France.
The warm winds blow gently and the red poppies dance.
Trenches have vanished under the plow,
There’s no gas, no barbed wire or guns firing loud.
But here in the graveyard that is ever No Man’s Land
Countless white crosses in mute witness stand
to man’s pained indifference to his fellow man,
and a whole generation that’s butchered and damned.
Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o’er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing the Last Posting Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
Can’t help wondering for Wm. McBride,
Did all those who died here know just why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you The Cause?
Did you really believe that war would end wars?
Oh the suffering and the sorrow and the glory and shame
The killing and the dying was all done in vain.
For Wm McBride it all happened again
and again and again and again and again.
Did they beat the drum slowly?
Did they sound the fife lowly?
Did the rifles fire o’er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing the Last Posting Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?
Did the bugles sing the Last Posting Chorus?
Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?