Since Memorial Day originated to honor the dead of the Civil War, I thought the following is appropriate:-Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
i believe the reference is to “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae:
In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days agoWe 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 throwThe torch; be yours to hold it high.If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields.
If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam; A body of England’s, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
All nice tributes. Unwilling to forget those that passed in our incessant, tragic wars. The power of poetry is such that red poppies are still a recognizable symbol of Memorial/Remembrance Day(s). Always wear something red and if not a poppy, a sprig of Rosemary" There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember." thanks to Shakespeare.
A horticultural note that also relates to today. The reason that the poppies bloomed after the booming and trench warfare is because poppy seeds bloom where soil is disturbed. They can remain viable in the soil for an incredibly long time if conditions are right.That also relates to today because poppies are native to much of the Middle East, and Afghanistan. When those locations are bombed the seeds come up, even after many decades in the ground, so when people scream about new fields of poppies appearing in war-torn areas they have to ask themselves if the warfare itself was the farmer. Too often people without horticultural backgrounds assume the poppies were purposely planted.In the U.S. such poppy seeds are still sold because it is pretty much impossible to make the growing of the flowers illegal since they still spring up in places where medicinal herb gardens once thrived long ago when new construction is done there or when the soil is disturbed for a new garden. (What is illegal is harvesting from the plants.)
V. Bingen on the Rhine By Caroline Elizabeth Sarah (Sheridan) Norton (1808–1877)
A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers— There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand, And he said: “I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen—at Bingen on the Rhine!
“Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely—and, when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And ’midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars,— The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; But some were young,—and suddenly beheld life’s morn decline,— And one had come from Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
“Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate’er they would—but kept my father’s sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen—calm Bingen on the Rhine!
“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too—and not afraid to die. And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and mine), For the honour of old Bingen—dear Bingen on the Rhine!
“There’s another—not a sister,—in the happy days gone by, You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye: Too innocent for coquetry! too fond for idle scorning;— Oh friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her, the last night of my life (for, ere this moon be risen, My body will be out of pain—my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
“I saw the blue Rhine sweep along—I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine … But we’ll meet no more at Bingen—loved Bingen on the Rhine!”
His voice grew faint and hoarser,—his grasp was childish weak,— His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him,… but the spark of life had fled! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
BE THIS GUY over 10 years ago
Since Memorial Day originated to honor the dead of the Civil War, I thought the following is appropriate:-Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
Abraham LincolnNovember 19, 1863
Sherlock Watson over 10 years ago
Nice tribute, Pab.:And you as well, Leftwingpatriot.
SKJAM! Premium Member over 10 years ago
And now a pair of songs for World War One:
The Green Fields of France (Dropkick Murphys version)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KDaQfLFHYjI
The Band Played Waltzing Matilda (Eric Bogle)https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WG48Ftsr3OI
cork over 10 years ago
Dulce et decorum est por patria morir.
captainofgondor over 10 years ago
i believe the reference is to “In Flanders Field” by John McCrae:
In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row,That mark our place; and in the skyThe larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days agoWe 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 throwThe torch; be yours to hold it high.If ye break faith with us who dieWe shall not sleep, though poppies growIn Flanders fields.
Mostly Water Premium Member over 10 years ago
Mary Hopkin’s “Fields of St. Etienne” comes to mind today:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ustQwQ_Bwvs
This version shows the lyrics so I chose it but the background is a bit distracting until the end of the song.
PoodleGroomer over 10 years ago
Christmas in the trenches.www.youtube.com/watch?v=EghujaSynnMand a great WW1 memories story.
pschearer Premium Member over 10 years ago
I wonder if these poppies are in Flanders or Afghanistan.
todyoung over 10 years ago
Thank you
Ryan Plut over 10 years ago
If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is forever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam; A body of England’s, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
-Rupert Brooke
Thehag over 10 years ago
All nice tributes. Unwilling to forget those that passed in our incessant, tragic wars. The power of poetry is such that red poppies are still a recognizable symbol of Memorial/Remembrance Day(s). Always wear something red and if not a poppy, a sprig of Rosemary" There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember." thanks to Shakespeare.
K M over 10 years ago
It is a regrettable truth of human existence that freedom is not free; it costs, sometimes mightily, sometimes everything.
SukieDC over 10 years ago
A horticultural note that also relates to today. The reason that the poppies bloomed after the booming and trench warfare is because poppy seeds bloom where soil is disturbed. They can remain viable in the soil for an incredibly long time if conditions are right.That also relates to today because poppies are native to much of the Middle East, and Afghanistan. When those locations are bombed the seeds come up, even after many decades in the ground, so when people scream about new fields of poppies appearing in war-torn areas they have to ask themselves if the warfare itself was the farmer. Too often people without horticultural backgrounds assume the poppies were purposely planted.In the U.S. such poppy seeds are still sold because it is pretty much impossible to make the growing of the flowers illegal since they still spring up in places where medicinal herb gardens once thrived long ago when new construction is done there or when the soil is disturbed for a new garden. (What is illegal is harvesting from the plants.)
FireMedic over 10 years ago
V. Bingen on the Rhine By Caroline Elizabeth Sarah (Sheridan) Norton (1808–1877)
A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers— There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade’s hand, And he said: “I never more shall see my own, my native land; Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen—at Bingen on the Rhine!
“Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely—and, when the day was done, Full many a corse lay ghastly pale, beneath the setting sun. And ’midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars,— The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; But some were young,—and suddenly beheld life’s morn decline,— And one had come from Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
“Tell my mother that her other sons shall comfort her old age, And I was aye a truant bird, that thought his home a cage; For my father was a soldier, and, even as a child, My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate’er they would—but kept my father’s sword; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen—calm Bingen on the Rhine!
“Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops are marching home again, with glad and gallant tread; But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too—and not afraid to die. And, if a comrade seek her love, I ask her, in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame; And to hang the old sword in its place (my father’s sword and mine), For the honour of old Bingen—dear Bingen on the Rhine!
“There’s another—not a sister,—in the happy days gone by, You’d have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye: Too innocent for coquetry! too fond for idle scorning;— Oh friend! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her, the last night of my life (for, ere this moon be risen, My body will be out of pain—my soul be out of prison), I dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sunlight shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
“I saw the blue Rhine sweep along—I heard, or seemed to hear, The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, That echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well-remembered walk; And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine … But we’ll meet no more at Bingen—loved Bingen on the Rhine!”
His voice grew faint and hoarser,—his grasp was childish weak,— His eyes put on a dying look,—he sighed and ceased to speak: His comrade bent to lift him,… but the spark of life had fled! The soldier of the Legion, in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corpses strown; Yea, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen—fair Bingen on the Rhine!
scrabblefiend over 10 years ago
War stinks!
Mimi Premium Member over 10 years ago
Thank you, Pab.