Quotes about belgian, page 3
An Old Twenty-Third Man
“Is that the Three-and-Twentieth, Strabo mine,
Marching below, and we still gulping wine?”
From the sad magic of his fragrant cup
The red-faced old centurion started up,
Cursed, battered on the table. “No,” he said,
“Not that! The Three-and-Twentieth Legion’s dead,
Dead in the first year of this damned campaign—
The Legion’s dead, dead, and won’t rise again.
Pity? Rome pities her brave lads that die,
But we need pity also, you and I,
Whom Gallic spear and Belgian arrow miss,
Who live to see the Legion come to this,
Unsoldierlike, slovenly, bent on loot,
Grumblers, diseased, unskilled to thrust or shoot.
O, brown cheek, muscled shoulder, sturdy thigh!
Where are they now? God! watch it struggle by,
The sullen pack of ragged ugly swine.
Is that the Legion, Gracchus? Quick, the wine!”
“Strabo,” said Gracchus, “you are strange tonight.
The Legion is the Legion; it’s all right.
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poem by Robert Graves
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On patrol in the African bush
The LMG was getting heavy and hot
in my hands
and somehow the H-frame
became a part of my shoulders and back
and the stinging and unremitting African sun
was taking the last moisture out of us.
From nowhere some gnats appeared
and hang circling,
above our heads
Thirst was burning my throat
like scraping sandpaper,
but we could smell the river
and its cold water
looked inviting to us.
We were spread in an attack formation
and the squad was armed with
two LMG’s, a mortar
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poem by Gert Strydom
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Princess And The Black Horse-V(The Journey To Dark Prince's Realm-I)
They took care of the ill dragon, Mastero was his name.
He slept until, the sun came out by breaking night's curtain.
Blackberry then, with wings flapping told princess to depart.
Dragon listening her misery gifted Sword with power certain.
If A honest, brave lady twice stir that sword of light,
No darkness could touch her, no black art would act ever.
Then he gave her, a magic pot which was of Belgian glass,
It could grab all evil soul, and it would work never!
Promising to come back soon, princess took part from him,
Getting out from the cave, they saw, his kin-dragons coming...
Princess told, to care of him and rode on Black-berry's back.
It was a fine morning, the cool breeze, kissed her touching.
The Princess felt, was Blackberry a mere horse or somebody?
His every act already proved him as having special Ex-Power.
After sometime, they reached the river of the Reminiscence.
Blackberry, bathed in water of that river for a nice shower.
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poem by Nilakshi Das
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Shot at Dawn
This poem does not condone desertion
nor is it a proponent of summary execution
or the use of capital punishment as a deterrent.
The citizen army of August 1914
saw in its time 8Million signed up
resulting in 750,000 dead
of this 300/3000 executed.
This is the tale of just one life.
Shot at Dawn
`
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poem by Frederick Kesner
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Picnic By The River
On the grassy river bank,
We place our tartan rug upon the ground.
The gently flowing river and random birdsong,
Are the only audible sounds.
We sit down on the rug and relax,
Basking in the glorious sunshine.
Then open our wicker picnic basket,
To reveal food and drink on which we’ll dine.
There’s plenty of food to for us all to share,
Including a gorgeous home-made savoury tart.
There’s also finger food and various fruits,
And, in no time at all, we all make a start.
We’ve brought a bottle of champagne,
For a special treat, for us all to drink.
I love to watch the tiny bubbles rise.
‘Cheers! ’ we exclaim, as, together, our glasses clink.
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poem by Angela Wybrow
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Ginza Samba
A monosyllabic European called Sax
Invents a horn, walla whirledy wah, a kind of twisted
Brazen clarinet, but with its column of vibrating
Air shaped not in a cylinder but in a cone
Widening ever outward and bawaah spouting
Infinitely upward through an upturned
Swollen golden bell rimmed
Like a gloxinia flowering
In Sax's Belgian imagination
And in the unfathomable matrix
Of mothers and fathers as a genius graven
Humming into the cells of the body
Or cupped in the resonating grail
Of memory changed and exchanged
As in the trading of brasses,
Pearls and ivory, calicos and slaves,
Laborers and girls, two
Cousins in a royal family
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poem by Robert Pinsky
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The spoor
We were flown in
by a Puma helicopter
hot on the tracts
of a group of terrorists
who had attacked some farms.
A Bushman tracker was in the front
on the spoor, armed with a old R1,
two of the section
was armed with LMG’s
and I carried the a short barrel R5
and it was very hot
under a merciless sun.
The tracker told us
that one of the enemy
was wounded and at places
we saw drops of blood
and it looked
as if he was dragging his leg
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poem by Gert Strydom
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My Foe
A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks;
GURR! You cochon! Stand and fight!
Show your mettle! Snarl and bite!
Spawn of an accursed race,
Turn and meet me face to face!
Here amid the wreck and rout
Let us grip and have it out!
Here where ruins rock and reel
Let us settle, steel to steel!
Look! Our houses, how they spit
Sparks from brands your friends have lit.
See! Our gutters running red,
Bright with blood your friends have shed.
Hark! Amid your drunken brawl
How our maidens shriek and call.
Why have you come here alone,
To this hearth's blood-spattered stone?
Come to ravish, come to loot,
Come to play the ghoulish brute.
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poem by Robert William Service
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The Battle Of Liège
Now spake the Emperor to all his shining battle forces,
To the Lancers, and the Rifles, to the Gunners and the Horses;—
And his pride surged up within him as he saw their banners stream!—
“’T is a twelve-day march to Paris, by the road our fathers travelled,
And the prize is half an empire when the scarlet road’s unravelled—
Go you now across the border,
God’s decree and William’s order—
Climb the frowning Belgian ridges
With your naked swords agleam!
Seize the City of the Bridges—
Then get on, get on to Paris—
To the jewelled streets of Paris—
To the lovely woman, Paris, that has driven me to dream!”
A hundred thousand fighting men
They climbed the frowning ridges,
With their flaming swords drawn free
And their pennants at their knee.
They went up to their desire,
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poem by Dana Burnet
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Ode VIII: On Leaving Holland
I 1.
Farewell to Leyden's lonely bound,
The Belgian Muse's sober seat;
Where dealing frugal gifts around
To all the favorites at her feet,
She trains the body's bulky frame
For passive, persevering toils;
And lest, from any prouder aim,
The daring mind should scorn her homely spoils,
She breathes maternal fogs to damp its restless flame.
I. 2.
Farewell the grave, pacific air,
Where never mountain zephyr blew:
The marshy levels lank and bare,
Which Pan, which Ceres never knew:
The Naiads, with obscene attire,
Urging in vain their urns to flow;
While round them chaunt the croking choir,
And haply sooth some lover's prudent woe,
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poem by Mark Akenside
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