Belgian Poems

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John Lane, 1915 - World War, 1914-1918 - 183 pages
 

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Page 21 - To the flag, the flag, my children, Hearken to your country's cry ! Never has it shone so splendid, Never has it flown so high ! Red for the flames in fury, Black, yellow and red — Black for the mourning ashes, Black, yellow and red — And yellow of gold, as we proudly hail The spirits of the dead ! To the flag, my sons ! Your country With her blessing "Forward
Page 19 - ED for the blood of soldiers, ••- ^ Black, yellow and red — Black for the tears of mothers, Black, yellow and red — And yellow for the light and flame Of the fields where the blood is shed! To the glorious flag, my children, Hark! the call your country gives, To the flag in serried order! He who dies for Belgium lives! Red for the purple of heroes, Black, yellow and red — Black for the veils of widows, Black, yellow and red — And yellow for the shining crown Of the victors who have bled...
Page 15 - Neath this bright autumn sun, And sing the joy of courage, When cowardice might be sweet. To the sound of the bugle, the sound of the drum, On the ruins of Aerschot, Dinant, and Termonde Dance Belgians, dance, And our glories sing — " Cammaert apologizes for the liberty of his rhythms in these words: "Ma lyre tinte d'une corde, mon vers cloche d'un pied.
Page 38 - Ixniely and desolate. Not a man, not a bird, not a dog, not a cat, Only a flight of crows along the railway line, The sound of our boots on the muddy road And, along the Yser, the twinkling fires. A low thatched cottage With doors and shutters closed, The roof torn by a shell, Standing out of the floods...
Page 39 - Not a man, not a cat, not a dog, not a soul, Only a flight of crows along the railway line, The sound of our boots on the muddy road, And, along the Yser, the twinkling fires.
Page 16 - Chantons, Belges, chantons, Même si les blessures saignent et si la voix se brise, Plus haut que la tourmente, plus fort que les canons...
Page 45 - Not a cry, not a sound, not a life, not a mouse, Only the stillness of the great graveyards, Only the crosses, — the crooked wooden crosses — On the wide lonely plain.
Page 114 - Fermées au mal, ouvertes au bien, Vos mains puissantes et douces Comme une branche sous la mousse. Je vois bien vos mains, Vos mains fidèles, Qui me montrent le chemin, Mais je ne vois pas vos ailes.
Page 43 - Each church will ope its door — Pervyse, Ypres and Nieuport — And with strong clanging bell Thunder the Germans' knell. " Then will our trowels ring — Dixmude and Ramscapelle — And shouts and laughter swell And busy pickaxe swing. " Our boats will glide along — Black tar and sea-gulls white — We'll hear the skylarks' song Above our rivers bright. " And then our graves will bloomDance, tomtits, on the sod — And then our graves will bloom Beneath the sun of God.

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