The Book of Life by Walter Nicholson from Stokesley, North Yorkshire, item 2
Transcription
Transcription history
-
The Book of Life.
_____________
Humbly dedicated to the noble men who have inscribed
their names therein.
_____________
There is no book no eye may scan, 'Tis called "the Book of Life."
We're called to write upon each page, in these dark days of strife.
What you have written in that Book, is known alone to God,
May'be 'twill not be known to men till you're beneath the sod.
What have you done in days by to stem the German flood,
When helpless women, old and young, were butchered in cold blood.
Did you don the martial khaki, did you join the line of steel
When stricken Belgium bleeding lay beneath the iron heel?
Did you stay at home contented, while like heroes died
On the muddy plains on Flanders aye, and other lands beside ?
Have you ever seen the slaughter, or heard the roaring guns ?
Have you ever heard the words "Stand to" when the cold heart's blood
runs?
But that's only for a moment, you know just what it means,
With your rifle at the "ready" as o'erhead the shrapnel screams ;
Then you get the wave "Up over" -- the boys know all the rest ;
The trenches may suit the Germans ; we like the bayonet best.
A sharpened piece of shining steel of fourteen inch or more
That makes a Boche's heart beat fast, before he starts to roar
"Mercy Kamarade"; "Please, don't shoot" ; then hold his hands
on high.
Such pleas for mercy come too late, heed not his whining cry;
Waste not your time on swine like this, we've heard such tales before;
A sharp lunge forward, twist your arms, he'll trouble you no more,
you cannot tell what he might do, should you but turn your back,
Dead men never did tell tales, and, so get in first whack.
Have you ever been on "Listening Post" when wintry winds did blow,
When every tree and tuft of grass seemed to turn into a foe ;
Or felt as if the very blood was frozen in your veins ?
For it's no soft job on "Listening Post" especially when it rains,
That's the job to test your mettle, that's the game to try your pluck,
When star shells turn night into day, it's then you want some luck,
For if you lift your finger to scratch your itching head
Well "good-bye" dear old Blighty, for you'll pretty quick be dead.
That's the game our boys are playing in the trenches o'er the sea ;
It's the game we must keep playing to keep our dear old Country free.
Free from ravage, fire, and sword, free from ravished Belgium's fate,
Free from tyranny and serfdom, free from lust of German hate.
"Now then": what have you written, written in your Book of Life,
Have you fought for King and Country, Father, Mother, Children
Wife?
We've been helped by friends and brothers, Canada and Anzac too ;
Men from Africa and India, but, have we been helped by you?
Will you feel you've done your duty, when the boys come marching
home,
Back to England, Youth, and Beauty, back again across the foam.
What will your answer be lad, will it bring a blush of shame,
When you're asked "What part were you in Belgium, Flanders, or
Champagne,"
Can you shake their hand in friendship, scions of a noble race,
They who left their home and country, hardship, danger, Death to face,
Men who nobly did their duty in the hour of Britain's need,
If you did then here's my hand lad, truly you're a man indeed.
No one knows but those who've been there and what it means to face the
guns,
Bombs, torpedoes, and trench mortars, or the thrice accused Huns.
Gas and tear shells, fire and smoke clouds, things which turn War into
Hell,
Truly may these words be spoken they and they alone can tell.
Some alas! who did their duty will return to us no more
Bugle calls will never wake them on that far off Eastern shore.
They have died for King and Country; nobly they their lives did give,
But, to future generations ever will their memory live.
"Twill be told in song and story, told to children yet unborn
How the Huns invaded Belgium on that sunny August morn,
How the little British Army fought for liberty and Right,
Fought for Justice, Truth, and Honour 'gainst Oppression, Lust, and
Might;
Fought at Ypres, Loos and Poziers, Neuve Chapelle and Combles
too,
Gallantly they died together for the old Red, White, and Blue.
That noble flag we now salute, its p
e aloud let's sing;God bless our lads on land and sea Country and our King.
Yours sincerely,
Driver W Nicholson
-
The Book of Life.
_____________
Humbly dedicated to the noble men who have inscribed
their names therein.
_____________
There is no book no eye may scan, 'Tis called "the Book of Life."
We're called to write upon each page, in these dark days of strife.
What you have written in that Book, is known alone to God,
May'be 'twill not be known to men till you're beneath the sod.
What have you done in days by to stem the German flood,
When helpless women, old and young, were butchered in cold blood.
Did you don the martial khaki, did you join the line of steel
When stricken Belgium bleeding lay beneath the iron heel?
Did you stay at home contented, while like heroes died
On the muddy plains on Flanders aye, and other lands beside ?
Have you ever seen the slaughter, or heard the roaring guns ?
Have you ever heard the words "Stand to" when the cold heart's blood
runs?
But that's only for a moment, you know just what it means,
With your rifle at the "ready" as o'erhead the shrapnel screams ;
Then you get the wave "Up over" -- the boys know all the rest ;
The trenches may suit the Germans ; we like the bayonet best.
A sharpened piece of shining steel of fourteen inch or more
That makes a Boche's heart beat fast, before he starts to roar
"Mercy Kamarade"; "Please, don't shoot" ; then hold his hands
on high.
Such pleas for mercy come too late, heed not his whining cry;
Waste not your time on swine like this, we've heard such tales before;
A sharp lunge forward, twist your arms, he'll trouble you no more,
you cannot tell what he might do, should you but turn your back,
Dead men never did tell tales, and, so get in first whack.
Have you ever been on "Listening Post" when wintry winds did blow,
When every tree and tuft of grass seemed to turn into a foe ;
Or felt as if the very blood was frozen in your veins ?
For it's no soft job on "Listening Post" especially when it rains,
That's the job to test your mettle, that's the game to try your pluck,
When star shells turn night into day, it's then you want some luck,
For if you lift your finger to scratch your itching head
Well "good-bye" dear old Blighty, for you'll pretty quick be dead.
That's the game our boys are playing in the trenches o'er the sea ;
It's the game we must keep playing to keep our dear old Country free.
Free from ravage, fire, and sword, free from ravished Belgium's fate,
Free from tyranny and serfdom, free from lust of German hate.
"Now then": what have you written, written in your Book of Life,
Have you fought for King and Country, Father, Mother, Children
Wife?
We've been helped by friends and brothers, Canada and Anzac too ;
Men from Africa and India, but, have we been helped by you?
Will you feel you've done your duty, when the boys come marching
home,
Back to England, Youth, and Beauty, back again across the foam.
What will your answer be lad, will it bring a blush of shame,
When you're asked "What part were you in Belgium, Flanders, or
Champagne,"
Can you shake their hand in friendship, scions of a noble race,
They who left their home and country, hardship, danger, Death to face,
Men who nobly did their duty in the hour of Britain's need,
If you did then here's my hand lad, truly you're a man indeed.
No one knows but those who've been there and what it means to face the
guns,
Bombs, torpedoes, and trench mortars, or the thrice accused Huns.
Gas and tear shells, fire and smoke clouds, things which turn War into
Hell,
Truly may these words be spoken they and they alone can tell.
Some alas! who did their duty will return to us no more
Bugle calls will never wake them on that far off Eastern shore.
They have died for King and Country; nobly they their lives did give,
But, to future generations ever will their memory live.
"Twill be told in song and story, told to children yet unborn
How the Huns invaded Belgium on that sunny August morn,
How the little British Army fought for liberty and Right,
Fought for Justice, Truth, and Honour 'gainst Oppression, Lust, and
Might;
Fought at Ypres, Loos and Poziers, Neuve Chapelle and Combles
too,
Gallantly they died together for the old Red, White, and Blue.
That noble flag we now salute, its p
e aloud let's sing;God bless our lads on land and sea Country and our King.
Yours sincerely,
Driver W Nicholson
-
The Book of Life.
_____________
Humbly dedicated to the noble men who have inscribed
their names therein.
_____________
There is no book no eye may scan, 'Tis called "the Book of Life."
We're called to write upon each page, in these dark days of strife.
What you have written in that Book, is known alone to God,
May'be 'twill not be known to men till you're beneath the sod.
What have you done in days by to stem the German flood,
When helpless women, old and young, were butchered in cold blood.
Did you don the martial khaki, did you join the line of steel
When stricken Belgium bleeding lay beneath the iron heel?
Did you stay at home contented, while like heroes died
On the muddy plains on Flanders aye, and other lands beside ?
Have you ever seen the slaughter, or heard the roaring guns ?
Have you ever heard the words "Stand to" when the cold heart's blood
runs?
But that's only for a moment, you know just what it means,
With your rifle at the "ready" as o'erhead the shrapnel screams ;
Then you get the wave "Up over" -- the boys know all the rest ;
The trenches may suit the Germans ; we like the bayonet best.
A sharpened piece of shining steel of fourteen inch or more
That makes a Boche's heart beat fast, before he starts to roar
"Mercy Kamarade"; "Please, don't shoot" ; then hold his hands
on high.
Such pleas for mercy come too late, heed not his whining cry;
Waste not your time on swine like this, we've heard such tales before;
A sharp lunge forward, twist your arms, he'll trouble you no more,
you cannot tell what he might do, should you but turn your back,
Dead men never did tell tales, and, so get in first whack.
Have you ever been on "Listening Post" when wintry winds did blow,
When every tree and tuft of grass seemed to turn into a foe ;
Or felt as if the very blood was frozen in your veins ?
For it's no soft job on "Listening Post" especially when it rains,
That's the job to test your mettle, that's the game to try your pluck,
When star shells turn night into day, it's then you want some luck,
For if you lift your finger to scratch your itching head
Well "good-bye" dear old Blighty, for you'll pretty quick be dead.
That's the game our boys are playing in the trenches o'er the sea ;
It's the game we must keep playing to keep our dear old Country free.
Free from ravage, fire, and sword, free from ravished Belgium's fate,
Free from tyranny and serfdom, free from lust of German hate.
"Now then": what have you written, written in your Book of Life,
Have you fought for King and Country, Father, Mother, Children
Wife?
We've been helped by friends and brothers, Canada and Anzac too ;
Men from Africa and India, but, have we been helped by you?
Will you feel you've done your duty, when the boys come marching
home,
Back to England, Youth, and Beauty, back again across the foam.
What will your answer be lad, will it bring a blush of shame,
When you're asked "What part were you in Belgium, Flanders, or
Champagne,"
Can you shake their hand in friendship, scions of a noble race,
They who left their home and country, hardship, danger, Death to face,
Men who nobly did their duty in the hour of Britain's need,
If you did then here's my hand lad, truly you're a man indeed.
No one knows but those who've been there and what it means to face the
guns,
Bombs, torpedoes, and trench mortars, or the thrice accused Huns.
Gas and tear shells, fire and smoke clouds, things which turn War into
Hell,
Truly may these words be spoken they and they alone can tell.
Some alas! who did their duty will return to us no more
Bugle calls will never wake them on that far off Eastern shore.
They have died for King and Country; nobly they their lives did give,
But, to future generations ever will their memory live.
"Twill be told in song and story, told to children yet unborn
How the Huns invaded Belgium on that sunny August morn,
How the little British Army fought for liberty and Right,
Fought for Justice, Truth, and Honour 'gainst Oppression, Lust, and
Might;
Fought at Ypres, Loos and Poziers, Neuve Chapelle and Combles
too,
Gallantly they died together for the old Red, White, and Blue.
That noble flag we now salute, its p
e aloud let's sing;God bless our lads on land and sea Country and our King.
-
The Book of Life.
_____________
Humbly dedicated to the noble men who have inscribed
their names therein.
_____________
There is no book no eye may scan, 'Tis called "the Book of Life."
We're called to write upon each page, in these dark days of strife.
What you have written in that Book, is known alone to God,
May'be 'twill not be known to men till you're beneath the sod.
What have you done in days by to stem the German flood,
When helpless women, old and young, were butchered in cold blood.
Did you don the martial khaki, did you join the line of steel
When stricken Belgium bleeding lay beneath the iron heel?
Did you stay at home contented, while like heroes died
On the muddy plains on Flanders aye, and other lands beside ?
Have you ever seen the slaughter, or heard the roaring guns ?
Have you ever heard the words "Stand to" when the cold heart's blood
runs?
But that's only for a moment, you know just what it means,
With your rifle at the "ready" as o'erhead the shrapnel screams ;
Then you get the wave "Up over" -- the boys know all the rest ;
The trenches may suit the Germans ; we like the bayonet best.
A sharpened piece of shining steel of fourteen inch or more
That makes a Boche's heart beat fast, before he starts to roar
"Mercy Kamarade"; "Please, don't shoot" ; then hold his hands
on high.
Such pleas for mercy come too late, heed not his whining cry;
Waste not your time on swine like this, we've heard such tales before;
A sharp lunge forward, twist your arms, he'll trouble you no more,
you cannot tell what he might do, should you but turn your back,
Dead men never did tell tales, and, so get in first whack.
Have you ever been on "Listening Post" when wintry winds did blow,
When every tree and tuft of grass seemed to turn into a foe ;
Or felt as if the very blood was frozen in your veins ?
For it's no soft job on "Listening Post" especially when it rains,
That's the job to test your mettle, that's the game to try your pluck,
When star shells turn night into day, it's then you want some luck,
For if you lift your finger to scratch your itching head
Well "good-bye" dear old Blighty, for you'll pretty quick be dead.
That's the game our boys are playing in the trenches o'er the sea ;
It's the game we must keep playing to keep our dear old Country free.
Free from ravage, fire, and sword, free from ravished Belgium's fate,
Free from tyranny and serfdom, free from lust of German hate.
"Now then": what have you written, written in your Book of Life,
Have you fought for King and Country, Father, Mother, Children
Wife?
We've been helped by friends and brothers, Canada and Anzac too ;
Men from Africa and India, but, have we been helped by you?
Will you feel you've done your duty, when the boys come marching
home,
Back to England, Youth, and Beauty, back again across the foam.
What will your answer be lad, will it bring a blush of shame,
When you're asked "What part were you in Belgium, Flanders, or
Champagne,"
Can you shake their hand in friendship, scions of a noble race,
They who left their home and country, hardship, danger, Death to face,
Men who nobly did their duty in the hour of Britain's need,
If you did then here's my hand lad, truly you're a man indeed.
No one knows but those who've been there and what it means to face the
guns,
Bombs, torpedoes, and trench mortars, or the thrice accused Huns.
Gas and tear shells, fire and smoke clouds, things which turn War into
Hell,
Truly may these words be spoken
-
The Book of Life.
_____________
Humbly dedicated to the noble men who have inscribed
their names therein.
_____________
There is no book no eye may scan, 'Tis called "the Book of Life."
We're called to write upon each page, in these dark days of strife.
What you have written in that Book, is known alone to God,
May'be 'twill not be known to men till you're beneath the sod.
What have you done in days by to stem the German flood,
When helpless women, old and young, were butchered in cold blood.
Did you don the martial khaki, did you join the line of steel
When stricken Belgium bleeding lay beneath the iron heel?
Did you stay at home contented, while like heroes died
On the muddy plains on Flanders aye, and other lands beside ?
Have you ever seen the slaughter, or heard the roaring guns ?
Have you ever heard the words "Stand to" when the cold heart's blood
runs?
But that's only for a moment, you know just what it means,
With your rifle at the "ready" as o'erhead the shrapnel screams ;
Then you get the wave "Up over" -- the boys know all the rest ;
The trenches may suit the Germans ; we like the bayonet best.
A sharpened piece of shining steel of fourteen inch or more
That makes a Boche's heart beat fast, before he starts to roar
"Mercy Kamarade"; "Please, don't shoot" ; then hold his hands
on high.
Such pleas for mercy come too late, heed not his whining cry;
Waste not your time on swine like this, we've heard such tales before;
A sharp lunge forward, twist your arms, he'll trouble you no more,
you cannot tell what he might do, should you but turn your back,
Dead men never did tell tales, and, so get in first whack.
Have you ever been on "Listening Post" when wintry winds did blow,
When every tree and tuft of grass seemed to turn into a foe ;
Or felt as if the very blood was frozen ni your veins ?
For it's no soft job on "Listening Post" especially when it rains,
That's the job to test your mettle, that's the game to try your pluck,
When star shells turn night into day, it's then you want some luck,
For if you lift your finger to scratch your itching head
Well "good-bye" dear old Blighty, for you'll pretty quick be dead.
-
The Book of Life.
_____________
Humbly dedicated to the noble men who have inscribed
their names therein.
_____________
There is no book no eye may scan, 'Tis called "the Book of Life."
We're called to write upon each page, in these dark days of strife.
What you have written in that Book, is known alone to God,
May'be 'twill not be known to men till you're beneath the sod.
What have you done in days by to stem the German flood,
When helpless women, old and young, were butchered in cold blood.
Did you don the martial kahki, did you join the line of steeal
When stricken Belgium bleeding lay beneath the iron heel?
Did you stay at home contented, while like heroes died
On the muddy plains on Flanders aye, and other lands beside ?
Have you ever seen the slaughter, or heard the roaring guns ?
Have you ever heard the words "Stand to" when the cold heart's blood
runs?
But that's only for a moment, you know just what it means,
With your rifle at the "ready" as o'erheard the shrapnel screams ;
Then you get the wave "Up over" -- the boys know all the rest ;
The trenches may suit the Germans ; we like the bayonet best.
Description
Save description- 54.471908||-1.1853099999999586||||1
Stokesley, North Yorkshire
Location(s)
Story location Stokesley, North Yorkshire
- ID
- 21487 / 249905
- Contributor
- Dot Tose
1916 – 1916
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