In Flanders Fields | Page 3

physician, soldier, and poet, died in France?a Lieutenant-Colonel with the Canadian forces.
The poem which gives this collection of his lovely verse its name has been extensively reprinted, and received with unusual enthusiasm.
The volume contains, as well, a striking essay in character by his friend, Sir Andrew Macphail.

In Flanders Fields?And Other Poems
By Lieut.-Col. John McCrae, M.D.
With An Essay in Character?By Sir Andrew Macphail
[This text is taken from the New York edition of 1919.]
{Although the poem itself is included shortly, this next section is included for completeness, and to show John McCrae's punctuation -- also to show that I'm not the only one who forgets lines. -- A. L.}
In Flanders Fields
--
In Flanders fields the poppies grow?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.
John McCrae
{From a} Facsimile of an autograph copy of the poem "In Flanders Fields"
This was probably written from memory as "grow" is used in place of "blow" in the first line.
Contents
In Flanders Fields?1915
The Anxious Dead?1917
The Warrior?1907
Isandlwana?1910
The Unconquered Dead?1906
The Captain?1913
The Song of the Derelict?1898
Quebec?1908
Then and Now?1896
Unsolved?1895
The Hope of My Heart?1894
Penance?1896
Slumber Songs?1897
The Oldest Drama?1907
Recompense?1896
Mine Host?1897
Equality?1898
Anarchy?1897
Disarmament?1899
The Dead Master?1913
The Harvest of the Sea?1898
The Dying of Pere Pierre?1904
Eventide?1895
Upon Watts' Picture "Sic Transit"?1904
A Song of Comfort?1894
The Pilgrims?1905
The Shadow of the Cross?1894
The Night Cometh?1913
In Due Season?1897
John McCrae?An Essay in Character by Sir Andrew Macphail
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders Fields
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.
The Anxious Dead
O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear?Above their heads the legions pressing on:?(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear,?And died not knowing how the day had gone.)
O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see?The coming dawn that streaks the sky afar;?Then let your mighty chorus witness be?To them, and Caesar, that we still make war.
Tell them, O guns, that we have heard their call,?That we have sworn, and will not turn aside,?That we will onward till we win or fall,?That we will keep the faith for which they died.
Bid them be patient, and some day, anon,?They shall feel earth enwrapt in silence deep;?Shall greet, in wonderment, the quiet dawn,?And in content may turn them to their sleep.
The Warrior
He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days,?But with the night his little lamp-lit room?Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze?Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom?Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,?And from the close-packed deck, about to die,?Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars?Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky:
Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row,?At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;?Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife,?Brave dreams are his -- the flick'ring lamp burns low --?Yet couraged for the battles of the day?He goes to stand full face to face with life.
Isandlwana
Scarlet coats, and crash o' the band,?The grey of a pauper's gown,?A soldier's grave in Zululand,?And a woman in Brecon Town.
My little lad for a soldier boy,?(Mothers o' Brecon Town!)?My eyes for tears and his for joy?When he went from Brecon Town,?His for the flags and the gallant sights?His for the medals and his for the fights,?And mine for the dreary, rainy nights?At home in Brecon Town.
They say he's laid beneath a tree,?(Come back to Brecon Town!)?Shouldn't I know? -- I was there to see:?(It's far to Brecon Town!)?It's me that keeps it trim and drest?With a briar there and a rose by his breast --?The English flowers he likes the best?That I bring from Brecon Town.
And I sit beside him -- him and me,?(We're back to Brecon Town.)?To talk of the things that used to be?(Grey ghosts of Brecon Town);?I know the look o' the land and sky,?And the bird that builds in the tree near by,?And times I hear the jackals cry,?And me in Brecon Town.
Golden grey on miles of sand?The dawn comes creeping down;?It's day in far off Zululand?And night in Brecon Town.
The Unconquered Dead
". . . defeated, with great loss."
Not we the conquered! Not to us the blame?Of them that flee, of them that basely yield;?Nor ours