oh yeah, i wrote that one poem... and i wrote the one i'm trying to find too... just still looking

I love In Flanders Field by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae

The best part of all is that it is a poem by the dead but it is not a hopeless plea for mercy, its a cry for his brethren to fight on and defeat the enemy. Thats the same reason I love The Charge of the Light Brigade

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.

its unusual..but i was so facinated by it when it was quoted during the movie "Breaker Morant" British-Boer Conflict

BUTCHERED TO MAKE A DUTCHMAN'S HOLIDAY
by Harry ("Breaker") Morant

In prison cell I sadly sit,
A d__d crest-fallen chappie!
And own to you I feel a bit-
A little bit - unhappy!

It really ain't the place nor time
To reel off rhyming diction -
But yet we'll write a final rhyme
Whilst waiting cru-ci-fixion!

No matter what "end" they decide -
Quick-lime or "b'iling ile," sir?
We'll do our best when crucified
To finish off in style, sir!

But we bequeath a parting tip
For sound advice of such men,
Who come across in transport ship
To polish off the Dutchmen!

If you encounter any Boers
You really must not loot 'em!
And if you wish to leave these shores,
For pity's sake, DON'T SHOOT 'EM!!

And if you'd earn a D.S.O.,
Why every British sinner
Should know the proper way to go
Is: "ASK THE BOER TO DINNER!"

Let's toss a bumper down our throat, -
Before we pass to Heaven,
And toast: "The trim-set petticoat
We leave behind in Devon."

At its end the manuscript is described -
The Last Rhyme and Testament of Tony Lumpkin -

First published in The Bulletin, 19 April 1902.

I think my favorite might be:

Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

whoa........

William Shakespeare
Henry V - Act IV, scene iii, 35

WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!
KING. What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Fiddler's Green

I will go with Redneck on The Soldier.

Bullecourt

You boasted a wall of granite strength,
which nothing on earth could take,
the skill you learned in forty years,
you defied us blokes to break.

Four thousand men from 'southern seas'
in war but infants yet,
they crept grey-eyed from a sunken road,
and thru your barbed wire swept.

no guns to aid, no barrage long
to sweep the wire away,
but a headlong charge of a thousand yards
and the blues they paved the way.

the first line thru, the second held,
they fought as strong men do,
'hindenburgs line' with its vaunted strength
was smashed by an ANZAC crew.

no bombs to throw, no guns to speak
nothing but lives to sell,
the 'dark blues' like a quivering wave,
fought thru this eternal hell.

officers this way, the men go there!
the hun O.C. called out
but the men hung back as men will do,
they broke and a few got out.

there's a tale that is told in history,
its large on the scroll of fame,
of a charge they made in the crimea-
'Balaclava' is the name.

but the charge we know and the charge wev'e seen
never from our minds will fade,
god speed the day we avenge those boys,
who fell with the blue brigade

by Edmund sambell 14th battalion AIF

ps the 13,14,15,16th battalions were in the 4th australian brigade which had a blue color patch hence the "blue brigade".
bullecourt cost 10,000 men, with the blue brigade losing 80% of there men , the attack was put in without artillery support of any kind they relied on tanks, it was a disaster.

High FLight, by John Magee