Favorite military poem

Battle of Milvian Bride, By Me

Spear Of God, whom thou has awaken

Exclaims the Man, who’s heart be taken;

Somber Moments, On the field,

As Warriors take; the weapons they wield.

Across the grass, as black as night,

Stands Maxentius, whom he shall fight.

Pagan Arch, Constantine will fold,

If not a sign; he beholds-

-Chi and Roe, the sky exclaims,

Cross appearing above in flames.

Claim of Augustus on His Breast,

Now the armies clash without protest-

-Ten to one, in Maxentius’ favor

But Constantine’s army shall not waver.

Maxentius; the heathen, as dark as night

Cannot rebuff the army of light

Across the bridge he falls this day,

For the wraith of God he cannot deley.

So until the day, when memory abridge;

Remember the fight, for Milvian Bridge.
I have so many good ones it would be impossible to post them all here. Check out my webpage under "other good stuff" (http://www.suporrtusheroes.com) and you can read them. I'm sure I'll be adding some of the ones I've seen here, very soon. Anyway, lately I've been on the St. Crispians Day speech from William Shakespeare's, Herny V.

He that outlives this day and comes safe home
Will stand a-tiptoe when this day is named
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall see this day and live old age
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors
And say "Tommorrow is Saint Crispian.”
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say "These wounds I had on Crispin’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 remembered.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian 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 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 abed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s Day.

4.3 Lines 40-67
Henry V by William Shakespeare

I am the flag of the United States of America.
My name is Old Glory.
I fly atop the world's tallest buildings.
I stand watch in America's halls of justice.
I fly majestically over institutions of learning.
I stand guard with power in the world.
Look up and see me.
I stand for peace, honor, truth and justice.
I stand for freedom.
I am confident.
I am arrogant.
I am proud.
When I am flown with my fellow banners,
My head is a little higher,
My colors a little truer.
I bow to no one!
I am recognized all over the world.
I am worshipped - I am saluted.
I am loved - I am revered.
I am respected - and I am feared.
I have fought in every battle of every war
for more then 200 years.
I was flown at Valley Forge,
Gettysburg, Shiloh and Appomattox.
I was there at San Juan Hill,
the trenches of France,
in the Argonne Forest,
Anzio, Rome and the beaches of Normandy,
Guam, and Okinawa.
The People of Korea , Vietnam, and Kuwait know me as
a banner of freedom
I was there.
I led my troops.
I was dirty, battle worn and tired,
But my soldiers cheered me
and I was proud.
I have been burned, torn and trampled on the
streets of countries I have helped set free.
It does not hurt for I am invincible.
I have been burned in my own country, and by the ones who severed with me in battle, and when it's done by those, it hurts.
But I shall overcome, for I am strong.
I have slipped the bonds of Earth and stood watch over the uncharted frontiers of space from my vantage point on the moon.
I have borne silent witness to all of America's finest hours.
But my finest hours are yet to come:
When I am torn into strips and used as bandages
for my wounded comrades on the battlefield;
When I am flown at half-mast to honor my countrymen;
Or when I lie in the trembling arms of a grieving parent
at the grave of their fallen son or daughter;
When I lie in the arms of a child or spouse who will have to go on without one who gave their life to save the life of another,
I am proud.
My name is Old Glory.
Long May I wave!

Howard Schnauber
Author Unknown

He was getting old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast,
And he sat around the Legion telling stories of his past
Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done,
In his exploits with his buddies~~they were heroes, every one.

And tho' sometimes to his neighbours, his tales became a joke,
All his Legion buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke
But we'll hear his tales no longer, for old Bill has passed away,
And the world's a little poorer, for the soldier died today.

He won't be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,
For he lived an ordinary, quick and uneventful life
Held a job and raised a family, quietly going his own way
And the world won't note his passing, tho' a soldier died today.

When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state
While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great,
Papers tell their life stories from the time that they were young,
But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed and unsung.

In the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land
One guy breaks his promises and cons his fellow man
But the ordinary fellow, who in times of war and strife,
Goes off to serve his country and offers up his life.

A politician's stipend and the style in which he lives
Are sometimes disproportionate to the service that he gives
While the ordinary soldier who offered up his all
Is paid off with a medal and perhaps a pension small.

It's so easy to forget them, for it was so long ago
That the old Bills of our country went to battle, but we know
It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys
Who won for us the freedom that our country now enjoys.

Should you find yourself in danger with your enemies at hand
Would you want a politician with his ever~shifting stand
Or would you prefer a soldier who has sworn to defend
His home, his kin and country and would fight right to the end?

He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin
But his presence should remind us we may need his likes again.
For when countries are in conflict then we find the soldier's part
Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.

If we cannot do him honour while he's here to hear the praise,
Then at least let's give him homage at the ending of his days
Perhaps just a simple headline in a paper that would say,


I watched the flag pass by one day.
It fluttered in the breeze.
A young Marine saluted it,
and then he stood at ease.

I looked at him in uniform;
so young, so tall, so proud.
With hair cut square and eyes alert,
he'd stand out in any crowd.

I thought, how many men like him
had fallen through the years?
How many died on foreign soil?
How many Mother's tears?

How many pilots' planes shot down?
How many foxholes were soldiers'
No, Freedom is not free.

I heard the sound of 'Taps' one night,
when everything was still.
I listened to the bugler play
and felt a sudden chill.

I wondered just how many times
that 'Taps' had meant 'Amen',
when a flag had draped a coffin
of a brother or a friend.

I thought of all the children,
of Mothers and the Wives,
of Fathers, Sons and Husbands
with interrupted lives.

I thought about a graveyard
at the bottom of the sea,
of unmarked graves at Arlington.
No, Freedom isn't free.!!!!!
The Marine stood and faced his God
Which must always come to pass
He hoped his shoes were shining
Just as brightly as his brass.

"Step forward now, you Devil-Dog,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To my Church have you been true?"
The Marine squared his shoulders and said,
"No Lord, I guess I ain't "
"Because those of us who carry guns
Can't always be a saint."

I've had to work most Sundays
And at times my talk was rough,
And sometimes I've been violent,
Because the streets are awfully tough.

But, I never took a penny
That wasn't mine to keep...
Though I worked a lot of overtime
When the bills just got too steep.

And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear,
And sometimes, God forgive me,
I've wept unmanly tears.

And I know I don't deserve a place
Among the people here,
They never wanted me around
Except to calm their fears.

If you've a place for me here, Lord,
It needn't be so grand,
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don't , I'll understand."

There was a silence all around the throne
Where the saints had often trod
As the Marine waited quietly,
For the judgment of his God.

"Step forward now, you Marine,
You've borne your burdens well,
Walk peacefully on Heaven's streets,
You've done your time in HELL."
In a crowd, you're bond to spot him:
He's standing so very tall.
Not too much impresses him:
He's seen and done it all.
He's hair is short, he's eyes are sharp,
But his smile's a little blue.
It's the only indication
of the hell that he's gone through.
He belongs to a sacred brotherhood,
Always faithful 'till the end.
He has walked right into battle
And walked back out again.
Many people think him foolish
For having no regrets
About having lived through many times
Others would forget.
He's the first to go and last to know,
But never questions why.
Or whether it is right or wrong,
But only do or die.
He walks a path most won't take
And has lost much along the way.
But he thinks alot of freedom;
It's a small price to pay.
Yes, he has chosen to live a life
Off the beaten track,
Knowing well each time he's called,
He might not make it back.
So next time you see a Devil Dog
Standing proud and true,
Be grateful of all he's given;
He's given it for you.
Don't go up and ask him
What's it like to be in war;
Just thank God that it's your country
He's always fighting for.
And thank him too for all the hell
He's seen in cammie green.
Thank him for having the guts
To be a United States Marine.

by Geraldine A. Mihalko
I don't know if it's a poem, but I thought it worthy of my webpage and of this forum.

The average age of the military man is 19 years.

He is a short haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, not old enough to buy a beer, but old enough to die for his country.

He never really cared much for work and he would rather wax his own car than wash his father's; but he has never collected unemployment either.

He's a recent High School graduate; he was probably an average student, pursued some form of sport activities, drives a ten year old jalopy, and has a steady girlfriend that either broke up with him when he left, or swears to be waiting when he returns from half a world away.

He listens to rock and roll or hip-hop or rap or jazz or swing and 155mm Howitzers.

He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home because he is working or fighting from before dawn to well after dusk.

He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him, but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds and reassemble it in less time in the dark.

He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun or grenade launcher and use either one effectively if he must.

He digs foxholes and latrines and can apply first aid like a professional.

He can march until he is told to stop or stop until he is told to march.

He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation, but he is not without spirit or individual dignity.

He is self-sufficient. He has two sets of fatigues: he washes one and wears the other. He keeps his canteens full and his feet dry.

He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth, but never to clean his rifle.

He can cook his own meals, mend his own clothes, and fix his own hurts. If you're thirsty, he'll share his water with you; if you are hungry, his food.

He'll even split his ammunition with you in the midst of battle when you run low.

He has learned to use his hands like weapons and weapons like they were his hands. He can save your life - or take it, because that is his job.

He will often do twice the work of a civilian, draw half the pay and still find ironic humor in it all. He has seen more suffering and death then he should have in his short lifetime.

He has stood atop mountains of dead bodies, and helped to create them.

He has wept in public and in private, for friends who have fallen in combat and is unashamed.

He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate through his body while at rigid attention, while tempering the burning desire to 'square-away' those around him who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat, or even stop talking. In an odd twist, day in and day out, far from home, he defends their right to be disrespectful.

Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great-grandfather, he is paying the price for our freedom.

Beardless or not, he is not a boy.

He is the American Fighting Man that has kept this country free for over 200 years.

He has asked nothing in return, except our friendship and understanding.

Remember him, always, for he has earned our respect and admiration with his blood.

This almost made me cry the first time I read it. And yes to those who are wondering by the shear volume of my post in this topic. It is true, I have no life. lol


'Twas the night before Christmas, and he lived all alone
In a one-bedroom house made of plaster and stone.
I had come down the chimney with presents to give,
And to see just whom in this home did live.

I looked all about, and a strange sight did I see,
No tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by the mantle, just boots filled with sand,
On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land.

With medals and badges, awards of all kinds,
A sober thought came to my mind.
For this house was different, dark and dreary,
It was the house of a soldier, I now could see clearly.

The soldier lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in this one-bedroom home.
The face was so gentle, the room in disorder,
Not how I pictured a United States soldier.

Was this the hero of whom I had read?
Curled up on a poncho, the floor for a bed?
I realized the families I saw on this night,
Owed their lives to this soldier, who was willing to fight.

Soon 'round the world the children would play,
And grown-ups would celebrate a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom, each month of the year,
Because of the soldiers, like the one lying here.

I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone,
On a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.
The very thought brought a tear to my eye,
And I dropped to my knees and started to cry.

The soldier awakened and I heard a rough voice,
"Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice.
I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more,
My life is my God, my Country, my Corps."

The soldier rolled over and drifted to sleep,
And I couldn't control it, I started to weep.
I kept watch for hours, so silent and still
And we both shivered from the cold night's chill.

I didn't want to leave on that cold, dark night
This Guardian of Honor so willing to fight.
The soldier rolled over and with a voice soft and pure,
Whispered, "Carry on, Santa, It's Christmas Day, All is secure."

One look at my watch and I knew he was right,
Merry Christmas, my friend, and to all a Good Night!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

He showed a certain confidence when I lined up next to him,
Not cocky, just contented, but he seemed to force his grin.
He asked if I was one who would go to fight a war.
"It might be better now," I said, "than to see what lay in store."
He seemed relieved, then lost in thought, when I said that I was one.
I thought at once, there is no doubt, he knows what must be done.

As we moved along our way, he stumbled, nearly fell.
And as they cut my hair he said, "There's something I must tell
About this conflict going on, it might get out of hand.
It seems to me that we don't have any business in that land".
His eyes were clear and voice sincere, his points made one by one.
Still I thought, that he could see, that something should be done.

Stopping next at the clothing point, I picked up all my needs.
"It's not what I would wear," he said, "if I wanted to succeed.
But those who choose this type of work need such sturdy wear.
They need lots of clothes this color but have little need of hair."
Along we moved together and as he rambled on,
I just had to question his resolve to get things done.

Next, we reached the issue point, and I gathered up some stuff;
Canteens, and pack, and other gear, I'll need when things get tough.
"Someone should prepare to fight," he said," I suppose, if that need be.
It makes me glad that it is so, if we are to stay free."
Sure wish this were like the Big Ones, not like those jungle wars,
But we never seem to believe, we have a True Cause, anymore.

Indeed, at times I'd pondered, why I'd gotten in this line.
We wait, and wait, and wait, and wait, then hurry up when time.
For me, I think, it might have been, the travel, thrill and fun,
But in my heart, I guess I knew, there was something to be done.
And so it is, that I am here, not itching to be bloodied,
But ready still to pay the price, if Freedom would be muddied.

If war should be the course this time, or in some time to come,
I'll be ready when they call, and I will do what need be done.
The line bogged down, and so, we were stranded for awhile.
He wrung his hands, and wiped his brow, as we shuffled in that file.
He's a weak-kneed sort, I thought, who feels there's nothing worth a fight.
Would he go the extra mile, even if the time was right?

I mused a rule of house keeping, 'clean up the mess while small',
But 'fast-lane life' deceives us, and we ignore the call.
My friend agreed, but turned away, while nodding it was so,
Then offered up some reasoning, on why he shouldn't go.
Not interested in the least, was he, in picking up a gun.
I put my rifle on my shoulder, He said, "Sorry, got to run."

"But good luck with this conflict, we'll be watching close to see…
Don't know what else to tell you, except I'm glad that we are free."
Reaching to my war belt, I grabbed a magazine.
Looking for direction I surveyed the whole scene.
Turning back around, I saw my "friend" was now long gone.
And so, I would do alone, what needed to be done.

Starting then to look, to the limit of my view,
My eyes fell on a couple, with skin of different hue,
Waving at a young man, up ahead of me,
A Son, or a Brother, they hoped again to see.
Close by them a young Mother, with a small one at her side,
Tried hard to hold the tears back, but didn't try to hide.

And near them, on a set of wheels, set up so he could ride,
A Vet with Daughter uniformed, was beaming with earned pride.
My thoughts were floating off, to what might be better times,
Soon though, I was back, getting ready for "The Line".
My Countrymen American, are such a different lot, and
They often take for granted, those who pay for what they've got.

When, and if, back home again, there is no music loud,
The game ahead, will still be played, even if there is no crowd.
And as I stood there thinking, of peace or war, along "The Line",
I heard a voice yell over, "We won't let you down this time!"
I know now, that I'm ready, even though some say,"Don't go."
I will do what I must, whether thanks will come or no.

With Pride and Integrity, I'll uphold what is True
Even if I'm never Honored, or the Praise is overdue.
When it's tough to hold on, and painful though things be,
I know that I will make it through, to Victory.
For when they called on someone, to be a
Faithful One,
I bravely, boldly, took the step to do

Copyright 1990, 2001
By M. B. Connally Sr.
The Military Wife - author unknown
The good Lord was creating a model for military wives and was into his sixth day of overtime when an angel
appeared. She said, "Lord, you seem to be having a lot of trouble with this one. What's wrong with the standard model?"
The Lord replied, "Have you seen the specs on this order? She has to be completely independent, posses the qualities ofboth father and mother, be a perfect hostess to four or forty, with an hours notice, run on black coffee, handle every emergency imaginable without a manual, be able to carry on cheerfully, even if she is pregnant or has the flu, and she must be willing to move to a new location ten times in seventeen years. And oh, yes, she must have six pairs of hands."
The angel shook her head, "Six pairs of hands? No way."
The Lord continued, "Don't worry, we will make her other military wives to help her. And we will give her an unusually strong heart so it can swell with pride in her husband's achievements, sustain the pain of separations, beat soundly when it is overworked and tired, and be large enough to say, 'I love you," regardless."
"Lord," said the angel, touching his arm gently, "Go to bed and get some rest. You can finish this tomorrow!"
"I can't stop now," said the Lord. "I am so close to creating something unique. Already this model heals herself when she is sick, can put up with six unexpected guests for the weekend, wave good-bye to her husband from a pier, a runway, or a depot, and understand why it's important he leave."
The angel circled the model of the military wife, looked at it closely and sighed, "It looks fine, but it's too soft."
"She might look soft," replied the Lord, "but she has the strength of a lion. You would not believe what she can endure."
Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek of the Lord's creation. "There's a leak," she announced. "Something is wrong with the construction. I am not surprised it has cracked. You are trying to put too much into this model."
The Lord appeared offended at the angel's lack of confidence. "What you see is not a leak," he said. "It's a tear."
"A tear? What is it there for?" asked the angel.
The Lord replied, "It's for joy, sadness, pain, disappointment, loneliness, pride, and a dedication to all the values that she and her husband hold dear."
"You are a genius!" exclaimed the angel.
The Lord looked puzzled and replied, "I didn't put it there."

Military Wives Prayer
At night when I crawl into bed,
My lonely pillow' neath my head,
I close my eyes and say a prayer,
"God keep him safe way over there,
And make me strong so I won't cry.
It's kinda hard to be alone and
teach the kids when they're half grown,
without the strength of a father's hand
to guide them in this troubled land.
So I'll need a little help from you,
to let me know what I should do.
And God please will you let him know,
How much we love and miss him so.
And then I feel across the bed,
To where he used to lay his head,
and I close my eyes so very tight,
so I won't cry again tonight,
and whisper to the evening air,
"Good night my darling way over there."

~The Silent Ranks~
Author Unknown

I wear no uniforms, no blues or army greens
But I am in the Army in the ranks rarely seen
I have no rank upon my shoulders - salutes I do not give
But the military world is the place where I live

I'm not in the chain of command, orders I do not get
But my husband is the one who does, this I can not forget
I'm not the one who fires the weapon, who puts my life on the line
But my job is just as tough. I'm the one that's left behind

My husband is a patriot, a brave and prideful man
And the call to serve his country not all can understand
Behind the lines I see the things needed to keep this country free
My husband makes the sacrifice, but so do our kids and me

I love the man I married, Soldiering is his life
But I stand among the silent ranks known as the

Army Wife
That Ragged Old Flag"

Johnny Cash

I walked through a county courthouse square
On a park bench, an old man was sittin there.

I said, "Your court house is kinda run down,
He said, "No, it will do for our little town".

I said "your old flag pole kinda leaned a little bit,
And that's a ragged old flag you got hanging on it".

He said "have a seat", so I sat down,
He said, "is this your first visit to our little town"

I said, "I think it is"
He said "I don't like to brag, but we're kinda proud of

"That Ragged Old Flag"

"You see, we got a little hole in that flag there,

When Washington took it across the Delaware.

It got powder burned the night Francis Scott Key sat watching it, writing
"Oh Say Can You See"

It got a rip in New Orleans, with Packingham & Jackson tugging at its seams.

It almost fell at the Alamo beside the Texas flag, But she waved on tho.

It got cut with a sword in Chancellorsville,
Got cut again at Shiloh Hill.

There was Robert E. Lee and Beauregard and Bragg, And the south wind blew hard on

"That Ragged Old Flag"

On Flanders Field in World War I,
She took a bad hit from a Bertha Gun,

She turned blood red in World War II
She hung limp and low by the time that one was through.

She was in Korea, Vietnam, She went where she was sent by her Uncle Sam.

The Native Americans, The Black, Yellow and White; All shed red blood for the Stars and Stripes.

And here in her own good land, She's been abused, burned, dishonored, denied and refused,

And the very government for which she stands Has been scandalized throughout out the land.

And she's getting thread bare, and she's wearing kinda thin,

But she's in pretty good shape, for the shape she's in.

Cause she's been through the fire before
and she can take a whole lot more.

So we raise her up every morning
And we bring her down slow every night,

We don't let her touch the ground,
And we fold her up right.

On second thought, I do like to brag
Cause I'm mighty proud of

"That Ragged Old Flag"
Last one I promise, and this one I wrote, about a year ago, for school. I can't write worth anything, but I'm pretty proud of this one.

Never Foreget The Day The Eagel Cried

Twin towers stood tall and proud
Stood in a city, welcoming people to the home of the brave
Towers built in a time when people had no heroes
Just fighting and war
All this before the towers came crashing down.

Students were mixed up
Protesting, exercising freedoms
But really taking them for granted
Breaking the laws and weakening our government
Wanting to make love not war
All this before the towers came crashing down.

Our government was even abusing the little power it had
The president was breaking the laws
He was embarrassing our nation
He even had to leave his office
And face the world
As a failure
All this before the towers came crashing down.

Then the towers were completed
Standing tall and proud
Guarding their mother Lady Liberty
Two solid twin brothers
Taller than any other
Welcomed people to our recovering nation
All this before the towers came crashing down.

In twenty-four years people came to hate Lady Liberty and all she stood for.
They wanted to destroy the nation she calls home
They weren't powerful enough to do that but they could take the twins
They began making plans, and training evil men
All this before the towers came crashing down.

Now New York remembers an explosion louder than they had ever heard
And the ominous silence and shock that followed
They saw unsung heroes trying to save the people that the twins were trying to protect
The sun cast the brothers in a brilliant light
Against a sky so blue
That the heroes had no clue, that soon the towers would be no more
All this before the towers came crashing down.

Then the twins had to give up their valiant fight, they fell to a heap
The unsung heroes and the people were lost
Some never to be found
When the towers came crashing down.

Heroes search through the rubble of Ground Zero
Searching for their own, and loved ones
But they're looking for even more than that,
They're searching for ways to live with the horror they saw on that day
And a way to heal the nation and their children's hearts
All this since the towers came crashing down.

Now the number 911 has come to mean something more to every American
Fear, triumph, honor, pride, terror, compassion, freedom, all mean more since that day
So much was lost, so much was gained
Buildings, heroes, a naive sense of invulnerably, but we gained a certain patriotism that
had been forgotten
America is now rebuilding on very scared ground
Never giving up, never giving in to fear
All this since the towers came crashing down.

Americans vow never to forget, Never to be caught off guard
We have given many lives to protect all our country stands for
Young lives never to be completed
Given to protect our Freedoms
All this since the towers came crashing down.

By: Kelly Ledbetter
Shoot I forgot about this one, and this one does make me cry. I first found it as a BMP file, the poem on top of a rifle with a helment, and dogtags. yeah I know, I know, I'm a chic I'm suppose to cry, but still. :cry:

Miss Me, But Let Me Go

While I come to the end of the road,
and the sun has set for me,
I want no rite in gloom-filled room,
Why cry for a soul set free?
Miss me a little, but not too long,
and not with your head bowed low.
Remember the love that we once shared,
Miss me, but let me go.
For this is a journey we all must take,
and each must go alone.
It's all part of the Master's plan,
A step on the road to home.
When you are lonely and sick of heart,
Go to the friends we know.
And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds,
Miss me, but let me go.

sniff, sniff. :cry: :cry: :cry:
As this thread is turning into a solid collection of military poems here is one from US history.

The Bivouac for the Dead
by Theodore O'Hara, 1847​

[SIZE=+1]The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last Tattoo;
No more on life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.

No rumour of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind.
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn, nor screaming fife,
At dawn shall call to arms.

Their shivered swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow;
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.

The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shouts are past;
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight;
Those breasts that never more may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with triumph, yet to gain,
Come down the serried foe;
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew the watchword of the day
Was "Victory or death!"

Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the glory tide;
Not long, our stout old Chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.

Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his beloved land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their father's gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.

For many a mother's breath has swept
O'er Angostura's plain,
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.
The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil,
The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field,
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes sepulcher.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead,
Dear as the blood ye gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave.
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While fame her record keeps,
For honor points the hallowed spot
Where valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell,
When many a vanquished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell.
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
One from English history.

The Charge of the Light Brigade
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1870

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
"Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Someone had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred.
Lead out the pageant: sad and slow,
As fits an universal woe,
Let the long, long procession go,
And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow,
And let the mournful martial music blow;
The last great Englishman is low.

A people’s voice! we are a people yet.
Tho’ all men else their nobler dreams forget,
Confused by brainless mobs and lawless Powers,
Thank Him who isled us here, and roughly set
His Briton in blown seas and storming showers,
We have a voice with which to pay the debt
Of boundless love and reverence and regret
To those great men who fought, and kept it ours.
And keep it ours, O God, from brute control!
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the soul
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole,
And save the one true seed of freedom sown
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne,
That sober freedom out of which there springs
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings!
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust,
And drill the raw world for the march of mind,
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns be just.
But wink no more in slothful overtrust.
Remember him who led your hosts;
He bade you guard the sacred coasts.
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall;
His voice is silent in your council-hall
For ever; and whatever tempests lour
For ever silent; even if they broke
In thunder, silent; yet remember all
He spoke among you, and the Man who spoke;
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,
Nor palter’d with Eternal God for power;
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow
Thro’ either babbling world of high and low;
Whose life was work, whose language rife
With rugged maxims hewn from life;
Who never spoke against a foe;
Whose eighty winters freeze with one rebuke
All great self-seekers trampling on the right.
Truth-teller was our
’s Alfred named;
Truth-lover was our English Duke;
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be shamed.

I vow to thee, my country, all earthly things above,
Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love;
The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test,
That lays 'pon the altar the dearest and the best;
The love that never falters, the love that pays the price,
The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice.

I heard my country calling, away across the sea,
Across the waste of waters she calls and calls to me.
Her sword is girded at her side, her helmet on her head,
And round her feet are lying the dying and the dead.
I hear the noise of battle, the thunder of her guns,
I haste to thee my mother, a son among thy sons.

And there's another country, I've heard of long ago,
Most dear to them that love her, most great to them that know;
We may not count her armies, we may not see her King;
Her fortress is a faithful heart, her pride is suffering;
And soul by soul and silently her shining bounds increase,
And her ways are ways of gentleness, and all her paths are peace.

Cecil Spring-Rice.

This is a British patriotic poem - which later also became a hymn. It refers to WW1.
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