Christmas themed poems

Here are two poems commemorating Christmastide of the First World War:

The Christmas Truce 1914 by E. Blanche Terry

Fiercely, wildly, rages now the battle,
Around is desolation, pain and death,
And through the din is heard the dread death-rattle
Of victims gasping out their failing breath.

Cannons loudly roaring, bullets flying,
Everywhere the sound of shot and shell,
Making for the miserably dying
A terrible and deaf'ning funeral knell.

More desperately still the battle rages,
Many heroes fall and some must die,
No hope of armistice or peace assuages
Wounded victims' piercing agony.

Darkness now approaches; through the hours
Of night created for man's rest and peace,
Those unsatisfied, malignant powers,
Refuse e'en now to bid the conflict cease.

Hark! a distant sound which keeps repeating
From childhood's hour, known and loved so well:
Can it be the angels' Christmas greeting
Convey'd so sweetly in a Convent bell?

It makes the nerves with strange sensations tingle,
Brings thoughts of home, fond thoughts of happier times;
Is it fancy, or do voices mingle
With the ringing of those Christmas chimes?

Surely there are angel-voices stealing
Through the atmosphere of death and pain,
Heavenly messengers to earth appealing
For love and peace; must they appeal in vain?

“Christians, awake!” still faintly in the distance,
Far away, the sound comes faint and dim,
And yet those voices with a strange insistance
Repeat the words of that loved Christmas hymn.

It is no dream, for hark! ten thousand voices
Moved with one impulse the sad silence break,
And heart of friend and foe alike rejoices
At those familiar words “Christians, awake!”

A friendly face peeps out above the trenches,
The sun bursts forth in crimson splendour, while
A friendly hand the hand of foeman clenches
And demons flee aghast and angels smile.

And others quickly follow their example,
Too glad to spend a day of rest and peace;
This Holy Day is one most precious sample
Of days that are to be when battles cease.

Soft words from foreign lips console the dying,
For now, when all are friends, who is the foe?
And tender hands soothe those in anguish lying,
The very hands, perchance, which laid them low.

And all are now in harmony united,
Exchange of gentle, courteous words takes place;
Kind actions with kind actions are requited,
And God's own peace is shining on each face.

Too soon those precious hours of peace are ended,
Too soon must fade the soft'ning evening light,
No longer must the trench be undefended,
The Christmas truce must end on Christmas night.

And long before black night takes down her awning
That shields the sleeping world from light of day,
The murmuring voices of the troops give warning,
All thoughts of gentle peace have passed away.

For Britain's pledges must remain unbroken,
Her friends she cannot in their need deny,
Words are sacred still that once were spoken,
The knot of friendship nothing can untie.

Britain's hero sons can bear the anguish,
Of parting with the ones they love so well,
To fight—and die if needful—or to languish
Unloved, uncared for in a prison-cell.

Knowing that the fate of every nation
Hangs in the balance, and that Britain's hand
Must stay the power that carries devastation
Into every sweet, peace-loving land.

Some heroes still are fighting, some are sleeping,
In the deep silence which no voice can break,
Until the guardian-angels, vigil keeping,
Shall whisper tenderly—“Christians, awake!”

==============

"A Carol from Flanders" by Frederick Niven

Frederick Niven (1878 - 1944)

Frederick Niven was born in Valparaiso in Chile.  His parents were originally from Scotland.  He was educated in Glasgow from the age of five at Hutcheson's Grammar School and then the Glasgow School of Art.  Niven worked for a time in his father's textile business and then worked as a librarian in Glasgow and Edinburgh.     He contracted a respiratory disease and in 1899 was sent to Canada for treatment.  Together with two friends, Niven trekked through the Okanagan Valley and the Kootenays.   Back in Scotland, he wrote about his experiences and the accounts were published in newspapers and magazines in Glasgow and London as well as in America.

In 1911, Niven married Mary Pauline Thorne-Quelch.   In 1912 and 1913 he again travelled to Canada as a freelance writer.

During the First World War, Niven worked at the Ministry of Food and the Ministry of Information.

After the war, Niven and his wife emigrated to Canada where they lived in British Columbia and he continued to write.  He died in 1944.

"A Carol from Flanders"

In Flanders on the Christmas morn
The trenched foemen lay,
the German and the Briton born,
And it was Christmas Day.

The red sun rose on fields accurst,
The gray fog fled away;
But neither cared to fire the first,
For it was Christmas Day!

They called from each to each across
The hideous disarray,
For terrible has been their loss:
"Oh, this is Christmas Day!"

Their rifles all they set aside,
One impulse to obey;
'Twas just the men on either side,
Just men — and Christmas Day.

They dug the graves for all their dead
And over them did pray:
And Englishmen and Germans said:
"How strange a Christmas Day!"

Between the trenches then they met,
Shook hands, and e'en did play
At games on which their hearts were set
On happy Christmas Day.

Not all the emperors and kings,
Financiers and they
Who rule us could prevent these things —
For it was Christmas Day.

Oh ye who read this truthful rime
From Flanders, kneel and say:
God speed the time when every day
Shall be as Christmas Day.

I wish you all a Happy and peaceful Christmas.

Commemorating Bradford's WW1 Poet - Humbert Wolfe (1885 - 1940)

Bradford City Library is to have a special commemorative head of the Italian-born British poet Humbert Wolfe sculpted by his great-great-nephew Anthony Padgett.  There will be an unveiling ceremony on 5th December and the sculpture will be on view in the Library from 6th December 2015.

Coningsby Dawson (1883 - 1959) - English-born, American educated, Canadian soldier during WW1

I have just received this from a friend is America who is himself a poet and interested in First World War poetry. 

Coningsby Dawson.  Dawson was born in High Wycombe in England, raised in America, attended Merton College, Oxford, became a very minor poet and popular novelist in his day.   When WWI broke out, he went to Canada where he trained in artillery and from where he was sent to the Somme in 1916.  He survived the war, though he was wounded. Dawson's WW1 collection ‘Carry On’ was published by his father, W.J. Dawson, who was also a minor poet.  The book, available as a download on Gutenberg, contains Coningsby’s letters home, which are of significant interest in part because he survived the war, in part because he was highly literate, and in part because he writes from the perspective of an English-American-Canadian man. 

In the front of the volume is a poem by Eric P. Dawson, Sub. Lieut, R.N.V.R,, Coningsby’s brother.  Both his brothers served at sea during The Great War.  Here’s the poem, for your collection if you do not already have it:

 

WHEN THE WAR’S AT AN END

 

At length when the war’s at an end

  And we’re just ourselves, -- you, and I,

And we gather our lives up to mend,

  We, who’ve learned how to live and to die:

 

Shall we think of the old ambition

  For riches, or how to grow wise,

When, like Lazarus freshly arisen,

  We’ve the presence of Death in our eyes?

 

Shall we dream of old life’s passion—

  To toil for our heart’s desire,

Whose souls War has taken to fashion

  With molten death and with fire:

 

I think we shall crave the laughter

  Of the wind through trees gold with the sun,

When our strife is all finished, -- after

            The carnage of war is done.

 

Just these things will then seem worth while:--

  How to make Life more wondrously sweet;

How to live with a song and a smile,

  How to lay our lives at Love’s feet.

Tom Kettle (1880 - 1916) - Irish barrister, economist, poet, writer, journalist, politician and soldier

Thomas Michael Kettle was born in Artane in Dublin.  His father was Andrew J. Kettle, a farmer and his mother was Margaret, nee McCourt.   Tom was educated at the Christian Brothers O'Connell School in Dublin, Clongowes Wood College in County Kildare and University College Dublin.   In 1900 he travelled in Europe, where he studied French and German.   An advocate of home rule for Ireland, Tom qualified as a barrister in 1905.  In 1906 he was elected as the MP for East Tyrone.

At University, Tom met Mary Sheehy and the couple were married in September 1909.  Their daughter, Elizabeth, was born in 1913.

In 1914, Tom was in Belgium at the outbreak of war and wrote articles about what he witnessed for 'The Daily News'.   When Ireland entered the war on the side of the Allies, Tom joined the Royal Dublin Fusiliers and applied to be sent to the Western Front.  He was killed on 9th September 1916, leading his men at Guinchy in the Battle of the Somme, France.   He has no known grave.

In his book "Walking like a Queen  Irish Impressions" G.K. Chesterton referred to Tom as a scholar, a wit and an orator and ambitious in the arts of peace.  

To my Daughter Betty

In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown

To beauty proud as was your Mother's prime.

In that desired, delayed, incredible time,

You'll ask why I abandoned you, my own,

And the dear heart that was your baby throne,

To dice with death.  And oh! they'll give you rhyme

And reason:  some will call the thing sublime,

And some decry it in a knowing tone.

So here, while the mad

 guns curse overhead,

And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor,

Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,

Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,

But for a dream, born in a herdsman's shed,

And for the secret Scripture of the poor.

Tom wrote the poem four days before he was killed.

From "The War Poets  An Anthology" published for The Great Writers Library, by Marshall Cavendish Partworks Ltd, London, 1988

Laurence Binyon (1869 - 1943) - British

Robert Laurence Binyon was born on 10th August 1869 in Lancaster.   Laurence was the son of Frederick Binyon and his wife Mary, nee Dockray.

A pupil of St. Paul's School in London, Laurence went on to study classics at Oxford University, joining Trinity College.  He began work at the Department of Printed Books of the British Museum.

In 1904, Laurence married Cicely Margaret Powell, a historian and they had three daughters.

Laurence was friends with fellow poets Ezra Pound, Richard Aldington and Hilda Dolittle (known as H.D.).

His most famous poem is "For the Fallen" which was written sitting on a cliff top in Cornwall after the Battles of Mons and The Marne had caused terrible casualties on the Western Front.  He volunteered for war work in spite of being too old and became a hospital worker in Arc-en-Ballois, France.

Sir Edward Elgar set three of Laurence's poems to music and published these as "The Spirit of England" in 1917.

After a long and distinguished career, Laurence retired from the British Museum in 1933 and retired to Streatley in Berkshire.  He was appointed Norton Professor of Poetry at Harvard in 1933 and Byron Professor of English Literature in Athens University, leaving just prior to the German invasion of Greece in 1941.

Laurence died on 10th March 1943 in Reading, Berkshire.

Laurence Binyon's WW1 anthology "The Winnowing Fan  Poems on The Great War" was published in 1914 by Houghton Mifflin Company, New York and Boston

Laurence Binyon's most famous work is "For the Fallen" which is quoted regularly at commemorative events when the lines from the fourth verse - "At the going down of the sun and in the morning we will remember them" and "They shall not grow old, as we grow old: Age shall not weary them or the years condemn" are repeated.

Read the whole poem here http://www.greatwar.co.uk/poems/laurence-binyon-for-the-fallen.htm

Sir Thomas Brock RA "Aid for the Fallen" from King Albert's Book, published in 1914 in aid of the Daily Telegraph Fund for Belgium.

Sir Edmund Gosse on Belgian Poets

In "King Albert's Book" which was published at Christmas 1914 by Hodder and Stoughton in aid of the Daily Telegraph Fund for Belgium, Sir Edmund Gosse wrote about Belgian poets:

Max Waller who founded 'La Jeune Belgue'

Charles van Leerberghe

Georges Rodenbach

Emile Verhaeren

Maurice Maeterlinck

Andre Fontainas

Max Elskamp

Albert Mockel

Albert Giraud

King Albert's Book is available as a download on Archive:

https://ia600307.us.archive.org/14/items/kingalbert00teleuoft/kingalbert00teleuoft.pdf

Harold Begbie (1871 - 1929) - British poet, writer and journalist

Edward Harold Begbie was the fifth son of Mars Hamilton Begbie and his wife Anna Eliza. Harold's father was an Anglican Church priets and Rector of the Parish Church of Farnham St. Martin in Suffolk.  Although he first became a farmer, Harold later moved to London where he joined 'The Daily Chronicle' newspaper and later 'The Globe' newspaper as a journalist.

In 1892, Harold married Alice Gertrude Seal and they had four daughters, Janet, who was also a poet, Joan, Eve and Eleanor. During the First World War, Harold wrote recruiting poems and travelled to America to try to help the war effort on behalf of his newspaper. 

Harold Begbie's WW1 poetry collection "Fighting Lines and Various Reinforcements: Poems" was published by Constable in 1914.  His poems were included in 16 WW1 poetry anthologies.

Harold died in London in 1929.

With thanks to Roger Quin, Harold's grandson, for information and for the photograph of the Begbie family.

And here is one of Harold's poems

HANDING DOWN by Harold Begbie

This is the WW1 poem I first read at the age of seven.  It was handwritten in my Aunt's little black book commemorating the First World War. Sadly, her book went astray during a house move some years ago. I have been searching for the poem ever since.  Aunt Audrey was in the Wrens during WW2. She emigrated to South Africa after the war and died there.  She left her notebook and a photo album with my Mother. I read both avidly.   The poem always made me cry.  I can honestly say that is where my interest in WW1 poetry came from.

Soldier what are you writing

By the side of your cooling gun?
Sir, since Im stopped from fightings
A word to my little son.

Tell me the thing you've written

For I love the writer's art:
Sir, that to be a Briton
Is worth a broken heart.

Show me so fine a letter

That you write in the trenches mud:
Sir, you could read it better
Were it not for the stain of blood.

Soldier tell me your story

Your eyes grow bright and wide:
Sir, it's a taste of glory
To think of the young one's pride.

Would you like to be a soldier, little Tommy-all-my-own,

Would you like to tip the Kaiser off his high and mighty throne?
Would you like to be with father in a well-dug British trench,
Knocking spots off German Generals and saluting General French?

Would I like to be with Tommy, little Tommy-all-my-own,

Would I give a month of Sundays just to see how he has grown?
Yes ! Id like to be a dustman in the poorest London streets
For the chance of meeting Tommy with a gumboil made of sweets.

If you want to be where I am, why, I want to be with you.

But I'm here to show a tyrant that a Briton's word is true
We must stand by little Belgium, we must fight till fighting ends.
We must show the foes of Britain that we don't desert our friends.

Don't you go and think, my Tommy, little Tommy-all-my-own.

That we're squabbling here for nothing, that we're growling for a bone:
We are here for Britain's honour, for our freedom, for our peace.
And we're also here, my Tommy, that these wicked wars may cease.

Don't you say that I am funky, don't you say that I am sick,

Boy, I'm half afraid to tell you, but I love it when it's thick —
When the shells are screaming, bursting, and the whistling bullets wail,
God forgive me, but I love it, and I fight with tooth and nail.

But it's after, looking round us, missing friends and finding dead.

It is then the British soldier gets a fancy in his head.
And he swears by God in heaven that the man who starts a war.
Should go swimming into judgment down an avalanche of gore.

That's what makes us such great fighters, and I'd have you be the same,

Love your country like a good un, hold your head up, play the game,
Be a straight and pleasant neighbour, be a cool, un-ruffled man.
But when bullies want a thrashing, why, you thrash them all you can.

While you say your prayers, my Tommy, little Tommy-all-my-own,

Asking God to save your Daddy, I send this one to His throne:
Save my little lad from slaughter, guard his heart and mind from wrong,
Keep him sweet and kind and gentle, yes, but make him awful strong.

Good-night, my little Tommy, here's your Daddy's good-bye kiss.

Don't forget what I have told you, and remember also this —
If I don't come back to see you, I shall die without a groan,
For it's great to fall for Freedom, little Tommy-all- my-own.  

A huge thank you to Ann Swabey for finding the poem for me

With grateful thanks to Janet Begbie's Great-nephew Roger Quin for his help with information about the Begbie family and for kindly allowing reproduction of this photograph.