03 The Heritage (C.S.C.)
04 Two Silent Minutes (Mrs. Robert Lockhart)
05 No Man's Land (L/Cpl. C.R. Agar)
06 Wiring (L/Cpl. C.R. Agar)
07 To the Lads of Northumbria, the Brave Fusiliers" (James Tompkins)
08 The Picture Show (Mrs. Robert Lockhart)
09 In Loving Memory (Pte. C. Campbell, B.E.F.)
10 War Alphabet (Master H. Hinchcliffe)
11 A Song for England (Alice Binks)
12 The Joys of Larkhill (poet unknown)
13 His Trench (Mrs. Robert Lockhart)
14 An Empty Grave and Easter Chimes (James Tompkins
02
J. Solon Rees
The Auckland and County Chronicle 24/03/1921
A Memorial Hymn
Weep we do with stricken mourner
Stricken low by war in pain,
Weep in sorrow for brave soldiers,
Men who died on battle plain.
See, on tablet names engraven,
That long ages shall adore;
May in sorrow grace us given
Worthy praise them more and more.
For the grave in foreign country,
But quite near is the pain,
Nearer still the sacred memory
Treasured up by friends remain.
On the graves where they are buried,
Grow today sweet flowers new;
Symbols bright to us their kindred
Of new world they brought to view.
Let us ne'er forget their trails,
Nor appreciate their deeds;
But turn all their self-denials
Into virtues - peace ful seeds.
Lord, remember every homestead
Broken, sad by awful war;
Send Thy grace to heal the wounded,
Let peace reign for evermore.
03
C.S.C.
Newcastle Daily Chronicle 20/02/1920
The Heritage
Not of their lives, alone, they gave so nobly,
Not of the blood, alone, they gave in love,
Not of their sacrifice, God knows its greatness,
And in that hell, men sought a God above
But of the heritage they bought in dying,
And the great Peace, that must be ours to keep.
Watch! lest the blood of those our Dead, be on our shoulders.
Away with sleep.
04
Mrs. Robert Lockhart:
Whitley Seaside Chronicle and Visitor's Gazette for Saturday 22 November 1919.
Two Silent Minutes
Two silent minutes: Our work must cease
For a full year has passed, when we "cheered in" Peace,
When the fighting was over, and the Germans done,
And we knew that our boys out there had won.
Two silent minutes: We think of our men,
For those who are back with us all once again,
And of our dear comrades, so brave and kind
The dear ones at home they have left behind.
Two silent minutes: In our prayers we must find
A place for the sick, the wounded and blind
And for all the men who saw the war through,
Who are now back in England with no work to do.
Two silent minutes: in which we remember
The news that greeted this day last November
Time quickly is passing, but I'm 'fraid we forget
Our duty to those who are left with us yet.
Two silent minutes: Our prayers they do cease
For work we must do now the world is at Peace
No more slacking or shirking, for we owe a great debt
To the boys who lie yonder, whom we must not forget.
05 and 06
L/Cpl. C. R. Agar
The Whitley Seaside Chronicle and Visitors' Gazette 27/10/1917 says:
'PATROLLING' AND 'WIRING AT THE FRONT'
We have been favoured by Second Lieut. George Houghton sending us, from the Front, the poetic contributions below.
The writer, Lance Corporal Agar, was until quite recently, Mr Houghton tells us training at Whitley Bay, and it was while actually engaged on duties of "patrolling and "wiring" that he fixed the rhymes in his mind. "When", further writes Mr Houghton, "I tell you that the patrol took place in daylight and took the party very close to the Boche lines, I think you will agree with me that it speaks well for the coolness of Agar."
NO MAN'S LAND
When you are out in No Man's Land
Where noises are taboo,
And all the excitement that you have
Is Fritz's shot at you
The livelong day you spend out there,
Oh! tis a happy band
That waits and waits for six p.m.
Out there is No Man's Land.
You live in fear and trembling lest
The Germans shaffle you
You wait impatient, weary, sad,
And feel confounded blue.
You live on bread and potted meat
Or anything that's canned,
Oh! what a glorious life to lead -
Out there in No Man's Land.
We go out there to see if Fritz
Lives in a crater hole
Though no one knows how this could be
Of use to any soul.
To see if there is any wire,
And when we have it scanned,
We curse the whole confounded lot -
Out there in No Man's Land.
You have with you two Mill's bombs,
A rifle - fifty rounds,
You have a helmet lest the gas
Should knock you out of bounds.
And all in all it's beautiful
To burrow in the sand,
And dream of Blighty grub, and you -
Out there is No Man's Land.
06
L/Cpl. C. R. Agar
WIRING
Oh! wiring is the sport for Kings now hunting's out of fashion,
(On every beast except the Boche we exercise compassion),
If you'll give me a moment I will now explain the way
A British wiring party carries out its work out today
As dusk begins to fall, a long procession comes in view,
Which would if stretched in single file join Beverley to Kew,
They carry with them all the things a wiring party takes -
A pair of wire cutters, some wire - lots of stakes.
So far it's all quite simple, but when darkness fills the air,
'Twere better for the chaplain that he dare not venture there;
The language is terrific, and I'm sure you will agree,
The Angel Gabriel himself could not there blameless be.
The first man finds a shell hole and falls into it of course,
His language as he clambers out is quite a tour de force;
The second man falls over him, and squashes him out flat,
The third man finds an obstacle and lands on top of that.
The next two men with wire now appear upon the scene,
And gaze upon the chaos where once order was supreme.
They drop the wire in affright, and lose it in the dark,
The richness of their language makes the angels hark.
By the time the work is ended, and the wiring is put up
The noise of work is drowned by cries of
"Damn it" and "Shut up".
And if you tried but half the joys a wiring party brings,
I'm sure you'd plump for wiring as just the sport for Kings.
07
James Tompkins
Whitley Seaside Chronicle and Visitors' Gazette 20/04/1918
To the lads of Northumbria
"the brave fusiliers."
on the departure of the N.Fs. from Blyth, April 20th 1915
Raise a cheer and a shout, send hurrahs through the air,
For the lads that are going to the front-or somewhere
Blithe lads and true-hearted, no swagger for show;
But spare them your doubts, they will not spare the foe.
Make a long khaki line, clear the way; here they come;
See them swing to the tune, hear them step to the drum.
Our elders may boast of the "Old Volunteers,"
But our children shall learn of the Brave Fusiliers.
Cheer again; let them know we are proud of them all;
For these are not shirkers - they came at the call.
From the pit and the workshop, or counter they came
To shoulder the rifle, and play to the game.
No picnic their training - march, drill, and parade;
Hard bed and scant fare - bread and jam, not home-made.
But as Tommy steps out to bid twenty "good-byes"
There is health on his cheeks, and a smile in his eyes.
There's a mother, and sisters, and sweetheart - the dears!
How can they expect a good lad hide his tears?
But he runs to his place and steps out with the rest
They're all canny lads, an' you can't pick the best.
Ah! the sin and the shame that these bonny brave boys
Should be thrown on the Moloch of War, as but toys
To be broken, or scattered like chaff from the flail:
Well might mothers pray that peace should prevail.
But if country and conscience, and King bid them "Go,"
They go with our blessing-we cannot say No"
So, here's to our "Pals," give them three ringing cheers,
08
Mrs. Robert Lockhart
Whitley Seaside Chronicle & Visitors' Gazette 04/05/1918
THE PICTURE SHOW
Queer sights are to be seen at the Picture Show
Where young and old all delight to go,
For there many a pleasant hour is passed,
Contented you feel, when you return home at last.
You generally wait in the queue for a while,
Then you get inside, find your seat, and smile,
For there right in front is someone you know,
Who have come, like yourself, to enjoy the show.
And just to the left you see some old dear,
Having the time of his life with some girl here,
Lovers behind you, all round you a wel' (sic)
Spinning the tale they so often tell.
Then perhaps there is seated next to you
A dear sweet mother, brave and true.
As the boys in the picture go marching through France
You can imagine her thoughts in a single glance.
And some of the boys who have been out there,
Are seated together, they have done their share
But all comes back to them once again
The fighting, their wounds, and their pals who were slain.
"I guess they are going through it Bill,"says one,
"But before long our Boys will have Fritz on the run,
Do you remember when we were out there too?
Thank God, Bill, its Blighty, for me and you."
Then the picture of many parts begins,
You blot out of life, all the sad little things,
With interest everywhere it is viewed,
No wonder the people so quickly queued.
Then the end comes at last, all is made right,
True love is united, and all with delight
Feel the money they have spent on the Picture Show
Has been worth it twice over, as their pleasure does go.
09
Private C. Campbell, B.E.F.
France
Whitley Seaside Chronicle & Visitors' Gazette 30/03/1918 published this poem possibly written in memory of Pte. George Armstrong of Cullercoats)
IN LOVING MEMORY.
It is about a year or more
Since we left Old England's shore;
Twas only a few weeks previous
That we joined up for the war.
We little thought how soon we'd part
From those we loved so dear;
But our King and Country called us,
And we went with right good cheer.
Amongst our pals was Geordie A.,
From old Cullercoats he came,
A right type of a soldier,
And was always found the same.
Where duty called was Geordie there
With genial sunny smile;
His chums, they thought the world of him,
He was happy all the while.
But now, alas, he is no more
Through a treacherous "bloody" duel,
He was caught upon a fatal spot,
With a dull and heavy thud.
He fell, again no more to rise
In this bright world of ours;
But when the Judgment Day it comes,
He'll be numbered 'mongst the flowers.
And when the campaign is o'er,
And God calls His children home;
Amongst the millions at the throne,
We'll find Geordie Armstrong.
10
Whitley Seaside Chronicle & Visitor's Gazette 28/08/1915 printed this:
Composed by Master H. Hinchcliffe (age 16) 26 Esplanade, Whitley Bay
THE WAR ALPHABET
A- for the Allies who strike for the flag
B- for the Belgians, ne'er known to brag
C- for Canadians, staunch, straight, and true
D- for the Devil, the Kaiser, that's true
E- for the English who've answered the call
F- for the French, brave men one and all
G- for the Germans, spoilers of Louvain
H- for the Heroes and the Honour they gain
I - stands for Indians, fearless and true
J- for the Junkers who before them do flee
K- stands for Kitchener, who knows what he's doing
L- for the lies of Germany's brewing
M- for the Monsters who plan deeds of shame
N- for the Navy which causes them pain
O- for the Ocean, which Britain still rules
P- for the Pirates who thought we were fools
Q- for the Question when will this war end?
R- for the Russians who so nobly defend
S- for the Serbians who seldom fall back
T- for the Tommy, assisted by "Jack."
U- for the Uniform they both proudly don
V- for their Valour, which is second to none
W- for Work, also for Wound
X- for the X-Rays which science has found
Y- for the Yeomanry, who the Germans do curse
Z- for their Zeppelins, which of course ends my verse.
Note-
You who read this child's verse,
don't pass it with a sneer -
All his talent is not in print,
There's only a bit of it here. - T. Hobson
11.
Alice Binks, Westoe Village, South Shields
Whitley Seaside Chronicle & Visitor's Gazette 03/04/1915
A SONG FOR ENGLAND
O sing a song for Engellande
And of her sons so brave
Who form a trusty mighty band
That death nor foes who crave
To gain the victory o'er her
To kill her peacefulness
And then to march before her,
And mock at her distress.
Venting each evil passion
On everything they find,
And all her people fashion
Just as they are inclined.
But she shall not be conquered,
Even though her heart may ache;
If victory seems deferred,
Her soul is wide awake.
She full well understands
The things that would befall her
From out the Hun's great hands,
Who'd viciously enthralled her.
And ravage her great cities,
And take her children's gains,
But still her heart oft pities
All those with such soul stains.
She knows the Law of Right
That they must all repay
The evils done by might
That seems to hold the sway.
So sing a song for Engellande
To cheer her on the road.
And help her sons to take their stand
And carry their great load.
Alice Binks, Westoe Village, South Shields
Whitley Seaside Chronicle & Visitor's Gazette 03/04/1915
12
Whitley Seaside Chronicle 01/04/1916 says
"These lines written by a soldier now enjoying the amenities of Larkhill Camp, has been forwarded to us by a Cullercoats resident"
THE JOYS OF LARKHILL
There's an isolated desolated spot I'd like to mention,
Where all you hear is: "Stand at Ease," "Quick March," and "Attention."
It's miles away from anywhere, by jove it is a rum 'un,
A man lived there for fifty years and never saw a woman.
There's only two lamps in the place - so tell this to your mother,
The policeman carries No.1, and the postman has the other.
And if you want a jolly ride, and do not care a jot,
Just take a ride upon the car - the car they haven't got.
There's tiny little huts, all dotted here and there,
For those who have to live inside I've offered many a prayer;
It's mud up to the eyebrows - you get it in the ear,
But into it you've got to go without a sign of fear.
There's soldiers living in the tents; it fills my heart with sorrow,
With tear-dimmed eyes they've said to me:
"It's Larkhill Camp to-morrow."
Inside the huts they've rats they say as big as any goat.
Last night a soldier saw one trying on his overcoat.
For breakfast every morning it's just like Mother Hubbard,
You double round the huts three times and then dive in the cupboard;
Sometimes they give you bacon, sometimes they give you cheese
Which marches up and down your plate;
slopes arms and "stands at ease."
Each night you sleep on straw or boards just like a herd of cattle,
And if perchance you should turn round,
your bones begin to rattle,
When you hear Reveille blown it makes you feel unwell,
You knock the icebergs off your feet, - wish the bugler was in ----,
Now when the war is over and we've captured Kaiser Billy,
To shoot him down would be merciful and absolutely silly.
Just send him down to Larkhill Camp
amongst the rats and clay
And I bet it won't be long before he fades away.
Whitley Seaside Chronicle 01/04/1916 says "These lines written by a soldier now enjoying the amenities of Larkhill Camp, has been forwarded to us by a Cullercoats resident"
13
Mrs. Robt. Lockhart.
12, John Street, Cullercoats'
Whitley Seaside Chronicle & Visitor's Gazette
13/10/1917
HIS LITTLE TRENCH
Oh, dear little fellow so tanned by the sun
Your sweet baby face my admiration has won.
I see you are keen on the trench you are making
For such a wee soul it's a big undertaking,
But I can picture your pleasure when it's all done.
I guess you will feel proud of that model of sand,
When you step right inside, my won't you be grand.
There's a future before you, for you work with a will,
Your idea of a trench is completed with skill.
Three cheers, little fellow, it's the best in the land.
Perhaps you are a soldier's son far out in France,
Who is fighting for you and taking his chance.
His trench is quite different from the one you have made,
Shot and shell are around him, but he's not afraid.
He thinks only of duty as he joins the advance.
And your time will come too, little fellow, some day,
In the battle of life you will be called forth to play.
Be steadfast and true, Boy, in all that you do,
Never shirk at the work which is given to you.
May God watch you and guide you in the right way.
14
James Tompkins.
Whitley Seaside Chronicle & Visitors' Gazette - June 1st 1918:
AN EMPTY GRAVE & EASTER CHIMES
Whether morning or evening, one scarcely can tell,
For days are ill marked in this corner of hell,
Where mist, fire and smoke blur the face of Old Time,
And shells, then the yells, take the place of a chime.
Two hours on a fire step bed, and it seems
That some must have slept - they are telling their dreams;
Ah, those dreams; some too sweet, some too sacred to tell;
And some red with horror, a goblin's harsh spell.
Here's the sergeant: "Now lads, we'll be busy today,
And tho' its Good Friday, be short if you pray;
There Geordie, your mate yonder is calling for you,
Take your tools, for there's sure to be something to do."
And Geordie ran off, for he never was slack,
He'd have run had he known he would never run back:
His mate he was standing beneath a tall tree.
Where a live wire was broken, as Geordie could see
"Now Geordie, my lad, here's a job to be done;
We've never funked yet, spite o' risks that we've run;
I wish some old crow could be mending that wire.
For Fritz is just waiting for targets to fire."
And Geordie mused hard what the lads might require,
Who were crouched miles away in the mud and the mire,
'Twas for them that the line must at once be made good,
And for them he'd have climbed every tree in the wood.
So he shouldered the beams of that ugly old cross.
And gripped a sharp thorn when he felt for the moss:
But he breathed a short prayer for his mother at home.
Nor thought of those nails tipped with fire should they come.
Then he called from his perch, "It's finished, all's clear."
When a shell skimmed the tree and burst just in the rear.
Then a deafening noise, like the cracking of doom,
Shook the ground and sent over a fume laden gloom.
When it lifted a little that some could look round,
Poor Geordie lay flat with his face to the ground;
They raised him with care, "Bring a stretcher," one said.
"At least he is stunned, maybe he is dead."
They bore him away to a hostel retreat
With doctor and nurses and comforts replete;
And he lay on a little white bed in the sun
Where gentle hands did for him what could be done.
Once more the nurse bent o'er his pallid young face.
Stroked his cheek with her hand, put a curl in its place.
Then spoke to the doctor, who gravely replied;
"From shock and concussion the lad must have died."
His pals the next day dig a grave snug and neat,
Where the violets were peeping and smelling so sweet;
And they fashioned a cross from the twig of a tree;
But his mate thought, and said: "Why a crown it should be."
Easter Morn! What to us - in this death-stricken land -
Is its meaning, or message or music so grand
True! morning has risen, for the light's spreading round.
And spring with bright flowers is bedecking the ground.
But the dull boom of battle still vibrates the air;
Surely death, and not life, has escaped from his lair:
And our comrade is lying, and after parade
We must lay him away where so many are laid.
Oh! bitter constraint! and occasion for tears!
When a friend in the valley from sight disappears!
But we trust them in hope, tho' green be their graves
To the dear might of Him who walked over waves.
We stood a sad group near the grave open wide,
Whilst a thrush sang his song on the near green hill side;
Then looked once again to the bend in the road,
For the lads walking slow with their sorrowful load.
But instead, one came running, and shouting, and said:
"For heaven's sake, chaps! they say Geordie's not dead,"
But we looked at him doubtful, in gasping surprise;
And then we outran him to prove with our eyes.
All breathless we came to the hospital door
Where the good nurse was weeping as never before
But a glad smile was struggling to break through her tears,
And her half frenzied joy was all mingled with fears.
And then she spoke low: "Oh! that doctor would come,
Your chum, he has lain in that little side room
Since Friday, oh mercy! with two other dead -
Beneath a thin shroud and a band round his head."
She went on to tell as the tears dried away,
That some had been singing: "He's risen today."
How then she had gone to the place where he lay,
To assist the four lads who would bear him away.
How she started to find a rich glow on his cheek,
And retreated in fear she should hear a corpse speak
But a moment then all her sweet pluck had come back,
When she plied art, and skill to drive death off the track.
"Now he's breathing quite free," "Let us see him," we said.
"For not often our loved ones returned from the dead."
"Then go softly," said she, and pushed the door wide;
"See there, how he moves, he has turned on his side."
"Now, boys, you must leave him and trust to our care
His life is twice precious - no pains shall we spare."
And fain would we learn from that deep no-man's land.
If its shore is ashine with a rich golden strand.
In that little God's acre a broken cross lay;
And an echo came softly: "He's risen today."
An open grave yawned in a row of green waves
But if spirit is life, they are all empty graves.
Easter bells, Easter flowers, are flinging afar,
The fragrance of hope o'er the wastage of war:
Divided awhile by that deep no-man's land,
They tell us we'll meet on the bright Golden Strand.
