Words on Stone

An excerpt from the poem, The Green Fields of France by Eric Bogle.
But here in this graveyard that is still No Man’s land
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand.
To man’s blind indifference to his fellow man
To a whole generation that was butchered and damned.

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Hail sweet repose now shall we rest
No more with Sickness be distressed
Here from all Sorrow find release
Our Souls shall dwell in endless peace.

Ω

Here lies brave Snow, full six feet deep,
Whose heart would melt when caused to weep.
Though winter’s blast may freeze his frame,
Yet Death’s cold grasp can’t chill his fame.  1829

Ω

His lips which I kissed are faded and cold
His hands which I clasped are covered with mould
His form which I clasped is crumbled away
And soon by his side his weepers shall lay.

Ω

What thou art reading on my bones
Oft I read on other stones
And others soon will read of thee
What thou art reading now of me.

Ω

Passengers behold ! my friends and view;
Breathless I lie; no more with you;
Hurri’d from life, sent to the grave;
Jesus my only hope – to save;
No warning had I of my sad fate
Till dire the stroke alas! to late.

Ω

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Filial affection stronger than the grave
From time’s obliterating hand to save
Erects this humble monument of stones
Over a Father’s and Mother’s bones
Far from their native land here mouldering lie
As one in life, now in one cemetery
In Heaven their children hope that blessd abode
To meet their spirits with arisen God.

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In death’s cold arms lies sleeping
A tender parent, a companion dear
In love she lived, in peace she died
Her life was asked but was denied.

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