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One respirator for the four of us.

Glory be to God, that three of us can run;   

So one of us can use it all alone.


Dulce et decorum est Pro Patria mori  (Written in 1917)                                                                                        

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 gas-shells dropping softly 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 flound'ring 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
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


Black is the Sun  2Em

Wind won't you carry me, Set my blind spirit free

For I have lost the will to breathe, as comrades fall like dying leaves

Black is the sun, black is the sun


Rain won't you wash me clean, such poison I have seen

Visions that will not be gone, for all my life however long

And in this trench there is a picture, my sweet children smile at me

In this heart an endless longing, wherefore art those smiles I see

Black is the sun, black is the sun


Snow won't you chill my wounds, spring she has come too soon

Fires scorch as we retreat, flesh decays around my feet

Lord won't you bring me home, no strength have I to roam

A thousand miles beneath these boots, more death with every round I shoot

And on this gun there is a number, tell me what that number means

Is it for the lives I've ended, or is it for the tears I've screamed

Black is the sun, black is the sun


Wind won't you carry me, set my blind spirit free                                                                                                                      

For I am broke beyond repair, so to my kin please blow me there

Awake me from this endless nightmare, save me from these deathly drones

Grant me ever lasting leave from blood red soil and burning bones

Black is the sun, Black is the sun, Black is the sun, Black is the sun



The first day of the 1916 Somme offensive was the bloodiest in the history of the British Army. More than 20,000 were killed and 60,000 injured. The offensive lasted from July 1st 1916 until November 16th. The Angus writer and poet, Violet Jacob, lost her son, Harry, on October 31st………. Hallowe’en!


The tattie-liftin's nearly through
They're plooin' whaur the barley grew
And aifter dark roond ilka stack
Ye'll see the horsemen stand and crack
O Lachlan, but I mind on you

I mind foo often we hae seen
Ten thoosand stars keek doon atween
The nakit branches, and below
Baith fairm an' bothy hae their show
Alowe wi' lichts o Hallowe'en

There's bairns wi guizards at their tail
Cloorin' the doors wi runts o kail
And fine ye'll hear the skreichs an' skirls
O lassies wi' their drookit curls
Bobbin' for aipples i’ the pail.

The bothy fire is loupin het                                                                                                                                                                 .
A new heid-horseman's kist is set
Richts o the lum whaur by the blaze
The auld yin stude that kept yer claes-
I canna thole tae see it yet.

But gin the auld fowk’s tales are richt
An' ghaists cam hame on Hallow  nicht,
O freend O freends, whit wad I gie
Tae feel ye rax yer hand tae me
Atween the dark an' caun'le licht!

Awa in France across the wave,
The wee lichts burn on ilka grave
An' you an' me their lowe hae seen -
Ye'll mebbe hae yer Hallowe'en
Yont, whaur ye're lyin wi the lave.

There's drink an' daffin, sang an' dance,