We have fed our sea for a thousand years And she calls us, still unfed, Though there's never a wave of all her waves But marks our English dead.

It's like a book, I think, this bloomin' world, Which you can read and care for just so long, But presently you feel that you will die Unless you get the page …

'E's a sort of a bloomin' cosmopolouse - soldier an' sailor too.

For 'im that doth not work must surely die; But that's no reason man should labour all 'Is life on one same shift - life's none so long.

For us military men, it is impossible to forget.

Three hundred men hastened forth, wearing gold torques, defending the land - and there was slaughter. Though they were slain they slew, and they shall be honou…

I would not have believed such an inferno could open up on earth. Men died but they did not retreat.