IN FLANDERS' FIELDS
by John McCrae         1915

In Flanders' Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing fly
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
in Flanders' fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe,
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch – be yours to hold it high;
If ye break faith with us who die,
We shall not sleep though poppies grow
In Flanders' fields.

IN FLANDERS NOW
An answer to Lt.Col John McCrae         by Edna Jaques

We have kept faith, ye Flanders' dead,
Sleep well beneath those poppies red,
That mark your place.
The torch your dying hands did throw,
We've held it high before the foe,
And answered bitter blow for blow,
In Flanders' fields.

And where your heroes' blood was spilled,
The guns are now forever stilled,
And silent grown.
There is no moaning of the slain,
There is no cry of tortured pain,
And blood will never flow again
In Flanders' fields.

Forever holy in our sight
Shall be those crosses gleaming white,
That guard your sleep.
Rest you in peace, the task is done,
The fight you left us we have won.
And "Peace on Earth" has just begun
In Flanders' now.

WE SHALL KEEP THE FAITH
An answer to Lt.Col John McCrae     by Moina Michael - 1918

Oh! you who sleep in Flanders Fields,
Sleep sweet - to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.

We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.

And now the Torch and Poppy Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We'll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields.

AU CHAMP D'HONNEUR

Au champ d'honneur, les coquelicots
Sont parsemés de lot en lot
Auprès des croix; et dans l'espace
Les alouettes devenues lasses
Mêlent leurs chants au sifflement
Des obusiers.

Nous sommes morts,
Nous qui songions le veille encor'
À nos parents, à nos amis,
C'est nous qui reposons ici,
C'est nous qui reposons ici,
Au champ d'honneur.

À vous jeunes désabusés,
À vous de porter l'oriflamme
Et de garder au font de l'âme
Le goût de vivre en liberté.
Acceptez le défi, sinon
Les coquelicots se faneront
Au champ d'honneur.

WHY WEAR A POPPY

Handwritten in pencil, and on two sheets of foolscap, Don Crawford turned this poem in to the The Perth Courier one morning in the early 1960s, where it first saw print a few days later. For the next several years, and by means unknown, “Why Wear A Poppy” appeared in nearly every weekly newspaper and magazine, including LEGION, in Canada at Remembrance time, as well as foreign publications like Australia’s Anzac Appeal and Scotland’s Claymore magazine, copies of the same being sent to him. Some years ago, Dominion Command of The Royal Canadian Legion, produced it on slides and tape for television and radio. Schools have used it extensively for their Remembrance programs. Donald J. Crawford died in hospital at Perth on Saturday, October 7, 2000.

WHY WEAR A POPPY
By Don Crawford

“Please wear a poppy,” the lady said
And held one forth, but I shook my head.
Then I stopped and watched as she offered them there,
And her face was old and lined with care;
But beneath the scars the years had made
There remained a smile that refused to fade.

A boy came whistling down the street,
Bouncing along on care-free feet.
His smile was full of joy and fun,
“Lady”, said he, “may I have one?”
When she’d pinned it on he turned to say,
“Why do we wear a poppy today?”

The lady smiled in her wistful way
And answered, “This is Remembrance Day,
And the poppy there is the symbol for
The gallant men who died in war.
And because they did, you and I are free –
That’s why we were a poppy, you see.

“I had a boy about your size,
With golden hair and big blue eyes.
He loved to play and jump and shout,
Free as a bird he would race about.
As the years went by he learned and grew
And became a man – as you will, too.

“He was fine and strong, with a boyish smile,
But he seemed with us such a little while
When war broke out and he went away.
I still remember his face that day
When he smiled at me and said, ‘Goodbye,
I’ll be back soon, Mom, so please don’t cry.’

“But the war went on and he had to stay,
And all I could do was wait and pray.
His letters told of the awful fight
(I can see it still in my dreams at night),
With the tanks and guns and cruel barbed wire,
And the mines and bullets, the bombs and fire.

“Till at last, at last, the war was won –
And that’s why we wear a poppy, son.”
The small boy turned as if to go,
Then said, “Thanks, lady, I’m glad to know.
That sure did sound like an awful fight,
but your son – did he come back all right?”

A tear rolled down each faded cheek:
She shook her head, but didn’t speak.
I slunk away in a sort of shame,
And if you were me you’d have done the same;
For our thanks, in giving, is oft-delayed,
Though our freedom was bought – and thousands paid!

And so when we see a poppy worn,
Let us reflect on the burden borne
By those who gave their very all
When asked to answer their country’s call
That we, in peace, may see the sun.

Please wear a poppy, it says: “Well done.”

For The Fallen
by Laurence Binyon