Further Down The Line
(AKA The Haunted Yellow Hours)
Bourchier / Preminger
(Barker / Harvey)
It's not for me the dead stare cold,
It's not for me they pine
They stare through my weeping eyes
Further down the line.
At men in clubs with books and maps
And seats high up in the air
At men in suits who puff cigars
And gamble without care.
(Chorus)
No, it's not for me the dead cold stare
It's not for me they pine
They stare through my weeping eyes
Further down the line.
I try to speak, to give them hope
To tell them this will pass
But the words stick thick inside my throat
As the cry goes up: 'Masks on fast!'
Now we sit in an open trench
My silent friends and I,
Wiling away the Haunted Yellow Hours
Too dead to wonder why.
(Chorus)
Oh, it's not for me the dead cold stare,
It's not for me they pine
They stare through my weeping eyes
Further down the line.
(Sotto voce)
At men in clubs with books and maps
Who gamble without care
Who leave us dying in the cold
Choking on foul air
Drop like flies in the jaundiced smog
Drop like flies to die
Poisoned by the cankered gods
Who spew out lie after lie
(Chorus)
No, it's not for me the dead cold stare
It's not for me they pine
They stare through my weeping eyes
Further down the line
(Whispered)
No, it's not for me the dead cold stare,
Further down the line
The Poetic Clown
(AKA Robbing The Grave Of A Poetic Clown)
Bourchier / Preminger
(Barker / Harvey)
"Bury me at midnight in a silver moonlight spray!
Bury me at midnight, like the beggar's writer, Gay!
Light a thousand torches, hire grieving widows by the yard!
Demand that the highest bishop admits to feeling sad!"
Such were the sentiments - oh, most comically expressed!
Of a young forgotten poet whose name you'll never guess
I thought it would be spiffing fine to have my grievers dine sublime
By candle-light, on coffin-top, reading out such rhymes!
(Chorus)
Dig, dig, dig-dig-dig, dig deeper than a well!
Dig, dig, dig-dig-dig, dig straight down to Hell!
Dig straight down and never stop, never stop that dig!
Dig straight down & burst right in, we'll have a manic jig!
Of course, Dear Reader, I know full well that this shall ne'er come to pass,
For who will be left to carry me home to such a moonlight mass?
There will be no pall-bearers left alive in this feeble quest for grass
And I shall lie where I shall die - in this maddening, grave-robbing farce!
So dig me a grave where I can rave and scribble for all time
Dig me a grave where I can vent articulate splenetic rhyme
Dig me a grave where I can nurture a hatred most sublime
For the fools who made this mess and think it not a crime!
(Chorus)
Dig, dig, dig-dig-dig, dig deeper than a well!
Dig, dig, dig-dig-dig, dig straight down to Hell!
Dig straight down and never stop, never stop that dig!
Dig straight down & burst right in, we'll have a manic jig!
A crime against the English, a crime against the Scots!
A crime against the Welsh but we all drew random lots
Random lots for where we’ll fall beneath this foreign sky
Random lots for body parts we’ll lose – an ear, a leg, an eye
Bury me at daybreak in a dull bleached ochre dawn !
Scrape up my body parts that decorate the War torn lawn!
Note my rank and number, take care to write it down
Then dig a hole, light a fag and lament a fallen clown!
(Chorus)
Dig, dig, dig-dig-dig, dig deeper than a well!
Dig, dig, dig-dig-dig, dig straight down to Hell!
Dig straight down and never stop, never stop that dig!
Dig straight down & burst right in, we'll have a manic jig!
Hell yeah!
A Secret Hidden Message
(AKA Everything Is A Secret Hidden Message)
Bourchier / Preminger
(Barker / Harvey)
I see it written in the sky
I see it flicker way up high
A secret hidden message
I see it twitching on the wire
I see it smoulder in the fire
A secret hidden message
Oh, everything is a secret hidden message
For me, it’s a secret hidden message
Only for me, only for me
I see it written in your face
I see it skulking, low and base
A secret hidden message
I see it in the bursting shells
I see it in the hills and on the fells
A secret hidden message
Oh, everything is a secret hidden message
For me, it’s a secret hidden message
Only for me, only for me
I see it in the way you lie
A secret hidden message
I see it the way you cry
A secret hidden message
I see it in the way you kiss
A secret hidden message
I see it through an ocular mist
Oh, everything is a secret hidden message
Yes, everything is a secret hidden message
I see it in the way we fight
I see us suffer every night
A secret hidden message
I see beyond the bitter end
I see someone dead, my friend
A secret hidden message
Oh, everything is a secret hidden message
For me, it’s a secret hidden message
Only for me, only for me
Poor, Poor Surgeon Tim
(AKA Poor Surgeon Tim)
Bourchier / Preminger
(Barker / Harvey)
Poor, poor Surgeon Tim
His lot is very grim
Poor, poor Surgeon Tim
His lot is very grim
Stretcher them in for Surgeon Tim
Stack 'em high lest they should die
Before he lets scalpel fly
Freshly wiped with a tear from his eye
From shell-shocked boys to mangled men
He'll try & hack them back to health again
I've seen him do it with my own eyes
Well, the one that he left, a pleasant surprise
Poor, poor Surgeon Tim
His lot is very grim
Poor, poor Surgeon Tim
His lot is very grim
So scrub them clean for Poor Surgeon Tim
Rinse off the filth then whisper a hymn
For those poor souls who go under his knife
Are almost certain to lose their young life
Judge not the swig of ether from the tin
When no one's around cos he's all out of gin
Don't judge a man who's lot is so grim
That he goes by the name of Poor Surgeon Tim
Poor, poor Surgeon Tim
His lot is very grim
Poor, poor Surgeon Tim
His lot is very grim
I once heard a sapper whose tag named him Joe
Cry for his mother before they sent him below
Despatched with benevolence by Poor Surgeon Tim
Who knew the boy's chances were far less than slim
As the mask went over his face
I mouthed a silent prayer for the lost human race
And then as Poor Tim threw open the valve
I cried for a world that no peace could salve
Poor, poor Surgeon Tim
His lot is very grim
Poor, poor Surgeon Tim
His lot is very grim
Poor Surgeon Tim
His lot is very grim
Poor Surgeon Tim
His lot is very, very, very, very, very........grim.
The Kindness Of Ravens
Bourchier / Preminger
(Barker / Harvey)
Patiently we watch each other, my hungry raven friend and I
He from a leafless tree, me from a sunless sky
It saddens me greatly to seem him cast a humourless black eye
Over a lost human race that marches on to die
When he tilts his sleek rain-glistened head, I of course panic
Clutched as I am in an exquisitely sharp metal embrace
For to move the merest fraction would mean to lose my face
So even though my mouth is parch’d dry, I fain my lip to lick
For I must let the creature know that my pulse still does tick
As I gaze into the crimson reflection that pools by my feet
I realise that my crucifixion is almost complete
As a blind man I shall walk if ever again I shall rise
For my hungry raven friend will have surely pecked out my cold eyes
As a blind man I shall walk if ever again I shall rise
For my raven friend will surely have pecked out my cold eyes
Have pecked out my cold eyes….have pecked out my cold eyes
Softly Spoken Bill
Bourchier / Preminger
(Barker / Harvey)
I never saw a sight so strange as softly spoken Bill
Fix his bayonet, grit his teeth, go charging up the hill
Machine gun nests are hateful things, spitting swarms of metal grit
Metal grit that pierces skin, taking out those who're hit
They took out a poor young boy near softly spoken Bill
Who one moment was laughing gay, the next, machine gun kill
I never saw a sight so strange
As softly spoken Bill
Fix his bayonet, grit his teeth
Go charging up the hill
So off charged Bill, his eyes ablaze, caring not for spitting nests
Caring even less for the CO's cry of "Who’s that foolish pest?"
Bill ducked the stinging torrent, Bill swerved the bursts of fire
Bill leapt across the barricade after slicing through their wire
"Follow that man!" cried the CO, "Back him to the hilt!"
Thinking the whole of the law shall be 'Do what thou shall wilt'.
I never saw a sight so strange
As softly spoken Bill
Fix his bayonet, grit his teeth
Go charging up the hill
We ran in haste across the mud, we ran up that thar hill
But what we saw stopped us dead and made our blood run chill
For Bill had found the enemy waving hastily-made white flags
So he'd scalped them with his bayonet and put their hair in bags
"Stop that man!" cried out the CO, his lip curling with disdain
So Bill was softly sent back home and never seen again
Oh, I never saw a sight so strange
As softly spoken Bill
Fix his bayonet, grit his teeth
Go charging up the hill
Repeat.
Pounding For Peace
Bourchier / Preminger
(Barker / Harvey)
They're pounding for peace again, the guns at the front
We thought there was respite but now we're taking the brunt
Taking the brunt of all that they throw
All that they throw in this nightmare of woe
They're pounding for peace again, 'war on the march',
War on the poplar, war on the larch
War on the cuckoo-flower that grows by the stream;
War on the home where once I did dream
Oh, they're pounding for peace again
Those guns at the front
They're pounding for peace again
So we're taking the brunt
Dreaming as a child of blue distant lands
Of colonies and outposts and bright glittering sands
Where a young man could make his fortune or name
Through deeds dashly daring, without conscience or shame
Dreaming of sultans and emirs and princes and kings,
Who would bestow upon me riches, barbed without stings
I dreamt of blushing damsels, rose-red in white silk;
I dreamt of my sweetheart, uncloth’d, bathing in milk.
Oh, they're pounding for peace again
Those guns at the front
They're pounding for peace again
So we're taking the brunt
I dreamt of a century thwacked out at Trent Bridge and Lords;
I dreamt of boundaries and sixes applauded by hoardes
Today I started dreaming beneath a late swooning sun
But then woke nerve-struck when they started pounding their guns
Yes, they're pounding for peace again, on the blasted front line
Pounding for nothing, pounding for all time
Pounding for pounding's sake, pounding till late,
Spurred on by little except bitterness and hate.
Oh, they're pounding for peace again
Those guns at the front
They're pounding for peace again
So we're taking the brunt
Repeat.
The Lost Bastard Son Of War
Bourchier / Harvey
(Barker / Harvey)
I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
The tiresome wag bought a round, then bought us each a smoke
But as he flashed his shallow cash I thought him just a joke
He'd cluffed the scuffed Victoria Cross peeking from my coat
When I'd quaffed the golden dew that warmly gilds one's throat
He tapped me rudely on the arm and gave a friendly wink
Nudging forward a fresh new glass brimming to the brink
"Tell us, chum, your tales of war - pray tell us if you can!"
I sighed and frowned then downed the bribe; my cold heart briefly span.
I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
I stared bleakly into the fire, I sighed most torrid deep
I sighed like an earthbound corpse, cursed by lack of sleep
I raised my grey, empty eyes and stared straight through the crowd
Gathering fast about us like a hungry nebulous shroud
"So," I said, feeling glum, "you want to hear of battles won?
Of bowmen, tanks, of hero ranks; of glorious setting suns?
Of glittering deeds by Allied seeds, oh so nobly done?
Well, you've picked very poor, for I am War's lost bastard son.
I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
I'll tell you of the badly-fed spilling out their empty guts
Of those who lost their minds staggering numbly through the ruts
Of boys mown down like fresh spring grass in the cold twilight mist
Torn apart, from head to heart, by a cruel machine gun kiss
You want to hear epic tales of hunting down the Hun?
Led by pompous hypocrites, "Tally-ho lads, good job done!"
You want perhaps to hear me say that killing people's fun?
Well, thanks for the drink, I'm much obliged, but it ain’t like that, chum.
I am the lost bastard son of war and I bring you death and destruction!
Death & destruction, death & destruction!
War is stumbling blindly through the foulest, vilest smog
Through clouds of seething mustard gas, poison death-drenched fog
It's hateful whispers weaving through the ghoulish yellow smoke
Whispers from the old dark gods about their murderous joke
I'll tell of those who behind the lines courageously herd you on
Shepherds to the slaughter, "Your country's so proud, son!"
I'll tell you too of other bastards who never made it home
Felled and buried in the mud, their dead names haunting stone
Yes, I am War's lost bastard son - ungrateful for all time!
Ungrateful for my bronze trinket that merely rewards crime!
Ungrateful for the wounds they stitched, stitched up less than neat
Ungrateful for the pension that sees me sleeping in the street
I am War's lost bastard son - I am angry for all time!
I am angry for the pointless loss, angry while I rhyme!
Angry at the shabby way politicians treat those they prod
Angry that they make us kill to prove our love for God
'Tell us tales of war!' you ask with sycophantic guile
Hoping to have your way, no doubt, for a cheaply plastered smile
Well, lend me your gun, my noble friend, and I promise that you'll see
My keenest insights, freshly splattered, across your bended knee!
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON OF WAR
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON
BUT I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
NO, I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON OF WAR
I AM THE LOST BASTARD SON
BUT I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
NO, I AIN'T THE ONLY ONE
The Expressionist Tell # 1
Bourchier / Trad. Arr. / Harvey
(Barker / Harvey)
The Expressionist Tell # 2
Trad. Arr. / Bourchier / The Moon Lepers
(Barker / Harvey)
Gas, guns, mortar fire
Gas, guns, mortar fire
Gas, guns, mortar fire
Gas, guns, mortar fire
You could tell from his expression
You could tell from his expression
You could tell from his expression
He'd been traumatised, traumatised, traumatised
Gas, guns, mortar fire
Gas, guns, mortar fire
Gas, guns, mortar fire
Gas, guns, mortar fire
You could tell from his expression
You could tell from his expression
You could tell from his expression
He'd been anaesthetised, anaesthetised, anaesthetised
Gas, guns, mortar fire
Gas, guns, mortar fire
Gas, guns, mortar fire
Gas, guns, mortar fire
You could tell from his expression
You could tell from his expression
You could tell from his expression
He'd been terrorised, terrorised, terrorised
He’d been terrorised
He’d been terrorised
He’d been terrorised
He’d been terrorised
He’d been terrorised
He’d been terrorised
Oh, you could tell from his expression
Yes you could tell from his expression
Oh you could tell from his expression
He had dead fish eyes....dead fish eyes...dead fish eyes
That’s the tell
That’s the tell
That’s the tell.
I Am The Messenger
Bourchier, Owen / Barker & Harvey
(Barker, Harvey, Owen & others as quoted )
I am the messenger
I am the messenger
I am the messenger
Across the silent down, weeping with the dew;
Across the sleeping town, waking but a few;
Across the quiet farm, rousing drowsy lark;
Across the old school playing fields, across the misty park
Across the trees, across the land, across all that's high and low
I harvest, reap and then I keep before I slink below
I drain away vitality, then tug you underground;
Naked, cold, forgotten; entombed without a sound.
I am the messenger
I am the messenger
I am the messenger
“I am a messenger who will bring back word from the men who are fighting to those who want the war to go on forever. Feeble, inarticulate will be my message, but it will have a bitter truth and may it burn their lousy souls.” Paul Nash, artist
“We're telling lies; we know we're telling lies; we don't tell the public the truth, that we're losing more officers than the Germans, and that it's impossible to get through on the Western Front.” Lord Rothermere, newspaper owner
“Two armies that fight each other is like one large army that commits suicide.” ― French soldier Henri Barbusse, in his novel "Le Feu", 1915
“In no circumstances whatever will the expression 'shell-shock' be used verbally or be recorded in any regimental or other casualty report, or in any hospital or other medical document.” ― British army General Routine Order No. 2384, issued on 7 June 1917 in France.
“Once lead this people into war, and they'll forget there ever was such a thing as tolerance. To fight, you must be brutal and ruthless.” ― American president Woodrow Wilson.
“We are within measurable, or imaginable, distance of a real Armageddon.” ― British Prime Minister Henry Asquith, one week before the war started.
“Never had the machine-gunners such straightforward work to do nor done it so unceasingly.” ― German Regimental Diarist at the Battle of Loos where the Allies suffered over 80% losses.
“Independent thinking is not encouraged in a professional Army. It is a form of mutiny. Obedience is the supreme virtue.” ― British Prime Minister Lloyd George in his 'War Memoirs'
“As a result of continuous work with these highly toxic substances, our minds were so numbed that we no longer had any scruples about the whole thing.” ― Otto Hahn, German scientist and co-inventor of war gas.
“Dearest Mother, No-man's land under snow is like the face of the moon: chaotic, crater ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness.” ― Wilfred Owen, in a letter to his mother, January 1917
The abode of madness
The abode of madness
The abode of madness
The abode...the abode….the abode
The abode….of madness...
I am the m-m-m-m-messenger!
I am the m-m-m-m-messenger!
I am the m-m-m-m-messenger!
The Eternal Bleak Darkness Of My Death
(AKA The Ballad Of The Black Veiled Respirator)
Bourchier / Harvey
(Barker / Harvey)
It's the eternal bleak darkness of my death, that troubles me
The eternal darkness of my death
The eternal black darkness of my death
The eternal bleak darkness of my death, that troubles me
Who is this that is coming? Coming through the fog?
Who is this that is coming? Like some weird up-standing dog?
Black gauze about its face, goggle eyes and funeral lace
Clawing hands, distorted form, like one the Maker had scorned
Never would I whistle for the likes of him
Never would I whistle for it would be a sin
To whistle up one who seems so strange, to whistle up one who seems so real
To whistle up such a creature, as would hound me at my heel?
It's the eternal bleak darkness of my death, that troubles me
The eternal darkness of my death
The eternal black darkness of my death
The eternal bleak darkness of my death, that troubles me
Truffling through the trenches, truffling through the stench
Truffling through the leaf mulch, truffling with intent
Death has sent an errand-boy, Death has shot his bow
Death has made it very clear, He craves me down below
A strange scent writhes about, writhes about its head
Vaguely yellow, I think it is, the odour of the dead
Gilding flesh with loathsome sweat, like sweat upon a horse
Galloping madly off to Hell, though we're almost there of course
It's the eternal bleak darkness of my death, that troubles me
The eternal darkness of my death
The eternal black darkness of my death
The eternal bleak darkness of my death, that troubles me
The goggles slip down a jot, revealing blackened eyes
Its voice seeks to reassure me, which comes as some surprise
"But I'm not your friend!' I cry in fear, 'Leave me now, leave me here!
For I would rather die alone without my legs than go back home!"
I reach for Mr Webley, I reach for my comfort gun
For I will finish what they started, now I cannot run
"No!" he cries, the black veiled dog, leaping through the mist
But I am spry so I let fly, before he grabs my wrist
It's the eternal bleak darkness of my death, that troubles me
The eternal darkness of my death
The eternal black darkness of my death
The eternal bleak darkness of my death, that troubles me
The Darkling Fields Of Stowborough
Bourchier / Preminger
(Barker / Harvey)
Last to leave was I, those Darkling Fields of Stowborough,
As the late afternoon sun drained the happy wicket dry.
Weary boys lugged heavy kit through the gathering twilight haze,
Speculating about the evening meal; oh carefree were those days.
I lingered by the pavilion, drawn to the dying light
Swooning in the sunset, a moth without the flight.
“Hurry up boy, and don't dare slack!” cried out Old Mr Bate,
Who'd claimed he'd played for the county back in 1878.
I pointed to the boundary, mouthed a pretend word or two,
Then sauntered ever deeper towards the melancholy hue.
Beyond the treetops whispered as though in silent rhyme
The golden fields of wheat rippled in syncopated time.
I filled my lungs with twilight air, thrilling at the touch,
Wondering if the world's exquisite charm would always be gentle such.
I heard a distant rumble, a menacing growl from the east,
And saw a hungry black storm cloud preparing for a feast.
The air grew chill upon my skin and caused a twitchlike shiver,
A spot of rain fell upon my arm, like blood drawn by a quiver.
I turned with haste and sudden fear and ran back to the school,
Then stood in the doorway, gazing back, trembling like a fool.
Last to leave was I, those Darkling Fields of Stowborough,
As the relentless storm churned the unhappy wicket over.
Listen In The Twilight Breeze
Nicholas Parkes
(Barker / Harvey)
Oh weep not for me, prophetic tender owls,
Nor a sad, silent vigil keep;
For I’d rather you strive to fill the dark void in my life,
With hymns to comfort me deep
Then when vanishes the sun -
When all spent days are done -
Pray summon my lover to come
Then listen for us both in the late twilight breeze
As we walk hand-in-hand beneath darkling trees
Pray listen, my love
Pray listen with me
Pray listen to the owls in the trees
Oh serenade me, prophetic tender owls,
As I bid my last love goodbye
For I cannot shuffle off from this mortal coil
With a lonely tear in my eye
I shall need your sweet cries -
Like I need her sweet lies -
For that is how our true love dies
Then listen just for me in the last twilight breeze
As I walk hands in pocket beneath darkling trees
Yes listen, my love
Pray listen with me
Pray listen to the owls in the trees
Yes listen, my love
Pray listen with me
Pray listen to the owls in the trees
Corpse #564
Bourchier / The Moon Lepers
(Barker / Harvey)
Wake me not, I beg you friend, wake me up, never
For if you do then I shall rise and stalk you all forever
I dropped as I fell in piecemeal hell, broken torn and bleeding
So if you trouble to wake me up, my horror will come a-feeding
Wake me not, I beg you friend
Never, never !
Wake me not, I beg you friend
Never, never, NEVER !
REPEAT
Revenge has been my study, these cold forgotten years
Hate has been my bedfellow, plotting your darkest fears
So let me sleep and rest in peace, take something from this war
For never should you seek to rouse, Corpse Number 564 !
Wake me not, I beg you friend
Never, never !
Wake me not, I beg you friend
Never, never, NEVER !
REPEAT
Unless you want me in your life hammerin’ on your door
Unless you want me to take your wife and nail her to my floor
Unless you want me to take from you all that you hold dear
Mother, father, children too - everything I’ll spear !
Wake me not, I beg you friend
Never, never !
Wake me not, I beg you friend
Never, never, NEVER !
REPEAT
DAS ENDE