Slaet op den Trommele van dirredomdeinne, Slaet op den Trommele van dirredomdoes: Slaet op den Trommele van dirredomdeine, Vive le Geus, is nu de Loes. (…) De Spaensche pocken licht als sneuw vlocken, De Spaensce pocken loos ende boos: De Spaensche pocken onder s’Paus rocken, De Spaensche pocken groeyen altoos.
Will ye go to Flanders, my Mally O? Will ye go to Flanders, my Mally O? There we'll get wine and brandy, And sack and sugar-candy; Will ye go to flanders, my Mally O? Will ye go to Flanders, my Mally O? And see the chief commanders, my Mally O? You'll see the bullets fly, And the soldiers how they die, And the ladies loudly cry, my Mally O.
The Spirit of England III For the Fallen They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them Laurence Binyon
C.R.W. Nevinson ‘Had there been Nevinsons in the world at the time of the Napoleonic wars we should posess fewer pictures of a romantic Emperor on a white charger, or of Grenadiers sleeping picturesquely in the snow; but we should have known a good deal more of what war is like’
I’m homesick for my hills again— My hills again! To see above the Severn plain Unscabbarded against the sky The blue high blade of Cotswold lie; The giant clouds go royally By jagged Malvern with a train Of shadows. Where the land is low Like a huge imprisoning O I hear a heart that’s sound and high I hear the heart within me cry: “I’m homesick for my hills again— My hills again! Cotswold or Malvern, sun or rain! My hills again!”