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Best Famous Fusiliers Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Fusiliers poems. This is a select list of the best famous Fusiliers poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Fusiliers poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of fusiliers poems.

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Written by James Joyce | Create an image from this poem

The Ballad of Persse OReilly

 Have you heard of one Humpty Dumpty
How he fell with a roll and a rumble
And curled up like Lord Olofa Crumple
By the butt of the Magazine Wall,
 (Chorus) Of the Magazine Wall,
 Hump, helmet and all?

He was one time our King of the Castle
Now he's kicked about like a rotten old parsnip.
And from Green street he'll be sent by order of His Worship
To the penal jail of Mountjoy
 (Chorus) To the jail of Mountjoy!
 Jail him and joy.

He was fafafather of all schemes for to bother us
Slow coaches and immaculate contraceptives for the populace,
Mare's milk for the sick, seven dry Sundays a week,
Openair love and religion's reform,
 (Chorus) And religious reform,
 Hideous in form.

Arrah, why, says you, couldn't he manage it?
I'll go bail, my fine dairyman darling,
Like the bumping bull of the Cassidys
All your butter is in your horns.
 (Chorus) His butter is in his horns.
 Butter his horns!

(Repeat) Hurrah there, Hosty, frosty Hosty, change that shirt
 on ye,
Rhyme the rann, the king of all ranns!


Balbaccio, balbuccio!

We had chaw chaw chops, chairs, chewing gum, the chicken-pox
 and china chambers
Universally provided by this soffsoaping salesman.
Small wonder He'll Cheat E'erawan our local lads nicknamed him.
When Chimpden first took the floor
 (Chorus) With his bucketshop store
 Down Bargainweg, Lower.

So snug he was in his hotel premises sumptuous
But soon we'll bonfire all his trash, tricks and trumpery
And 'tis short till sheriff Clancy'll be winding up his unlimited
 company
With the bailiff's bom at the door,
 (Chorus) Bimbam at the door.
 Then he'll bum no more.

Sweet bad luck on the waves washed to our island
The hooker of that hammerfast viking
And Gall's curse on the day when Eblana bay
Saw his black and tan man-o'-war.
 (Chorus) Saw his man-o'-war
 On the harbour bar.

Where from? roars Poolbeg. Cookingha'pence, he bawls
 Donnez-moi scampitle, wick an wipin'fampiny
Fingal Mac Oscar Onesine Bargearse Boniface
Thok's min gammelhole Norveegickers moniker
Og as ay are at gammelhore Norveegickers cod.
 (Chorus) A Norwegian camel old cod.
 He is, begod.


Lift it, Hosty, lift it, ye devil, ye! up with the rann,
 the rhyming rann!

It was during some fresh water garden pumping
Or, according to the Nursing Mirror, while admiring the monkeys
That our heavyweight heathen Humpharey
Made bold a maid to woo
 (Chorus) Woohoo, what'll she doo!
 The general lost her maidenloo!

He ought to blush for himself, the old hayheaded philosopher,
For to go and shove himself that way on top of her.
Begob, he's the crux of the catalogue
Of our antediluvial zoo,
 (Chorus) Messrs Billing and Coo.
 Noah's larks, good as noo.

He was joulting by Wellinton's monument
Our rotorious hippopopotamuns
When some bugger let down the backtrap of the omnibus
And he caught his death of fusiliers,
 (Chorus) With his rent in his rears.
 Give him six years.

'Tis sore pity for his innocent poor children
But look out for his missus legitimate!
When that frew gets a grip of old Earwicker
Won't there be earwigs on the green?
 (Chorus) Big earwigs on the green,
 The largest ever you seen.

 Suffoclose! Shikespower! Seudodanto! Anonymoses!

Then we'll have a free trade Gael's band and mass meeting
For to sod him the brave son of Scandiknavery.
And we'll bury him down in Oxmanstown
Along with the devil and the Danes,
 (Chorus) With the deaf and dumb Danes,
 And all their remains.

And not all the king's men nor his horses
Will resurrect his corpus
For there's no true spell in Connacht or hell
 (bis) That's able to raise a Cain.


Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

The Bough of Nonsense

 AN IDYLL


Back from the Somme two Fusiliers 
Limped painfully home; the elder said, 
S. “Robert, I’ve lived three thousand years 
This Summer, and I’m nine parts dead.” 
R. “But if that’s truly so,” I cried, “quick, now,
Through these great oaks and see the famous bough 

”Where once a nonsense built her nest 
With skulls and flowers and all things *****, 
In an old boot, with patient breast 
Hatching three eggs; and the next year…”
S. “Foaled thirteen squamous young beneath, and rid 
Wales of drink, melancholy, and psalms, she did.” 

Said he, “Before this quaint mood fails, 
We’ll sit and weave a nonsense hymn,” 
R. “Hanging it up with monkey tails
In a deep grove all hushed and dim….” 
S. “To glorious yellow-bunched banana-trees,” 
R. “Planted in dreams by pious Portuguese,” 

S. “Which men are wise beyond their time, 
And worship nonsense, no one more.”
R. “Hard by, among old quince and lime, 
They’ve built a temple with no floor,” 
S. “And whosoever worships in that place, 
He disappears from sight and leaves no trace.” 

R. “Once the Galatians built a fane
To Sense: what duller God than that?” 
S. “But the first day of autumn rain 
The roof fell in and crushed them flat.” 
R. “Ay, for a roof of subtlest logic falls 
When nonsense is foundation for the walls.”

I tell him old Galatian tales; 
He caps them in quick Portuguese, 
While phantom creatures with green scales 
Scramble and roll among the trees. 
The hymn swells; on a bough above us sings
A row of bright pink birds, flapping their wings.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

Escape

 August 6, 1916.—Officer previously reported died of wounds, now reported wounded: Graves, Captain R., Royal Welch Fusiliers.)


…but I was dead, an hour or more. 
I woke when I’d already passed the door 
That Cerberus guards, and half-way down the road 
To Lethe, as an old Greek signpost showed. 
Above me, on my stretcher swinging by,
I saw new stars in the subterrene sky: 
A Cross, a Rose in bloom, a Cage with bars, 
And a barbed Arrow feathered in fine stars. 
I felt the vapours of forgetfulness 
Float in my nostrils. Oh, may Heaven bless
Dear Lady Proserpine, who saw me wake, 
And, stooping over me, for Henna’s sake 
Cleared my poor buzzing head and sent me back 
Breathless, with leaping heart along the track. 
After me roared and clattered angry hosts
Of demons, heroes, and policeman-ghosts. 
“Life! life! I can’t be dead! I won’t be dead! 
Damned if I’ll die for any one!” I said…. 

Cerberus stands and grins above me now, 
Wearing three heads—lion, and lynx, and sow.
“Quick, a revolver! But my Webley’s gone, 
Stolen!… No bombs … no knife…. The crowd swarms on, 
Bellows, hurls stones…. Not even a honeyed sop… 
Nothing…. Good Cerberus!… Good dog!… but stop! 
Stay!… A great luminous thought … I do believe
There’s still some morphia that I bought on leave.” 
Then swiftly Cerberus’ wide mouths I cram 
With army biscuit smeared with ration jam; 

And sleep lurks in the luscious plum and apple. 
He crunches, swallows, stiffens, seems to grapple
With the all-powerful poppy … then a snore, 
A crash; the beast blocks up the corridor 
With monstrous hairy carcase, red and dun— 
Too late! for I’ve sped through. 
O Life! O Sun!
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

The Next War

 You young friskies who today
Jump and fight in Father’s hay 
With bows and arrows and wooden spears, 
Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers, 
Happy though these hours you spend,
Have they warned you how games end? 
Boys, from the first time you prod 
And thrust with spears of curtain-rod, 
From the first time you tear and slash 
Your long-bows from the garden ash,
Or fit your shaft with a blue jay feather, 
Binding the split tops together, 
From that same hour by fate you’re bound 
As champions of this stony ground, 
Loyal and true in everything,
To serve your Army and your King, 
Prepared to starve and sweat and die 
Under some fierce foreign sky, 
If only to keep safe those joys 
That belong to British boys,
To keep young Prussians from the soft 
Scented hay of father’s loft, 
And stop young Slavs from cutting bows 
And bendy spears from Welsh hedgerows. 
Another War soon gets begun,
A dirtier, a more glorious one; 
Then, boys, you’ll have to play, all in; 
It’s the cruellest team will win. 
So hold your nose against the stink 
And never stop too long to think.
Wars don’t change except in name; 
The next one must go just the same, 
And new foul tricks unguessed before 
Will win and justify this War. 
Kaisers and Czars will strut the stage
Once more with pomp and greed and rage; 
Courtly ministers will stop 
At home and fight to the last drop; 
By the million men will die 
In some new horrible agony;
And children here will thrust and poke, 
Shoot and die, and laugh at the joke, 
With bows and arrows and wooden spears, 
Playing at Royal Welch Fusiliers.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

Two Fusiliers

 And have we done with War at last? 
Well, we’ve been lucky devils both, 
And there’s no need of pledge or oath 
To bind our lovely friendship fast, 
By firmer stuff
Close bound enough. 

By wire and wood and stake we’re bound, 
By Fricourt and by Festubert, 
By whipping rain, by the sun’s glare, 
By all the misery and loud sound,
By a Spring day, 
By Picard clay. 

Show me the two so closely bound 
As we, by the red bond of blood, 
By friendship, blossoming from mud,
By Death: we faced him, and we found 
Beauty in Death, 
In dead men breath.


Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Create an image from this poem

Fight to a Finish

 The boys came back. Bands played and flags were flying, 
And Yellow-Pressmen thronged the sunlit street 
To cheer the soldiers who’d refrained from dying, 
And hear the music of returning feet. 
‘Of all the thrills and ardours War has brought,
This moment is the finest.’ (So they thought.) 

Snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob, 
Grim Fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel, 
At last the boys had found a cushy job.

. . . . 
I heard the Yellow-Pressmen grunt and squeal;
And with my trusty bombers turned and went 
To clear those Junkers out of Parliament.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

The Last Post

 The bugler sent a call of high romance— 
“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square. 
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer, 
“God, if it’s this for me next time in France… 
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, 
Dead in a row with the other broken ones 
Lying so stiff and still under the sky, 
Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.”
Written by Siegfried Sassoon | Create an image from this poem

In Barracks

 The barrack-square, washed clean with rain, 
Shines wet and wintry-grey and cold. 
Young Fusiliers, strong-legged and bold, 
March and wheel and march again. 
The sun looks over the barrack gate,
Warm and white with glaring shine, 
To watch the soldiers of the Line 
That life has hired to fight with fate. 

Fall out: the long parades are done. 
Up comes the dark; down goes the sun.
The square is walled with windowed light. 
Sleep well, you lusty Fusiliers; 
Shut your brave eyes on sense and sight, 
And banish from your dreamless ears 
The bugle’s dying notes that say,
‘Another night; another day.’
Written by William Topaz McGonagall | Create an image from this poem

The Battle of Glencoe

 Twas in the month of October, and in the year of 1899,
Which the Boers will remember for a very long time,
Because by the British Army they received a crushing blow;
And were driven from Smith's Hill at the Battle of Glencoe. 

The Boers' plan of the battle was devised with great skill,
And about 7000 men of them were camped on Smith's Hill;
And at half-past five the battle began,
And the Boers behaved bravely to a man. 

At twenty minutes to six two of the British batteries opened fire,
And early in the fight some of the Boers began to retire;
And in half an hour the Boers' artillery had ceased to fire,
And from the crest of the hill they began to retire. 

And General Symons with his staff was watching every detail,
The brave hero whose courage in the battle didn't fail;
Because he ordered the King's Royal Rifles and the Dublin Fusiliers,
To advance in skirmishing order, which they did with three cheers. 

Then they boldly advanced in very grand style,
And encouraged by their leaders all the while;
And their marching in skirmishing order was beautiful to see,
As they advanced boldly to attack the enemy. 

For over an hour the advance continued without dismay,
Until they had to take a breath by the way;
They felt so fatigued climbing up Smith's Hill,
But, nevertheless, the brave heroes did it with a will. 

Then they prepared to attack the enemy,
And with wild battle-cries they attacked them vigorously;
And with one determined rush they ascended the hill,
And drove the Boers from their position sore against their will. 

But, alas, General Symons received a mortal wound,
Which caused his soldiers' sorrow to be profound;
But still they fought on manfully without any dread;
But, alas, brave General Symons now is dead. 

Oh! It was a most inspiring and a magnificent sight,
To see the Hussars spurring their steeds with all their might;
And charging the Boers with their lances of steel,
Which hurled them from their saddles and made them reel. 

The battle raged for six hours and more,
While British cannon Smith's Hill up tore;
Still the Boers fought manfully, without dismay,
But in a short time they had to give way. 

For the Gordon Highlanders soon put an end to the fight,
Oh! it was a most gorgeous and thrilling sight,
To see them with their bagpipes playing, and one ringing cheer,
And from Smith's Hill they soon did the Boers clear. 

And at the charge of the bayonet they made them fly,
While their leaders cried, "Forward, my lads, do or die",
And the Boers' blood copiously they did spill,
And the Boers were forced to fly from Smith's Hill. 

And in conclusion I hope and pray
The British will be successful when from home far away;
And long may the Gordons be able to conquer the foe,
At home or abroad, wherever they go.
Written by Robert Graves | Create an image from this poem

To an Ungentle Critic

 The great sun sinks behind the town 
Through a red mist of Volnay wine.... 
But what’s the use of setting down 
That glorious blaze behind the town? 
You’ll only skip the page, you’ll look 
For newer pictures in this book; 
You’ve read of sunsets rich as mine. 

A fresh wind fills the evening air 
With horrid crying of night birds.... 
But what reads new or curious there
When cold winds fly across the air? 
You’ll only frown; you’ll turn the page, 
But find no glimpse of your “New Age 
Of Poetry” in my worn-out words. 

Must winds that cut like blades of steel
And sunsets swimming in Volnay, 
The holiest, cruellest pains I feel, 
Die stillborn, because old men squeal 
For something new: “Write something new: 
We’ve read this poem—that one too,
And twelve more like ’em yesterday”? 

No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl 
Just what I fancy as I strike it, 
Fairies and Fusiliers, and all 
Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl
Across my verse in the classic way. 
And, sir, be careful what you say; 
There are old-fashioned folk still like it.

Book: Radiant Verses: A Journey Through Inspiring Poetry