Lest wae Forget at this time o year: Ullans July article

This tha time o year whun wae try an tak oor memories baak tae battles lang syne noo in tha hidden mist o time. A think it is richt tae luk baak becaase it gies is a wee inklin o wha wae ir an whaur wae come frae. But for maesel A hae tae sae in tha month o July on tha very furst dey am aye minefa o a that ha battle that wus tae tak sae mony o tha young men o Ulster for freedoms caase . Aff coorse Am taakin aboot tha Battle o tha Somme wur sae mony frae this airt geen thaur lifes blid for thaur King an country. North Entrim wusnae ahint tha dure whun it come tae listin for tha Great War an mony mair wars that wur tae follo, it ony taks is tae hae wee luk at tha War Memorials in oor toons an ootlyin countryside tae see thaut. Onywye a come across a wee rhyme frae awa bak in tha time o tha Somme it is scrieved bae a sojer wha dinnae pit hes name tae it but here it is,

His Mate.

There’s a broken battered village

Somewhar up behin’ the line

There’s a dugoot an’ a bunk there

That A ustae sae wus mine.

I remember hoo I reached them

Drippin’ wat an al’ forlorn

In the dim an’ dreary twilight

Of a weepin’ summer morn.

Al’ that week I’d buried brithers

In wan bitter battle slain

In yin grave I laid twa hunner

God, what sorro an’ what pain !

An’ that nicht I’d been in trenches

Seekin’ oot the sodden dead

An’ jest drappin’ them in shell holes

Wi’ a Service swiftly said.

For the bullets rattled roon me

But I cudnae lae them there

Wather soaked in flooded shell holes

Reft o’ common Christain prayer.

So I cralled roon on mae belly

An’ I listened tae theroar

O’ the guns that hemmered Thiepval

Lake big breakers on the shore.

Then there spake a drillin’ Sergent

Whun the time wus growin’ late

Wud ye please bury this yin

Cause he ustae be mae mate.

Sae we groped oor wiy in darkness

Tae the body lyin’ there

Jest a blacked lump o’ blackness

Wi’ a rid splotch on his hair.

Though we turned him gently ower

Even noo I hear the thud

As the body fell face foart

An then settled in the mud.

We went doon upon oor faces

An I said the Service through

Frae I am the Resurrection

Tae the last the grate Adieu.

We stud up tae gie the blessin’

And commend him tae the Lord

Whun a sudden licht shot soarin’

Silver swift and lake a sword.

At a stroke it slew the darkness

Flashed its glory on the mud

An I sa’ the Sergent starin’

At a crimson clot o’ blood.

There ir mony kin’s o’ sorro

In this warl o’ love an’ hate

But there is nae sterner sorro

Than a Sojer for his mate.

Efter a rhyme lake thaut A a kan sae is niver forget them.

Tha Poocher July 2014