Throughout their participation in our Finds Programme, Veterans were given the opportunity to try a wide range of creative pursuits, including poetry. Read on to find a collection of their poetry, which draws on their own military experience, as well as what they have learnt about the Battle of Waterloo throughout the programme.

Waterloo Covered in Blood

by Peter O'Malley

Scarlet clad soldiers who look so fine

Shoulder their muskets down the line


They aim, fire and disappear behind a cloak

Of fierce clouds of thick white smoke


Opposing men fall to the ground

Dead and dying, in howling sound


In an  unseen deadly melody

War's unobserved absurdity, obscenity


Yet at home remembered as obligatory

Glory and Honour and Honour and Glory


Music and praising,  medals and monuments

And mustering or men for proud marching


Beside No. 1 London at Hyde Park

At the Old Duke's home Aspley House


Crowds of peoples, visiting steeples

For songs of praise Oh! Those happy days


Now war is over...


There's relief, and peace for prosperity

For our glorious Great British nation

No more fears and war's alarms

No more threat of French invasion


The time passes by, and then's over heard

An older man's tales, to younger men's ears


Of stories of glories of long past years

Soldiering on, labouring, in blood, sweat and tears


"Waterloo, I was there, but now I'm here...

And perhaps, you'll give me, a listening ear

And go to the bar, and buy me a beer


Then listen to,  my story of Waterloo

Why you can still live in London town

A free man, under our sovereign crown"


On that memorable day I'll say again

A sergeant major shouted to his men

"Stand your ground and grit your teeth"


"It is a glorious thing for a courageous man to die

Especially so, when fallen in the front ranks

As a warrior protecting his friends


Hold steadfast for freedom's fight

Resolutely accept you may die this night

Make your hearts valiant, courageous and strong

We shall do away with rapacious Boney's wrong"


Soldiers suffered while breathing

In the hot air of June

Like being in an oven too soon


For every battle of the warrior

Is with confused noise,


Gunpowder smells

Shouts, shots and shells


Strangely despite the deafening

Uproar of the war


There could be heard distinctly

A mysterious humming noise

Like on a peaceful summer's evening

A persistent humming from a myriad of beetles


Above the soldier's heads, above the soldier's heads...


Cannon balls shot through the air

Then bounced and rolled along the battleground

Like ploughs making lines in a farmer's field

But these lines were in all directions revealed


Canon balls scattered men in their path

Maiming men,  screaming killing without feeling

Reeling, heads and arms thrown through the air

Thick hails of bullets whistled

With thunderous cannon fire


And this anger was not turned away

'Twas dangerous to raise an arm

Lest cross fire could tear it off

Yet a hand is stretched out still

For the relief of a fallen comrade


Then Marshall Nay's cavalry charged

All around the British squares to condemn

But their walls of bayonets faced them


A staff sergeant shouts,

"Aim at the horses boys

They're easier to hit

And they'll make obstacles"


Allied ranks and files stand firm,

Standing with their fallen comrade's blood

soaked in the ground, all around


Meanwhile near Wavre

Grouchy stays put with his men. Men?

With their hands in their pockets. Men?

Men are soldiers who march

to the sound of the gunfire.


But Grouchy was obeying his last orders.

"Last orders?"

Was he down the pub?

"Last orders gentleman please."


It's alright for some,

Those not in front

of the cannon gun


Don't fight tomorrow mate. It's too late.


At Waterloo the Prussians arrive,

But only just in time.

Marshall Blucher commands,

"Forward! Raise the black flag my children,

No mercy, no prisoners. Forward!"


The Imperial Old Guard, with their bearskin hats,

extravagant moustaches, great coats,

and backpacks.

Are sent forward by Napoleon to win the day

Tough old veterans ready, for another affray


Allies stood fast in their daring do

With  bayonets, brave men and true


The turning point of that noble struggle

Came with Wellington's command

"Now's your time".


Advancing forward down below

Shoulder to shoulder against the foe

In hand to hand carnage

Strong men working together

There's less casualties that way

And troops behind are safe

  

The hot day of vengeance

On the Imperial Old Guard who flee

Those mighty men cry bitterly  


The French will to win evaporates

Their expectancy of victory subsides

"The Guard does not surrender

The Guard dies"


Napoleon's diamonds sown in his coat

Were unable to deliver him away

On this his worst day


A day of tribulation and trouble

A day that he knew he'll meet

A day of desolation and defeat


A day of thick cloudy smoke

A day of flute and drum and distress

A day of dark grim gloominess


For the French that is

But as for us

It was a close run thing

Remember lest we forget

We few, we lucky few,

We happy few,

We band of brothers,

Fighting for our freedom

Against interfering others

We hold the line,

When they try to break it

Our freedom's precious,

No one's going to take it


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Riflemen, Reflections at La Haye Sainte
By Shaun Gregory

(Saturday Afternoon June 17th 1815)


After the Battle of Quatre Bras,

Wellingtons Army Marched Far.

Keeping The French at bay,

Skirmishers fought hard that day,

Tired and hungry men, Dirty,

Ragged and sore,

Could they have given more?


Detailed to Relieve Those Worn out

Skirmisher Men, Came to fore

The 2nd Light Bn Kings German Legion along.

With the 95th,

Both in Jackets of Green,

Brandishing a Baker Rifle, Sword

Bayonet gleaming Mean.


Advancing Fast,

Pushing on Napoleons Forces could not get past.


Thus these Riflemen a rearguard they became.

Darkening Clouds of grey Pregnant With rain;

Cast Shadow upon all of those

Thousands Retreating Allied Soldiers, Dusty

weary, Hungry, Unsure Marching Past Fields of Cattle.

On they went, 

All of their energy Almost Spent.


As The Riflemen Advanced, 

They Took No Chance, 

In case Of A French Attack.


Stomachs Empty,

Consumed by Raging

Thirst, Feet Blistered,

Aching Backs Under

their Heavy Packs.


Late Afternoon dawns, 

Darkening Sky Threatens Rain.

Entering a meadow,

Taking off Those heavy

Packs, Rifles at the ready.

Prepare for an Enemy attack,

Orders are told by The Officers;

worn out too as their Riflemen.

Soon exhausted Both Officers and all

Engulfed by Sleep, Little Respite.


Before the Onset of Night

Thunder Rolls back and Fourth, Loud So loud,

As if The God of War Threw down His Mighty Hammer.


Clouds did Burst,

Rain, Oh how it came

A Sudden Downpour,

That Seemed Never To

Stop.


Awoken By Pain From the Pouring Unrelenting rain, 

It’s drops piercing as Thousands of Needlepoints.


Getting ready, On Their Feet,

Stiffened and sore, The

Soldiers,

Once More

Begin To

Double Quick March.


Retreating Fast, Through Field and Flooded Roads,

Villages They Did Pass.


Pushing On, In Fields Of Man high corn;

Caked in mud,

they could no longer Recognise Friendly Or Enemy.


Thundering Artillery Fire In the not so Distance,

Brunswick Hussars, Galloping past,

Warn that the Despot French

Have Distance and Ground Gained.


Now Up to Their Knees In Water, 

Cold and Soaked to the bone, 

Packs weighed down, Uniform chafing skin raw.

No time for Pity , Must Keep Flint and powder dry.

Keeping the Military Road Free of Enemies,

To let Allied Artillery have access,

from Genappe to Brussels,

this Fail it must not.


Fleeing Civilians they met,

Women, Crying children,

Carrying all that they did own,

muddy and wet;

displaced, 

oh how they did moan.

Nowhere Now Can those call Home.


( Saturday Night —

La Haye Sainte, June 17th / 18th 1815)


At last the Riflemen have arrived

at the large Farmstead,

La Haye Sainte,

Overlooked By Mont St. Jean,

Near the Village Called Waterloo.


Lightning Flashed, Thunder Roared,

The Cold Rain Still Poured.

Cannons Fired, Muskets Smoked In The wet Night,

Could This Be a Prelude For the Oncoming Fight?


Soon The Four Hundred Riflemen Of The KGL,

Were to Occupy the Farm La Haye saint,

Not Far From a Strategic Crossroads,

So on They Went.


As Men From the KGL Took over this important place,

The 95th Moved With Grace,

Opposite La Haye,

There they Soon Lay,

Sinking in the Waterlogged Bog,

Some Tried To Sleep,

Others Awake They Keep.

Waiting To Support the KGL Garrisoned Post.

Beyond the Walls,


Inside La Haye Sainte, Still hungry,

Soaked to the Bones,

Taking Up Positions,

Some Drinking Wine,

Most though Taking Time,

To Reflect.


Those Stationed In Woods behind, 

No Shelter Could they Find,

Paused and Also Had Time to ponder.

Some thinking Of Wives Not Yet Married,

Children not Yet Born.

Others Thought of Lovers, 

Of Parents Too.

Each Soldier Wrestling 

With feelings,

With Impending Fear,

Some quietly Shed a Tear,

So Personal are their Reflections,

That They Know Soon,

Something will Happen,

The Three Armies Will Do Battle,

They Know that,

Europe’s Destiny does

Depend on Them.


Each One,

Not Knowing Which

Side Will Be Victorious,


Or Of Themselves,

Who the Battle will Survive,

To Live and Love again.


Those Riflemen Who Shall not Make It Home Alive.

These Thoughts always, 

In the Minds of Soldiers. 

Reflections of Life,


Of One’s Death,

What Will Happen, 

To those That are Left?

Waterloo Covered in Blood

by Peter O'Malley

Scarlet clad soldiers who look so fine

Shoulder their muskets down the line


They aim, fire and disappear behind a cloak

Of fierce clouds of thick white smoke


Opposing men fall to the ground

Dead and dying, in howling sound


In an  unseen deadly melody

War's unobserved absurdity, obscenity


Yet at home remembered as obligatory

Glory and Honour and Honour and Glory


Music and praising,  medals and monuments

And mustering or men for proud marching


Beside No. 1 London at Hyde Park

At the Old Duke's home Aspley House


Crowds of peoples, visiting steeples

For songs of praise Oh! Those happy days


Now war is over...


There's relief, and peace for prosperity

For our glorious Great British nation

No more fears and war's alarms

No more threat of French invasion


The time passes by, and then's over heard

An older man's tales, to younger men's ears


Of stories of glories of long past years

Soldiering on, labouring, in blood, sweat and tears


"Waterloo, I was there, but now I'm here...

And perhaps, you'll give me, a listening ear

And go to the bar, and buy me a beer


Then listen to,  my story of Waterloo

Why you can still live in London town

A free man, under our sovereign crown"


On that memorable day I'll say again

A sergeant major shouted to his men

"Stand your ground and grit your teeth"


"It is a glorious thing for a courageous man to die

Especially so, when fallen in the front ranks

As a warrior protecting his friends


Hold steadfast for freedom's fight

Resolutely accept you may die this night

Make your hearts valiant, courageous and strong

We shall do away with rapacious Boney's wrong"


Soldiers suffered while breathing

In the hot air of June

Like being in an oven too soon


For every battle of the warrior

Is with confused noise,


Gunpowder smells

Shouts, shots and shells


Strangely despite the deafening

Uproar of the war


There could be heard distinctly

A mysterious humming noise

Like on a peaceful summer's evening

A persistent humming from a myriad of beetles


Above the soldier's heads, above the soldier's heads...


Cannon balls shot through the air

Then bounced and rolled along the battleground

Like ploughs making lines in a farmer's field

But these lines were in all directions revealed


Canon balls scattered men in their path

Maiming men,  screaming killing without feeling

Reeling, heads and arms thrown through the air

Thick hails of bullets whistled

With thunderous cannon fire


And this anger was not turned away

'Twas dangerous to raise an arm

Lest cross fire could tear it off

Yet a hand is stretched out still

For the relief of a fallen comrade


Then Marshall Nay's cavalry charged

All around the British squares to condemn

But their walls of bayonets faced them


A staff sergeant shouts,

"Aim at the horses boys

They're easier to hit

And they'll make obstacles"


Allied ranks and files stand firm,

Standing with their fallen comrade's blood

soaked in the ground, all around


Meanwhile near Wavre

Grouchy stays put with his men. Men?

With their hands in their pockets. Men?

Men are soldiers who march

to the sound of the gunfire.


But Grouchy was obeying his last orders.

"Last orders?"

Was he down the pub?

"Last orders gentleman please."


It's alright for some,

Those not in front

of the cannon gun


Don't fight tomorrow mate. It's too late.


At Waterloo the Prussians arrive,

But only just in time.

Marshall Blucher commands,

"Forward! Raise the black flag my children,

No mercy, no prisoners. Forward!"


The Imperial Old Guard, with their bearskin hats,

extravagant moustaches, great coats,

and backpacks.

Are sent forward by Napoleon to win the day

Tough old veterans ready, for another affray


Allies stood fast in their daring do

With  bayonets, brave men and true


The turning point of that noble struggle

Came with Wellington's command

"Now's your time".


Advancing forward down below

Shoulder to shoulder against the foe

In hand to hand carnage

Strong men working together

There's less casualties that way

And troops behind are safe

  

The hot day of vengeance

On the Imperial Old Guard who flee

Those mighty men cry bitterly  


The French will to win evaporates

Their expectancy of victory subsides

"The Guard does not surrender

The Guard dies"


Napoleon's diamonds sown in his coat

Were unable to deliver him away

On this his worst day


A day of tribulation and trouble

A day that he knew he'll meet

A day of desolation and defeat


A day of thick cloudy smoke

A day of flute and drum and distress

A day of dark grim gloominess


For the French that is

But as for us

It was a close run thing

Remember lest we forget

We few, we lucky few,

We happy few,

We band of brothers,

Fighting for our freedom

Against interfering others

We hold the line,

When they try to break it

Our freedom's precious,

No one's going to take it

Riflemen, Reflections at La Haye Sainte
By Shaun Gregory

(Saturday Afternoon June 17th 1815)


After the Battle of Quatre Bras,

Wellingtons Army Marched Far.

Keeping The French at bay,

Skirmishers fought hard that day,

Tired and hungry men, Dirty,

Ragged and sore,

Could they have given more?


Detailed to Relieve Those Worn out

Skirmisher Men, Came to fore

The 2nd Light Bn Kings German Legion along.

With the 95th,

Both in Jackets of Green,

Brandishing a Baker Rifle, Sword

Bayonet gleaming Mean.


Advancing Fast,

Pushing on Napoleons Forces could not get past.


Thus these Riflemen a rearguard they became.

Darkening Clouds of grey Pregnant With rain;

Cast Shadow upon all of those

Thousands Retreating Allied Soldiers, Dusty

weary, Hungry, Unsure Marching Past Fields of Cattle.

On they went, 

All of their energy Almost Spent.


As The Riflemen Advanced, 

They Took No Chance, 

In case Of A French Attack.


Stomachs Empty,

Consumed by Raging

Thirst, Feet Blistered,

Aching Backs Under

their Heavy Packs.


Late Afternoon dawns, 

Darkening Sky Threatens Rain.

Entering a meadow,

Taking off Those heavy

Packs, Rifles at the ready.

Prepare for an Enemy attack,

Orders are told by The Officers;

worn out too as their Riflemen.

Soon exhausted Both Officers and all

Engulfed by Sleep, Little Respite.


Before the Onset of Night

Thunder Rolls back and Fourth, Loud So loud,

As if The God of War Threw down His Mighty Hammer.


Clouds did Burst,

Rain, Oh how it came

A Sudden Downpour,

That Seemed Never To

Stop.


Awoken By Pain From the Pouring Unrelenting rain, 

It’s drops piercing as Thousands of Needlepoints.


Getting ready, On Their Feet,

Stiffened and sore, The

Soldiers,

Once More

Begin To

Double Quick March.


Retreating Fast, Through Field and Flooded Roads,

Villages They Did Pass.


Pushing On, In Fields Of Man high corn;

Caked in mud,

they could no longer Recognise Friendly Or Enemy.


Thundering Artillery Fire In the not so Distance,

Brunswick Hussars, Galloping past,

Warn that the Despot French

Have Distance and Ground Gained.


Now Up to Their Knees In Water, 

Cold and Soaked to the bone, 

Packs weighed down, Uniform chafing skin raw.

No time for Pity , Must Keep Flint and powder dry.

Keeping the Military Road Free of Enemies,

To let Allied Artillery have access,

from Genappe to Brussels,

this Fail it must not.


Fleeing Civilians they met,

Women, Crying children,

Carrying all that they did own,

muddy and wet;

displaced, 

oh how they did moan.

Nowhere Now Can those call Home.


( Saturday Night —

La Haye Sainte, June 17th / 18th 1815)


At last the Riflemen have arrived

at the large Farmstead,

La Haye Sainte,

Overlooked By Mont St. Jean,

Near the Village Called Waterloo.


Lightning Flashed, Thunder Roared,

The Cold Rain Still Poured.

Cannons Fired, Muskets Smoked In The wet Night,

Could This Be a Prelude For the Oncoming Fight?


Soon The Four Hundred Riflemen Of The KGL,

Were to Occupy the Farm La Haye saint,

Not Far From a Strategic Crossroads,

So on They Went.


As Men From the KGL Took over this important place,

The 95th Moved With Grace,

Opposite La Haye,

There they Soon Lay,

Sinking in the Waterlogged Bog,

Some Tried To Sleep,

Others Awake They Keep.

Waiting To Support the KGL Garrisoned Post.

Beyond the Walls,


Inside La Haye Sainte, Still hungry,

Soaked to the Bones,

Taking Up Positions,

Some Drinking Wine,

Most though Taking Time,

To Reflect.


Those Stationed In Woods behind, 

No Shelter Could they Find,

Paused and Also Had Time to ponder.

Some thinking Of Wives Not Yet Married,

Children not Yet Born.

Others Thought of Lovers, 

Of Parents Too.

Each Soldier Wrestling 

With feelings,

With Impending Fear,

Some quietly Shed a Tear,

So Personal are their Reflections,

That They Know Soon,

Something will Happen,

The Three Armies Will Do Battle,

They Know that,

Europe’s Destiny does

Depend on Them.


Each One,

Not Knowing Which

Side Will Be Victorious,


Or Of Themselves,

Who the Battle will Survive,

To Live and Love again.


Those Riflemen Who Shall not Make It Home Alive.

These Thoughts always, 

In the Minds of Soldiers. 

Reflections of Life,


Of One’s Death,

What Will Happen, 

To those That are Left?

Waterloo Covered in Blood

by Peter O'Malley

Scarlet clad soldiers who look so fine

Shoulder their muskets down the line


They aim, fire and disappear behind a cloak

Of fierce clouds of thick white smoke


Opposing men fall to the ground

Dead and dying, in howling sound


In an  unseen deadly melody

War's unobserved absurdity, obscenity


Yet at home remembered as obligatory

Glory and Honour and Honour and Glory


Music and praising,  medals and monuments

And mustering or men for proud marching


Beside No. 1 London at Hyde Park

At the Old Duke's home Aspley House


Crowds of peoples, visiting steeples

For songs of praise Oh! Those happy days


Now war is over...


There's relief, and peace for prosperity

For our glorious Great British nation

No more fears and war's alarms

No more threat of French invasion


The time passes by, and then's over heard

An older man's tales, to younger men's ears


Of stories of glories of long past years

Soldiering on, labouring, in blood, sweat and tears


"Waterloo, I was there, but now I'm here...

And perhaps, you'll give me, a listening ear

And go to the bar, and buy me a beer


Then listen to,  my story of Waterloo

Why you can still live in London town

A free man, under our sovereign crown"


On that memorable day I'll say again

A sergeant major shouted to his men

"Stand your ground and grit your teeth"


"It is a glorious thing for a courageous man to die

Especially so, when fallen in the front ranks

As a warrior protecting his friends


Hold steadfast for freedom's fight

Resolutely accept you may die this night

Make your hearts valiant, courageous and strong

We shall do away with rapacious Boney's wrong"


Soldiers suffered while breathing

In the hot air of June

Like being in an oven too soon


For every battle of the warrior

Is with confused noise,


Gunpowder smells

Shouts, shots and shells


Strangely despite the deafening

Uproar of the war


There could be heard distinctly

A mysterious humming noise

Like on a peaceful summer's evening

A persistent humming from a myriad of beetles


Above the soldier's heads, above the soldier's heads...


Cannon balls shot through the air

Then bounced and rolled along the battleground

Like ploughs making lines in a farmer's field

But these lines were in all directions revealed


Canon balls scattered men in their path

Maiming men,  screaming killing without feeling

Reeling, heads and arms thrown through the air

Thick hails of bullets whistled

With thunderous cannon fire


And this anger was not turned away

'Twas dangerous to raise an arm

Lest cross fire could tear it off

Yet a hand is stretched out still

For the relief of a fallen comrade


Then Marshall Nay's cavalry charged

All around the British squares to condemn

But their walls of bayonets faced them


A staff sergeant shouts,

"Aim at the horses boys

They're easier to hit

And they'll make obstacles"


Allied ranks and files stand firm,

Standing with their fallen comrade's blood

soaked in the ground, all around


Meanwhile near Wavre

Grouchy stays put with his men. Men?

With their hands in their pockets. Men?

Men are soldiers who march

to the sound of the gunfire.


But Grouchy was obeying his last orders.

"Last orders?"

Was he down the pub?

"Last orders gentleman please."


It's alright for some,

Those not in front

of the cannon gun


Don't fight tomorrow mate. It's too late.


At Waterloo the Prussians arrive,

But only just in time.

Marshall Blucher commands,

"Forward! Raise the black flag my children,

No mercy, no prisoners. Forward!"


The Imperial Old Guard, with their bearskin hats,

extravagant moustaches, great coats,

and backpacks.

Are sent forward by Napoleon to win the day

Tough old veterans ready, for another affray


Allies stood fast in their daring do

With  bayonets, brave men and true


The turning point of that noble struggle

Came with Wellington's command

"Now's your time".


Advancing forward down below

Shoulder to shoulder against the foe

In hand to hand carnage

Strong men working together

There's less casualties that way

And troops behind are safe

  

The hot day of vengeance

On the Imperial Old Guard who flee

Those mighty men cry bitterly  


The French will to win evaporates

Their expectancy of victory subsides

"The Guard does not surrender

The Guard dies"


Napoleon's diamonds sown in his coat

Were unable to deliver him away

On this his worst day


A day of tribulation and trouble

A day that he knew he'll meet

A day of desolation and defeat


A day of thick cloudy smoke

A day of flute and drum and distress

A day of dark grim gloominess


For the French that is

But as for us

It was a close run thing

Remember lest we forget

We few, we lucky few,

We happy few,

We band of brothers,

Fighting for our freedom

Against interfering others

We hold the line,

When they try to break it

Our freedom's precious,

No one's going to take it

Riflemen, Reflections at La Haye Sainte
By Shaun Gregory

(Saturday Afternoon June 17th 1815)


After the Battle of Quatre Bras,

Wellingtons Army Marched Far.

Keeping The French at bay,

Skirmishers fought hard that day,

Tired and hungry men, Dirty,

Ragged and sore,

Could they have given more?


Detailed to Relieve Those Worn out

Skirmisher Men, Came to fore

The 2nd Light Bn Kings German Legion along.

With the 95th,

Both in Jackets of Green,

Brandishing a Baker Rifle, Sword

Bayonet gleaming Mean.


Advancing Fast,

Pushing on Napoleons Forces could not get past.


Thus these Riflemen a rearguard they became.

Darkening Clouds of grey Pregnant With rain;

Cast Shadow upon all of those

Thousands Retreating Allied Soldiers, Dusty

weary, Hungry, Unsure Marching Past Fields of Cattle.

On they went, 

All of their energy Almost Spent.


As The Riflemen Advanced, 

They Took No Chance, 

In case Of A French Attack.


Stomachs Empty,

Consumed by Raging

Thirst, Feet Blistered,

Aching Backs Under

their Heavy Packs.


Late Afternoon dawns, 

Darkening Sky Threatens Rain.

Entering a meadow,

Taking off Those heavy

Packs, Rifles at the ready.

Prepare for an Enemy attack,

Orders are told by The Officers;

worn out too as their Riflemen.

Soon exhausted Both Officers and all

Engulfed by Sleep, Little Respite.


Before the Onset of Night

Thunder Rolls back and Fourth, Loud So loud,

As if The God of War Threw down His Mighty Hammer.


Clouds did Burst,

Rain, Oh how it came

A Sudden Downpour,

That Seemed Never To

Stop.


Awoken By Pain From the Pouring Unrelenting rain, 

It’s drops piercing as Thousands of Needlepoints.


Getting ready, On Their Feet,

Stiffened and sore, The

Soldiers,

Once More

Begin To

Double Quick March.


Retreating Fast, Through Field and Flooded Roads,

Villages They Did Pass.


Pushing On, In Fields Of Man high corn;

Caked in mud,

they could no longer Recognise Friendly Or Enemy.


Thundering Artillery Fire In the not so Distance,

Brunswick Hussars, Galloping past,

Warn that the Despot French

Have Distance and Ground Gained.


Now Up to Their Knees In Water, 

Cold and Soaked to the bone, 

Packs weighed down, Uniform chafing skin raw.

No time for Pity , Must Keep Flint and powder dry.

Keeping the Military Road Free of Enemies,

To let Allied Artillery have access,

from Genappe to Brussels,

this Fail it must not.


Fleeing Civilians they met,

Women, Crying children,

Carrying all that they did own,

muddy and wet;

displaced, 

oh how they did moan.

Nowhere Now Can those call Home.


( Saturday Night —

La Haye Sainte, June 17th / 18th 1815)


At last the Riflemen have arrived

at the large Farmstead,

La Haye Sainte,

Overlooked By Mont St. Jean,

Near the Village Called Waterloo.


Lightning Flashed, Thunder Roared,

The Cold Rain Still Poured.

Cannons Fired, Muskets Smoked In The wet Night,

Could This Be a Prelude For the Oncoming Fight?


Soon The Four Hundred Riflemen Of The KGL,

Were to Occupy the Farm La Haye saint,

Not Far From a Strategic Crossroads,

So on They Went.


As Men From the KGL Took over this important place,

The 95th Moved With Grace,

Opposite La Haye,

There they Soon Lay,

Sinking in the Waterlogged Bog,

Some Tried To Sleep,

Others Awake They Keep.

Waiting To Support the KGL Garrisoned Post.

Beyond the Walls,


Inside La Haye Sainte, Still hungry,

Soaked to the Bones,

Taking Up Positions,

Some Drinking Wine,

Most though Taking Time,

To Reflect.


Those Stationed In Woods behind, 

No Shelter Could they Find,

Paused and Also Had Time to ponder.

Some thinking Of Wives Not Yet Married,

Children not Yet Born.

Others Thought of Lovers, 

Of Parents Too.

Each Soldier Wrestling 

With feelings,

With Impending Fear,

Some quietly Shed a Tear,

So Personal are their Reflections,

That They Know Soon,

Something will Happen,

The Three Armies Will Do Battle,

They Know that,

Europe’s Destiny does

Depend on Them.


Each One,

Not Knowing Which

Side Will Be Victorious,


Or Of Themselves,

Who the Battle will Survive,

To Live and Love again.


Those Riflemen Who Shall not Make It Home Alive.

These Thoughts always, 

In the Minds of Soldiers. 

Reflections of Life,


Of One’s Death,

What Will Happen, 

To those That are Left?

Waterloo Covered in Blood

by Peter O'Malley

Scarlet clad soldiers who look so fine

Shoulder their muskets down the line


They aim, fire and disappear behind a cloak

Of fierce clouds of thick white smoke


Opposing men fall to the ground

Dead and dying, in howling sound


In an  unseen deadly melody

War's unobserved absurdity, obscenity


Yet at home remembered as obligatory

Glory and Honour and Honour and Glory


Music and praising,  medals and monuments

And mustering or men for proud marching


Beside No. 1 London at Hyde Park

At the Old Duke's home Aspley House


Crowds of peoples, visiting steeples

For songs of praise Oh! Those happy days


Now war is over...


There's relief, and peace for prosperity

For our glorious Great British nation

No more fears and war's alarms

No more threat of French invasion


The time passes by, and then's over heard

An older man's tales, to younger men's ears


Of stories of glories of long past years

Soldiering on, labouring, in blood, sweat and tears


"Waterloo, I was there, but now I'm here...

And perhaps, you'll give me, a listening ear

And go to the bar, and buy me a beer


Then listen to,  my story of Waterloo

Why you can still live in London town

A free man, under our sovereign crown"


On that memorable day I'll say again

A sergeant major shouted to his men

"Stand your ground and grit your teeth"


"It is a glorious thing for a courageous man to die

Especially so, when fallen in the front ranks

As a warrior protecting his friends


Hold steadfast for freedom's fight

Resolutely accept you may die this night

Make your hearts valiant, courageous and strong

We shall do away with rapacious Boney's wrong"


Soldiers suffered while breathing

In the hot air of June

Like being in an oven too soon


For every battle of the warrior

Is with confused noise,


Gunpowder smells

Shouts, shots and shells


Strangely despite the deafening

Uproar of the war


There could be heard distinctly

A mysterious humming noise

Like on a peaceful summer's evening

A persistent humming from a myriad of beetles


Above the soldier's heads, above the soldier's heads...


Cannon balls shot through the air

Then bounced and rolled along the battleground

Like ploughs making lines in a farmer's field

But these lines were in all directions revealed


Canon balls scattered men in their path

Maiming men,  screaming killing without feeling

Reeling, heads and arms thrown through the air

Thick hails of bullets whistled

With thunderous cannon fire


And this anger was not turned away

'Twas dangerous to raise an arm

Lest cross fire could tear it off

Yet a hand is stretched out still

For the relief of a fallen comrade


Then Marshall Nay's cavalry charged

All around the British squares to condemn

But their walls of bayonets faced them


A staff sergeant shouts,

"Aim at the horses boys

They're easier to hit

And they'll make obstacles"


Allied ranks and files stand firm,

Standing with their fallen comrade's blood

soaked in the ground, all around


Meanwhile near Wavre

Grouchy stays put with his men. Men?

With their hands in their pockets. Men?

Men are soldiers who march

to the sound of the gunfire.


But Grouchy was obeying his last orders.

"Last orders?"

Was he down the pub?

"Last orders gentleman please."


It's alright for some,

Those not in front

of the cannon gun


Don't fight tomorrow mate. It's too late.


At Waterloo the Prussians arrive,

But only just in time.

Marshall Blucher commands,

"Forward! Raise the black flag my children,

No mercy, no prisoners. Forward!"


The Imperial Old Guard, with their bearskin hats,

extravagant moustaches, great coats,

and backpacks.

Are sent forward by Napoleon to win the day

Tough old veterans ready, for another affray


Allies stood fast in their daring do

With  bayonets, brave men and true


The turning point of that noble struggle

Came with Wellington's command

"Now's your time".


Advancing forward down below

Shoulder to shoulder against the foe

In hand to hand carnage

Strong men working together

There's less casualties that way

And troops behind are safe

  

The hot day of vengeance

On the Imperial Old Guard who flee

Those mighty men cry bitterly  


The French will to win evaporates

Their expectancy of victory subsides

"The Guard does not surrender

The Guard dies"


Napoleon's diamonds sown in his coat

Were unable to deliver him away

On this his worst day


A day of tribulation and trouble

A day that he knew he'll meet

A day of desolation and defeat


A day of thick cloudy smoke

A day of flute and drum and distress

A day of dark grim gloominess


For the French that is

But as for us

It was a close run thing

Remember lest we forget

We few, we lucky few,

We happy few,

We band of brothers,

Fighting for our freedom

Against interfering others

We hold the line,

When they try to break it

Our freedom's precious,

No one's going to take it

Riflemen, Reflections at La Haye Sainte
By Shaun Gregory

(Saturday Afternoon June 17th 1815)

After the Battle of Quatre Bras,

Wellingtons Army Marched Far.

Keeping The French at bay,

Skirmishers fought hard that day,

Tired and hungry men, Dirty,

Ragged and sore,

Could they have given more?

Detailed to Relieve Those Worn out

Skirmisher Men, Came to fore

The 2nd Light Bn Kings German Legion along.

With the 95th,

Both in Jackets of Green,

Brandishing a Baker Rifle, Sword

Bayonet gleaming Mean.

Advancing Fast,

Pushing on Napoleons Forces could not get past.

Thus these Riflemen a rearguard they became.

Darkening Clouds of grey Pregnant With rain;

Cast Shadow upon all of those

Thousands Retreating Allied Soldiers, Dusty

weary, Hungry, Unsure Marching Past Fields of Cattle.

On they went, 

All of their energy Almost Spent.

As The Riflemen Advanced, 

They Took No Chance, 

In case Of A French Attack.

Stomachs Empty,

Consumed by Raging

Thirst, Feet Blistered,

Aching Backs Under

their Heavy Packs.

Late Afternoon dawns, 

Darkening Sky Threatens Rain.

Entering a meadow,

Taking off Those heavy

Packs, Rifles at the ready.

Prepare for an Enemy attack,

Orders are told by The Officers;

worn out too as their Riflemen.

Soon exhausted Both Officers and all

Engulfed by Sleep, Little Respite.

Before the Onset of Night

Thunder Rolls back and Fourth, Loud So loud,

As if The God of War Threw down His Mighty Hammer.

Clouds did Burst,

Rain, Oh how it came

A Sudden Downpour,

That Seemed Never To

Stop.

Awoken By Pain From the Pouring Unrelenting rain, 

It’s drops piercing as Thousands of Needlepoints.

Getting ready, On Their Feet,

Stiffened and sore, The

Soldiers,

Once More

Begin To

Double Quick March.

Retreating Fast, Through Field and Flooded Roads,

Villages They Did Pass.

Pushing On, In Fields Of Man high corn;

Caked in mud,

they could no longer Recognise Friendly Or Enemy.

Thundering Artillery Fire In the not so Distance,

Brunswick Hussars, Galloping past,

Warn that the Despot French

Have Distance and Ground Gained.

Now Up to Their Knees In Water, 

Cold and Soaked to the bone, 

Packs weighed down, Uniform chafing skin raw.

No time for Pity , Must Keep Flint and powder dry.

Keeping the Military Road Free of Enemies,

To let Allied Artillery have access,

from Genappe to Brussels,

this Fail it must not.

Fleeing Civilians they met,

Women, Crying children,

Carrying all that they did own,

muddy and wet;

displaced, 

oh how they did moan.

Nowhere Now Can those call Home.

( Saturday Night —

La Haye Sainte, June 17th / 18th 1815)

At last the Riflemen have arrived

at the large Farmstead,

La Haye Sainte,

Overlooked By Mont St. Jean,

Near the Village Called Waterloo.

Lightning Flashed, Thunder Roared,

The Cold Rain Still Poured.

Cannons Fired, Muskets Smoked In The wet Night,

Could This Be a Prelude For the Oncoming Fight?

Soon The Four Hundred Riflemen Of The KGL,

Were to Occupy the Farm La Haye saint,

Not Far From a Strategic Crossroads,

So on They Went.

As Men From the KGL Took over this important place,

The 95th Moved With Grace,

Opposite La Haye,

There they Soon Lay,

Sinking in the Waterlogged Bog,

Some Tried To Sleep,

Others Awake They Keep.

Waiting To Support the KGL Garrisoned Post.

Beyond the Walls,

Inside La Haye Sainte, Still hungry,

Soaked to the Bones,

Taking Up Positions,

Some Drinking Wine,

Most though Taking Time,

To Reflect.

Those Stationed In Woods behind, 

No Shelter Could they Find,

Paused and Also Had Time to ponder.

Some thinking Of Wives Not Yet Married,

Children not Yet Born.

Others Thought of Lovers, 

Of Parents Too.

Each Soldier Wrestling 

With feelings,

With Impending Fear,

Some quietly Shed a Tear,

So Personal are their Reflections,

That They Know Soon,

Something will Happen,

The Three Armies Will Do Battle,

They Know that,

Europe’s Destiny does

Depend on Them.

Each One,

Not Knowing Which

Side Will Be Victorious,

Or Of Themselves,

Who the Battle will Survive,

To Live and Love again.

Those Riflemen Who Shall not Make It Home Alive.

These Thoughts always, 

In the Minds of Soldiers. 

Reflections of Life,

Of One’s Death,

What Will Happen, 

To those That are Left?

Screenshot of a Christmas Google Hangout virtual meeting of staff and programme participants
Screenshot of a Christmas Google Hangout virtual meeting of staff and programme participants
Screenshot of a Christmas Google Hangout virtual meeting of staff and programme participants
What About Me?
By Jamie Cuthbertson


Drum till your hands are sore they cried,

Drum till your lot is do or die,

Drum till we win and seize the day,

At Hougoumont we marched that day.


They slashed and fired and drove ahead,

They tripped and stomped upon the dead,

They stormed the gates and battled through,

At Hougoumont, our men in Blue!


Now listen to their anguished cries,

Now hear the groans of men who die,

Now slaughtered by the men in Red,

At Hougoumont, our Blues lie dead.


What good became of all this mess?

What gains were made for this distress?

What tune to beat upon my drum,

At Hougoumont, where all is glum.


As noise and smoke all starts to clear,

As English words are all I hear,

As the Blue alone inside the gate,

At Hougoumont, I fear and wait.


Image
What About Me?
By Jamie Cuthbertson


Drum till your hands are sore they cried,

Drum till your lot is do or die,

Drum till we win and seize the day,

At Hougoumont we marched that day.


They slashed and fired and drove ahead,

They tripped and stomped upon the dead,

They stormed the gates and battled through,

At Hougoumont, our men in Blue!


Now listen to their anguished cries,

Now hear the groans of men who die,

Now slaughtered by the men in Red,

At Hougoumont, our Blues lie dead.


What good became of all this mess?

What gains were made for this distress?

What tune to beat upon my drum,

At Hougoumont, where all is glum.


As noise and smoke all starts to clear,

As English words are all I hear,

As the Blue alone inside the gate,

At Hougoumont, I fear and wait.

Image


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