IN FLANDERS' FIELDS

Written by Colonel John McCrae, a doctor serving with the Canadian Armed Forces during World War One, this poem should be required reading for all those who would sell our dear country to Europe. Then again, I'm charitably assuming they have consciences to stir. McCrae wrote it over the loss of a friend in 1915; a cruel twist of Fate meant he himself survived the war only to die in the subsequent pneumonia pandemic.

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In Flanders' fields the poppies blow,

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark our place, and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders' fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe;

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high,

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders' fields.

Colonel John McCrae (1872-1918)

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