Anti war songs

There's always been a strong element of anti war sentiment running through the folk song revival from the 1950s onwards. These songs are taken from a discussion thread some years ago on The Mudcat Cafe.

Generally, when we talk about "anti war" songs, we tend to lump together songs from three, or possibly four, quite distinct strands.

1. True anti-war ie pacifist, songs.
2. Songs decrying a particular war.
3. The "Sod the war, sod the army, and sod the bleeding CSM" type
4. "Why did you have to go and get shot to hell?

Of these, by far the largest number, best known and possibly the best in artistic terms is No 3 into which we can place well-known songs like "When this bloody war is over", "They were only playing leapfrog", D-Day dodgers" and "Hanging on the old barbed wire".

Last night I had the strangest dream,
I never dreamed before.
I dreamed the world had all agreed
To put an end to war.
I dreamed I saw a mighty room,
The room was filled with men.
And the papers they were signing said
They'd never fight again.

And when the papers were all signed,
And a million copies made
They all joined hands and bowed their heads,
And grateful prayers were made.
And the people in the streets below,
They all danced round and round.
And guns and swords and uniforms
Were scattered on the ground.

Another pacifist folk song that springs to mind is "Where have all the flowers gone?" and here's a fine modern song:

As I beside some winter's fire,
sat writing words strange and steady;
amongst my own internal choir
came voices to my mind unready.
Of those who died on either side,
while friends cry o'er their bones unburied;
go sighing through the North east wind,
these cold days of February.

Some clerk with papers and his pen;
some banker with his poison pity;
some Captain careless of his men.
These fan the flames that maim the cities.
And bigots in the name of Christ,
by thorny paths obscure and muddy,
can fear to roam through years of cold;
bewailing how their hands are bloody.

Now whether they were from here or there;
their race and place I would not be heeding.
The men who caused such bitterness -
If hearts they have -
Let their hearts be bleeding -
who neither for age nor the young child,
would turn the shot of the arms they carried.
Go bear the guilt a weary ways;
for the cold days of February

THE HYPOCRITICAL SONG (Rob Maxtone Graham, to the tune of "The Hippopotamus Song", by Flanders & Swann)

A pair hypocritical,
They got out their guns,
Down by the old Khyber Pass.
On a pretext political,
Their web it was spun,
An' they rally us all to "kick ass".
So when we've got 'Bin' and our puppets are in,
Our mighty new pipeline we'll lay.
We'll teach 'em & tax 'em, an' sell them Big Macs,
an' Then, once again we can say..........

Oil, Oil, glorious Oil,
Nothing quite like it a war to embroil.
"So follow me, follow, let's cause some more sorrow,
An' then we can wallow, whilst Earth we despoil".

Our motive acritical,
To save 'ghanistan;
"Let's rid the world of these guys".
But the reason's soritical,
To sell heaps of cans;
That's Global Trading's disguise.
And back in the west, we'll cop our invest- ments --
all the way to the bank......
We never forget to cause third world debt,
'Cos we've got Mammon to thank.....for.....

Our aims parasitical,
How easy we're led
To back an unholy crusade.
But blessed by Leviticals,
It's gone to our head;
We'll not stop till Osama's been laid
To rest as a martyr, so then we can barter
Cheap lives against what we purvey.
We move in like vultures, & trample on cultures,
Just looking for ways to make pay........

They say the skies of Lebanon are burning
Those mighty cedars bleeding in the heat
They're showing pictures on the television
Women and children dying in the street
And we're still at it in our own place
Still trying to reach the future through the past
Still trying to carve tomorrow from a tombstone...

But Hey! Don't listen to me!
This wasn't meant to be no sad song
We've heard too much of that before
Right now I only want to be here with you
Till the morning dew comes falling
I want to take you to the island
And trace your footprints in the sand
And in the evening when the sun goes down
We'll make love to the sound of the ocean

They're raising banners over by the markets
Whitewashing slogans on the shipyard walls
Witchdoctors praying for a mighty showdown
No way our holy flag is gonna fall
Up here we sacrifice our children
To feed the worn-out dreams of yesterday
And teach them dying will lead us into glory...

Now I know us plain folks don't see all the story
And I know this peace and love's just copping out
And I guess these young boys dying in the ditches
Is just what being free is all about
And how this twisted wreckage down on main street
Will bring us all together in the end
And we'll go marching down the road to freedom, freedom, freedom...

Although the First World War (a period in which a bayonet was defined as a tool with a worker at each end) was notable for its vicious suppression of any anti-war expression, quite a few songs were published in socialist songbooks.

CHRISTIANS AT WAR (words: John F. Kendrick, tune: Onward Christian Soldiers, published in Industrial Worker "Little Red Songbook," March 1916)

Onward, Christian soldiers! Duty's way is plain;
Slay your Christian neighbors, or by them be slain,
Pulpiteers are spouting effervescent swill,
God above is calling you to rob and rape and kill,
All your acts are sanctified by the Lamb on high;
If you love the Holy Ghost, go murder, pray and die.

Onward, Christian soldiers! Rip and tear and smite!
Let the gentle Jesus bless your dynamite.
Splinter skulls with shrapnel, fertilize the sod;
Folks who do not speak your tongue deserve the curse of God.
Smash the doors of every home, pretty maidens seize;
Use your might and sacred right to treat them as you please.

Onward, Christian soldiers! Eat and drink your fill;
Rob with bloody fingers, Christ okays the bill,
Steal the farmers' savings, take their grain and meat;
Even though the children starve, the Savior's bums must eat,
Burn the peasants' cottages, orphans leave bereft;
In Jehovah's holy name, wreak ruin right and left.

Onward, Christian soldiers! Drench the land with gore;
Mercy is a weakness all the gods abhor.
Bayonet the babies, jab the mothers, too;
Hoist the cross of Calvary to hallow all you do.
File your bullets' noses flat, poison every well;
God decrees your enemies must all go plumb to hell.

Onward, Christian soldiers! Blight all that you meet;
Trample human freedom under pious feet.
Praise the Lord whose dollar sign dupes his favored race!
Make the foreign trash respect your bullion brand of grace.
Trust in mock salvation, serve as tyrant's tools;
History will say of you: "That pack of G.. d.. fools."

I DON'T WANT TO GO TO WAR (words by Edward Madden; music by Henry I Marshall, 1914)

Goodness Mercy! Listen Percy, Hear the bugles call!
Find a place to crawl, From the cannon ball.
I'm so nervous, Lord preserve us! Must we volunteer?
I'll keep in the rear. I'll wave the flag and cheer,
"Hooray! Go 'way! Come back some other day!"

I don't want to go to war! I think bullets are a bore!
If I must fight, I'll scratch and bite,
And pull their hair with all my might.
I'll blow out the campfire's gleam. Like an eagle I'll just scream!
My father named me Howard, I'm so glad that I'm a coward.
I don't want to go to war!
Let them holler "How he flies!"
Instead of saying, "Here he lies"
I don't want to go to war!
I met Theodore Roosevelt.
H said, "You could not lick a smelt!"
So I don't want to go to war!

Shades of Pharoah! Think of aero- planing in the sky!
Dropping from on high, Bonbons in your eye!
Flags are pretty, what a pity They should be shot at.
Heavens, what was that? A bullet through my hat!
That's why, "Goodbye!" Shall be my battle cry

There's a tear in my eye for the soldier,
As he lies among the slain.
There's a throb in my heart for this old world,
That sighs for peace in vain.
There's a hope in my prayer that someone above
Will gaze down on earth through the blue,
And pitying all our sorrow and woe,
Will tell us what to do.

Joan of Arc, they're calling you,
From each trench, they're calling you.
Far through the haze comes the sweet Marseillaise.
Can't you hear it calling too?
They really say from your last breath,
That a dove flew to the skies.
And if that was the Dove of Peace, Joan of Arc,
Send it down and dry a mother's eyes.

There's a sigh in the trench for the hedgerows,
For the tender last embrace;
And the babe held up high to hide from him
A woman's anguished face.
Oh, it's so hard to breathe when I think of the hearth,
And old folks in silent despair;
While dreaming of him in pale firelight glow,
The boy they cannot spare.

The American union organiser Joe Hill frequently turned his attention to writing songs against war.

DON'T TAKE MY PAPA AWAY FROM ME (Joe Hill, 1915, published in the March 1916 edition of the Industrial Worker "Little Red Songbook")

A little girl with her father stayed, in a cabin across the sea,
Her mother dear in the cold grave lay; with her father she'd always be --
But then one day the great war broke out and the father was told to go;
The little girl pleaded -- her father she needed.
She begged, cried and pleaded so:

Don't take my papa away from me, don't leave me there all alone.
He has cared for me so tenderly, ever since mother was gone.
Nobody ever like him can be, no one can so with me play.
Don't take my papa away from me; please don't take papa away.

Her tender pleadings were all in vain, and her father went to the war.
He'll never kiss her good night again, for he fell 'mid the cannon's roar.
Greater a soldier was never born, but his brave heart was pierced one day;
And as he was dying, he heard some one crying,
A girl's voice from far away:

We re spending billions every year
For guns and ammunition,
Our Army and Our Navy dear
To keep in good condition
While millions live in misery
And millions die before us,
Dont sing My Country, tis of thee
But sing this little chorus:

Should I ever be a soldier
Neath the Red Flag I would fight
Should the gun I ever shoulder
It's to crush the tyrants might
Join the army of the toilers
Men and women fall in line
Wage slaves all aroung the world, arouse
Do your duty for the cause
For land and liberty

And many a maiden pure and fair
Her love and pride must offer
On Mammon's altar of despair
Tto fill a masters coffer
The gold that pays the might fleet
From tender youth he squeezes
While brawny men must walk the street
And face the wintry breezes

Why do they mount their gatling gun
A thousand miles from ocean
Where hostile fleet could never run,
Ain't that a funny notion?
If you don't know the reason why,
Just strike for better wages
And then, my friends - if you don't die-
You'll sing this song for ages

I don't want to join the army,
I don't want to go to war,
I'd rather hang around Piccadilly underground,
Livin' off the earnings of a high born lady
I don't want a bayonet up me arse 'ole,
I don't want me bollocks shot away,
I'd rather stay in England, in merry, merry England,
Aand fornicate me bleedin' life away.

Bombed last night, and bombed the night before.
Going to get bombed tonight if we never get bombed anymore.
When we're bombed, we're scared as we can be.
Can't stop the bombing from old Higher Germany.

They're warning us, they're warning us.
One shell hole for just the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars there are no more of us.
So one of us can fill it all alone.

Gassed last night, and gassed the night before.
Going to get gassed tonight if we never get gassed anymore.
When we're gassed, we're sick as we can be.
For phosgene and mustard gas is much too much for me.

They're killing us, they're killing us.
One respirator for the four of us.
Thank your lucky stars that we can all run fast.
So one of us can take it all alone.

Send out the Boys of the Girls' Brigade,
Send Out the Rank and the File,
Send out the Army and the Navy,
They'll face danger with a smile (I don't think)
Send out the Bold Territorials,
They'll keep the Empire free,
Send out my Mother, my Sister or my Brother
But for God's sake don't send me.

The final category, about the victims of war, includes this song from the Australian band Redgum about their country's involvement in the Vietnam war:

Mum and Dad and Denny saw the passing out parade at Puckapunyal
(It was long march from cadets).
The sixth battalion was the next to tour and It was me who drew the card.
We did Canungra and Shoalwater before we left.

And Townsville lined the footpath as we marched down to the quay.
This clipping from the paper shows us young and strong and clean.
And there's me in my slouch hat with my SLR and greens.
God help me, I was only nineteen.

From Vung Tau riding Chinooks to the dust at Nui Dat,
I'd been in and out of choppers now for months.
But we made our tents a home. V.B. and pinups on the lockers,
And an Asian orange sunset through the scrub.

And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep?
And night time's just a jungle dark and a barking M.16?
And what's this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me what it means?
God help me, I was only nineteen.

A four week operation, when each step can mean your last one
On two legs: it was a war within yourself.
But you wouldn't let your mates down 'til they had you dusted off,
So you closed your eyes and thought about something else.

Then someone yelled out "Contact"', and the bloke behind me swore.
We hooked in there for hours, then a God almighty roar.
Frankie kicked a mine the day that mankind kicked the moon.
God help me, he was going home in June.

I can still see Frankie, drinking tinnies in the Grand Hotel
On a thirty-six hour rec. leave in Vung Tau.
And I can still hear Frankie, lying screaming in the jungle.
'Till the morphine came and killed the bloody row

And the Anzac legends didn't mention mud and blood and tears.
And stories that my father told me never seemed quite real
I caught some pieces In my back that I didn't even feel.
God help me, I was only nineteen.

And can you tell me, doctor, why I still can't get to sleep?
And why the Channel Seven chopper chills me to my feet?
And what's this rash that comes and goes, can you tell me what it means?
God help me, I was only nineteen.

Once I had a sweetheart,
A sweetheart brave and true.
His hair was dark and curly,
His loving eyes were blue.

He told me that he loved me,
And he often proved it so.
And he often came to see me,
When the ev'ning sun was low.

But fate took him away
To this awful German war,
And when he came to say goodbye,
My heart did overflow.
He says, "Goodbye, little darling,
To France I must go."
He takes the golden finger ring and he placed it on my hand,
Said, "Remember me, little darling, When I'm in no man's land.

He promised he would write to me,
That promise he's kept true.
And when I read this letter, friend,
I pray the war is through.

The second letter I got from him,
The war was just ahead.
The third one, wrote by his captain,
My darling dear was dead.

I'll keep all of his letters,
I'll keep his gold ring, too.
And I'll always live a single life
For the soldier who was so true.

Finally, this biting satire from Tom Lehrer doesn't seem to fit neatly into any of the categories:

When you attend a funeral,
It is sad to think that sooner or
Later those you love will do the same for you.
And you may have thought it tragic,
Not to mention other adjec-
Tives, to think of all the weeping they will do.
(But don't you worry.)

No more ashes, no more sackcloth,
And an arm band made of black cloth
Will some day nevermore adorn a sleeve.
For if the bomb that drops on you
Gets your friends and neighbors too,
There'll be nobody left behind to grieve.

And we will all go together when we go.
What a comforting fact that is to know.
Universal bereavement, An inspiring achievement,
Yes, we will all go together when we go.

We will all go together when we go.
All suffused with an incandescent glow.
No one will have the endurance To collect on his insurance,
Lloyd's of London will be loaded when they go.

Oh we will all fry together when we fry.
We'll be french fried potatoes by and by.
There will be no more misery When the world is our rotisserie,
Yes, we will all fry together when we fry.

And we will all bake together when we bake.
There'll be nobody present at the wake.
With complete participation In that grand incineration,
Nearly three billion hunks of well-done steak.

Oh we will all char together when we char.
And let there be no moaning of the bar.
Just sing out a Te Deum When you see that I.C.B.M.,
And the party will be "come-as-you-are."

Oh, we will all burn together when we burn.
There'll be no need to stand and wait your turn.
When it's time for the fallout And Saint Peter calls us all out,
We'll just drop our agendas and adjourn.

You will all go directly to your respective Valhallas.
Go directly, do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.

And we will all go together when we go.
Every Hottentot and every Eskimo.
When the air becomes uranious, We will all go simultaneous.
Yes, we all will go together When we all go together,
Yes we all will go together when we go.

Anti War Songs