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This contribution has been donated on behalf of Captain J.S. Earl (an ex Sailor, born during 1941) who has given his full permission to donate his poetry to the website, and is fully aware of the website's terms and conditions.

Captain J.S. Earl has written a series of poems in remembrance of the war veterans who returned, and of those seafaring men, both in the Royal Navy and the Merchant Navy, who did not come home.

A SAILOR DIED TODAY

He was getting old and grizzly and his hair was falling fast,
And he’d often tell his grandchildren stories of the past,
Of the ships that he had sailed in and the deeds that he had done,
With adventures with his shipmates — sailors every one.

Though sometimes to his family his tales became a joke,
But the mariners that listened knew whereof he spoke.
We’ll hear his tales no longer, for Jack has passed away,
And the world’s a little poorer — for a sailor died today.

He was often rough and ready, and a tendency to swear,
And he wasn’t always fussy in the things he used to wear;
Perhaps he liked a drink too much but wasn’t one to worry,
Another thing he did enjoy was a red-hot Indian curry.

His memory sometimes failed him, but he could get along,
When singing a bit of shanty or some other ribald song;
We will hear his verse no longer for Jack has passed away,
But his friends will miss him, they’re in mourning from today.

He had seen the best in men by virtue of his trade,
And sometimes seen the worst, but called a spade a spade;
Tolerant he learned to be, because he understood,
People are just human — they are not made of wood.

You would find him in the pub — that was nothing new,
Born from years of socialising with a gallant crew;
All his life he toiled on ships — he never worked ashore,
And still an honest citizen he rarely broke the law.

Now he’s heard last orders and death has drained his glass,
His life was full and no regrets till evermore to pass;
So when it comes to crying — do not be very sad,
An old man passed away today — a sailor since a lad.
MY PALS

We sailed from old England across the grey sea,
Gaining the beach at French Normandy.
In a dip in the soil I looked around,
Seeing our Fred smacked to the ground,
Then our Harry bloodied and still,
Alongside a mate, alas, it’s poor Bill.

Shouting us on, our tough Sergeant Bruce,
With holes in his helmet and arm hanging loose,
Onward and upward we tried to gain cover,
Hearing a young man crying for Mother;
There were blinded and limbless spread on the sand,
Some calling for medics to give ‘em a hand.

Loaded with backpacks the going was tough,
Shooting and running we made for the bluff;
Soon I found Tommy shot through the neck,
The havoc and carnage continued on yet,
My colleagues, my friends, comrades in arms,
Dropping like flies with guns in their palms.

Too many men I have known for so long,
Lay wounded or dead, or simply just gone.
We fought on the grounds- in from the sea,
For freedom, for God, for whole victory;
I do so remember — will never forget,
My pals from old England, lying there yet.

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