Below is a poem written by General Sir James Willcocks, written for his Indian soldiers after WWI. I hope some will enjoy it.
HURNAM SINGH
By General Sir James Willcocks
Beneath an ancient pipal-tree, fast by the Jhelum’s tide,
Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/showthread.php?t=14552
In silent thought sat Hurnam-Singh,
A Khalsa soldier of the King:
He mused on things now done and past,
For he had reached his home at last,
His empty sleeve his pride.
Five years before a village lout, beneath the self-same tree,
He met the Havildar, who’d come
With honeyed words and beat of drum,
Cajoling all who glory sought,
And telling how the regiment fought
The Zakha and the Mohmand clans,
With shouts of victory.
Wah Guru Ji ! rang in his ears, the famous battle cry,
And since those days Hurnam had seen,
On Flanders plains, from fierce Messines,
To Festubert and Neuve Chapelle,
Mid festering bogs and scenes of hell,
How Khalsa soldiers die.
The village yokels round him flocked to hearken to his tales,
How he had crossed the Kala sea,
From India’s strand past Araby,
Thro’ Egypt’s sands to Europe’s shores,
Where the wild stormy mistral roars,
And anchor’d in Marseilles.
“Is it the truth,” said one more bold than village yokels be,
“That men with wings ascend on high
And fight with Gods in yonder sky?
That iron monsters belching wrath,
Beneath their wheels of Jurggernaut,
Claim victims for Kali?”
“Now list all ye,” said Hurnam-Singh, “the aged and the youth,
The tales they told in bygone days,
Of Gods and Ghouls in ancient lays,
Are true, not false; mine eyes descried,
Mine ears have heard as heroes died,
The Mahabharut’s truth.
“The land of France is wide and fair, the people brave and free,
I fain would tell, but orders came,
“Push on, the foe awaits the game”-
The game of death; the Khalsa cry,
The warriors’ slogan, rent the sky,
Fateh Wah Guru Ji!
“The Sahibs’ face told their tale; no craven thought or sloth
In those brave hearts, as we had learned
Reference:: Sikh Philosophy Network http://www.sikhphilosophy.net/showthread.php?t=14552
When Gujerat the tide had turned,
And left the names of Aliwal
And Chillianwala as a pall
Of glory to us both.
“And thus the sons of Hindustan, from Himalaya to Scinde,
From Hindu Kush to Deccan plains,
Rent in a day the ancient chains,
Which isolated class from clan,
And joined in battle as one man,
To die for Mata Hind.
“ Hur Mahadeao! Guru Ji! And Allah’s sacred name,
Shri Gunga Jai! from brave Nepal,
Re-echoed loud through wild Garhwal;
From Dogra vale, Afride clan,
To the proud homes of Rajistan,
Was lit the martial flame.
“As pitiless the bullets rained,`mid angry storm and flood,
Khudadad Khan! immortal name,
Stood by his gun, for India’s fame
Was in his hands; the Huns advance,
Recoil; Retire; the soil of France
Is richer with his blood.”
And Hurnam paused as he recalled, one dark November morn,
When twice three thousand foes had rushed
Our trenches, powdered into dust,
And bayonet point and Kukry blade
Avenging retribution made,
Before the break of dawn.
“Garhwal will tell”, he said, “with pride her children oft recite,
How Durwan Negi, lion-heart!
Was first and foremost from the start;
He led the charge which won the day,--
Oh, brothers, `twas a glorious fray,
For victory came with light.”
Shabash! Shabash! From every tongue, and mothers’ hearts stood
Still,
As sons stepped forth and made demand,
They too should join the glorious band,
They too should hear the battle’s din,
Or purge the soul of every sin,
If such were Ishwar’s will.
Hurnam went on: “At Neuve Chapelle, at Festubert, we bled,
On Wipers field, at Moulin Pietre,
We heard the German hymn of hate;
Above our lines the war ships soared,
Our trenches rocked while cannon roared
The requiem of the dead.”
The Jhelum’s banks had witnessed oft her waters stained with
gore,
Had heard the tramp of countless feet,
Had known both triumph and defeat,
But never had her waters swirled
A prouder message to the world,
Then Hurnam’s story bore.
For India’s sons had sealed their oath, according to their laws;
Sealed it with blood across the sea,
From Flanders to Gallipoli,
On Tigris’ banks, on Egypt’s sands,
`Mid Afric’s swamps and hinterlands,
And died in England’s cause.
For ages long the Mullah’s cry, the temple bells shall wile,
And call to prayer for those who died,
The father, mother, son, and bride,
Descendants of the loyal brave
Who rest in warriors’ simple grave,
And need no marble pile.
(This was also published in Blackwood’s magazine in December, 1917.)
Our Donation Goal
: Why Donate? : Donate Today! : Donate Anonymously (ਗੁਪਤ) : Our Family of Supporters 
Linear Mode
