Remembrance Service

Thank you to the Senior Choir and all who contributed – trumpeters and readers – towards a stunning and poignant Remembrance service on Sunday at St Swithuns led by Mr Macpherson. School Captain, Lena S-D, read the ‘Roll of Honour’ for Swanbourne House School.

On Monday, we all came together with Swanbourne Village Primary School to remember those who paid the ultimate sacrifice. Thanks to those who took part so maturely, including Isobel’s moving Last Post. Pupils from the 11s have been studying poetry from World War I and the importance of making an emotional attachment to poignant and historical texts such as Michael Morpurgo, Wilfred Owen and Robert Graves. 

Listen to the podcast to hear about the importance and educational value of historical and war poetry with readings from Charlotte B, Kitty W, Finn H and Hollie T.

Spotify: https://spoti.fi/2VvJSXN
Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/shs-sports-podcast/id1464434191?ign-mpt=uo%3D4

Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.