On the centenary of the burial of the Unknown Warrior in Westminster Abbey, we offer you part of our concert, Sing Us Your Dreams. This was a meditation on WW1 and its aftermath in music, images and local stories, which was performed in 2015 - at Earlsdon Methodist Church, Lancaster Priory, St Barbara’s Church Earlsdon and The Chapel, Stoneleigh Abbey, Warwickshire.
This is a recording of The Unknown Warrior, sung by Spires' sopranos and altos with soloists Abigail Rhodes, Leslie Blezard, Penny Turnbull and Janis Raishbrook and piano accordion accompanist Hilary Minns. It commemorates the cortège’s long and moving journey from France and the burial of the unknown warrior in Westminster Abbey, November 11th 1920. The music was composed by Mike Torbe and the poet is Avril Newey.
Here is the recording:
To listen, copy and paste the link into your internet browser and then click on “download” - you don’t need P Cloud.
The text, adapted from Avril Newey’s poem, is below.
THE UNKNOWN WARRIOR
For four and ninety years you've lain
beneath the Abbey's pious floor
as monarchs gave you deference, bowed,
the world's folk streamed in through the door.
So, were you born in deer-parked hall,
on cobbled street, to workhouse shame,
Did field, fen, fell, sliced slate, brick, stone
carve out your shape, give you your name?
Lest we forget! Remember then,
they laid you down to muffled drums.
A blackbird trilled on Runnymede,
a million mothers wept for their sons.
What gusts blew down your child-lit path
pushing and pitching you to this end,
Did you shrink the clout of a father's hand,
how many fellows called you friend?
Did you march, head high, from north or south,
from east or west to face your fate?
What town or village, hamlet, farm
hung out its flags, left wide its gates?
Lest we forget! the simplest then,
they laid you down to muffled drums.
A blackbird trilled on Runnymede,
a million mothers shrouded their sons.
You chased adventure, fought and earned
ten thousand times your shilling pay,
embraced the truest brotherhood,
woke from each night to dreadful day;
and burrowed deep in clod-hung filth,
with pencil and a Cambrai postcard
you wrote to your Spring-blossomed girl,
saying you loved her, found it hard
without her voice, her nest of hair,
those secret walks when, smile to smile,
you hid in snickets, bee-hung grass
and plotted lives stretched mile on mile.
So long ago now, in twilight seen
on flickering film in pixels' gaze
your flat-capped world, an enigma now,
those truths you died for crumbling, mazed.
Lest we forget! the simplest then,
they laid you down to muffled drums.
A blackbird trilled on Runnymede,
a million mothers buried their sons.
Avril Newey
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