Quizzes & Puzzles1 min ago
1892 Photograph Of Winston Churchill At Harrow School
12 Answers
http:// www.dai lymail. co.uk/n ews/art icle-29 14985/D oomed-c lass-yo ung-Win ston-18 92-port rait-yo uthful- Churchi ll-pose s-Harro w-pals- 1945-ha lf-dead .html
It is now almost 50years since Winston Churchill's death, I just thought some may be interested in this very clear 1892 photograph of a 17 year old Winston and his former Masters and scholars at Harrow School.
It is now almost 50years since Winston Churchill's death, I just thought some may be interested in this very clear 1892 photograph of a 17 year old Winston and his former Masters and scholars at Harrow School.
Answers
Best Answer
No best answer has yet been selected by anotheoldgit. Once a best answer has been selected, it will be shown here.
For more on marking an answer as the "Best Answer", please visit our FAQ.So many of his contemporaries dead so young reminded me of this:
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—
Ten to make and the match to win—
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red,—
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;—
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind—
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—
Ten to make and the match to win—
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red,—
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;—
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind—
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
I'm sure you'll know this one, too, AOG. I doubt there's much poetry from that era taught in schools now.
The Private of the Buffs
by Sir Francis Doyle
Last night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed and swore,
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.
Today, beneath the foeman’s frown
He stands in Elgin‘s place,
Ambassador from Britain’s Crown
And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered and alone.
A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Aye, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame;
He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.
Far Kentish hop fields round him seem’d
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleam’d,
One sheet of living snow;
The smoke above his father’s door
In grey soft eddyings hung.
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself so young?
Yes, honour calls! With strength like steel
He puts the vision by.
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink
To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untamed
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through England ring –
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta’s King
Because his soul was great.
The Private of the Buffs
by Sir Francis Doyle
Last night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaffed and swore,
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never looked before.
Today, beneath the foeman’s frown
He stands in Elgin‘s place,
Ambassador from Britain’s Crown
And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaught,
Bewildered and alone.
A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Aye, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame;
He only knows that not through him
Shall England come to shame.
Far Kentish hop fields round him seem’d
Like dreams, to come and go;
Bright leagues of cherry blossom gleam’d,
One sheet of living snow;
The smoke above his father’s door
In grey soft eddyings hung.
Must he then watch it rise no more,
Doomed by himself so young?
Yes, honour calls! With strength like steel
He puts the vision by.
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel;
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink
To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets of iron framed;
Vain, those all-shattering guns;
Unless proud England keep, untamed
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through England ring –
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta’s King
Because his soul was great.
jim360
Mark as Best Answer
"...our greatest wartime Prime Minister."
/// Crikey, the DM's pitching him lower than I'd expected. Only has to beat Chamberlain, Asquith and Lloyd George for that title (and I suppose possibly Pitt the Younger if you include the Napoleonic Wars, but...) ///
Since he beat all these to become the Greatest Wartime Prime Minister how can the Daily Mail be criticised for pitching him lower than you expected.
Mark as Best Answer
"...our greatest wartime Prime Minister."
/// Crikey, the DM's pitching him lower than I'd expected. Only has to beat Chamberlain, Asquith and Lloyd George for that title (and I suppose possibly Pitt the Younger if you include the Napoleonic Wars, but...) ///
Since he beat all these to become the Greatest Wartime Prime Minister how can the Daily Mail be criticised for pitching him lower than you expected.
No missed that one Sandy, but other favourites of mine were.
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, by Thomas Gray
Abou Ben Adhem, by James Henry Leigh Hunt,
and of course The Charge of the Light Brigade By Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Don't ask me why it must have been the visual effect that they possessed.
Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, by Thomas Gray
Abou Ben Adhem, by James Henry Leigh Hunt,
and of course The Charge of the Light Brigade By Alfred, Lord Tennyson.
Don't ask me why it must have been the visual effect that they possessed.
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