 The Unconquered Dead by John McCrae Read for LibriVox.org by Ankeela Not we the conquered, nor to us the blame of them that flee, of them that basely yield. Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame of them that vanquish in a stricken field. That day of battle in the dusty heat we lay, and heard the bullets swish and sing like scythes amid the overripened wheat, and we the harvest of their garnering. Some yielded, no not we, not we we swear by these our wounds, this trench upon the hill, where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare, with ours to keep, and lo, we have it still. We might have yielded, even we, but death came for our helper. Like a sudden flood the crashing darkness fell, our painful breath we drew with gasps amid the choking blood. The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon sank to a foolish humming in our ears, like crickets in the long hot afternoon, among the wheat fields of the olden years. Before our eyes a boundless wall of red shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain, and then a slow garnering darkness overhead, and rest came on us like a quiet rain. Not we the conquered, not to us the shame, who hold our earth in ramparts, nor shall cease to hold them ever. Victors we, who came in that fierce moment to our honored peace. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Unconquered Dead by John McCrae. Read for Libervox.org by David Federman. Not we the conquered, not to us the blame, of them that flee, of them that basely yield, nor ours the shout of victory, the fame of them that vanquish in a stricken field. That day of battle in the dusty heat, we lay and heard the bullets swish and sing, like scythes amid the overripened wheat, and we the harvest of their garnering. Some yielded, no, not we, not we we swear by these our wounds. This trench upon the hill, where all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare, was ours to keep, and lo, we have it still. We might have yielded, even we, but death came for our helper. Like a sudden flood, the crashing darkness fell our painful breath, we drew with gasps amid the choking blood. The roar fell faint, and farther off, and soon sank to a foolish humming in our ears, like crickets in the long hot afternoon among the wheat fields of the olden years. Nor our eyes, a boundless wall of red, shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain. Then a slow gathering darkness overhead, and rest came on us like a quiet rain. Not we the conquered, not to us the shame, who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease to hold them ever. Victors we, who came in that fierce moment to our honored peace. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Unconquered Dead by John McCrae Read for LibriVox.org By David Lawrence In Brampton, Ontario November the 4th, 2008 Not we the conquered, not to us the blame of them that flee, of them that basely yield. Nor ours the show to victory, the fame of them that vanquish in a stricken field. That day of battle in the dusty heat we lay, and heard the bullets swish and sing like scythe amid the overripened wheat, and we the harvest of their garnering. Some yielded. No, not we, not we we swear by these our wounds, this trench upon the hill, where all the shells through an earth is seemed and bare, was ours to keep, and lo, we have it still. We might have yielded, even we, but death came for our helper, like a sudden flood the crashing darkness fell. Our painful breath we drew with gasps amid the choking blood. The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon sank to a foolish humming in our ears, by crickets in the long hot afternoon among the wheat fields of the olden years. Before our eyes a boundless wall of red shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain, then a slow gathering darkness overhead, and rest came on us like a quiet rain. Not we the conquered, not to us the shame who hold our earth and ramparts, nor shall cease to hold them ever. Not we the conquered, not to us the blame of them that flee, of them that basely yield, for ours the shout of victory, the fame of them that vanquished in a stricken field. That day of battle in the dusty heat, we lay and heard the bullets swish and sing, like sides amid the overripened wheat, and we the harvest of their garnering. Some yielded, no, not we, not we, we swear by these our wounds, this trench upon the hill, where all the shell-strewn earth is seen and bare, was ours to keep, and lo, we have it still. We might have yielded, even we, but death came for our helper, like a sudden flood the crashing darkness fell, our painful breath we drew, with gasps amid the choking blood. The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon sank to a foolish humming in our ears, like crickets in the long hot afternoon among the wheat fields of the olden years. Before our eyes a boundless wall of red shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain, then a slow gathering darkness overhead, and rest came on us, like a quiet rain, not we the conquered, not to us the shame, who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease to hold them ever, victors we who came in that fierce moment to our honoured peace. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. The Unconquered Dead by John McCray Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett. Not we the conquered, not to us the blame of them that flee, of them that basely yield, nor ours the shout of victory, the fame of them that vanquish in a stricken field. That day of battle in the dusty heat we lay and heard the bullets swish and sing like skies amid the overripened wheat, and we the harvest of their garnering. Some yielded, no not we. Not we we swear by these our wounds. This trench upon the hill where all the shell-strewn earth is seemed and bare was ours to keep, and lo, we have it still. We might have yielded, even we, but death came for our helper, like a sudden flood the crashing darkness fell, our painful breath we drew with gasp amid the choking blood. The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon sank to a foolish humming in our ears, like crickets in the long, hot afternoon, among the wheat fields of the olden years. Before our eyes a boundless wall of red shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain. Then a slow gathering darkness overhead, and rest came on us like a quiet rain. Not we the conquered, not to us the shame, who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease to hold them ever. Victors we, who came in that fierce moment to our honored peace. End of poem This recording is in the public domain. The Unconquered Dead by John McCrae. Not we the conquered, not to us the blame of them that flee, of them that basely yield, nor ours the shout of victory, the fame of them that vanquish in a stricken field. That day of battle in a dusty heat we lay and heard the bullets swish and sing, like sighs amid the overripened wheat, and we the harvest of their garnering. Some yielded, No, not we, not we we swear, by these our wounds. This trench upon the hill, where all the shell-strewn earth is seemed in bear, was ours to keep, and lo, we have it still. We might have yielded, even we, but death came for our helper, like a sudden flood. The crashing darkness fell, our painful breath, we drew with gasps amid the choking blood. The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon sank to a foolish humming in our ears, like crickets in the long hot afternoon amid the wheat fields of the olden years. Before our eyes a boundless wall of red shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain than a slow-gathering darkness overhead, and rest came on us like a quiet rain. Not we the conquered, not to us the shame who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease to hold them ever, victors we who came in that fierce moment to our honoured peace. And of poem this recording is in the public domain. The Unconquered Dead by John McCrae Read for LibriVox.org by Ruth Golding Not we the conquered, not to us the blame of them that flee, of them that basely yield, nor ours the shout of victory, the fame of them that vanquish in a stricken field. That day of battle in the dusty heat, we lay and heard the bullets swish and sing like scythes amid the over-ripened wheat, and we the harvest of their garnering. Some yielded, no, not we, not we, we swear by these our wounds, this trench upon the hill where all the shells strewn earth is seamed and bare was ours to keep, and lo, we have it still. We might have yielded even we, but death came for our helper. Like a sudden flood the crashing darkness fell, our painful breath we drew with gasps amid the choking blood. The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon sank to a foolish humming in our ears, like crickets in the long hot afternoon among the wheat fields of the olden years. For our eyes a boundless wall of red shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain, then a slow gathering darkness overhead, and rest came on us like a quiet rain. Not we, the conquered, not to us the shame who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall cease to hold them ever. Victors we, who came in that fierce moment to our honoured peace. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In Concert Death by John Craywreck, a liberal rockstar, awed by their meal. Not we, the conquered, not to us the blame, of them that flee, of them that may thee not ask to shout of victory, the fame, of them that vanquish in a stricken field. That day of battle in the dusty heat, we lay and heard the bullets swish and sing, like sighs that met the old ripened wheat, and me the harvest of the garnering. Some yielded, no, not we, not we we swear, by these our wounds. The strength upon the hill, where all the shells drew the earth, as seemed and there, was ours to keep, and lo, we have it still. We might have yielded, even we, but death came for a helper, like a certain flood. The crashing darkness fell, our painful breath, we drew with the coughs that met the choking blood. The roll fell faint in farther off, and soon sank to a foolish humming in our ears, like crickets in the long hot afternoon, among the weak fields of the olden years. Before our eyes, a boundless wall of red, shot through by some streets after the pain, then a slow gathering darkness overhead, and rest came on us like a quiet rain. Not we, the conquered, not to us the shame, who hold our earth in ramparts, nor shall cease, to hold them ever, fixed as we, who came in a fierce moment to our honoured peace.