In Flanders Fields
The author of this poem, John McCrae, B.A., M.D., M.R.C.P., was born in Guelph, Canada, son of Colonel and Mrs. David McCrae, who still survive him, and for several years he was professor of pathology at the University of Vermont. In 1899 and 1900 he served with the artillery in South Africa and rose to the rank of commanding officer of his battery. Lieutenant-Colonel McCrae died in France from pneumonia January 28, 1918, in his forty-sixth year. His other masterpiece, The Anxious Dead, will be published in the May issue of the Whiz Bang, together with Poppies, J. Eugene Chrisman’s poem of Flanders, and America’s Answer to In Flanders Fields, the work of R. W. Lillard.
By LT.-COL. JOHN McCRAE
In Flanders Fields, the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row;
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly;
Scarce heard, amidst the guns below.
We are the Dead; short days we Lived,
Felt Dawn, saw Sunset glow;
Loved and were loved, and now we lie.
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe,
To You, from falling hands we throw
The Torch; be yours to hold it high;
If Ye break faith, with those who die,
We shall not sleep—though poppies grow
In Flanders Fields.
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