A World War I poem by Laurence Binyon in authentic Norfolk (England) accent
Middle Aged (35-54)
British (England - East Anglia, Cambridge, Hertfordshire)
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
the Fallen By Lawrence Binion With pro DSS Thanksgiving. A mother for her Children England mourns for her dead across the sea flesh of her flesh. They were spirit of her spirit, fallen in the cause of the free Salam. The drums trail Death, August and royal sing sorrow up into a mortal spheres. There is music in the midst of desolation on a glory that shines upon our tears. They went with songs to the battle like we young, straight of limb, truthfully study and the glow. They were staunch to the end, against odds. Uncounted, they fell with their faces to the foe. They shall not grow old as with a left grow, old age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn at the going down of the sun. And in the morning we will remember them. They mingle not with their laughing comrades again. They sit no more of familiar tables of home. They have no lot in our labour of the daytime. They sleep beyond England's fall, but where our desires, our and our hopes profound felt as a well spring that is hidden from sight to the innermost heart of their own land. They unknown as the stars Unknown to the night as the stars That shall be bright When we had dust moving in marches upon heavenly plane as the stars that are starry In the time of our darkness to the end to the end they remain