Subject: Lyr Add: LETTERS FROM WILFRED (Alan Bell)
From:
Jim Dixon
Date: 18 Jan 13 - 02:03 PM
Here's my transcription from the recording I found on Spotify. I have looked up all the places and military units mentioned, except that I am unable to identify that house in Tavistock Square. Also the remainder of that line "for all our friends sure there" doesn't seem grammatical, so I suspect something is wrong with it as well. Corrections are welcome.
LETTERS FROM WILFRED
(Alan Bell)
As sung by Alan Bell on "The Definitive Collection" (2005)
I thank you, my dear mother; your letter came today.
I'm pleased to hear you're in good health, for I've much to tell and say.
I've enlisted in the army, in the Artist Regiment.
I kissed the Bible, swore my oath; your W.E.O.'s content.
Yes, I kissed the Bible, swore my oath; your W.E.O.'s content.
I travelled off to London and lodged in Tavistock Square.
The house is called Elilas(?) for all our friends sure there;
Yet in their conversations, our England is their foe;
Yet I'm as English as a Shropshire lad, as, mother, you do know.
I'm as English as a Shropshire lad, as, mother, you do know.
Dear mother, I am commissioned; now my training's done.
I'm seconded to Manchesters new recruits and guns.
I'm posted north to Fleetwood in charge of musketry,
A new adventure for your W.E.O. by the glowing sands and sea,
A new adventure for your W.E.O. with the fishing boats and sea.
I enjoyed my time in Fleetwood; now I'm in Flanders Fields.
Since landing on the Calais quays, I'm in muck from head to heels.
My soldiers march and singing, and I know their favourite song
Is a yearning for them again to be in the homes where they belong,
Is a yearning for them again to be in the homes where they belong.
It's New Year's Eve, dear mother; the Scotsmen celebrate.
They play their pipes, go o'er the top, and are blown to Heaven's gates.
I stand in clay, dear mother, and write by candle glow.
In this barren land, the frozen dead lie blanketed in snow.
In this barren land, the frozen dead lie blanketed in snow.
I'll not deceive you, mother; I've been in hell this last four days.
In an outpost beyond the front line, we stood guard, and how we prayed!
I did not lose a single man, but a young boy lost his sight.
Now I know just how a blind man feels when I led him from the fight.
Yes, I know just how a blind man feels when I led him from the fight.
I'm in Scotland now, dear mother, in a place called Craiglockhart,
A refuge for tired warriors whose nerves are torn apart.
I need sleep and time, dear mother, to heal my troubled mind,
But in my dreams, I see every face of those I left behind.
Yes, in my dreams I see every face of those I left behind.
They awarded me a medal for gallantry, they say.
I made sure all those who fought with me are rewarded in their way.
There is one more battle coming, and with peace talks in the air,
Your W.E.O. will soon be home when the cease-fire is declared.
Your W.E.O. will soon be home when the cease-fire is declared.
I write, dear Mrs. Owen, to try and ease your pain.
Your Wilfred was a brave young man; we'll not see his like again.
He was killed the fourth November in the last days of the war,
But his soul lives on within his verse for us forevermore.
Yes, Wilfred lives within his verse for us forevermore.
Your Wilfred lives within his verse for you forevermore.
[W.E.O. = Wilfred [Edward] Owen; Artist Regiment, Tavistock Square, Manchesters, Craiglockhart]
From Joe Offer: Incorporating the corrections Alan Bell posted below. In some places, Jim's transcriptions are closer to the recording than are the lyrics from Alan Bell.
LETTERS FROM WILFRED
(Alan Bell)
As sung by Alan Bell on "The Definitive Collection" (2005)
I thank you, my dear mother; your letter came today.
I'm pleased to hear you're in good health, for I've much to tell and say.
I've enlisted in the army, in the Artist Regiment.
I kissed the Bible, swore my oath; your W.E.O.'s content.
Yes, I kissed the Bible, swore my oath; your W.E.O.'s content.
I travelled up to London and lodge in Tavistock Square,
The house is called Les Lilas for all are French who are there.
Yet, in their conversations, our England is their foe;
Yet I'm as English as a Shropshire lad, And tonight I'll tell them so.
I'm as English as a Shropshire lad, as dear mother you do know.
Dear mother, I am commissioned; now my training's done.
I'm seconded to Manchesters new recruits and guns.
I'm posted north to Fleetwood in charge of musketry,
A new adventure for your W.E.O. by the blowing sands and sea,
A new adventure for your W.E.O. with the fishing boats and sea.
I enjoyed my time in Fleetwood; now I'm in Flanders Fields.
Since landing on the Calais quays, I'm in mud from head to heels.
My soldiers march and singing, and I know their favourite song
Is a yearning for them again to be in the homes where they belong,
Is a yearning for them again to be in the homes where they belong.
It's New Year's Eve, dear mother; the Scotsmen celebrate.
They play their pipes, go o'er the top, and are blown to Heaven's gates.
I stand in clay, dear mother, and write by candle glow.
In this barren land, the frozen dead lie blanketed in snow.
In this barren land, the frozen dead lie blanketed in snow.
I'll not deceive you, mother; I've been in hell this last four days.
In an outpost beyond the front line, we stood guard, and how we prayed!
I did not lose a single man, but a young boy lost his sight.
Now I know just how a blind man feels when I led him from the fight.
Yes, I know just how a blind man feels when I led him from the fight.
I'm in Scotland now, dear mother, in a place called Craiglockhart,
A refuge for tired warriors whose nerves are torn apart.
I need sleep and time, dear mother, to heal my troubled mind,
But in my dreams, I see every face of those I left behind.
Yes, in my dreams I see every face of those I left behind.
They awarded me a medal for gallantry, they say.
I made sure all those who fought with me are rewarded in their way.
There is one more battle coming, and with peace talks in the air,
Your W.E.O. will soon be home when the cease-fire is declared.
Your W.E.O. will soon be home when the cease-fire is declared.
I write, dear Mrs. Owen, to try and ease your pain.
Your Wilfred was a brave young man; we'll not see his like again.
He was killed the fourth November in the last days of the war,
But his soul lives on within his verse for us forevermore.
Yes, Wilfred lives within his verse for us forevermore.
Your Wilfred lives within his verse for you forevermore.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YCcqdjkTPVQ
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