My grandfather, artillery officer H.P. MacKeen, shown on the left, wrote this poem in Ypres in September 1917, two months before the Battle of Passchendaele.
The White Cross
It isn’t a medal or order,
It carries no ribbon or braid
But a token still
As on Calvary Hill
Of the greater sacrifice made.
It stands as a lonely sentinel
O’er the place where the hero sleeps
‘Neath a lowly mound
In the shell-swept ground
Near the battered walls of Ypres.
It bears a simple legend,
Yet a tale of lasting glory:
“Here lies a British Soldier
Pro patria mori.”
The White Cross
It isn’t a medal or order,
It carries no ribbon or braid
But a token still
As on Calvary Hill
Of the greater sacrifice made.
It stands as a lonely sentinel
O’er the place where the hero sleeps
‘Neath a lowly mound
In the shell-swept ground
Near the battered walls of Ypres.
It bears a simple legend,
Yet a tale of lasting glory:
“Here lies a British Soldier
Pro patria mori.”
