Houses Rich and Statues Grand, by Esia Forsyth

Arm in arm,
Hand in hand,
Slowly moving up the sand.
A fearful glance
With darting eyes
A quick prayer made to the skies.

16,000 in one day,
Such a heavy price to pay.
England, what a noble land!
Of houses rich and statues grand.

The people that are standing there,
Know what England has to share
For they too, are from a land
With houses rich and statues grand.
They’re from Belgium,
A country with such culture rare,
Before the Germans stripped it bare.
Their homelands scattered wide and far,
Leaving many a painful scar
Upon a multitude of men,
Their families never seen again.

England let them stay,
Until that fateful day
That war came to an end,
And then no further help would lend.
That noble land,
With statues grand
Wouldn’t give another helping hand.

Back to Belgium that was no more.
They left them on a lonely shore,
Forcing them to clear the rubble
That reminded them of all their troubles.

England returned to their lives,
And hugged their mums, then kissed their wives.
They thought not of little Belgian lands,
That had lost its houses and statues grand.