Dear Stella, my dear sister, when this letter reaches you, I fear that I may not be here to see you again; For in my heart I know I am not long for this world, My lungs and chest are shot with so much pain. Do you think I’ve been a good man? Have I deserved the life I’ve had? And when my footprints fade will there be any more to add? For my mind is on reflection, as I feel life slip away; It’s been one hell of a journey with new adventures every day. I was named Mustapha by the mother who bore me; I was my proud father’s little warrior, a Berber Sheik to be; Looking fierce in full warpaint, two years old from the sands of Sudan, I watched the Jibbah’s magic fail as my countrymen’s blood ran. In the shadow of the nuggar, I raised my invisible gun, To shoot the Madhi’s enemies in the haze of the Egyptian sun; But their magic proved far stronger than ours, for none of my bullets struck, As their leader looked kindly down on me, as my whole body shook. And he said, “Smile, curly-haired boy, smile; You’re coming with us to the Banks of the Wear, All the way from the Banks of the Nile”. And like a whirling Dervish, my life turned inside out, As I leapt trusting into his outstretched arms, in spite of every fear and doubt, While he said “Smile, curly-haired boy, smile”. I became a sergeants’ boy and it was plain to see, That I now had many fathers to love and care for me; They gave me milk, they fed me well, like any good father would, And they taught me of their world and ways, like any good father should. But they cried, “Dance, little sweet boy, dance”; So I danced like their pet and I played the fool, Whenever they gave me the chance. And like a whirling Dervish, I took off in a trance, And danced all the way to Mandalay, with never a backward glance, As they cried, “Dance, little sweet boy, dance”. As the years and lands rolled by, they put a bugle in my hands, And with the blessing of the mighty Empress Queen of all their lands, I became their first black regular, Number 6758, And James Francis Durham, DLI Bandsman stood up straight. As they said, “Play, lovely bugle boy, play”; And so I played my heart out because I knew no other way. I put every single laugh and tear I’d shed into every note I played, As I felt the magic in the coat in which I was now arrayed, As they said, “Play, lovely bugle boy, play”. I came at last to England, an educated full-grown man, Where I found love and embraced it, in the best way any young lover can; With my clarinet and violin, I graced many a concert hall, And I played a tune for the many paths on which Destiny’s seeds might fall. And I thought, smile, Jimmy Durham, smile; It’s been a long road to the Banks of the Wear, All the way from the Banks of the Nile. But now this cold wet weather Has become the death of me, Though I know my story will live on, Through the child I’ll never see. So farewell, my dear sister, I can no longer write, And the world at last is fading, as I head towards the light. Well it’s been one hell of a journey, please do not feel sad; But do you think I’ve been a good man? Did I earn the life I’ve had? (Gary Miller) © 2017 Whippet Records Copyright Control MCPS/PRS

My name is Joseph William Stones The life-blood of Durham ran deep in my bones A miner from Crook standing all of 5' 2" Deemed too short to fight, fit only to hew But I then joined the Bantams in 1915 A volunteer in the Durham Light Infantry A lance-sergeant decorated for extreme bravery Shot at dawn as a coward in 1917 The terror of the guns I bravely defied The horrors of the trenches I somehow survived Only to face death by a different name Stripped of all honour, butchered in shame Though my superiors cast glowing testimonies I was guilty as charged, my Court Martial decreed British Army justice, so cruel and so vague The brutal tyranny of Bloody Butcher Haig As the sentence was passed my stomach turned weak But they’d given me no permission to speak I simply stood there as my glazed eyes gazed through The blank faces of my judges who no mercy knew The ambulance driver’s head hung in shame Driving us to our doom at the dawn of the day Blindfolded, manacled, two lance corporals and I Each tied to a post, sentenced to die A farmyard near Arras, the last place I saw So quiet and peaceful amid the horrors of war Thirty-six bullets and thirty-six men Twelve for each prisoner, how could they fail then? Yet not one of those men fired a shot that rang true Afraid of guilt’s burden, what else could they do? As the firing squad officer his pistol he drew And our brains and our souls to eternity blew “Braver men I never have met” Were the words of the chaplain who wrote with regret How he’d prayed with us before that fatal dawn And how we were murdered on that terrible morn There were no birds to sing, no bugle to play The Last Post as they carried our bodies away Just a sad mournful breeze to usher our souls To the Great Unknown, where no guilty bell tolls Oh Lizzie, my Lizzie, you were victimised too "There’s no pensions for coward’s widows", they told you As they left you to rot and go quietly insane Alone with your memories, your loss and your pain Three hundred and five others were damned just like me To walk the Ghost Road through eternity These doomed youth an anthem and peace were denied Unjustly condemned, shot by their own side My name was erased from the family line To be rediscovered and restored after time Now eighty years after I was slaughtered in shame The local memorial at last bears my name A Royal Pardon was granted at last Ninety years after the sentence was passed And even though the conviction remains I suppose we must welcome any small gains Now they call it Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome A cause that in my time was simply unknown And though no-one else should suffer like me From the evil of War we will never be free (Gary Miller) © 2017 Whippet Records Copyright Control MCPSPRS

Step forward two brothers in tunics of red Polished buttons and boots, postman’s caps on their heads Hard as nails, from the coalfields they came Colliery bandsmen George and Joe Mains Now step forward two soldiers, these khaki-clad sons Sporting Durham Light Infantry tin hats and guns Their music proved stronger than bullets or waves As they played their hearts out while an army was saved So strike up the band, let the D.L.I. play The euphonium and cornet will each have their day They’re shelling the beaches, while the boats fight the spray And the band plays on, until the last boat sails away George was proud of the medals he wore In the street, in the pub, he would fist to the floor Any man daring to mock the vain ways Of this bold as brass bandsmen, fearless and brave The Shakespeare’s finest, bandleader Joe When his cornet blew all of Brandon would know On the beach at Dunkirk it blew loud and shrill That I bet back at home they could hear it still So strike up the band, let the D.L.I. play The euphonium and cornet will each have their day They’re shelling the beaches, while the boats fight the spray And the band plays on, until the last boat sails away And step forward two fathers, back home from the War Neither one spoke of the horrors they saw As back to the coalfields they carried their fame In two instrument cases, battered and stained Now they’ve passed from this world and each note that they played On euphonium and cornet has faded away But the trumpets of Heaven resound to their name Where the band plays on The band struck up, the rearguard played The euphonium and cornet each had their day When the beaches were shelled and the boats fought the spray Yet the band played on, until the last boat sailed away Now step forward great-nephews, these two brothers too Like their forebears, their music rings clear and true They’re telling their stories and singing their songs Ensuring the family tradition lives on So strike up the band, let the instruments play The guitar and accordion are now having their say Until the next generation grasps the baton one day Let the band play on, until the last note fades away (Gary Miller) © 2017 Whippet Records Copyright Control MCPS/PRS

When I was but a young lad I hewed coal below this land With a pick across me shoulder or a shovel in me hand But then the Great War came and a spirit of adventure grew While the posters in the street said "Your Country Needs You!” Your country needs you! I knew then what I must do I lined up to volunteer for a soldier's bloody wage I strode up to the desk and boldly lied about me age They gave me a serge uniform of ‘Kitchener Blue’ Flags waved, brass bands played and huge crowds cheered too But no-one really knew just what we’d gotten ourselves into So we're off my boys through the hell and the noise To die for our country And they’ll raise a cross to remember the loss Of the Durham Light Infantry In the muddy fields of Flanders we fought like men from Hell As the ground itself was ripped apart where all me best mates fell The lad right next to me took a bullet to the head And in all that hell and madness I wished that I was dead As the sky wept tears of lead, while the ‘Faithful Durhams’ bled We buried all our dead, at least those that could be found As well as bits of bodies that were scattered all around And it made me sick with anger at the things the War had done But when one campaign was over they gave us another one So I still kept marching on though all my mates were dead and gone So we're off my boys through the hell and the noise To die for our country And they’ll raise a cross to remember the loss Of the Durham Light Infantry Let there be no songs of victory upon Armistice Day For the pathos of the poets can never wash the stains away And with the Pawns of War the Masters never will be done So the ‘Dirty Little Imps’ will still be called upon Once this ‘War To End All Wars’ is won, to fight on and on and on So we're off my boys through the hell and the noise To die for our country And they’ll raise a cross to remember the loss Of the Durham Light Infantry (Gary Miller) © 2017 Whippet Records Copyright Control MCPS/PRS