They came from the moors, the hills and the dales,
From small country towns, from woods and from vales;
The best lads in Yorkshire, each one worth renown,
But the finest of all came from our fishing town.
Who are these lads whom no men can call cowards?
Why, the pick of the bunch, the good old Green Howards.
At nineteen years old you saw them in France,
And right on through Belgium these lads did advance.
Then, through no fault of theirs, they were forced to retreat.
To the beaches of Dunkirk, fighting hard but not beat.
These were the lads no men could call cowards,
Never owning defeat, the gallant Green Howards.
On these bomb-blasted beaches they waited their turn,
To board “little ships” from river and burn;
But not all got away, and many a tear
Has been shed by the folk to whom these lads were dear.
hen pray for these lads whom no men could call cowards;
Yes pray for the lads of the valiant Green Howards.
Re-printed from the Whitby Gazette July 3rd , 1942