World War I Humanities and the War

Humanities Visual Arts Music Literature

Hymn of Hate Hate by water and hate by land, Hate of the head and hate of the hand, We love as one, we hate as one; We have one foe and one foe alone – ENGLAND!!!!!

'It's a long way to Tipperary' It's a long way to Tipperary, it's a long way to go. It's a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know. Good-bye, Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square. It's a long long way to Tipperary, but my heart's right there.

Over There Over There, Over There Send the word, send the word, Over There That the Yanks are coming, The Yanks are coming, The drums rum tumming everywhere So prepare, Say a Prayer Send the word, send the word to beware We'll be over, we're coming over. And we won't be back till it's over Over there! Over There, Over There Send the word, send the word, Over There That the Yanks are coming, The Yanks are coming, The drums rum tumming everywhere So prepare, Say a Prayer Send the word, send the word to beware We'll be over, we're coming over. And we won't be back till it's over O Over there! Composer: George M. Cohan

Propaganda Tools –Present half-truths –Engage in name-calling –“Demonize” the opposition –Link cause with famous person/noble idea

Central Powers

Enlist!

Germany

Forward for the Fatherland

Germany v. TE

Ready for the Final Blow

Triple Entente

Allies

Allies

GB

France

Our Cities, villages and Churches wait for the liberation

Help our Heroes Destroy the Enemy

The Struggle of the Red Knight with the Dark Forces

Reaction to Lusitania

United States

US

The Soldier If I should die, think only this of me: That there's some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England's, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. Rupert Brooke ( )

Dulce et Decorum Est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of tried, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime... Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth- corrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. Wilfred Owen ( )

Anthem for Doomed Youth What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? - Only the monstruous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, - The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires. What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes. The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. Wilfred Owen ( )