In Honour and Memory of
Capt. Stewart McKeough,
Who Died in Defence Of His Mother-Land,
Somewhere in France, Sept. 15, 1916.
By: Edmund Eugene O’Connor
It was for you and I dear friends,
This Hero took a chance.
He sacrificed all life holds,
And died somewhere in France.
We used to see him on the street,
A man that all were pleased to meet.
During the hours of toil and leisure,
His whole life seemed a pleasure.
With all the boys he had the name,
Of being a sport in every game.
A really good fellow all the while,
Every word spelt with a smile.
But alas a day of deep thought came,
He was called to play a different game.
Indeed quite different to the rest,
One that calls for a manly breast.
Each day brought a deeper thought,
His duties were made clear,
With a heart and soul and all that is good,
He went as a volunteer.
His first drills were in Toronto,
After he left his home.
And when a few short months had passed,
He crossed the angry foam.
He was but a few days on the ocean,
Which he had never crossed before.
When at last old England was in sight,
And he landed safe on shore.
From the Mother-land, there came the command,
You boys must help the French.
They knew just what the order meant,
And soon were in the trench.
The Captain took his place, and had to face,
That terrible air of death.
The very thought that you might be caught,
Would take away your breath.
Alas the fatal hour came,
The voice of God called out his name.
And at the point of a German gun,
Great Britain lost a Hero son.
But God is just in his mercy,
His blessings never cease.
And he called Capt. McKeough, as he will call you,
To a home of eternal peace.
This poem was found in the family bible of the late Col. Ralph West, by his wife Norma. Used with permission.