He wore a black poppy and a white feather
Every single day with pride
He wore the black poppy and the white feather
Every day until he died
Nothing they did could make him change his mind
Wouldn’t do what they told him to
They locked him up and even beat him up
He still wouldn’t do as he was told
Kept his head high never let them see him cry
Wavered not even as he got old

Conchy was his name
Waging peace his game
Conchy was his name
Waging peace his game

Black poppies
For Conchies
Sixteen hundred
Long dead and gone

They set him to work on the ambulance train
Treating dying and wounded men
Sent him near the front for the whole of the war
Again and again and again
British and French and even German soldiers too
Patched up those he thought would survive
Collected creased photographs of loved ones on swings
From those who were no longer alive

Young girls on swings
From London or Berlin
Daughters, mums and wives
All now with ruined lives

White feathers
For Conchies
Sixteen hundred
Long dead and gone

Took Conchy for his name he was born to disobey
Never did what others told him to do
Refused to go and fight he would never kill a man
No matter whoever wanted him to
Envelopes were sent to him with white feathers in
For week after week after week
He kept them, every one, wore one in his lapel
Waited for somebody to speak

Conchy was his name
Waging peace his game
Conchy was his name
Waging peace his game

Wear a black poppy
For Conchy
Wear a white feather
For Conchy

Sixteen hundred like him
Long dead and gone
Remembered here
To live on and on

Harry Rogers, in the old study, Aberbanc, November 11th 2014