John+Mcrae

media type="custom" key="22294734" width="180" height="180" John Alexander McCrae was born November 30, 1872 and //very tragically died January 28, 1918 at age 45.// He was born in the Mccrae house in Guelph Ontario, to Colenol David Mccrae and Janet Simpson Eckford. John was a doctor,solider, poet, and artist.



media type="custom" key="22379728" John joined Highland cadet corpse at the age of fourteen and joined the military at age seventeen. John enlisted as soon as Canada was a part of World War 1.John is famous because of being a wonderful poet, artist and a doctor. He is also famous because he wrote the great poem and song "Flandersfields" wich represents the war. media type="custom" key="22530100" align="right"

John wrote "Flanders fields" during the second battle of Ypres in 1915.If you look very close on the $10.00 bill you will see the great poem written in small letters on the bill. He also wrote "The anxious dead," and "slumber songs." Plus "The hope of my heart," and "The dead master." He wrote many many more poems but I listed just a few. This is the poem called "Anarchy." media type="custom" key="22391414" In the war John was appointed as a field surgeon in the battle of "Ypres." The word field surgeon means he went in the fields as a doctor and found people and fixed them to health. He did not take them to a hospital to be fixed, he just fixed them in the field in the middle of the battle. He was also a fighter, that means he fought against the enimies.



media type="custom" key="22391456" In the battle McCrae's friend and former student Alexis Helmer was killed in the battle, and his burial inspired the poem, "In Flanders Fields" which was written on May 3, 1915.

media type="custom" key="22391492" John Alexander McCrae died January 28th 1918 from pneumonia (na-mon-ya). It is a lung inflammation caused by bacterial or viral infection. Greif spread around through many many people after he died. That is a picture of his funeral, John Alexander McCrae will always be known and we hope to be known for many many years to come.

media type="custom" key="22497868" Not we the conquered! Not to us the blame Of them that flee, of them that basely yield;Nor ours the shout of victory, the fame Of them that vanquish in a stricken field. That day of battle in the dusty heat We lay and heard the bullets swish and singLike scythes amid the over-ripened wheat, And we the harvest of their garnering. Some yielded, No, not we! Not we, we swear By these our wounds; this trench upon the hillWhere all the shell-strewn earth is seamed and bare, Was ours to keep; and lo! we have it still. We might have yielded, even we, but death Came for our helper; like a sudden floodThe crashing darkness fell; our painful breath We drew with gasps amid the choking blood. The roar fell faint and farther off, and soon Sank to a foolish humming in our ears,Like crickets in the long, hot afternoon Among the wheat fields of the olden years. Before our eyes a boundless wall of red Shot through by sudden streaks of jagged pain!Then a slow-gathering darkness overhead And rest came on us like a quiet rain. Not we the conquered! Not to us the shame, Who hold our earthen ramparts, nor shall ceaseTo hold them ever; victors we, who came In that fierce moment to our honoured peace.