Service in York Minster to mark the Anniversary of the Death of Lieutenant General Sir John Moore
- 4 days ago
- 2 min read
On the anniversary of our founding father's death, Lieutenant General Sir John Moore, a service was held in the Regimental Chapel within York Minster. Retired officers and former soldiers from The King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry, The Light Infantry, The Royal Green Jackets, and The Rifles gathered in the Regimental Chapel in York Minster for the service.
During the service, Mr. Paul Crompton, a former member of the LI(TA), read a passage about the life of Sir John Moore. Additionally, Mr. Hugh Goudge, a former member of the RGJ, recited the poem "The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna" by Charles Wolfe. The wreath layers were Mr. Joe Thwaites, Mr. Alan Whitehead, Mr. Stuart Anderson, and Major (Retd) Erik Broderstad. The buglers, Mr. Kev Fawcett and Mr. Sean Wroe, brought the Minster to a standstill as they performed the Last Post and Charlie Reveille.
This is the fourth time the service in York Minster has been held. Following the service in York Minster, conducted by Rev Andrew Martlew TD, our Association Padre, Association members, and guests retired to the warmth of Dean Court Hotel for a buffet lunch and a catch-up.
At Sir John Moore's memorial in St Paul's Cathedral, London, on 14 January, Captain (Retd) Jonathan Malins-Smith laid a KOYLI wreath on behalf of our Association.
"The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna" by Charles Wolfe
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot
O'er the grave where our hero was buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light
And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him;
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him —
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory!
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