The Weston spirit, a heart of gold, a crinkled chin.
Forged together in a granite block.
Born from adversity and untold misery.
From the depths of despair to fulfilment of life.
Bringing hope and purpose to all in need.

We remember the scenes of ships on fire.
The billowing smoke, the cries of the wounded.
The gallant efforts of rescue crews, and paramedics.
The hospital ship, doctors, nurses , patients.
The television cameras revealing all,
We could see but not feel the overpowering pain.

In hospital wards we saw your distress,
Heard your cries as you fought to control it.
The months of operations following each other.
Until at last you started to live again.
Mother, family, friends, helping to remould you ,
To pick you up from the depths of despair,
Hiding their grief beneath stern remarks.

Then it was you started your life again,
To show us the way we all should go.
The Weston spirit was born— grew tall.
And you took your place with the good and great.
Proud of being a Guardsman, your family, your mother.
Who now have to share you with us all,
For the Country claims you for one of its own.