Arthur James TRAVIS

Arthur James TRAVIS

Male 1894 - 1917  (23 years)

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  • Name Arthur James TRAVIS 
    Born 1894  Owston, Lincolnshire, England Find all individuals with events at this location 
    Gender Male 
    Residence 1911  41, hillcrest view leeds yorkshire. Find all individuals with events at this location 
    Died 17 Feb 1917  Beaumont Hamel, Somme, France Find all individuals with events at this location 
    Person ID I00029  Derbyshire Hills
    Last Modified 16 Jul 2016 

    Father Arthur TRAVIS,   b. 1854, Rotherham, Yorkshire, England Find all individuals with events at this location,   d. 27 Aug 1924, Owston, Lincolnshire, England Find all individuals with events at this location  (Age 70 years) 
    Mother Mary amelia STEPHENSON,   b. Abt 1856, Preston, yorkshire. Find all individuals with events at this location,   d. 7 Aug 1927, Owston, Lincolnshire, England Find all individuals with events at this location  (Age ~ 71 years) 
    Married 1884  Sculcoates, Yorkshire, England Find all individuals with events at this location 
    Family ID F0028  Group Sheet  |  Family Chart

  • Event Map
    Link to Google MapsBorn - 1894 - Owston, Lincolnshire, England Link to Google Earth
    Link to Google MapsDied - 17 Feb 1917 - Beaumont Hamel, Somme, France Link to Google Earth
     = Link to Google Earth 

  • Notes 
    • rifleman266258 arthur travis prince of wales own regiment. killed in france 17/2/1917. burried frankfurt trench british cemetery beaumont homel.

      FOR THE FALLEN.

      With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
      England mourns for her dead across the sea.
      Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
      Fallen in the cause of the free.

      Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
      Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
      There is music in the midst of desolation
      And a glory that shines upon our tears.

      They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
      Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
      They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
      They fell with their faces to the foe.

      They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
      Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
      At the going down of the sun and in the morning
      We will remember them.

      They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
      They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
      They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
      They sleep beyond England's foam.

      But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
      Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
      To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
      As the stars are known to the Night;

      As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
      Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
      As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
      To the end, to the end, they remain.
      lawrence binyon



































      With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
      England mourns for her dead across the sea.
      Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
      Fallen in the cause of the free.

      Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
      Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
      There is music in the midst of desolation
      And a glory that shines upon our tears.

      They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
      Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
      They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
      They fell with their faces to the foe.

      They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
      Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
      At the going down of the sun and in the morning
      We will remember them.

      They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
      They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
      They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
      They sleep beyond England's foam.

      But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
      Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
      To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
      As the stars are known to the Night;

      As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
      Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
      As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
      To the end, to the end, they remain.


      Laurence Binyon






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