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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/315-8.txt b/315-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bef6e8f --- /dev/null +++ b/315-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4092 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, by Robert W. Service + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rhymes of a Red Cross Man + +Author: Robert W. Service + +Posting Date: July 10, 2008 [EBook #315] +Release Date: August, 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light + + + + + +RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN + +by Robert W. Service + +[British-born Canadian Poet--1874-1958.] + + +Author of "The Spell of the Yukon", "Ballads of a Cheechako", +"Rhymes of a Rolling Stone", etc. + + +[This etext has been transcribed from a New York edition of 1916. +Some very minor corrections have been made.] + + + + | | + --+---------------------------+-- + | To the Memory of | + | My Brother, | + | LIEUTENANT ALBERT SERVICE | + | Canadian Infantry | + | Killed in Action, France | + | August, 1916. | + --+---------------------------+-- + | | + + + + + +Contents + + Foreword + The Call + The Fool + The Volunteer + The Convalescent + The Man from Athabaska + The Red Retreat + The Haggis of Private McPhee + The Lark + The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins + A Song of Winter Weather + Tipperary Days + Fleurette + Funk + Our Hero + My Mate + Milking Time + Young Fellow My Lad + A Song of the Sandbags + On the Wire + Bill's Grave + Jean Desprez + Going Home + Cocotte + My Bay'nit + Carry On! + Over the Parapet + The Ballad of Soulful Sam + Only a Boche + Pilgrims + My Prisoner + Tri-colour + A Pot of Tea + The Revelation + Grand-père + Son + The Black Dudeen + The Little Piou-piou + Bill the Bomber + The Whistle of Sandy McGraw + The Stretcher-Bearer + Wounded + Faith + The Coward + Missis Moriarty's Boy + My Foe + My Job + The Song of the Pacifist + The Twins + The Song of the Soldier-born + Afternoon Tea + The Mourners + L'Envoi + + + + + +Foreword + + + + I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes + In weary, woeful, waiting times; + In doleful hours of battle-din, + Ere yet they brought the wounded in; + Through vigils of the fateful night, + In lousy barns by candle-light; + In dug-outs, sagging and aflood, + On stretchers stiff and bleared with blood; + By ragged grove, by ruined road, + By hearths accurst where Love abode; + By broken altars, blackened shrines + I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes. + + I've solaced me with scraps of song + The desolated ways along: + Through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown, + And meadows reaped by death alone; + By blazing cross and splintered spire, + By headless Virgin in the mire; + By gardens gashed amid their bloom, + By gutted grave, by shattered tomb; + Beside the dying and the dead, + Where rocket green and rocket red, + In trembling pools of poising light, + With flowers of flame festoon the night. + Ah me! by what dark ways of wrong + I've cheered my heart with scraps of song. + + So here's my sheaf of war-won verse, + And some is bad, and some is worse. + And if at times I curse a bit, + You needn't read that part of it; + For through it all like horror runs + The red resentment of the guns. + And you yourself would mutter when + You took the things that once were men, + And sped them through that zone of hate + To where the dripping surgeons wait; + And wonder too if in God's sight + War ever, ever can be right. + + Yet may it not be, crime and war + But effort misdirected are? + And if there's good in war and crime, + There may be in my bits of rhyme, + My songs from out the slaughter mill: + So take or leave them as you will. + + + + +The Call + + (France, August first, 1914) + + + + Far and near, high and clear, + Hark to the call of War! + Over the gorse and the golden dells, + Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells, + Praying and saying of wild farewells: + War! War! War! + + High and low, all must go: + Hark to the shout of War! + Leave to the women the harvest yield; + Gird ye, men, for the sinister field; + A sabre instead of a scythe to wield: + War! Red War! + + Rich and poor, lord and boor, + Hark to the blast of War! + Tinker and tailor and millionaire, + Actor in triumph and priest in prayer, + Comrades now in the hell out there, + Sweep to the fire of War! + + Prince and page, sot and sage, + Hark to the roar of War! + Poet, professor and circus clown, + Chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town, + Into the pot and be melted down: + Into the pot of War! + + Women all, hear the call, + The pitiless call of War! + Look your last on your dearest ones, + Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons: + Swift they go to the ravenous guns, + The gluttonous guns of War. + + Everywhere thrill the air + The maniac bells of War. + There will be little of sleeping to-night; + There will be wailing and weeping to-night; + Death's red sickle is reaping to-night: + War! War! War! + + + + +The Fool + + + + "But it isn't playing the game," he said, + And he slammed his books away; + "The Latin and Greek I've got in my head + Will do for a duller day." + "Rubbish!" I cried; "The bugle's call + Isn't for lads from school." + D'ye think he'd listen? Oh, not at all: + So I called him a fool, a fool. + + Now there's his dog by his empty bed, + And the flute he used to play, + And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he's dead, + Somewhere in France, they say: + Dick with his rapture of song and sun, + Dick of the yellow hair, + Dicky whose life had but begun, + Carrion-cold out there. + + Look at his prizes all in a row: + Surely a hint of fame. + Now he's finished with,--nothing to show: + Doesn't it seem a shame? + Look from the window! All you see + Was to be his one day: + Forest and furrow, lawn and lea, + And he goes and chucks it away. + + Chucks it away to die in the dark: + Somebody saw him fall, + Part of him mud, part of him blood, + The rest of him--not at all. + And yet I'll bet he was never afraid, + And he went as the best of 'em go, + For his hand was clenched on his broken blade, + And his face was turned to the foe. + + And I called him a fool . . . oh how blind was I! + And the cup of my grief's abrim. + Will Glory o' England ever die + So long as we've lads like him? + So long as we've fond and fearless fools, + Who, spurning fortune and fame, + Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools, + Just bent on playing the game. + + A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise. + His was the proudest part. + He died with the glory of faith in his eyes, + And the glory of love in his heart. + And though there's never a grave to tell, + Nor a cross to mark his fall, + Thank God! we know that he "batted well" + In the last great Game of all. + + + + +The Volunteer + + + + Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call. + I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks. + Go, let 'em plaster every blighted wall, + 'Ere's _ONE_ they don't stampede into the ranks. + Them politicians with their greasy ways; + Them empire-grabbers--fight for 'em? No fear! + I've seen this mess a-comin' from the days + Of Algyserious and Aggydear: + I've felt me passion rise and swell, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + + Sez I: My Country? Mine? I likes their cheek. + Me mud-bespattered by the cars they drive, + Wot makes my measly thirty bob a week, + And sweats red blood to keep meself alive! + Fight for the right to slave that they may spend, + Them in their mansions, me 'ere in my slum? + No, let 'em fight wot's something to defend: + But me, I've nothin'--let the Kaiser come. + And so I cusses 'ard and well, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + + Sez I: If they would do the decent thing, + And shield the missis and the little 'uns, + Why, even _I_ might shout "God save the King", + And face the chances of them 'ungry guns. + But we've got three, another on the way; + It's that wot makes me snarl and set me jor: + The wife and nippers, wot of 'em, I say, + If I gets knocked out in this blasted war? + Gets proper busted by a shell, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + + Ay, wot the 'ell's the use of all this talk? + To-day some boys in blue was passin' me, + And some of 'em they 'ad no legs to walk, + And some of 'em they 'ad no eyes to see. + And--well, I couldn't look 'em in the face, + And so I'm goin', goin' to declare + I'm under forty-one and take me place + To face the music with the bunch out there. + A fool, you say! Maybe you're right. + I'll 'ave no peace unless I fight. + I've ceased to think; I only know + I've gotta go, Bill, gotta go. + + + + +The Convalescent + + + + . . . So I walked among the willows very quietly all night; + There was no moon at all, at all; no timid star alight; + There was no light at all, at all; I wint from tree to tree, + And I called him as his mother called, but he nivver answered me. + + Oh I called him all the night-time, as I walked the wood alone; + And I listened and I listened, but I nivver heard a moan; + Then I found him at the dawnin', when the sorry sky was red: + I was lookin' for the livin', but I only found the dead. + + Sure I know that it was Shamus by the silver cross he wore; + But the bugles they were callin', and I heard the cannon roar. + Oh I had no time to tarry, so I said a little prayer, + And I clasped his hands together, and I left him lyin' there. + + Now the birds are singin', singin', and I'm home in Donegal, + And it's Springtime, and I'm thinkin' that I only dreamed it all; + I dreamed about that evil wood, all crowded with its dead, + Where I knelt beside me brother when the battle-dawn was red. + + Where I prayed beside me brother ere I wint to fight anew: + Such dreams as these are evil dreams; I can't believe it's true. + Where all is love and laughter, sure it's hard to think of loss . . . + But mother's sayin' nothin', and she clasps--_A SILVER CROSS_. + + + + +The Man from Athabaska + + + + Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming + Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree; + And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming + Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me; + 'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea. + + And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder, + For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar; + Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder, + And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War; + 'Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are. + + Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying, + And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do? + Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying, + As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe: + Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view. + + Says the factor: "Mike, you're crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty. + You're as grizzled as a badger, and you're sixty year or so." + "But I haven't missed a scrap," says I, "since I was one and twenty. + And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers--no!" + So I sold my furs and started . . . and that's eighteen months ago. + + For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter + In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away; + And the partner on my right hand was an 'apache' from Montmartre; + On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U. S. A. + (Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.) + + But I'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago, + And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and 'blagues' me all the day. + I'm their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago, + And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away. + Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say. + + And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming + In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea, + Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing; + And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be: + Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me! + + And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle, + Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore; + And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle, + And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more; + While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar. + + And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling, + And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track; + And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling, + And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac; + And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back. + + So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring, + And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe; + And I yarn of fur and feather when the 'marmites' are a-soaring, + And they listen to my stories, seven 'poilus' in a row, + Seven lean and lousy 'poilus' with their cigarettes aglow. + + And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike for Athabaska; + And those seven greasy 'poilus' they are crazy to go too. + And I'll give the wife the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I'll ask her + The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo, + And I'll get my traps in order, and I'll start to work anew. + + For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen a nation scattered, + And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore, + And a city all a-smoulder, and . . . as if it really mattered, + For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore; + And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly, + And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave it nevermore. + + + + +The Red Retreat + + + _Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers + (I've 'ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin' feet); + Tramp, tramp, the dim road--we didn't 'ave no pipers, + And bellies that was 'oller was the drums we 'ad to beat. + Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits o' kiddies cryin' there, + The fell birds a-flyin' there, the 'ouses all aflame; + Tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals I left a-lyin' there, + Red there, and dead there. . . . Oh blimy, it's a shame!_ + + A-singin' "'Oo's Yer Lady Friend?" we started out from 'Arver, + A-singin' till our froats was dry--we didn't care a 'ang; + The Frenchies 'ow they lined the way, and slung us their palaver, + And all we knowed to arnser was the one word "vang"; + They gave us booze and caporal, and cheered for us like crazy, + And all the pretty gels was out to kiss us as we passed; + And 'ow they all went dotty when we 'owled the Marcelaisey! + Oh, Gawd! Them was the 'appy days, the days too good to last. + + We started out for God Knows Where, we started out a-roarin'; + We 'ollered: "'Ere We Are Again", and 'struth! but we was dry. + The dust was gummin' up our ears, and 'ow the sweat was pourin'; + The road was long, the sun was like a brazier in the sky. + We wondered where the 'Uns was--we wasn't long a-wonderin', + For down a scruff of 'ill-side they rushes like a flood; + Then oh! 'twas music 'eavenly, our batteries a-thunderin', + And arms and legs went soarin' in the fountain of their blood. + + For on they came like bee-swarms, a-hochin' and a-singin'; + We pumped the bullets into 'em, we couldn't miss a shot. + But though we mowed 'em down like grass, like grass was they a-springin', + And all our 'ands was blistered, for our rifles was so 'ot. + We roared with battle-fury, and we lammed the stuffin' out of 'em, + And then we fixed our bay'nets and we spitted 'em like meat. + You should 'ave 'eard the beggars squeal; + you should 'ave seen the rout of 'em, + And 'ow we cussed and wondered when the word came: Retreat! + + Retreat! That was the 'ell of it. It fair upset our 'abits, + A-runnin' from them blighters over 'alf the roads of France; + A-scurryin' before 'em like a lot of blurry rabbits, + And knowin' we could smash 'em if we just 'ad 'alf a chance. + Retreat! That was the bitter bit, a-limpin' and a-blunderin'; + All day and night a-hoofin' it and sleepin' on our feet; + A-fightin' rear guard actions for a bit o' rest, and wonderin' + If sugar beets or mangels was the 'olesomest to eat. + + Ho yus, there isn't many left that started out so cheerily; + There was no bands a-playin' and we 'ad no autmobeels. + Our tummies they was 'oller, and our 'eads was 'angin' wearily, + And if we stopped to light a fag the 'Uns was on our 'eels. + That rotten road! I can't forget the kids and mothers flyin' there, + The bits of barns a-blazin' and the 'orrid sights I sor; + The stiffs that lined the wayside, me own pals a-lyin' there, + Their faces covered over wiv a little 'eap of stror. + + _Tramp, tramp, the red road, the wicked bullets 'ummin' + (I've panted out this ditty with me 'ot 'ard breath.) + Tramp, tramp, the dread road, the Boches all a-comin', + The lootin' and the shootin' and the shrieks o' death. + Tramp, tramp, the fell road, the mad 'orde pursuin' there, + And 'ow we 'urled it back again, them grim, grey waves; + Tramp, tramp, the 'ell road, the 'orror and the ruin there, + The graves of me mateys there, the grim, sour graves._ + + + + +The Haggis of Private McPhee + + + + "Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me? + It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee. + "And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun, + As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun. + "A haggis! A _HAGGIS!_" says Private McPhee; + "The brawest big haggis I ever did see. + And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns + Tae haggis and whuskey--the Birthday o' Burns. + We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest + O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best." + + "Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole; + "I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol." + Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun: + "I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done." + Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee: + "I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree." + But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair: + "Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare; + And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun', + We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon. + Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black, + O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back." + + My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land, + And the deid they were rottin' on every hand. + And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky, + And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by. + There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells, + And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells; + But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole + Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol. + For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem + Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them. + + Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer + Calamity's aften maist cruelly near. + And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine + The Boches below them were howkin' a mine. + And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae, + The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away. + Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom, + A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb. + + "Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun. + "Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done. + It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee; + Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee. + "Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun; + "And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run, + It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see: + I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me." + Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid: + "If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid. + And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content + If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent." + "That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind. + Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind; + And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot-- + It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got." + For a while they were silent; then up once again + Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain: + "And why should we miss it? Between you and me + We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see. + You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht, + And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht." + + Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee, + When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee. + Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun', + When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun. + "Keep clear o' them corpses--they're maybe no deid! + Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid. + Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup. + A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup. + Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine: + Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine." + + There wis death and destruction on every hand; + There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land. + And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare, + And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air. + Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun + When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'. + And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot, + And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot. + "On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal; + I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole." + + But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun, + Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'. + Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear: + "Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here. + It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air; + It's steamin' for us, and we're--jist--aboot--there." + Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap! + For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap." + And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain, + And onward he staggers in passion and pain. + And the flare and the glare and the fury increase, + Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease. + And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight, + And someone is shoutin' away on their right; + And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear + A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer; + And swift through the crash and the flash and the din, + The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in. + + "They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll + Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole. + When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair, + And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair. + And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot, + And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot, + When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell, + And it--_DRAPPED ON THE HAGGIS AND DINGED IT TAE HELL._" + + And oh but the lads were fair taken aback; + Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack, + And up from the trenches like lions they leapt, + And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept. + On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before! + On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar! + And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang, + And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang: + And there wisna a man but had death in his ee, + For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee. + + + + +The Lark + + + + From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, + The guns have brayed without abate; + And now the sick sun looks upon + The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate + As if it loathed to rise again. + How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark! + From yon down-trodden gold of grain, + The leaping rapture of a lark. + + A fusillade of melody, + That sprays us from yon trench of sky; + A new amazing enemy + We cannot silence though we try; + A battery on radiant wings, + That from yon gap of golden fleece + Hurls at us hopes of such strange things + As joy and home and love and peace. + + Pure heart of song! do you not know + That we are making earth a hell? + Or is it that you try to show + Life still is joy and all is well? + Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain + You beat into that bit of blue: + Lo! we who pant in war's red rain + Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too. + + + + +The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins + + + + Me and Ed and a stretcher + Out on the nootral ground. + (If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher + There's a 'undred smellin' around.) + Me and Eddie O'Brian, + Both of the R. A. M. C. + "It's a 'ell of a night + For a soul to take flight," + As Eddie remarks to me. + Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, + Thinkin' our job is done, + When sudden and clear, + Wot do we 'ear: + 'Owl of a wounded 'Un. + + "Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy; + "Got to take all we can. + 'E may be a Germ + Wiv the 'eart of a worm, + But, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?" + So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin' + ('E'd always a medical knack), + When that wounded 'Un + 'E rolls to 'is gun, + And 'e plugs me pal in the back. + + Now what would you do? I arst you. + There was me slaughtered mate. + There was that 'Un + (I'd collered 'is gun), + A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate. + Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper . . . + 'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, + But when I got through, + Between me and you, + It was 'orrid and jaggy and red. + + "'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy. + Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all." + It's slow and it's sure and it's steady + (Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small). + The rockets are shootin' and shinin', + It's rainin' a perishin' flood, + The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', + And I'm up to me stern in the mud. + There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; + It's black as a bucket of tar; + Oh, I'm doin' my bit, + But I'm 'avin' a fit, + And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar. + + "Stick on like a plaster, Eddy. + Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip." + Gord! But I'm crocky already; + My feet, 'ow they slither and slip! + There goes the biff of a bullet. + The Boches have got us for fair. + Another one--_WHUT!_ + The son of a slut! + 'E managed to miss by a 'air. + 'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? + Gave it a dooce of a wrench. + Is it Eddy or me + Wot's a-bleedin' so free? + Crust! but it's long to the trench. + I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, + And Ed ain't a flapper by far; + I'm blamed if I understand 'ow + We've managed to get where we are. + But 'ere's for a bit of a breather. + "Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'. + Old pal, it's all right; + It's a 'ell of a fight, + But are we down-'earted? No-o-o." + + Now war is a funny thing, ain't it? + It's the rummiest sort of a go. + For when it's most real, + It's then that you feel + You're a-watchin' a cinema show. + 'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant. + Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France, + And I'm 'ere in a pit + Where a coal-box 'as 'it, + And it's all like a giddy romance. + The ruddy quick-firers are spittin', + The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, + And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', + And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate. + Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin', + 'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, + And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin', + And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again. + You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': + 'Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?' + 'Stead of sheddin' yer blood + In the rain and the mud, + Which is some'ow the right thing to do; + Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, + Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, + For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty, + And you've been and you've slaughtered a man. + A feller wot punctured your partner; + Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, + And you still see 'is eyes + Starin' bang at the skies, + And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead. + But you wish you was back in your diggin's + Asleep on your mouldy old stror. + Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, + But you ain't just enjoyin' the war." + + "'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy. + It's us for the bomb-belt again. + Except for the shrap + Which 'as 'it me a tap, + I'm feelin' as right as the rain. + It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', + It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, + But don't be oneasy, my pippin, + I'm goin' to pilot you in. + It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'. + The bullets is buzzin' like bees. + Me shoulder's red-'ot, + And I'm bleedin' a lot, + And me legs is on'inged at the knees. + But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer. + Just stick it, old sport, play the game. + I make 'em out clearer and clearer, + Our trenches a-snappin' with flame. + Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer. + 'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try. + Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir! + I'll carry you in if I die. + By cracky! old feller, they've seen us. + They're sendin' out stretchers for two. + Let's give 'em the hoorah between us + ('Anged lucky we aren't booked through). + My flipper is mashed to a jelly. + A bullet 'as tickled your spleen. + We've shed lots of gore + And we're leakin' some more, + But--wot a hoccasion it's been! + Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party. + They're crawlin' out cautious and slow. + Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, + Shoulder to shoulder--so. + They mustn't think we was down-'earted. + Old pal, we was never down-'earted. + If they arsts us if we was down-'earted + We'll 'owl in their fyces: 'No-o-o!'" + + + + +A Song of Winter Weather + + + + It isn't the foe that we fear; + It isn't the bullets that whine; + It isn't the business career + Of a shell, or the bust of a mine; + It isn't the snipers who seek + To nip our young hopes in the bud: + No, it isn't the guns, + And it isn't the Huns-- + It's the MUD, + MUD, + MUD. + + It isn't the melee we mind. + That often is rather good fun. + It isn't the shrapnel we find + Obtrusive when rained by the ton; + It isn't the bounce of the bombs + That gives us a positive pain: + It's the strafing we get + When the weather is wet-- + It's the RAIN, + RAIN, + RAIN. + + It isn't because we lack grit + We shrink from the horrors of war. + We don't mind the battle a bit; + In fact that is what we are for; + It isn't the rum-jars and things + Make us wish we were back in the fold: + It's the fingers that freeze + In the boreal breeze-- + It's the COLD, + COLD, + COLD. + + Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold, + The cold, the mud, and the rain; + With weather at zero it's hard for a hero + From language that's rude to refrain. + With porridgy muck to the knees, + With sky that's a-pouring a flood, + Sure the worst of our foes + Are the pains and the woes + Of the RAIN, + the COLD, + and the MUD. + + + + +Tipperary Days + + + + Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them, + Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare; + Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them, + Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there. + Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them, + On the road, the white road, all the afternoon; + Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them, + Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune: + + _It's a long way to Tipperary, + It's a long way to go; + It's a long way to Tipperary, + And the sweetest girl I know. + Good-bye, Piccadilly, + Farewell, Lester Square: + It's a long, long way to Tipperary, + But my heart's right there._ + + "Come, Yvonne and Juliette! Come, Mimi, and cheer for them! + Throw them flowers and kisses as they pass you by. + Aren't they the lovely lads! Haven't you a tear for them + Going out so gallantly to dare and die? + What is it they're singing so? Some high hymn of Motherland? + Some immortal chanson of their Faith and King? + 'Marseillaise' or 'Brabanc,on', anthem of that other land, + Dears, let us remember it, that song they sing: + + _"C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', + C'est un chemin long, c'est vrai; + C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', + Et la belle fille qu'je connais. + Bonjour, Peekadeely! + Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire! + C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', + Mais mon coeur 'ees zaire'."_ + + The gallant old "Contemptibles"! There isn't much remains of them, + So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride; + For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them, + And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died. + And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them, + Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black; + But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them!-- + Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back: + + _It's a long way to Tipperary + (Which means "'ome" anywhere); + It's a long way to Tipperary + (And the things wot make you care). + Good-bye, Piccadilly + ('Ow I 'opes my folks is well); + It's a long, long way to Tipperary-- + ('R! Ain't War just 'ell?)_ + + + + +Fleurette + + (The Wounded Canadian Speaks) + + + + My leg? It's off at the knee. + Do I miss it? Well, some. You see + I've had it since I was born; + And lately a devilish corn. + (I rather chuckle with glee + To think how I've fooled that corn.) + + But I'll hobble around all right. + It isn't that, it's my face. + Oh I know I'm a hideous sight, + Hardly a thing in place; + Sort of gargoyle, you'd say. + Nurse won't give me a glass, + But I see the folks as they pass + Shudder and turn away; + Turn away in distress . . . + Mirror enough, I guess. + + I'm gay! You bet I _am_ gay; + But I wasn't a while ago. + If you'd seen me even to-day, + The darndest picture of woe, + With this Caliban mug of mine, + So ravaged and raw and red, + Turned to the wall--in fine, + Wishing that I was dead. . . . + What has happened since then, + Since I lay with my face to the wall, + The most despairing of men? + Listen! I'll tell you all. + + That 'poilu' across the way, + With the shrapnel wound in his head, + Has a sister: she came to-day + To sit awhile by his bed. + All morning I heard him fret: + "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?" + + Then sudden, a joyous cry; + The tripping of little feet; + The softest, tenderest sigh; + A voice so fresh and sweet; + Clear as a silver bell, + Fresh as the morning dews: + "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel! + Mon frêre, comme je suis heureuse!" + + So over the blanket's rim + I raised my terrible face, + And I saw--how I envied him! + A girl of such delicate grace; + Sixteen, all laughter and love; + As gay as a linnet, and yet + As tenderly sweet as a dove; + Half woman, half child--Fleurette. + + Then I turned to the wall again. + (I was awfully blue, you see), + And I thought with a bitter pain: + "Such visions are not for me." + So there like a log I lay, + All hidden, I thought, from view, + When sudden I heard her say: + "Ah! Who is that 'malheureux'?" + Then briefly I heard him tell + (However he came to know) + How I'd smothered a bomb that fell + Into the trench, and so + None of my men were hit, + Though it busted me up a bit. + + Well, I didn't quiver an eye, + And he chattered and there she sat; + And I fancied I heard her sigh-- + But I wouldn't just swear to that. + And maybe she wasn't so bright, + Though she talked in a merry strain, + And I closed my eyes ever so tight, + Yet I saw her ever so plain: + Her dear little tilted nose, + Her delicate, dimpled chin, + Her mouth like a budding rose, + And the glistening pearls within; + Her eyes like the violet: + Such a rare little queen--Fleurette. + + And at last when she rose to go, + The light was a little dim, + And I ventured to peep, and so + I saw her, graceful and slim, + And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh + How I envied and envied him! + + So when she was gone I said + In rather a dreary voice + To him of the opposite bed: + "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! + But me, I'm a thing of dread. + For me nevermore the bliss, + The thrill of a woman's kiss." + + Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, + And a great light shone in her eyes. + And me! I could only stare, + I was taken so by surprise, + When gently she bent her head: + "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said. + + Then she kissed my burning lips + With her mouth like a scented flower, + And I thrilled to the finger-tips, + And I hadn't even the power + To say: "God bless you, dear!" + And I felt such a precious tear + Fall on my withered cheek, + And darn it! I couldn't speak. + + And so she went sadly away, + And I knew that my eyes were wet. + Ah, not to my dying day + Will I forget, forget! + Can you wonder now I am gay? + God bless her, that little Fleurette! + + + + +Funk + + + + When your marrer bone seems 'oller, + And you're glad you ain't no taller, + And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills; + When your skin creeps like a pullet's, + And you're duckin' all the bullets, + And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills; + When your legs seem made of jelly, + And you're squeamish in the belly, + And you want to turn about and do a bunk: + For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it! + Don't let your mateys know it-- + You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk. + + Of course there's no denyin' + That it ain't so easy tryin' + To grin and grip your rifle by the butt, + When the 'ole world rips asunder, + And you sees yer pal go under, + As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut; + I admit it's 'ard contrivin' + When you 'ears the shells arrivin', + To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk; + But, my lad, you've got to do it, + And your God will see you through it, + For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk. + + So stand up, son; look gritty, + And just 'um a lively ditty, + And only be afraid to be afraid; + Just 'old yer rifle steady, + And 'ave yer bay'nit ready, + For that's the way good soldier-men is made. + And if you 'as to die, + As it sometimes 'appens, why, + Far better die a 'ero than a skunk; + A-doin' of yer bit, + And so--to 'ell with it, + There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk. + + + + +Our Hero + + + + "Flowers, only flowers--bring me dainty posies, + Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said; + So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses, + Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed. + Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing; + Soft into his tired eyes came a little light; + Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing; + There amid the flowers waited he the night. + + "I would have you raise me; I can see the West then: + I would see the sun set once before I go." + So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then, + Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow. + So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling, + Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame, + Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling; + So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came. + + "Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing; + There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky. + How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging: + Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die. + I am horror-haunted from the hell they found me; + I am battle-broken, all I want is rest. + Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me, + And a kind lark singing in the golden West. + + "Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting, + Just the happy laughter of a little child." + So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting; + Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled. + "In the golden peace-time you will tell the story + How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours. . . . + God bless little children!" So he passed to glory, + So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs. + + + + +My Mate + + + + I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots, + And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im. + (Look out there, lad! That sniper--'e's a dysey when 'e shoots; + 'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.) + Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead, + To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud; + And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red, + Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot--but it's blood. + + And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals. + 'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me; + And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals, + And even there we 'ad no disagree. + For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best, + I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid; + I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest, + I even stood god-farther to the kid. + + So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?" + "Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im. + 'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go, + ('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim). + Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell, + But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread. + We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle, + And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead. + + Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took? + I've only got meself, 'e stands for three. + I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook; + 'E always _was_ a better man than me. + 'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark, + And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid; + And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark, + When . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid. + + 'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die. + 'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud. + Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky, + And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud. + And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead, + And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand: + The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and _ZIP!_ like that--'e's dead, + Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and. + + There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun, + But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate. + You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done + Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate. + It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim; + Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid, + Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im, + To sorter be a farther to 'is kid. + + + + +Milking Time + + + + There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; + There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; + There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling, + And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain. + For you see I am not really there at all, not at all; + For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall; + And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming + That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol. + + Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here; + And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear; + The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses, + And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear. + And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb, + And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime, + And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing, + And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time. + + Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown; + And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down; + And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow, + And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown. + And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue; + And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too; + And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry + Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you. + + So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me; + And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree; + And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling, + And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be. + And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed? + And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist; + And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying + That Yvonne is long delaying . . . _GOD! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED!_ + + A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh; + That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die; + That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches + Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry. + Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime; + And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime; + And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather + We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . . + (English voice, months later):-- + "_OW BILL! A ROTTIN' FRENCHY. WHEW! 'E AIN'T 'ARF PRIME._" + + + + +Young Fellow My Lad + + + + "Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad, + On this glittering morn of May?" + "I'm going to join the Colours, Dad; + They're looking for men, they say." + "But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad; + You aren't obliged to go." + "I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad, + And ever so strong, you know." + + . . . . . + + "So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad, + And you're looking so fit and bright." + "I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad, + But I feel that I'm doing right." + "God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad, + You're all of my life, you know." + "Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad, + And I'm awfully proud to go." + + . . . . . + + "Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad? + I watch for the post each day; + And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad, + And it's months since you went away. + And I've had the fire in the parlour lit, + And I'm keeping it burning bright + Till my boy comes home; and here I sit + Into the quiet night." + + . . . . . + + "What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad? + No letter again to-day. + Why did the postman look so sad, + And sigh as he turned away? + I hear them tell that we've gained new ground, + But a terrible price we've paid: + God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound; + But oh I'm afraid, afraid." + + . . . . . + + "They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad: + You'll never come back again: + _(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD, + AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)_ + For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad, + And you proved in the cruel test + Of the screaming shell and the battle hell + That my boy was one of the best. + + "So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad, + In the gleam of the evening star, + In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child, + In all sweet things that are. + And you'll never die, my wonderful boy, + While life is noble and true; + For all our beauty and hope and joy + We will owe to our lads like you." + + + + +A Song of the Sandbags + + + + No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh + (The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss). + And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche, + I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us. + I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me; + And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight; + And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree, + We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right. + + A-standin' up to the sandbags + It's funny the thoughts wot come; + Starin' into the darkness, + 'Earin' the bullets 'um; + _(ZING! ZIP! PING! RIP! + 'ARK 'OW THE BULLETS 'UM!)_ + A-leanin' against the sandbags + Wiv me rifle under me ear, + Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go + Than I used to 'ave in a year. + + I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me + Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for? + 'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree, + If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war. + If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud; + If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell; + If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood: + By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell. + + Shiverin' up to the sandbags, + With a hicicle 'stead of a spine, + Don't it seem funny the things you think + 'Ere in the firin' line: + _(WHEE! WHUT! ZIZ! ZUT! + LORD! 'OW THE BULLETS WHINE!)_ + Hunkerin' down when a star-shell + Cracks in a sputter of light, + You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags + Most any old time o' night. + + They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade, + Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed; + But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made, + Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be damned! + There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight: + That's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name; + And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night. . . . + But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same. + + Starin' over the sandbags, + Sick of the 'ole damn thing; + Firin' to keep meself awake, + 'Earin' the bullets sing. + _(HISS! TWANG! TSING! PANG! + SAUCY THE BULLETS SING.)_ + Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags + Of a day when war will cease, + When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me + Will clink our mugs in fraternity, + And the Brotherhood of Labour will be + The Brotherhood of Peace. + + + + +On the Wire + + + + O God, take the sun from the sky! + It's burning me, scorching me up. + God, can't You hear my cry? + 'Water! A poor, little cup!' + It's laughing, the cursed sun! + See how it swells and swells + Fierce as a hundred hells! + God, will it never have done? + It's searing the flesh on my bones; + It's beating with hammers red + My eyeballs into my head; + It's parching my very moans. + See! It's the size of the sky, + And the sky is a torrent of fire, + Foaming on me as I lie + Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Of the thousands that wheeze and hum + Heedlessly over my head, + Why can't a bullet come, + Pierce to my brain instead, + Blacken forever my brain, + Finish forever my pain? + Here in the hellish glare + Why must I suffer so? + Is it God doesn't care? + Is it God doesn't know? + Oh, to be killed outright, + Clean in the clash of the fight! + That is a golden death, + That is a boon; but this . . . + Drawing an anguished breath + Under a hot abyss, + Under a stooping sky + Of seething, sulphurous fire, + Scorching me up as I lie + Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Hasten, O God, Thy night! + Hide from my eyes the sight + Of the body I stare and see + Shattered so hideously. + I can't believe that it's mine. + My body was white and sweet, + Flawless and fair and fine, + Shapely from head to feet; + Oh no, I can never be + The thing of horror I see + Under the rifle fire, + Trussed on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Of night and of death I dream; + Night that will bring me peace, + Coolness and starry gleam, + Stillness and death's release: + Ages and ages have passed,-- + Lo! it is night at last. + Night! but the guns roar out. + Night! but the hosts attack. + Red and yellow and black + Geysers of doom upspout. + Silver and green and red + Star-shells hover and spread. + Yonder off to the right + Fiercely kindles the fight; + Roaring near and more near, + Thundering now in my ear; + Close to me, close . . . Oh, hark! + Someone moans in the dark. + I hear, but I cannot see, + I hear as the rest retire, + Someone is caught like me, + Caught on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Again the shuddering dawn, + Weird and wicked and wan; + Again, and I've not yet gone. + The man whom I heard is dead. + Now I can understand: + A bullet hole in his head, + A pistol gripped in his hand. + Well, he knew what to do,-- + Yes, and now I know too. . . . + + Hark the resentful guns! + Oh, how thankful am I + To think my beloved ones + Will never know how I die! + I've suffered more than my share; + I'm shattered beyond repair; + I've fought like a man the fight, + And now I demand the right + (God! how his fingers cling!) + To do without shame this thing. + Good! there's a bullet still; + Now I'm ready to fire; + Blame me, God, if You will, + Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + + + +Bill's Grave + + + + I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill; + I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim wouldn't understand; + 'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill, + To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and. + + For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o' the best; + We 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes; + Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure West, + So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums. + + And they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound, + And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer, + If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round + Like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that's the reason I'm 'ere. + + But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave Jim to know. + 'E'd call me a slobberin' Cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore; + I'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago; + But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war. + + It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth + (Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit); + I'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . Now Jim's o' the salt o' the earth; + But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit. + + I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn. + Won't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three. + Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty? _JIM!_ And as sure as I'm born + 'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me. + + Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me. I watches 'im for a while, + Then I says: "Wot 'o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?" + And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile: + "She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay." + + So 'e goes away in a 'urry, and I wishes 'im best o' luck, + And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim, + When I makes me way to the boneyard, + and . . . I stares like a man wot's stuck, + For wot do I see? _BILL'S GRAVE-MOUND STREWN WITH THE FLOWERS OF JIM._ + + Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad; + And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?" + Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew; but say! won't Bill be glad + When 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and sees + the blossoms of Jim and me? + + + + +Jean Desprez + + + + Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance, + Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France; + A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came, + Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame; + Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may: + Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez. + + With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land, + And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand; + Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss; + The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss. + And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay, + Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez. + + "Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said. + "Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead. + Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day, + For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay." + They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men, + And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten; + Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why, + Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry; + Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood. + A moment only. . . . _READY! FIRE!_ They weltered in their blood. + + But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries, + Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes; + A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh, + He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die." + He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . . + A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell. + + They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame. + With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came. + A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye; + He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie. + "Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried; + "Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified." + + With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there, + And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare; + "Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him, + And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim; + And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet, + The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette. + + But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by, + Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry: + "Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died. . . ." + It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside; + It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim + And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him. + + A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away. + The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay. + His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite: + "Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might. + Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare; + Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there, + And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand + The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand. + And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name, + Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame." + + They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand; + They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. + "Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die." + The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. + And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head: + "Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said. + "Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I; + And I will murmur: _VIVE LA FRANCE!_ and bless you ere I die." + + Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway; + Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez. + He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear; + And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear! + He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow; + O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now! + The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss! + The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this: + This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around; + The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground; + The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame; + That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game. + "Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give; + A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live." + + They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face; + They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; + The glory of a million men who for fair France have died, + The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. + Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . . + "Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat. + "Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said. + Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . _THE PRUSSIAN MAJOR DEAD!_ + + + + +Going Home + + + + I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty--ain't I glad to 'ave the chance! + I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France; + I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance, + For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'. + + I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay? + I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay; + A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way, + For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'. + + 'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front! + I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt; + But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt, + To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'. + + I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red; + I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead; + But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said, + A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin'. + + I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un; + I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun; + But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done, + And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'. + + Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine; + And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine; + But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine: + Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'. + + + + +Cocotte + + + + When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty, + And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home, + Heigh-ho! She's as safe in Paris city + As a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam; + And that was I; oh, it's seven years now + (Some water's run down the Seine since then), + And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now, + And I've almost taken the measure of men. + + Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only, + Artist and poet, and almost a boy. + And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely, + And him I adored with a wonderful joy. + If he'd come to me with his pockets empty, + How we'd have laughed in a garret gay! + But he was rich, and in radiant plenty + We lived in a villa at Viroflay. + + Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me; + Then came the call, and he went away; + All that he had in the world he left me, + With the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay. + Then came the news and the tragic story: + My hero, my splendid lover was dead, + Sword in hand on the field of glory, + And he died with my name on his lips, they said. + + So here am I in my widow's mourning, + The weeds I've really no right to wear; + And women fix me with eyes of scorning, + Call me "cocotte", but I do not care. + And men look at me with eyes that borrow + The brightness of love, but I turn away; + Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow, + In my little villa at Viroflay. + + And lo! I'm living alone with 'Pity', + And they say that pity from love's not far; + Let me tell you all: last week in the city + I took the metro at Saint Lazare; + And the carriage was crowded to overflowing, + And when there entered at Chateaudun + Two wounded 'poilus' with medals showing, + I eagerly gave my seat to one. + + You should have seen them: they'd slipped death's clutches, + But sadder a sight you will rarely find; + One had a leg off and walked on crutches, + The other, a bit of a boy, was blind. + And they both sat down, and the lad was trying + To grope his way as a blind man tries; + And half of the women around were crying, + And some of the men had tears in their eyes. + + How he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging + Just like a child to his crippled chum. + But I did not cry. Oh no; a singing + Came to my heart for a year so dumb, + Then I knew that at three-and-twenty + There is wonderful work to be done, + Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty, + Peace and light and love to be won. + + Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be given + To one who will live in the dark alway! + To love and to serve--'twould make life Heaven + Here in my villa at Viroflay. + So I left my 'poilus': and now you wonder + Why to-day I am so elate. . . . + Look! In the glory of sunshine yonder + They're bringing my blind boy in at the gate. + + + + +My Bay'nit + + + + When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nit + And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore; + But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it, + So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war. + For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours truly + Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime, + 'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly + Part of me outfit every time. + + Left, right, Hans and Fritz! + Goose step, keep up yer mits! + Oh my, Ain't it a shyme! + Part of me outfit every time. + + At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy; + I've used it to open a bully beef can; + For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy; + For any old thing but for stickin' a man. + 'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you + Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime," + And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you! + Part of me outfit every time. + + Lor, yus; _DON'T_ they look glad? + Right O! 'Owl Kamerad! + Oh my, always the syme! + Part of me outfit every time. + + I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit, + Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France; + I'm fairly down-'earted--'ow _CAN_ yer explain it? + I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance. + As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders, + Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb; + And I uses me bay'nit--to slit their suspenders-- + Part of me outfit every time. + + Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag! + 'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag! + Oh my, ain't it a gyme! + Part of me outfit every time. + + + + +Carry On! + + + + It's easy to fight when everything's right, + And you're mad with the thrill and the glory; + It's easy to cheer when victory's near, + And wallow in fields that are gory. + It's a different song when everything's wrong, + When you're feeling infernally mortal; + When it's ten against one, and hope there is none, + Buck up, little soldier, and chortle: + + Carry on! Carry on! + There isn't much punch in your blow. + You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind; + You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind. + Carry on! Carry on! + You haven't the ghost of a show. + It's looking like death, but while you've a breath, + Carry on, my son! Carry on! + + And so in the strife of the battle of life + It's easy to fight when you're winning; + It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave, + When the dawn of success is beginning. + But the man who can meet despair and defeat + With a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing; + The man who can fight to Heaven's own height + Is the man who can fight when he's losing. + + Carry on! Carry on! + Things never were looming so black. + But show that you haven't a cowardly streak, + And though you're unlucky you never are weak. + Carry on! Carry on! + Brace up for another attack. + It's looking like hell, but--you never can tell: + Carry on, old man! Carry on! + + There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt, + And some who in brutishness wallow; + There are others, I know, who in piety go + Because of a Heaven to follow. + But to labour with zest, and to give of your best, + For the sweetness and joy of the giving; + To help folks along with a hand and a song; + Why, there's the real sunshine of living. + + Carry on! Carry on! + Fight the good fight and true; + Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer; + There's big work to do, and that's why you are here. + Carry on! Carry on! + Let the world be the better for you; + And at last when you die, let this be your cry: + _CARRY ON, MY SOUL! CARRY ON!_ + + + + +Over the Parapet + + + + All day long when the shells sail over + I stand at the sandbags and take my chance; + But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover, + And over the parapet gleams Romance. + Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed it, writing + Dreary old records of money and mart, + Me with my head chuckful of fighting + And the blood of vikings to thrill my heart. + + But little I thought that my time was coming, + Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon; + And here I am with the bullets humming + As I crawl and I curse the light of the moon. + Out alone, for adventure thirsting, + Out in mysterious No Man's Land; + Prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting, + Flares on the horrors on every hand. + There are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle; + And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red; + There are emerald stars, and their tails they wriggle, + And ghastly they glare on the face of the dead. + But the worst of all are the stars of whiteness, + That spill in a pool of pearly flame, + Pretty as gems in their silver brightness, + And etching a man for a bullet's aim. + + Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger, + Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark, + In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger, + When the moon is decently hiding. Hark! + What was that? Was it just the shiver + Of an eerie wind or a clammy hand? + The rustle of grass, or the passing quiver + Of one of the ghosts of No Man's Land? + + It's only at night when the ghosts awaken, + And gibber and whisper horrible things; + For to every foot of this God-forsaken + Zone of jeopard some horror clings. + Ugh! What was that? It felt like a jelly, + That flattish mound in the noisome grass; + You three big rats running free of its belly, + Out of my way and let me pass! + + But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder; + The trench lights gleam and the rockets play. + That flood of magnificent orange yonder + Is a battery blazing miles away. + With a rush and a singing a great shell passes; + The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl, + And here I crouch in the dew-drenched grasses, + And look and listen and love it all. + + God! What a life! But I must make haste now, + Before the shadow of night be spent. + It's little the time there is to waste now, + If I'd do the job for which I was sent. + My bombs are right and my clippers ready, + And I wriggle out to the chosen place, + When I hear a rustle . . . Steady! . . . Steady! + Who am I staring slap in the face? + + There in the dark I can hear him breathing, + A foot away, and as still as death; + And my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething, + And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his breath. + Then: "Will you surrender?" I whisper hoarsely, + For it's death, swift death to utter a cry. + "English schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely. + "Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I. + + So we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestle + There in the gutter of No Man's Land; + And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle, + And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand. + And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him tighter: + "Now," I say, "I can kill you fine; + But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter! + Have you any children?" He answers: "Nein." + + _NINE!_ Well, I cannot kill such a father, + So I tie his hands and I leave him there. + Do I finish my little job? Well, rather; + And I get home safe with some light to spare. + Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty, + Doing the same old song and dance; + But oh! with the night--joy, glory, beauty: + Over the parapet--Life, Romance! + + + + +The Ballad of Soulful Sam + + + + You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line, + Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine; + Out there where the bombs are bustin', + and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam-- + Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell you of Soulful Sam. + + Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 'ad some mates as was wus; + He 'adn't C. B. on his programme, he never was known to cuss. + For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word; + But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn't he just a bird! + + He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present, + And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant, + I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I've been impressed + By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest. + + For I--and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word conveys! + 'Ave been--let me whisper it 'oarsely--a gambler 'alf of me days; + A gambler, you 'ear--a gambler. It makes me wishful to weep, + And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren!--I'd rather gamble than sleep. + + I've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine; + From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain. + Cards! They 'ave been me ruin. They've taken me pride and me pelf, + And when I'd no one to play with--why, I'd go and I'd play by meself. + + And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy deck, + And 'e'd say: "You're bound to Perdition," + And I'd answer: "Git off me neck!" + And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan, + Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man. + + But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness! The battle-front! + The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt! + Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm, + When I 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is Soulful Sam. + + Yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame, + 'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the same. + And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons attacked, + He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a tract. + + Then a star-shell flared, and I read it: Oh, Flee From the Wrath to Come! + Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you're 'earin' the bullets 'um. + And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits of lead + Comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner. . . . Dead? + + No, siree! not by a long sight! For it plugged 'im 'ard on the chest, + Just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is vest. + On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it caved + A 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys--but the life o' me pal was saved. + + And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was chokin' me breath, + On came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death; + On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest, + And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, + and it wolloped me bang on the breast. + + Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys. Why am I sittin' 'ere + Gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer? + With a throat as dry as a--oh, thanky! I don't much mind if I do. + Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my particular brew. + + Yes, that was a terrible moment. It 'ammered me 'ard o'er the 'eart; + It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the gore to start; + And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife, + Me wretched past like a pitchur--the sins of a gambler's life. + + For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom; + I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb; + I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim; + I'd only--a deck of cards, boys, but . . . _IT SEEMED TO DO JUST THE SAME._ + + + + +Only a Boche + + + + We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie; + For what's the use of risking one's skin for a _TYKE_ that's going to die? + What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire, + When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, + and all messed up on the wire? + + However, I say, we brought him in. _DIABLE!_ The mud was bad; + The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had! + And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan; + And how we were wet with blood and with sweat! + but we carried him in like our own. + + Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance, + And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, + and remarks, "He hasn't a chance." + And we squat and smoke at our game of bridge + on the glistening, straw-packed floor, + And above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore. + + For the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim, + And the mean light falls on the cold clay walls + and our faces bristly and grim; + And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play, + And you'd never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away. + As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath, + You'd never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death. + + Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; I rise and I stretch a bit; + The fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette's unlit, + So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there, + And his face is white in the shabby light, and I stand at his feet and stare. + Stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be, + The dying Boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me. + + It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that. + It's just as if I were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat, + Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue, + With one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through; + Lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down, + And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown. + + And confound him, too! He wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring, + And around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string, + A locket hangs with a woman's face, and I turn it about to see: + Just as I thought . . . on the other side the faces of children three; + Clustered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls, + With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls. + "Zut!" I say. "He has beaten me; for me, I have only two," + And I push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue. + + Oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of God, + Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod; + Oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn't that I mind, + It isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's the anguish he leaves behind. + For his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain, + And the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again. + + So here I am at my cards once more, but it's kind of spoiling my play, + Thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away. + War is war, and he's only a Boche, and we all of us take our chance; + But all the same I'll be mighty glad when I'm hearing the ambulance. + One foe the less, but all the same I'm heartily glad I'm not + The man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot. + + No trumps you make it, I think you said? You'll pardon me if I err; + For a moment I thought of other things . . . + _MON DIEU! QUELLE VACHE DE GUERRE._ + + + + +Pilgrims + + + + For oh, when the war will be over + We'll go and we'll look for our dead; + We'll go when the bee's on the clover, + And the plume of the poppy is red: + We'll go when the year's at its gayest, + When meadows are laughing with flow'rs; + And there where the crosses are greyest, + We'll seek for the cross that is ours. + + For they cry to us: 'Friends, we are lonely, + A-weary the night and the day; + But come in the blossom-time only, + Come when our graves will be gay: + When daffodils all are a-blowing, + And larks are a-thrilling the skies, + Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing, + And the joy of the Spring in your eyes. + + 'But never, oh, never come sighing, + For ours was the Splendid Release; + And oh, but 'twas joy in the dying + To know we were winning you Peace! + So come when the valleys are sheening, + And fledged with the promise of grain; + And here where our graves will be greening, + Just smile and be happy again.' + + And so, when the war will be over, + We'll seek for the Wonderful One; + And maiden will look for her lover, + And mother will look for her son; + And there will be end to our grieving, + And gladness will gleam over loss, + As--glory beyond all believing! + We point . . . to a name on a cross. + + + + +My Prisoner + + + + We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; + Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we; + Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was, + Fightin' fierce as fire because + It was 'im or me as must be downed; + 'E was twice as big as me; + I was 'arf the weight of 'e; + We was like a terryer and a 'ound. + + 'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke. + Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke. + Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf! + Why, it fairly made me laugh, + 'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound. + Couldn't fight for monkey nuts. + Soon I gets 'im in the guts, + There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground. + + In I goes to finish up the job. + Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob; + Speakin' English good as me: + "'Tain't no use to kill," says 'e; + "Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?" + "Why, I'd like to, sir," says I; + "But--yer knows the reason why: + If we pokes our noses out we're dead. + + "Sorry, sir. Then on the other 'and + (As a gent like you must understand), + If I 'olds you longer 'ere, + Wiv yer pals so werry near, + It's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin; + If I lets yer go away, + Why, you'll fight another day: + See the sitooation I am in. + + "Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do, + Bein' kind and seein' as it's you, + Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel + Of a 'alf a yard o' steel, + I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead; + Now, jist think yerself in luck. . . . + 'Ere, ol' man! You keep 'em stuck, + Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead." + + 'Ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile! + 'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while! + Then 'e says: "It seems a shyme, + Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme: + Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer gods. + Whereas, pardon me, I'm sure + You, my friend, are still obscure. . . ." + "In war," says I, "that makes no blurry odds." + + Then says 'e: "I've painted picters too. . . . + Oh, dear God! The work I planned to do, + And to think this is the end!" + "'Ere," says I, "my hartist friend, + Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs. + Picters, statoos, is that why + You should be let off to die? + That the best ye done? Just say yer prayers." + + Once again 'e seems ter think awhile. + Then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile: + "Why, no, sir, it's not the best; + There's a locket next me breast, + Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue. + That's the best I've done," says 'e. + "That's me darter, aged three. . . ." + "Blimy!" says I, "I've a nipper, too." + + Straight I chucks my rifle to one side; + Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride + Me own little Mary Jane. + Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine, + And we talks as friendly as can be; + Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way, + 'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day, + Wonders--_'OW WOULD 'E 'AVE TREATED ME?_ + + + + +Tri-colour + + + + _POPPIES,_ you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; + Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood. + It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat; + It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood; + It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries + With scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade. + See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies, + And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . Oh God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid! + + _CORNFLOWERS,_ you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain; + Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes? + Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain, + All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies. + Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat. + See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white! + Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . . + Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, Thy night! + + _LILIES_ (the light is waning), only lilies you say, + Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves. + No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day: + It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves. + Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown. + Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss. . . . + Darkness . . . but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . . + God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win--_MY CROSS._ + + + + +A Pot of Tea + + + + You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam; + You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear; + You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam; + The very breath of it is ripe with cheer. + You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot; + You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot; + It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot: + God bless the man that first discovered Tea! + + Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day, + I think I've drunk enough to float a barge; + All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay, + To rum they serves you out before a charge. + In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham; + I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam; + But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam: + God bless the man that first invented Tea! + + I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel + Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong; + I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell + Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong. + Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too; + And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do, + To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew + (For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea). + To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew, + As we drink the giddy victory in Tea. + + + + +The Revelation + + + + _The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut; + Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut; + Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train: + Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?_ + + We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen; + They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men. + We're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew; + But when we go back to our Sissy jobs,--oh, what are we going to do? + + For shoulders curved with the counter stoop will be carried erect and square; + And faces white from the office light will be bronzed by the open air; + And we'll walk with the stride of a new-born pride, + with a new-found joy in our eyes, + Scornful men who have diced with death under the naked skies. + + And when we get back to the dreary grind, and the bald-headed boss's call, + Don't you think that the dingy window-blind, and the dingier office wall, + Will suddenly melt to a vision of space, of violent, flame-scarred night? + Then . . . oh, the joy of the danger-thrill, and oh, the roar of the fight! + + Don't you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away, + And again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire's misty grey? + As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't you fancy we'll hear instead + The night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that's overhead? + + Don't you guess that the things we're seeing now + will haunt us through all the years; + Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears; + Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey + To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day? + + Oh, we're booked for the Great Adventure now, + we're pledged to the Real Romance; + We'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old France; + We'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the best that we have we'll give; + We'll hunger and thirst; we'll die . . . but first-- + we'll live; by the gods, we'll live! + + We'll breathe free air and we'll bivouac under the starry sky; + We'll march with men and we'll fight with men, + and we'll see men laugh and die; + We'll know such joy as we never dreamed; we'll fathom the deeps of pain: + But the hardest bit of it all will be--when we come back home again. + + _For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, + and some of us teach in a school; + Some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool; + The merits of somebody's soap or jam some of us seek to explain, + But all of us wonder what we'll do when we have to go back again._ + + + + +Grand-père + + + + And so when he reached my bed + The General made a stand: + "My brave young fellow," he said, + "I would shake your hand." + + So I lifted my arm, the right, + With never a hand at all; + Only a stump, a sight + Fit to appal. + + "Well, well. Now that's too bad! + That's sorrowful luck," he said; + "But there! You give me, my lad, + The left instead." + + So from under the blanket's rim + I raised and showed him the other, + A snag as ugly and grim + As its ugly brother. + + He looked at each jagged wrist; + He looked, but he did not speak; + And then he bent down and kissed + Me on either cheek. + + You wonder now I don't mind + I hadn't a hand to offer. . . . + They tell me (you know I'm blind) + _'TWAS GRAND-PEÈRE JOFFRE._ + + + + +Son + + + + He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky! + And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I. + For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live; + And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to give. + + Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim! + With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him. + For look! How the leaves are falling now, + and the winter won't be long. . . . + Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song! + + How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam, + And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend, + on the beautiful river of Dream. + Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay + Could I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey. + + For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me; + And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee; + A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!" + Ah me! If he called from the ends of the earth + I know that my heart would hear. + + . . . . . + + Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain: + how worthier could he die? + Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I. + For Peace must be bought with blood and tears, + and the boys of our hearts must pay; + And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day. + + And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head, + And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead. + And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still, + So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be Thy Will!" + + + + +The Black Dudeen + + + + _Humping it here in the dug-out, + Sucking me black dudeen, + I'd like to say in a general way, + There's nothing like Nickyteen; + There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys, + Be it pipes or snipes or cigars; + So be sure that a bloke + Has plenty to smoke, + If you wants him to fight your wars._ + + When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug, + I begin to think of my baccy plug. + I whittle a fill in my horny palm, + And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram. + I trim the edges, I tamp it down, + I nurse a light with an anxious frown; + I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in, + And all my face is a blissful grin; + And up in a cloud the good smoke goes, + And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows; + In its throat it chuckles a cheery song, + For I likes it hot and I likes it strong. + Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow, + But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow. + + There was Micky and me on a night patrol, + Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole; + And sure I thought I was worse than dead + Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head. + Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot, + Hammer and tongs till the air was hot. + And mind you, water up to your knees. + And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze. + And if we ventured our noses out + A "typewriter" clattered its pills about. + The field of glory! Well, I don't think! + I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink. + + Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad, + He always was having ill-luck, poor lad. + Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through; + Death and me 'as a wrongday voo. + But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag?-- + I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag." + And there he shivered and cussed his luck, + So I gave him me old black pipe to suck. + And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it + Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit; + Like an infant takes to his mother's breast, + Poor little Micky! he went to rest. + + But the dawn was near, though the night was black, + So I left him there and I started back. + And I laughed as the silly old bullets came, + For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name. + Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near, + And one little blighter just chipped me ear. + But there! I got to the trench all right, + When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright, + And a word that doesn't look well in type: + _I'D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE._ + + So I had to do it all over again, + Crawling out on that filthy plain. + Through shells and bombs and bullets and all-- + Only this time--I do not crawl. + I run like a man wot's missing a train, + Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain. + I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun + Tickle my heels, but I run, I run. + + Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame, + (Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!) + I run like a man that's no ideer + Of hunting around for a sooveneer. + I run bang into a German chap, + And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map. + And just to show him that I'm his boss, + I gives him a kick on the parados. + And I marches him back with me all serene, + With, _TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN._ + + _Sitting here in the trenches + Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen, + For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, + But it smashes me old dudeen. + God blast that red-headed sniper! + I'll give him somethin' to snipe; + Before the war's through + Just see how I do + That blighter that smashed me pipe._ + + + + +The Little Piou-piou + + * The French "Tommy". + + + + Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, + And some of us slinked in the slum; + But now we are here with a song and a cheer + To serve at the sign of the drum. + They put us in trousers of scarlet, + In big sloppy ulsters of blue; + In boots that are flat, a box of a hat, + And they call us the little piou-piou, + Piou-piou, + The laughing and quaffing piou-piou, + The swinging and singing piou-piou; + And so with a rattle we march to the battle, + The weary but cheery piou-piou. + + _Encore un petit verre de vin, + Pour nous mettre en route; + Encore un petit verre de vin + Pour nous mettre en train._ + + They drive us head-on for the slaughter; + We haven't got much of a chance; + The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad + To battle and die for La France. + For some must be killed, that is certain; + There's only one's duty to do; + So we leap to the fray in the glorious way + They expect of the little piou-piou. + En avant! + The way of the gallant piou-piou, + The dashing and smashing piou-piou; + The way grim and gory that leads us to glory + Is the way of the little piou-piou. + + _Allons, enfants de la Patrie, + Le jour de gloire est arrivé._ + + To-day you would scarce recognise us, + Such veterans war-wise are we; + So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, + So "crummy", yet gay as can be. + We've finished with trousers of scarlet, + They're giving us breeches of blue, + With a helmet instead of a cap on our head, + Yet still we're the little piou-piou. + Nous les aurons! + The jesting, unresting piou-piou; + The cheering, unfearing piou-piou; + The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil; + The dying, defying piou-piou. + + _À la bayonette! Jusqu'à la mort! + Sonnez la charge, clairons!_ + + + + +Bill the Bomber + + + + The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist; + The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist; + And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame; + 'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came. + 'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink, + For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think. + So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream + Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream; + But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke: + "Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke. + + We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead; + But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead, + Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound, + And it's odd--we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground. + And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew, + How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through; + So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin, + And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in. + And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run, + A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one." + + Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm, + For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am. + I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because + I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was. + We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer; + Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near; + And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew, + And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two." + + I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see, + And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me. + And I'd lost me 'at and rifle--but I told you that before, + So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more. + But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet, + And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set, + And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, + And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead; + When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee, + And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three." + + So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that, + And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at; + And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said: + "If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead." + And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs--that was the 'ardest blow, + To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe. + And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad, + And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad. + And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again, + Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain. + + Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, + And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got, + I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out + Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out; + And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at; + And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat; + And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, + Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad. + For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere + This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear. + + Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain, + So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; + And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, + And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . . + And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; + And now they're all excited like, but--I am drawin' near; + And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . . + Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game. + And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', + And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame. + + Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, + And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole. + And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell, + And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell. + And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive; + We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five. + And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay, + For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away". + + + + +The Whistle of Sandy McGraw + + + + You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, + Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', + But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine + The wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. + Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?" + And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad; + Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun', + And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad. + Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert, + And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame; + And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert + O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. + For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt + You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw, + And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt, + For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw. + + . . . . . + + At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank + We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale, + Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank + And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail: + Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke; + Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout, + When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke + The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out. + 'The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the fray + We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw, + And oh we fair revelled in glory that day, + Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw. + + . . . . . + + At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht, + On the field o' the slain I wis crawlin' aboot; + And the rockets were burnin' red holes in the nicht; + And the guns they were veciously thunderin' oot; + When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh, + And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw: + "Whit ails ye, ma lad? Are ye woundit?" says I. + "I've lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy McGraw. + "'Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack, + It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawn + There isna much time so I'm jist crawlin' back. . . ." + "Ye're daft, man!" I telt him, but Sandy wis gone. + + Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot masel, + And the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' around, + And I seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell, + And Creation wis crackin' tae bits by the sound. + And I says in ma mind: "Gang ye back, ye auld fule!" + When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma'; + And there in a crater, collected and cool, + Wi' his wee penny whistle wis Sandy McGraw. + Ay, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be, + And listenin' hard wis a spectacled Boche; + Then Sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae me, + And he says: "Dinna blab on me, Sergeant McTosh. + The auld chap is deein'. He likes me tae play. + It's makin' him happy. Jist see his een shine!" + And thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the fray + Wee Sandy wis playin' 'The Watch on the Rhine'. + + . . . . . + + The last scene o' a'--'twas the day that we took + That bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell. + It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook, + And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell. + And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand, + And hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs, + When upward we shot at the word o' command, + And the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor lugs. + And onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer, + And a' wis destruction, confusion and din, + And we knew that the trench o' the Boches wis near, + And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in. + So we a' tumbled doon, and the Boches were there, + And they held up their hands, and they yelled: "Kamarad!" + And I merched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms in the air, + And my! I wis prood-like, and my! I wis glad. + And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . . + When sudden I sobered at somethin' I saw, + And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma men, + For there on a stretcher wis Sandy McGraw. + + Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please: + "Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he; + "But noo I can play in the street for bawbees, + Wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee." + And though I could see he wis rackit wi' pain, + He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play; + And quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain: + 'The floors o' the forest are a' wede away'. + Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grand + Hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid: + "I'll--no--play--nae--mair----" feebly doon frae his hand + Slipped the wee penny whistle and--_SANDY WIS DEID._ + + . . . . . + + And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads, + Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw; + But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads, + Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. + + + + +The Stretcher-Bearer + + + + My stretcher is one scarlet stain, + And as I tries to scrape it clean, + I tell you wot--I'm sick with pain + For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; + Around me is the 'ellish night, + And as the war's red rim I trace, + I wonder if in 'Eaven's height, + Our God don't turn away 'Is Face. + + I don't care 'oose the Crime may be; + I 'olds no brief for kin or clan; + I 'ymns no 'ate: I only see + As man destroys his brother man; + I waves no flag: I only know, + As 'ere beside the dead I wait, + A million 'earts is weighed with woe, + A million 'omes is desolate. + + In drippin' darkness, far and near, + All night I've sought them woeful ones. + Dawn shudders up and still I 'ear + The crimson chorus of the guns. + Look! like a ball of blood the sun + 'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . . + "Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!" + _O PRINCE OF PEACE! 'OW LONG, 'OW LONG?_ + + + + +Wounded + + + + Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, + With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, + I did my decent job and earned my pay; + Was averagely happy, I'll be bound. + Ay, in my little groove I was content, + Seeing my life run smoothly to the end, + With prosy days in stolid labour spent, + And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend. + In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam, + A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs; + When presto! like a bubble goes my dream: + I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds. + I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore: + I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store. + + Stranger than any book I've ever read. + Here on the reeking battlefield I lie, + Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead, + Like too, if no one takes me in, to die. + Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall; + Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit; + But calm, and feeling never pain at all, + And full of wonder at the turn of it. + For of the dead around me three are mine, + Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight; + So if I die I have no right to whine, + I feel I've done my little bit all right. + I don't know how--but there the beggars are, + As dead as herrings pickled in a jar. + + And here am I, worse wounded than I thought; + For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings; + You never heed; the air is metal-hot, + And all alive with little flicking wings. + _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ You see the fellows fall; + Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad; + You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all; + You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad. + _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ The heavens vomit death; + And vicious death is besoming the ground. + You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath, + And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound. + _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ Oh, War's a rousing game! + Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower; + The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame, + And on your helmet stones and ashes shower. + _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ It's odd! You have no fear. + Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path; + Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear; + The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath. + _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ Barbed wire all trampled down. + The ground all gored and rent as by a blast; + Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown; + A ragged ditch--the Hun first line at last. + All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead, + _SO ON YOU CHARGE._ There's nothing else to do. + More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead; + (Your puttee strap's undone--that worries you). + You glare around. You think you're all alone. + But no; your chums come surging left and right. + The nearest chap flops down without a groan, + His face still snarling with the rage of fight. + Ha! here's the second trench--just like the first, + Only a little more so, more "laid out"; + More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst; + A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt. + Now for the third, and there your job is done, + _SO ON YOU CHARGE._ You never stop to think. + Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run; + You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink. + The acrid air is full of cracking whips. + You wonder how it is you're going still. + You foam with rage. Oh, God! to be at grips + With someone you can rush and crush and kill. + Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; + You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now. + See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, + And there's the trench--you'll get there anyhow. + Your puttee catches on a strand of wire, + And down you go; perhaps it saves your life, + For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, + Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife. + You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge + With all your comrades roaring at your heels. + _HAVE AT 'EM, LADS!_ You stab, you jab, you lunge; + A blaze of glory, then the red world reels. + A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . . + That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it. . . . + + Well, that's the charge. And now I'm here alone. + I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun, + To shield me from the leaden bees that drone + (It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none). + The only thing I'm wondering is when + Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way? + It isn't much that's left of me, but then + Where life is, hope is, so at least they say. + Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad. + I tell you I won't envy any king. + I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad; + I've had my crowning hour. Oh, War's the thing! + It gives us common, working chaps our chance, + A taste of glory, chivalry, romance. + + Ay, War, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too. + It lets a man discover what he's worth. + It takes his measure, shows what he can do, + Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth. + It fans in him a flame that otherwise + Would flicker out, these drab, discordant days; + It teaches him in pain and sacrifice + Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise. + Yes, War is good. So here beside my slain, + A happy wreck I wait amid the din; + For even if I perish mine's the gain. . . . + Hi, there, you fellows! WON'T you take me in? + Give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . . + We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say! + Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin. . . . + Lead on! I'll live to fight another day. + + + + +Faith + + + + Since all that is was ever bound to be; + Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind; + And both the riddle and the answer find, + And both the carnage and the calm decree; + Since plain within the Book of Destiny + Is written all the journey of mankind + Inexorably to the end; since blind + And mortal puppets playing parts are we: + + Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill; + The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife; + Then let's bow down before the Unknown Will; + Fight on, believing all is well with life; + Seeing within the worst of War's red rage + The gleam, the glory of the Golden Age. + + + + +The Coward + + + + 'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day? + 'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say; + Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away, + If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr. + 'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons; + 'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns, + And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'Uns + Afore 'e went off to the war. + + Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is by-by clothes; + Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes; + 'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little nose + Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore. + And now all the papers 'is praises ring, + And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the King + And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing, + Where they're patchin' 'im up once more. + + And 'e says: "Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer Ann?" + And I says: "Well, I can't make it out, old man; + You'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began, + When you was a bit of a kid." + And 'e whispers: "'Ere, on the quiet, Liz, + They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz, + And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz, + But . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did. + + "Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says: 'Look 'ere! + They're far too quiet out there: it's queer. + They're up to somethin'--'oo'll volunteer + To crawl in the dark and see?' + Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go, + And up jumps a chap and 'e says: 'Right O!' + But I chips in straight, and I says 'Oh no! + 'E's a missis and kids--take me.' + + "And the next I knew I was sneakin' out, + And the oozy corpses was all about, + And I felt so scared I wanted to shout, + And me skin fair prickled wiv fear; + And I sez: 'You coward! You 'ad no right + To take on the job of a man this night,' + Yet still I kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!) + The trench of the 'Uns was near. + + "It was all so dark, it was all so still; + Yet somethin' pushed me against me will; + 'Ow I wanted to turn! Yet I crawled until + I was seein' a dim light shine. + Then thinks I: 'I'll just go a little bit, + And see wot the doose I can make of it,' + And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit: + 'Christmas!' sez I, 'a _MINE.'_ + + "Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain: + I wanted to make for 'ome again, + But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain, + So I crawled to the trench instead; + Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un, + And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun, + And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one, + And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead. + + "Then all the 'Uns that was underground, + Comes up with a rush and on with a bound, + And I swings that giddy old Maxim round + And belts 'em solid and square. + You see I was off me chump wiv fear: + 'If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, 'it's dear.' + And the trench was narrow and they was near, + So I peppered the brutes for fair. + + "So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled wiv fright, + And the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight, + And we 'captured a section o' trench' that night + Which we didn't expect to get; + And they found me there with me Maxim gun, + And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one, + And I fainted away when the thing was done, + And I 'aven't got over it yet." + + So that's the 'istory Bill told me. + Of course it's all on the strict Q. T.; + It wouldn't do to get out, you see, + As 'e hacted against 'is will. + But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might, + And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight-- + Say! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right? + Wot's the matter with Bill! + + + + +Missis Moriarty's Boy + + + + Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she: + "Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now-- + it's the fortunate woman you are; + You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, + but me Patsy boy where is he? + Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr. + Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, + wid his hair all curly and bright, + And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away, + Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height: + Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day." + + And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door, + Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay; + And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more, + But she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away. + And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed, + Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat; + Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she was + wid her Patsy slaughtered and dead? + Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty? I'm not so sure about that. + + Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face; + Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, + and the eyes of her mother-mild; + Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case, + Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell + she'd be losin' her only child. + And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind, + And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three: + Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind-- + Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me? + + + + +My Foe + + A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks:-- + + + _GURR!_ You 'cochon'! Stand and fight! + Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! + Spawn of an accursed race, + Turn and meet me face to face! + Here amid the wreck and rout + Let us grip and have it out! + Here where ruins rock and reel + Let us settle, steel to steel! + Look! Our houses, how they spit + Sparks from brands your friends have lit. + See! Our gutters running red, + Bright with blood your friends have shed. + Hark! Amid your drunken brawl + How our maidens shriek and call. + Why have _YOU_ come here alone, + To this hearth's blood-spattered stone? + Come to ravish, come to loot, + Come to play the ghoulish brute. + Ah, indeed! We well are met, + Bayonet to bayonet. + God! I never killed a man: + Now I'll do the best I can. + Rip you to the evil heart, + Laugh to see the life-blood start. + Bah! You swine! I hate you so. + Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . . + + There! I've done it. See! He lies + Death a-staring from his eyes; + Glazing eyeballs, panting breath, + How it's horrible, is Death! + Plucking at his bloody lips + With his trembling finger-tips; + Choking in a dreadful way + As if he would something say + In that uncouth tongue of his. . . . + Oh, how horrible Death is! + + How I wish that he would die! + So unnerved, unmanned am I. + See! His twitching face is white! + See! His bubbling blood is bright. + Why do I not shout with glee? + What strange spell is over me? + There he lies; the fight was fair; + Let me toss my cap in air. + Why am I so silent? Why + Do I pray for him to die? + Where is all my vengeful joy? + Ugh! _MY FOE IS BUT A BOY._ + + I'd a brother of his age + Perished in the war's red rage; + Perished in the Ypres hell: + Oh, I loved my brother well. + And though I be hard and grim, + How it makes me think of him! + He had just such flaxen hair + As the lad that's lying there. + Just such frank blue eyes were his. . . . + God! How horrible war is! + + I have reason to be gay: + There is one less foe to slay. + I have reason to be glad: + Yet--my foe is such a lad. + So I watch in dull amaze, + See his dying eyes a-glaze, + See his face grow glorified, + See his hands outstretched and wide + To that bit of ruined wall + Where the flames have ceased to crawl, + Where amid the crumbling bricks + Hangs _A BLACKENED CRUCIFIX._ + + Now, oh now I understand. + Quick I press it in his hand, + Close his feeble finger-tips, + Hold it to his faltering lips. + As I watch his welling blood + I would stem it if I could. + God of Pity, let him live! + God of Love, forgive, forgive. + + . . . . . + + His face looked strangely, as he died, + Like that of One they crucified. + And in the pocket of his coat + I found a letter; thus he wrote: + 'The things I've seen! Oh, mother dear, + I'm wondering can God be here? + To-night amid the drunken brawl + I saw a Cross hung on a wall; + I'll seek it now, and there alone + Perhaps I may atone, atone. . . .' + + Ah no! 'Tis I who must atone. + No other saw but God alone; + Yet how can I forget the sight + Of that face so woeful white! + Dead I kissed him as he lay, + Knelt by him and tried to pray; + Left him lying there at rest, + Crucifix upon his breast. + + Not for him the pity be. + Ye who pity, pity me, + Crawling now the ways I trod, + Blood-guilty in sight of God. + + + + +My Job + + + + I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh; + At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to go and do it; + I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye, + And I 'opes the God of soldier men will see me safely through it. + Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never done before; + And till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin'; + The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any more: + At seven by the Captain's watch my little job is . . . _DYIN'._ + + I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin it now. + I ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "Dearest Mother, + I've been in many 'ot old 'do's'; I've scraped through safe some'ow, + But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' another. + A little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers. + They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it seems a trifle dicky. + If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears, + And so . . . I 'opes this finds you well.--Your werry lovin' Micky." + + I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there. + I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me. + I've seen so much of bloody death I don't seem for to care, + If I can only even up, how soon the blighters get me. + I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed; + I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin'; + I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to make instead . . . + It's seven sharp. Good-bye, old pals! . . . _A DECENT JOB IN DYIN'._ + + + + +The Song of the Pacifist + + + + What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead? + Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed? + By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted? + + If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe; + Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so: + By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow! + + If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright; + That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height; + That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right; + + If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear, + By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . . + Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer. + + Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land: + When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand; + And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand. + + Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release + The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace, + And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, + we clamour that War shall cease. + + Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain; + When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane: + Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain. + + When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be; + When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea + In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . _THAT WILL BE VICTORY._ + + + + +The Twins + + + + There were two brothers, John and James, + And when the town went up in flames, + To save the house of James dashed John, + Then turned, and lo! his own was gone. + + And when the great World War began, + To volunteer John promptly ran; + And while he learned live bombs to lob, + James stayed at home and--sneaked his job. + + John came home with a missing limb; + That didn't seem to worry him; + But oh, it set his brain awhirl + To find that James had--sneaked his girl! + + Time passed. John tried his grief to drown; + To-day James owns one-half the town; + His army contracts riches yield; + And John? Well, _SEARCH THE POTTER'S FIELD._ + + + + +The Song of the Soldier-born + + + + _Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; + Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; + Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant._ + + Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion; + A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration; + A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion. + + For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying: + The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying; + The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying. + + So let me go and leave your safety behind me; + Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me; + Go till the word is War--and then you will find me. + + Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me; + Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . . + And when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me. + + For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry; + With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry; + You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry. + + You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking; + You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking; + You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking. + + Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters, + And a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . . + There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters. + + There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for; + There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for; + There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for. + + Ah no! it's my dream that War will never be ended; + That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid; + That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended. + + That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story; + That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary, + I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory. + + _So give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting; + Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting; + Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting._ + + + + +Afternoon Tea + + + + As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea; + Cows weren't allowed in the trenches--got out of the habit, y'see.) + As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten: + "Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em." + And he sprang to the head of the men. + Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, + and he fell on his face with a slam. . . . + Oh, he died like a true British soldier, + and the last word he uttered was "Damn!" + And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain, + And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain. + 'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea); + I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free. + Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws, + Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was. + So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own, + And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone; + With the bullets and shells ding-donging, + and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap; + And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . + (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap? + Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash; + We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash. + My fellows--Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell, + Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags,--nothing much left to tell: + A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live; + Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve. + The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show, + And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe. + So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again, + Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain. + Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank, + And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank." + He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes, + As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums. + So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats; + Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats. + 'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range, + With someone you _SAW_ to go for--it made an agreeable change. + And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt, + And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt". + + Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran, + On to the second line trenches,--that's where the fun began. + For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about, + And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out. + Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?" + And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair; + And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot! + (I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?) + My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten; + So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men, + And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, + but we cornered the rotters all right; + I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight. + But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things: + The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things, + So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must. + We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet thrust; + And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now; + And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row; + And my chaps--well, I just couldn't hold 'em; + (It's strange how it is with gore; + In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.) + Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they _COULDN'T_ be calmed, + So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-damned. + Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all; + The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal. + Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head, + And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red. + I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too, + Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do". + As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea, + I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me; + I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right, + And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight. + And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then: + They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men. + And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive-- + So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five; + And four of 'em threw up their flippers, + but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game, + And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same. + A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell, + So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell. + And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that Hun; + He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done. + So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt, + And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt". + And now, by Jove! how I've bored you. You've just let me babble away; + Let's talk of the things that _MATTER_--your car or the newest play. . . . + + + + +The Mourners + + + + I look into the aching womb of night; + I look across the mist that masks the dead; + The moon is tired and gives but little light, + The stars have gone to bed. + + The earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain; + A lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree; + I do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain, + The dead I do not see. + + The slain I _WOULD_ not see . . . and so I lift + My eyes from out the shambles where they lie; + When lo! a million woman-faces drift + Like pale leaves through the sky. + + The cheeks of some are channelled deep with tears; + But some are tearless, with wild eyes that stare + Into the shadow of the coming years + Of fathomless despair. + + And some are young, and some are very old; + And some are rich, some poor beyond belief; + Yet all are strangely like, set in the mould + Of everlasting grief. + + They fill the vast of Heaven, face on face; + And then I see one weeping with the rest, + Whose eyes beseech me for a moment's space. . . . + Oh eyes I love the best! + + Nay, I but dream. The sky is all forlorn, + And there's the plain of battle writhing red: + God pity them, the women-folk who mourn! + How happy are the dead! + + + + +L'Envoi + + + + My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready, + My word-battalions marching verse by verse; + Here stanza-companies are none too steady; + There print-platoons are weak, but might be worse. + And as in marshalled order I review them, + My type-brigades, unfearful of the fray, + My eyes that seek their faults are seeing through them + Immortal visions of an epic day. + + It seems I'm in a giant bowling-alley; + The hidden heavies round me crash and thud; + A spire snaps like a pipe-stem in the valley; + The rising sun is like a ball of blood. + Along the road the "fantassins" are pouring, + And some are gay as fire, and some steel-stern. . . . + Then back again I see the red tide pouring, + Along the reeking road from Hebuterne. + + And once again I seek Hill Sixty-Seven, + The Hun lines grey and peaceful in my sight; + When suddenly the rosy air is riven-- + A "coal-box" blots the "boyou" on my right. + Or else to evil Carnoy I am stealing, + Past sentinels who hail with bated breath; + Where not a cigarette spark's dim revealing + May hint our mission in that zone of death. + + I see across the shrapnel-seeded meadows + The jagged rubble-heap of La Boiselle; + Blood-guilty Fricourt brooding in the shadows, + And Thiepval's chateau empty as a shell. + Down Albert's riven streets the moon is leering; + The Hanging Virgin takes its bitter ray; + And all the road from Hamel I am hearing + The silver rage of bugles over Bray. + + Once more within the sky's deep sapphire hollow + I sight a swimming Taube, a fairy thing; + I watch the angry shell flame flash and follow + In feather puffs that flick a tilted wing; + And then it fades, with shrapnel mirror's flashing; + The flashes bloom to blossoms lily gold; + The batteries are rancorously crashing, + And life is just as full as it can hold. + + Oh spacious days of glory and of grieving! + Oh sounding hours of lustre and of loss! + Let us be glad we lived you, still believing + The God who gave the cannon gave the Cross. + Let us be sure amid these seething passions, + The lusts of blood and hate our souls abhor: + The Power that Order out of Chaos fashions + Smites fiercest in the wrath-red forge of War. . . . + Have faith! Fight on! Amid the battle-hell + Love triumphs, Freedom beacons, all is well. + + + + + +About the Author + + + +Robert William Service was born 16 January 1874 in Preston, England, but +also lived in Scotland before emigrating to Canada in 1894. Service went +to the Yukon Territory in 1904 as a bank clerk, and became famous for +his poems about this region, which are mostly in his first two books of +poetry. He wrote quite a bit of prose as well, and worked as a reporter +for some time, but those writings are not nearly as well known as his +poems. He travelled around the world quite a bit, and died 11 September +1958 in France. + + +Service's Books of Poetry: + + The Spell of the Yukon (1907) a.k.a. Songs of a Sourdough + Ballads of a Cheechako (1909) + Rhymes of a Rolling Stone (1912) + Rhymes of a Red Cross Man (1916) + Ballads of a Bohemian (1921) + Bar-Room Ballads (1940) + The Complete Poems (1947?) [This is simply a compilation + of the six books.] + +[Note: A Sourdough is an old-timer, while a Cheechako is a newbie.] + + +A few other books by Robert W. Service: + +The Trail of '98--A Northland Romance (1910) + +Ploughman of the Moon (1945) | A two-volume + +Harper of Heaven (1948) | autobiography. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, by Robert W. Service + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN *** + +***** This file should be named 315-8.txt or 315-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/315/ + +Produced by A. 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Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + http://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/315-8.zip b/315-8.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6be2c9a --- /dev/null +++ b/315-8.zip diff --git a/315-h.zip b/315-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..119c3a8 --- /dev/null +++ b/315-h.zip diff --git a/315-h/315-h.htm b/315-h/315-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e08c792 --- /dev/null +++ b/315-h/315-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4491 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="iso-8859-1"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, by Robert W. Service + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, by Robert W. Service + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Rhymes of a Red Cross Man + +Author: Robert W. Service + +Release Date: July 10, 2008 [EBook #315] +Last Updated: January 15, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light, and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Robert W. Service + </h2> + <h4> + [British-born Canadian Poet—1874-1958.] + </h4> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h5> + Author of "The Spell of the Yukon", "Ballads of a Cheechako",<br /> "Rhymes + of a Rolling Stone", etc. + </h5> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + New York edition of 1916 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + To the Memory of <br /> My Brother, <br /> LIEUTENANT ALBERT SERVICE + <br /> Canadian Infantry <br /> Killed in Action, France <br /> August, + 1916. <br /> <br /> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_FORE"> Foreword </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> The Fool </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> The Volunteer </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> The Convalescent </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> The Man from Athabaska </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> The Red Retreat </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> The Haggis of Private McPhee </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> The Lark </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> A Song of Winter Weather </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> Tipperary Days </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> Fleurette </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> Funk </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> Our Hero </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> My Mate </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> Milking Time </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> Young Fellow My Lad </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> A Song of the Sandbags </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> On the Wire </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> Bill's Grave </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> Jean Desprez </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> Going Home </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> Cocotte </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> My Bay'nit </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> Carry On! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> Over the Parapet </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> The Ballad of Soulful Sam </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> Only a Boche </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> Pilgrims </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> My Prisoner </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> Tri-colour </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> A Pot of Tea </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> The Revelation </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> Grand-père </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> Son </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> The Black Dudeen </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> The Little Piou-piou </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> Bill the Bomber </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> The Whistle of Sandy McGraw </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> The Stretcher-Bearer </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> Wounded </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> Faith </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> The Coward </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> Missis Moriarty's Boy </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> My Foe </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> My Job </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> The Song of the Pacifist </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> The Twins </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> The Song of the Soldier-born </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> Afternoon Tea </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> The Mourners </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> L'Envoi </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> About the Author </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_FORE" id="link2H_FORE"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + Foreword + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes + In weary, woeful, waiting times; + In doleful hours of battle-din, + Ere yet they brought the wounded in; + Through vigils of the fateful night, + In lousy barns by candle-light; + In dug-outs, sagging and aflood, + On stretchers stiff and bleared with blood; + By ragged grove, by ruined road, + By hearths accurst where Love abode; + By broken altars, blackened shrines + I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes. + + I've solaced me with scraps of song + The desolated ways along: + Through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown, + And meadows reaped by death alone; + By blazing cross and splintered spire, + By headless Virgin in the mire; + By gardens gashed amid their bloom, + By gutted grave, by shattered tomb; + Beside the dying and the dead, + Where rocket green and rocket red, + In trembling pools of poising light, + With flowers of flame festoon the night. + Ah me! by what dark ways of wrong + I've cheered my heart with scraps of song. + + So here's my sheaf of war-won verse, + And some is bad, and some is worse. + And if at times I curse a bit, + You needn't read that part of it; + For through it all like horror runs + The red resentment of the guns. + And you yourself would mutter when + You took the things that once were men, + And sped them through that zone of hate + To where the dripping surgeons wait; + And wonder too if in God's sight + War ever, ever can be right. + + Yet may it not be, crime and war + But effort misdirected are? + And if there's good in war and crime, + There may be in my bits of rhyme, + My songs from out the slaughter mill: + So take or leave them as you will. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Call + + (France, August first, 1914) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Far and near, high and clear, + Hark to the call of War! + Over the gorse and the golden dells, + Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells, + Praying and saying of wild farewells: + War! War! War! + + High and low, all must go: + Hark to the shout of War! + Leave to the women the harvest yield; + Gird ye, men, for the sinister field; + A sabre instead of a scythe to wield: + War! Red War! + + Rich and poor, lord and boor, + Hark to the blast of War! + Tinker and tailor and millionaire, + Actor in triumph and priest in prayer, + Comrades now in the hell out there, + Sweep to the fire of War! + + Prince and page, sot and sage, + Hark to the roar of War! + Poet, professor and circus clown, + Chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town, + Into the pot and be melted down: + Into the pot of War! + + Women all, hear the call, + The pitiless call of War! + Look your last on your dearest ones, + Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons: + Swift they go to the ravenous guns, + The gluttonous guns of War. + + Everywhere thrill the air + The maniac bells of War. + There will be little of sleeping to-night; + There will be wailing and weeping to-night; + Death's red sickle is reaping to-night: + War! War! War! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Fool + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "But it isn't playing the game," he said, + And he slammed his books away; + "The Latin and Greek I've got in my head + Will do for a duller day." + "Rubbish!" I cried; "The bugle's call + Isn't for lads from school." + D'ye think he'd listen? Oh, not at all: + So I called him a fool, a fool. + + Now there's his dog by his empty bed, + And the flute he used to play, + And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he's dead, + Somewhere in France, they say: + Dick with his rapture of song and sun, + Dick of the yellow hair, + Dicky whose life had but begun, + Carrion-cold out there. + + Look at his prizes all in a row: + Surely a hint of fame. + Now he's finished with,—nothing to show: + Doesn't it seem a shame? + Look from the window! All you see + Was to be his one day: + Forest and furrow, lawn and lea, + And he goes and chucks it away. + + Chucks it away to die in the dark: + Somebody saw him fall, + Part of him mud, part of him blood, + The rest of him—not at all. + And yet I'll bet he was never afraid, + And he went as the best of 'em go, + For his hand was clenched on his broken blade, + And his face was turned to the foe. + + And I called him a fool . . . oh how blind was I! + And the cup of my grief's abrim. + Will Glory o' England ever die + So long as we've lads like him? + So long as we've fond and fearless fools, + Who, spurning fortune and fame, + Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools, + Just bent on playing the game. + + A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise. + His was the proudest part. + He died with the glory of faith in his eyes, + And the glory of love in his heart. + And though there's never a grave to tell, + Nor a cross to mark his fall, + Thank God! we know that he "batted well" + In the last great Game of all. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Volunteer + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call. + I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks. + Go, let 'em plaster every blighted wall, + 'Ere's <i>ONE</i> they don't stampede into the ranks. + Them politicians with their greasy ways; + Them empire-grabbers—fight for 'em? No fear! + I've seen this mess a-comin' from the days + Of Algyserious and Aggydear: + I've felt me passion rise and swell, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + + Sez I: My Country? Mine? I likes their cheek. + Me mud-bespattered by the cars they drive, + Wot makes my measly thirty bob a week, + And sweats red blood to keep meself alive! + Fight for the right to slave that they may spend, + Them in their mansions, me 'ere in my slum? + No, let 'em fight wot's something to defend: + But me, I've nothin'—let the Kaiser come. + And so I cusses 'ard and well, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + + Sez I: If they would do the decent thing, + And shield the missis and the little 'uns, + Why, even <i>I</i> might shout "God save the King", + And face the chances of them 'ungry guns. + But we've got three, another on the way; + It's that wot makes me snarl and set me jor: + The wife and nippers, wot of 'em, I say, + If I gets knocked out in this blasted war? + Gets proper busted by a shell, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + + Ay, wot the 'ell's the use of all this talk? + To-day some boys in blue was passin' me, + And some of 'em they 'ad no legs to walk, + And some of 'em they 'ad no eyes to see. + And—well, I couldn't look 'em in the face, + And so I'm goin', goin' to declare + I'm under forty-one and take me place + To face the music with the bunch out there. + A fool, you say! Maybe you're right. + I'll 'ave no peace unless I fight. + I've ceased to think; I only know + I've gotta go, Bill, gotta go. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Convalescent + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + . . . So I walked among the willows very quietly all night; + There was no moon at all, at all; no timid star alight; + There was no light at all, at all; I wint from tree to tree, + And I called him as his mother called, but he nivver answered me. + + Oh I called him all the night-time, as I walked the wood alone; + And I listened and I listened, but I nivver heard a moan; + Then I found him at the dawnin', when the sorry sky was red: + I was lookin' for the livin', but I only found the dead. + + Sure I know that it was Shamus by the silver cross he wore; + But the bugles they were callin', and I heard the cannon roar. + Oh I had no time to tarry, so I said a little prayer, + And I clasped his hands together, and I left him lyin' there. + + Now the birds are singin', singin', and I'm home in Donegal, + And it's Springtime, and I'm thinkin' that I only dreamed it all; + I dreamed about that evil wood, all crowded with its dead, + Where I knelt beside me brother when the battle-dawn was red. + + Where I prayed beside me brother ere I wint to fight anew: + Such dreams as these are evil dreams; I can't believe it's true. + Where all is love and laughter, sure it's hard to think of loss . . . + But mother's sayin' nothin', and she clasps—<i>A SILVER CROSS</i>. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Man from Athabaska + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming + Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree; + And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming + Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me; + 'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea. + + And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder, + For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar; + Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder, + And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War; + 'Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are. + + Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying, + And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do? + Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying, + As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe: + Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view. + + Says the factor: "Mike, you're crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty. + You're as grizzled as a badger, and you're sixty year or so." + "But I haven't missed a scrap," says I, "since I was one and twenty. + And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers—no!" + So I sold my furs and started . . . and that's eighteen months ago. + + For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter + In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away; + And the partner on my right hand was an 'apache' from Montmartre; + On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U. S. A. + (Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.) + + But I'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago, + And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and 'blagues' me all the day. + I'm their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago, + And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away. + Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say. + + And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming + In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea, + Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing; + And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be: + Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me! + + And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle, + Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore; + And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle, + And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more; + While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar. + + And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling, + And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track; + And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling, + And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac; + And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back. + + So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring, + And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe; + And I yarn of fur and feather when the 'marmites' are a-soaring, + And they listen to my stories, seven 'poilus' in a row, + Seven lean and lousy 'poilus' with their cigarettes aglow. + + And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike for Athabaska; + And those seven greasy 'poilus' they are crazy to go too. + And I'll give the wife the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I'll ask her + The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo, + And I'll get my traps in order, and I'll start to work anew. + + For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen a nation scattered, + And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore, + And a city all a-smoulder, and . . . as if it really mattered, + For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore; + And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly, + And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave it nevermore. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Red Retreat + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers + (I've 'ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin' feet); + Tramp, tramp, the dim road—we didn't 'ave no pipers, + And bellies that was 'oller was the drums we 'ad to beat. + Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits o' kiddies cryin' there, + The fell birds a-flyin' there, the 'ouses all aflame; + Tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals I left a-lyin' there, + Red there, and dead there. . . . Oh blimy, it's a shame!</i> + + A-singin' "'Oo's Yer Lady Friend?" we started out from 'Arver, + A-singin' till our froats was dry—we didn't care a 'ang; + The Frenchies 'ow they lined the way, and slung us their palaver, + And all we knowed to arnser was the one word "vang"; + They gave us booze and caporal, and cheered for us like crazy, + And all the pretty gels was out to kiss us as we passed; + And 'ow they all went dotty when we 'owled the Marcelaisey! + Oh, Gawd! Them was the 'appy days, the days too good to last. + + We started out for God Knows Where, we started out a-roarin'; + We 'ollered: "'Ere We Are Again", and 'struth! but we was dry. + The dust was gummin' up our ears, and 'ow the sweat was pourin'; + The road was long, the sun was like a brazier in the sky. + We wondered where the 'Uns was—we wasn't long a-wonderin', + For down a scruff of 'ill-side they rushes like a flood; + Then oh! 'twas music 'eavenly, our batteries a-thunderin', + And arms and legs went soarin' in the fountain of their blood. + + For on they came like bee-swarms, a-hochin' and a-singin'; + We pumped the bullets into 'em, we couldn't miss a shot. + But though we mowed 'em down like grass, like grass was they a-springin', + And all our 'ands was blistered, for our rifles was so 'ot. + We roared with battle-fury, and we lammed the stuffin' out of 'em, + And then we fixed our bay'nets and we spitted 'em like meat. + You should 'ave 'eard the beggars squeal; + you should 'ave seen the rout of 'em, + And 'ow we cussed and wondered when the word came: Retreat! + + Retreat! That was the 'ell of it. It fair upset our 'abits, + A-runnin' from them blighters over 'alf the roads of France; + A-scurryin' before 'em like a lot of blurry rabbits, + And knowin' we could smash 'em if we just 'ad 'alf a chance. + Retreat! That was the bitter bit, a-limpin' and a-blunderin'; + All day and night a-hoofin' it and sleepin' on our feet; + A-fightin' rear guard actions for a bit o' rest, and wonderin' + If sugar beets or mangels was the 'olesomest to eat. + + Ho yus, there isn't many left that started out so cheerily; + There was no bands a-playin' and we 'ad no autmobeels. + Our tummies they was 'oller, and our 'eads was 'angin' wearily, + And if we stopped to light a fag the 'Uns was on our 'eels. + That rotten road! I can't forget the kids and mothers flyin' there, + The bits of barns a-blazin' and the 'orrid sights I sor; + The stiffs that lined the wayside, me own pals a-lyin' there, + Their faces covered over wiv a little 'eap of stror. + + <i>Tramp, tramp, the red road, the wicked bullets 'ummin' + (I've panted out this ditty with me 'ot 'ard breath.) + Tramp, tramp, the dread road, the Boches all a-comin', + The lootin' and the shootin' and the shrieks o' death. + Tramp, tramp, the fell road, the mad 'orde pursuin' there, + And 'ow we 'urled it back again, them grim, grey waves; + Tramp, tramp, the 'ell road, the 'orror and the ruin there, + The graves of me mateys there, the grim, sour graves.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Haggis of Private McPhee + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me? + It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee. + "And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun, + As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun. + "A haggis! A <i>HAGGIS!</i>" says Private McPhee; + "The brawest big haggis I ever did see. + And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns + Tae haggis and whuskey—the Birthday o' Burns. + We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest + O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best." + + "Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole; + "I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol." + Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun: + "I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done." + Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee: + "I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree." + But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair: + "Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare; + And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun', + We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon. + Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black, + O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back." + + My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land, + And the deid they were rottin' on every hand. + And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky, + And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by. + There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells, + And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells; + But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole + Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol. + For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem + Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them. + + Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer + Calamity's aften maist cruelly near. + And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine + The Boches below them were howkin' a mine. + And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae, + The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away. + Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom, + A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb. + + "Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun. + "Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done. + It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee; + Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee. + "Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun; + "And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run, + It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see: + I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me." + Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid: + "If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid. + And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content + If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent." + "That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind. + Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind; + And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot— + It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got." + For a while they were silent; then up once again + Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain: + "And why should we miss it? Between you and me + We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see. + You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht, + And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht." + + Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee, + When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee. + Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun', + When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun. + "Keep clear o' them corpses—they're maybe no deid! + Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid. + Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup. + A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup. + Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine: + Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine." + + There wis death and destruction on every hand; + There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land. + And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare, + And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air. + Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun + When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'. + And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot, + And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot. + "On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal; + I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole." + + But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun, + Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'. + Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear: + "Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here. + It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air; + It's steamin' for us, and we're—jist—aboot—there." + Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap! + For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap." + And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain, + And onward he staggers in passion and pain. + And the flare and the glare and the fury increase, + Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease. + And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight, + And someone is shoutin' away on their right; + And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear + A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer; + And swift through the crash and the flash and the din, + The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in. + + "They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll + Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole. + When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair, + And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair. + And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot, + And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot, + When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell, + And it—<i>DRAPPED ON THE HAGGIS AND DINGED IT TAE HELL.</i>" + + And oh but the lads were fair taken aback; + Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack, + And up from the trenches like lions they leapt, + And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept. + On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before! + On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar! + And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang, + And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang: + And there wisna a man but had death in his ee, + For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Lark + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, + The guns have brayed without abate; + And now the sick sun looks upon + The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate + As if it loathed to rise again. + How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark! + From yon down-trodden gold of grain, + The leaping rapture of a lark. + + A fusillade of melody, + That sprays us from yon trench of sky; + A new amazing enemy + We cannot silence though we try; + A battery on radiant wings, + That from yon gap of golden fleece + Hurls at us hopes of such strange things + As joy and home and love and peace. + + Pure heart of song! do you not know + That we are making earth a hell? + Or is it that you try to show + Life still is joy and all is well? + Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain + You beat into that bit of blue: + Lo! we who pant in war's red rain + Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Me and Ed and a stretcher + Out on the nootral ground. + (If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher + There's a 'undred smellin' around.) + Me and Eddie O'Brian, + Both of the R. A. M. C. + "It's a 'ell of a night + For a soul to take flight," + As Eddie remarks to me. + Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, + Thinkin' our job is done, + When sudden and clear, + Wot do we 'ear: + 'Owl of a wounded 'Un. + + "Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy; + "Got to take all we can. + 'E may be a Germ + Wiv the 'eart of a worm, + But, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?" + So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin' + ('E'd always a medical knack), + When that wounded 'Un + 'E rolls to 'is gun, + And 'e plugs me pal in the back. + + Now what would you do? I arst you. + There was me slaughtered mate. + There was that 'Un + (I'd collered 'is gun), + A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate. + Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper . . . + 'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, + But when I got through, + Between me and you, + It was 'orrid and jaggy and red. + + "'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy. + Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all." + It's slow and it's sure and it's steady + (Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small). + The rockets are shootin' and shinin', + It's rainin' a perishin' flood, + The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', + And I'm up to me stern in the mud. + There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; + It's black as a bucket of tar; + Oh, I'm doin' my bit, + But I'm 'avin' a fit, + And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar. + + "Stick on like a plaster, Eddy. + Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip." + Gord! But I'm crocky already; + My feet, 'ow they slither and slip! + There goes the biff of a bullet. + The Boches have got us for fair. + Another one—<i>WHUT!</i> + The son of a slut! + 'E managed to miss by a 'air. + 'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? + Gave it a dooce of a wrench. + Is it Eddy or me + Wot's a-bleedin' so free? + Crust! but it's long to the trench. + I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, + And Ed ain't a flapper by far; + I'm blamed if I understand 'ow + We've managed to get where we are. + But 'ere's for a bit of a breather. + "Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'. + Old pal, it's all right; + It's a 'ell of a fight, + But are we down-'earted? No-o-o." + + Now war is a funny thing, ain't it? + It's the rummiest sort of a go. + For when it's most real, + It's then that you feel + You're a-watchin' a cinema show. + 'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant. + Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France, + And I'm 'ere in a pit + Where a coal-box 'as 'it, + And it's all like a giddy romance. + The ruddy quick-firers are spittin', + The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, + And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', + And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate. + Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin', + 'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, + And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin', + And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again. + You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': + 'Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?' + 'Stead of sheddin' yer blood + In the rain and the mud, + Which is some'ow the right thing to do; + Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, + Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, + For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty, + And you've been and you've slaughtered a man. + A feller wot punctured your partner; + Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, + And you still see 'is eyes + Starin' bang at the skies, + And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead. + But you wish you was back in your diggin's + Asleep on your mouldy old stror. + Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, + But you ain't just enjoyin' the war." + + "'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy. + It's us for the bomb-belt again. + Except for the shrap + Which 'as 'it me a tap, + I'm feelin' as right as the rain. + It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', + It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, + But don't be oneasy, my pippin, + I'm goin' to pilot you in. + It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'. + The bullets is buzzin' like bees. + Me shoulder's red-'ot, + And I'm bleedin' a lot, + And me legs is on'inged at the knees. + But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer. + Just stick it, old sport, play the game. + I make 'em out clearer and clearer, + Our trenches a-snappin' with flame. + Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer. + 'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try. + Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir! + I'll carry you in if I die. + By cracky! old feller, they've seen us. + They're sendin' out stretchers for two. + Let's give 'em the hoorah between us + ('Anged lucky we aren't booked through). + My flipper is mashed to a jelly. + A bullet 'as tickled your spleen. + We've shed lots of gore + And we're leakin' some more, + But—wot a hoccasion it's been! + Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party. + They're crawlin' out cautious and slow. + Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, + Shoulder to shoulder—so. + They mustn't think we was down-'earted. + Old pal, we was never down-'earted. + If they arsts us if we was down-'earted + We'll 'owl in their fyces: 'No-o-o!'" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Song of Winter Weather + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It isn't the foe that we fear; + It isn't the bullets that whine; + It isn't the business career + Of a shell, or the bust of a mine; + It isn't the snipers who seek + To nip our young hopes in the bud: + No, it isn't the guns, + And it isn't the Huns— + It's the MUD, + MUD, + MUD. + + It isn't the melee we mind. + That often is rather good fun. + It isn't the shrapnel we find + Obtrusive when rained by the ton; + It isn't the bounce of the bombs + That gives us a positive pain: + It's the strafing we get + When the weather is wet— + It's the RAIN, + RAIN, + RAIN. + + It isn't because we lack grit + We shrink from the horrors of war. + We don't mind the battle a bit; + In fact that is what we are for; + It isn't the rum-jars and things + Make us wish we were back in the fold: + It's the fingers that freeze + In the boreal breeze— + It's the COLD, + COLD, + COLD. + + Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold, + The cold, the mud, and the rain; + With weather at zero it's hard for a hero + From language that's rude to refrain. + With porridgy muck to the knees, + With sky that's a-pouring a flood, + Sure the worst of our foes + Are the pains and the woes + Of the RAIN, + the COLD, + and the MUD. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Tipperary Days + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them, + Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare; + Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them, + Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there. + Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them, + On the road, the white road, all the afternoon; + Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them, + Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune: + + <i>It's a long way to Tipperary, + It's a long way to go; + It's a long way to Tipperary, + And the sweetest girl I know. + Good-bye, Piccadilly, + Farewell, Lester Square: + It's a long, long way to Tipperary, + But my heart's right there.</i> + + "Come, Yvonne and Juliette! Come, Mimi, and cheer for them! + Throw them flowers and kisses as they pass you by. + Aren't they the lovely lads! Haven't you a tear for them + Going out so gallantly to dare and die? + What is it they're singing so? Some high hymn of Motherland? + Some immortal chanson of their Faith and King? + 'Marseillaise' or 'Brabanc,on', anthem of that other land, + Dears, let us remember it, that song they sing: + + <i>"C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', + C'est un chemin long, c'est vrai; + C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', + Et la belle fille qu'je connais. + Bonjour, Peekadeely! + Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire! + C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', + Mais mon coeur 'ees zaire'."</i> + + The gallant old "Contemptibles"! There isn't much remains of them, + So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride; + For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them, + And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died. + And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them, + Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black; + But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them!— + Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back: + + <i>It's a long way to Tipperary + (Which means "'ome" anywhere); + It's a long way to Tipperary + (And the things wot make you care). + Good-bye, Piccadilly + ('Ow I 'opes my folks is well); + It's a long, long way to Tipperary— + ('R! Ain't War just 'ell?)</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Fleurette + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + (The Wounded Canadian Speaks) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My leg? It's off at the knee. + Do I miss it? Well, some. You see + I've had it since I was born; + And lately a devilish corn. + (I rather chuckle with glee + To think how I've fooled that corn.) + + But I'll hobble around all right. + It isn't that, it's my face. + Oh I know I'm a hideous sight, + Hardly a thing in place; + Sort of gargoyle, you'd say. + Nurse won't give me a glass, + But I see the folks as they pass + Shudder and turn away; + Turn away in distress . . . + Mirror enough, I guess. + + I'm gay! You bet I <i>am</i> gay; + But I wasn't a while ago. + If you'd seen me even to-day, + The darndest picture of woe, + With this Caliban mug of mine, + So ravaged and raw and red, + Turned to the wall—in fine, + Wishing that I was dead. . . . + What has happened since then, + Since I lay with my face to the wall, + The most despairing of men? + Listen! I'll tell you all. + + That 'poilu' across the way, + With the shrapnel wound in his head, + Has a sister: she came to-day + To sit awhile by his bed. + All morning I heard him fret: + "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?" + + Then sudden, a joyous cry; + The tripping of little feet; + The softest, tenderest sigh; + A voice so fresh and sweet; + Clear as a silver bell, + Fresh as the morning dews: + "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel! + Mon frêre, comme je suis heureuse!" + + So over the blanket's rim + I raised my terrible face, + And I saw—how I envied him! + A girl of such delicate grace; + Sixteen, all laughter and love; + As gay as a linnet, and yet + As tenderly sweet as a dove; + Half woman, half child—Fleurette. + + Then I turned to the wall again. + (I was awfully blue, you see), + And I thought with a bitter pain: + "Such visions are not for me." + So there like a log I lay, + All hidden, I thought, from view, + When sudden I heard her say: + "Ah! Who is that 'malheureux'?" + Then briefly I heard him tell + (However he came to know) + How I'd smothered a bomb that fell + Into the trench, and so + None of my men were hit, + Though it busted me up a bit. + + Well, I didn't quiver an eye, + And he chattered and there she sat; + And I fancied I heard her sigh— + But I wouldn't just swear to that. + And maybe she wasn't so bright, + Though she talked in a merry strain, + And I closed my eyes ever so tight, + Yet I saw her ever so plain: + Her dear little tilted nose, + Her delicate, dimpled chin, + Her mouth like a budding rose, + And the glistening pearls within; + Her eyes like the violet: + Such a rare little queen—Fleurette. + + And at last when she rose to go, + The light was a little dim, + And I ventured to peep, and so + I saw her, graceful and slim, + And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh + How I envied and envied him! + + So when she was gone I said + In rather a dreary voice + To him of the opposite bed: + "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! + But me, I'm a thing of dread. + For me nevermore the bliss, + The thrill of a woman's kiss." + + Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, + And a great light shone in her eyes. + And me! I could only stare, + I was taken so by surprise, + When gently she bent her head: + "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said. + + Then she kissed my burning lips + With her mouth like a scented flower, + And I thrilled to the finger-tips, + And I hadn't even the power + To say: "God bless you, dear!" + And I felt such a precious tear + Fall on my withered cheek, + And darn it! I couldn't speak. + + And so she went sadly away, + And I knew that my eyes were wet. + Ah, not to my dying day + Will I forget, forget! + Can you wonder now I am gay? + God bless her, that little Fleurette! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Funk + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When your marrer bone seems 'oller, + And you're glad you ain't no taller, + And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills; + When your skin creeps like a pullet's, + And you're duckin' all the bullets, + And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills; + When your legs seem made of jelly, + And you're squeamish in the belly, + And you want to turn about and do a bunk: + For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it! + Don't let your mateys know it— + You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk. + + Of course there's no denyin' + That it ain't so easy tryin' + To grin and grip your rifle by the butt, + When the 'ole world rips asunder, + And you sees yer pal go under, + As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut; + I admit it's 'ard contrivin' + When you 'ears the shells arrivin', + To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk; + But, my lad, you've got to do it, + And your God will see you through it, + For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk. + + So stand up, son; look gritty, + And just 'um a lively ditty, + And only be afraid to be afraid; + Just 'old yer rifle steady, + And 'ave yer bay'nit ready, + For that's the way good soldier-men is made. + And if you 'as to die, + As it sometimes 'appens, why, + Far better die a 'ero than a skunk; + A-doin' of yer bit, + And so—to 'ell with it, + There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Our Hero + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Flowers, only flowers—bring me dainty posies, + Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said; + So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses, + Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed. + Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing; + Soft into his tired eyes came a little light; + Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing; + There amid the flowers waited he the night. + + "I would have you raise me; I can see the West then: + I would see the sun set once before I go." + So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then, + Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow. + So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling, + Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame, + Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling; + So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came. + + "Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing; + There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky. + How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging: + Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die. + I am horror-haunted from the hell they found me; + I am battle-broken, all I want is rest. + Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me, + And a kind lark singing in the golden West. + + "Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting, + Just the happy laughter of a little child." + So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting; + Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled. + "In the golden peace-time you will tell the story + How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours. . . . + God bless little children!" So he passed to glory, + So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + My Mate + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots, + And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im. + (Look out there, lad! That sniper—'e's a dysey when 'e shoots; + 'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.) + Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead, + To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud; + And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red, + Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot—but it's blood. + + And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals. + 'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me; + And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals, + And even there we 'ad no disagree. + For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best, + I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid; + I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest, + I even stood god-farther to the kid. + + So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?" + "Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im. + 'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go, + ('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim). + Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell, + But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread. + We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle, + And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead. + + Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took? + I've only got meself, 'e stands for three. + I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook; + 'E always <i>was</i> a better man than me. + 'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark, + And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid; + And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark, + When . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid. + + 'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die. + 'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud. + Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky, + And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud. + And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead, + And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand: + The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and <i>ZIP!</i> like that—'e's dead, + Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and. + + There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun, + But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate. + You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done + Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate. + It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim; + Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid, + Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im, + To sorter be a farther to 'is kid. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Milking Time + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; + There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; + There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling, + And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain. + For you see I am not really there at all, not at all; + For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall; + And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming + That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol. + + Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here; + And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear; + The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses, + And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear. + And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb, + And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime, + And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing, + And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time. + + Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown; + And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down; + And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow, + And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown. + And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue; + And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too; + And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry + Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you. + + So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me; + And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree; + And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling, + And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be. + And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed? + And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist; + And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying + That Yvonne is long delaying . . . <i>GOD! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED!</i> + + A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh; + That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die; + That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches + Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry. + Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime; + And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime; + And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather + We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . . + (English voice, months later):— + "<i>OW BILL! A ROTTIN' FRENCHY. WHEW! 'E AIN'T 'ARF PRIME.</i>" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Young Fellow My Lad + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad, + On this glittering morn of May?" + "I'm going to join the Colours, Dad; + They're looking for men, they say." + "But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad; + You aren't obliged to go." + "I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad, + And ever so strong, you know." + + . . . . . + + "So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad, + And you're looking so fit and bright." + "I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad, + But I feel that I'm doing right." + "God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad, + You're all of my life, you know." + "Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad, + And I'm awfully proud to go." + + . . . . . + + "Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad? + I watch for the post each day; + And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad, + And it's months since you went away. + And I've had the fire in the parlour lit, + And I'm keeping it burning bright + Till my boy comes home; and here I sit + Into the quiet night." + + . . . . . + + "What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad? + No letter again to-day. + Why did the postman look so sad, + And sigh as he turned away? + I hear them tell that we've gained new ground, + But a terrible price we've paid: + God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound; + But oh I'm afraid, afraid." + + . . . . . + + "They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad: + You'll never come back again: + <i>(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD, + AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)</i> + For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad, + And you proved in the cruel test + Of the screaming shell and the battle hell + That my boy was one of the best. + + "So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad, + In the gleam of the evening star, + In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child, + In all sweet things that are. + And you'll never die, my wonderful boy, + While life is noble and true; + For all our beauty and hope and joy + We will owe to our lads like you." +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Song of the Sandbags + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh + (The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss). + And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche, + I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us. + I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me; + And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight; + And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree, + We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right. + + A-standin' up to the sandbags + It's funny the thoughts wot come; + Starin' into the darkness, + 'Earin' the bullets 'um; + <i>(ZING! ZIP! PING! RIP! + 'ARK 'OW THE BULLETS 'UM!)</i> + A-leanin' against the sandbags + Wiv me rifle under me ear, + Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go + Than I used to 'ave in a year. + + I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me + Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for? + 'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree, + If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war. + If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud; + If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell; + If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood: + By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell. + + Shiverin' up to the sandbags, + With a hicicle 'stead of a spine, + Don't it seem funny the things you think + 'Ere in the firin' line: + <i>(WHEE! WHUT! ZIZ! ZUT! + LORD! 'OW THE BULLETS WHINE!)</i> + Hunkerin' down when a star-shell + Cracks in a sputter of light, + You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags + Most any old time o' night. + + They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade, + Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed; + But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made, + Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be damned! + There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight: + That's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name; + And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night. . . . + But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same. + + Starin' over the sandbags, + Sick of the 'ole damn thing; + Firin' to keep meself awake, + 'Earin' the bullets sing. + <i>(HISS! TWANG! TSING! PANG! + SAUCY THE BULLETS SING.)</i> + Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags + Of a day when war will cease, + When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me + Will clink our mugs in fraternity, + And the Brotherhood of Labour will be + The Brotherhood of Peace. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + On the Wire + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O God, take the sun from the sky! + It's burning me, scorching me up. + God, can't You hear my cry? + 'Water! A poor, little cup!' + It's laughing, the cursed sun! + See how it swells and swells + Fierce as a hundred hells! + God, will it never have done? + It's searing the flesh on my bones; + It's beating with hammers red + My eyeballs into my head; + It's parching my very moans. + See! It's the size of the sky, + And the sky is a torrent of fire, + Foaming on me as I lie + Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Of the thousands that wheeze and hum + Heedlessly over my head, + Why can't a bullet come, + Pierce to my brain instead, + Blacken forever my brain, + Finish forever my pain? + Here in the hellish glare + Why must I suffer so? + Is it God doesn't care? + Is it God doesn't know? + Oh, to be killed outright, + Clean in the clash of the fight! + That is a golden death, + That is a boon; but this . . . + Drawing an anguished breath + Under a hot abyss, + Under a stooping sky + Of seething, sulphurous fire, + Scorching me up as I lie + Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Hasten, O God, Thy night! + Hide from my eyes the sight + Of the body I stare and see + Shattered so hideously. + I can't believe that it's mine. + My body was white and sweet, + Flawless and fair and fine, + Shapely from head to feet; + Oh no, I can never be + The thing of horror I see + Under the rifle fire, + Trussed on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Of night and of death I dream; + Night that will bring me peace, + Coolness and starry gleam, + Stillness and death's release: + Ages and ages have passed,— + Lo! it is night at last. + Night! but the guns roar out. + Night! but the hosts attack. + Red and yellow and black + Geysers of doom upspout. + Silver and green and red + Star-shells hover and spread. + Yonder off to the right + Fiercely kindles the fight; + Roaring near and more near, + Thundering now in my ear; + Close to me, close . . . Oh, hark! + Someone moans in the dark. + I hear, but I cannot see, + I hear as the rest retire, + Someone is caught like me, + Caught on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Again the shuddering dawn, + Weird and wicked and wan; + Again, and I've not yet gone. + The man whom I heard is dead. + Now I can understand: + A bullet hole in his head, + A pistol gripped in his hand. + Well, he knew what to do,— + Yes, and now I know too. . . . + + Hark the resentful guns! + Oh, how thankful am I + To think my beloved ones + Will never know how I die! + I've suffered more than my share; + I'm shattered beyond repair; + I've fought like a man the fight, + And now I demand the right + (God! how his fingers cling!) + To do without shame this thing. + Good! there's a bullet still; + Now I'm ready to fire; + Blame me, God, if You will, + Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bill's Grave + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill; + I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim wouldn't understand; + 'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill, + To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and. + + For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o' the best; + We 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes; + Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure West, + So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums. + + And they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound, + And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer, + If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round + Like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that's the reason I'm 'ere. + + But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave Jim to know. + 'E'd call me a slobberin' Cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore; + I'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago; + But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war. + + It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth + (Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit); + I'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . Now Jim's o' the salt o' the earth; + But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit. + + I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn. + Won't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three. + Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty? <i>JIM!</i> And as sure as I'm born + 'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me. + + Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me. I watches 'im for a while, + Then I says: "Wot 'o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?" + And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile: + "She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay." + + So 'e goes away in a 'urry, and I wishes 'im best o' luck, + And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim, + When I makes me way to the boneyard, + and . . . I stares like a man wot's stuck, + For wot do I see? <i>BILL'S GRAVE-MOUND STREWN WITH THE FLOWERS OF JIM.</i> + + Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad; + And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?" + Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew; but say! won't Bill be glad + When 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and sees + the blossoms of Jim and me? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Jean Desprez + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance, + Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France; + A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came, + Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame; + Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may: + Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez. + + With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land, + And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand; + Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss; + The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss. + And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay, + Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez. + + "Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said. + "Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead. + Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day, + For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay." + They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men, + And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten; + Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why, + Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry; + Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood. + A moment only. . . . <i>READY! FIRE!</i> They weltered in their blood. + + But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries, + Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes; + A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh, + He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die." + He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . . + A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell. + + They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame. + With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came. + A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye; + He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie. + "Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried; + "Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified." + + With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there, + And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare; + "Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him, + And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim; + And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet, + The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette. + + But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by, + Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry: + "Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died. . . ." + It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside; + It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim + And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him. + + A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away. + The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay. + His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite: + "Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might. + Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare; + Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there, + And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand + The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand. + And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name, + Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame." + + They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand; + They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. + "Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die." + The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. + And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head: + "Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said. + "Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I; + And I will murmur: <i>VIVE LA FRANCE!</i> and bless you ere I die." + + Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway; + Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez. + He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear; + And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear! + He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow; + O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now! + The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss! + The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this: + This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around; + The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground; + The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame; + That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game. + "Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give; + A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live." + + They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face; + They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; + The glory of a million men who for fair France have died, + The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. + Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . . + "Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat. + "Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said. + Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . <i>THE PRUSSIAN MAJOR DEAD!</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Going Home + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty—ain't I glad to 'ave the chance! + I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France; + I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance, + For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'. + + I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay? + I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay; + A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way, + For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'. + + 'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front! + I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt; + But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt, + To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'. + + I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red; + I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead; + But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said, + A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin'. + + I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un; + I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun; + But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done, + And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'. + + Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine; + And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine; + But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine: + Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Cocotte + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty, + And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home, + Heigh-ho! She's as safe in Paris city + As a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam; + And that was I; oh, it's seven years now + (Some water's run down the Seine since then), + And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now, + And I've almost taken the measure of men. + + Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only, + Artist and poet, and almost a boy. + And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely, + And him I adored with a wonderful joy. + If he'd come to me with his pockets empty, + How we'd have laughed in a garret gay! + But he was rich, and in radiant plenty + We lived in a villa at Viroflay. + + Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me; + Then came the call, and he went away; + All that he had in the world he left me, + With the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay. + Then came the news and the tragic story: + My hero, my splendid lover was dead, + Sword in hand on the field of glory, + And he died with my name on his lips, they said. + + So here am I in my widow's mourning, + The weeds I've really no right to wear; + And women fix me with eyes of scorning, + Call me "cocotte", but I do not care. + And men look at me with eyes that borrow + The brightness of love, but I turn away; + Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow, + In my little villa at Viroflay. + + And lo! I'm living alone with 'Pity', + And they say that pity from love's not far; + Let me tell you all: last week in the city + I took the metro at Saint Lazare; + And the carriage was crowded to overflowing, + And when there entered at Chateaudun + Two wounded 'poilus' with medals showing, + I eagerly gave my seat to one. + + You should have seen them: they'd slipped death's clutches, + But sadder a sight you will rarely find; + One had a leg off and walked on crutches, + The other, a bit of a boy, was blind. + And they both sat down, and the lad was trying + To grope his way as a blind man tries; + And half of the women around were crying, + And some of the men had tears in their eyes. + + How he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging + Just like a child to his crippled chum. + But I did not cry. Oh no; a singing + Came to my heart for a year so dumb, + Then I knew that at three-and-twenty + There is wonderful work to be done, + Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty, + Peace and light and love to be won. + + Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be given + To one who will live in the dark alway! + To love and to serve—'twould make life Heaven + Here in my villa at Viroflay. + So I left my 'poilus': and now you wonder + Why to-day I am so elate. . . . + Look! In the glory of sunshine yonder + They're bringing my blind boy in at the gate. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + My Bay'nit + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nit + And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore; + But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it, + So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war. + For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours truly + Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime, + 'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly + Part of me outfit every time. + + Left, right, Hans and Fritz! + Goose step, keep up yer mits! + Oh my, Ain't it a shyme! + Part of me outfit every time. + + At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy; + I've used it to open a bully beef can; + For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy; + For any old thing but for stickin' a man. + 'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you + Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime," + And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you! + Part of me outfit every time. + + Lor, yus; <i>DON'T</i> they look glad? + Right O! 'Owl Kamerad! + Oh my, always the syme! + Part of me outfit every time. + + I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit, + Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France; + I'm fairly down-'earted—'ow <i>CAN</i> yer explain it? + I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance. + As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders, + Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb; + And I uses me bay'nit—to slit their suspenders— + Part of me outfit every time. + + Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag! + 'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag! + Oh my, ain't it a gyme! + Part of me outfit every time. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Carry On! + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It's easy to fight when everything's right, + And you're mad with the thrill and the glory; + It's easy to cheer when victory's near, + And wallow in fields that are gory. + It's a different song when everything's wrong, + When you're feeling infernally mortal; + When it's ten against one, and hope there is none, + Buck up, little soldier, and chortle: + + Carry on! Carry on! + There isn't much punch in your blow. + You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind; + You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind. + Carry on! Carry on! + You haven't the ghost of a show. + It's looking like death, but while you've a breath, + Carry on, my son! Carry on! + + And so in the strife of the battle of life + It's easy to fight when you're winning; + It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave, + When the dawn of success is beginning. + But the man who can meet despair and defeat + With a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing; + The man who can fight to Heaven's own height + Is the man who can fight when he's losing. + + Carry on! Carry on! + Things never were looming so black. + But show that you haven't a cowardly streak, + And though you're unlucky you never are weak. + Carry on! Carry on! + Brace up for another attack. + It's looking like hell, but—you never can tell: + Carry on, old man! Carry on! + + There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt, + And some who in brutishness wallow; + There are others, I know, who in piety go + Because of a Heaven to follow. + But to labour with zest, and to give of your best, + For the sweetness and joy of the giving; + To help folks along with a hand and a song; + Why, there's the real sunshine of living. + + Carry on! Carry on! + Fight the good fight and true; + Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer; + There's big work to do, and that's why you are here. + Carry on! Carry on! + Let the world be the better for you; + And at last when you die, let this be your cry: + <i>CARRY ON, MY SOUL! CARRY ON!</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Over the Parapet + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + All day long when the shells sail over + I stand at the sandbags and take my chance; + But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover, + And over the parapet gleams Romance. + Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed it, writing + Dreary old records of money and mart, + Me with my head chuckful of fighting + And the blood of vikings to thrill my heart. + + But little I thought that my time was coming, + Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon; + And here I am with the bullets humming + As I crawl and I curse the light of the moon. + Out alone, for adventure thirsting, + Out in mysterious No Man's Land; + Prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting, + Flares on the horrors on every hand. + There are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle; + And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red; + There are emerald stars, and their tails they wriggle, + And ghastly they glare on the face of the dead. + But the worst of all are the stars of whiteness, + That spill in a pool of pearly flame, + Pretty as gems in their silver brightness, + And etching a man for a bullet's aim. + + Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger, + Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark, + In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger, + When the moon is decently hiding. Hark! + What was that? Was it just the shiver + Of an eerie wind or a clammy hand? + The rustle of grass, or the passing quiver + Of one of the ghosts of No Man's Land? + + It's only at night when the ghosts awaken, + And gibber and whisper horrible things; + For to every foot of this God-forsaken + Zone of jeopard some horror clings. + Ugh! What was that? It felt like a jelly, + That flattish mound in the noisome grass; + You three big rats running free of its belly, + Out of my way and let me pass! + + But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder; + The trench lights gleam and the rockets play. + That flood of magnificent orange yonder + Is a battery blazing miles away. + With a rush and a singing a great shell passes; + The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl, + And here I crouch in the dew-drenched grasses, + And look and listen and love it all. + + God! What a life! But I must make haste now, + Before the shadow of night be spent. + It's little the time there is to waste now, + If I'd do the job for which I was sent. + My bombs are right and my clippers ready, + And I wriggle out to the chosen place, + When I hear a rustle . . . Steady! . . . Steady! + Who am I staring slap in the face? + + There in the dark I can hear him breathing, + A foot away, and as still as death; + And my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething, + And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his breath. + Then: "Will you surrender?" I whisper hoarsely, + For it's death, swift death to utter a cry. + "English schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely. + "Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I. + + So we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestle + There in the gutter of No Man's Land; + And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle, + And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand. + And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him tighter: + "Now," I say, "I can kill you fine; + But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter! + Have you any children?" He answers: "Nein." + + <i>NINE!</i> Well, I cannot kill such a father, + So I tie his hands and I leave him there. + Do I finish my little job? Well, rather; + And I get home safe with some light to spare. + Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty, + Doing the same old song and dance; + But oh! with the night—joy, glory, beauty: + Over the parapet—Life, Romance! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Ballad of Soulful Sam + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line, + Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine; + Out there where the bombs are bustin', + and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam— + Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell you of Soulful Sam. + + Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 'ad some mates as was wus; + He 'adn't C. B. on his programme, he never was known to cuss. + For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word; + But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn't he just a bird! + + He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present, + And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant, + I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I've been impressed + By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest. + + For I—and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word conveys! + 'Ave been—let me whisper it 'oarsely—a gambler 'alf of me days; + A gambler, you 'ear—a gambler. It makes me wishful to weep, + And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren!—I'd rather gamble than sleep. + + I've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine; + From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain. + Cards! They 'ave been me ruin. They've taken me pride and me pelf, + And when I'd no one to play with—why, I'd go and I'd play by meself. + + And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy deck, + And 'e'd say: "You're bound to Perdition," + And I'd answer: "Git off me neck!" + And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan, + Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man. + + But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness! The battle-front! + The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt! + Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm, + When I 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is Soulful Sam. + + Yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame, + 'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the same. + And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons attacked, + He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a tract. + + Then a star-shell flared, and I read it: Oh, Flee From the Wrath to Come! + Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you're 'earin' the bullets 'um. + And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits of lead + Comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner. . . . Dead? + + No, siree! not by a long sight! For it plugged 'im 'ard on the chest, + Just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is vest. + On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it caved + A 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys—but the life o' me pal was saved. + + And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was chokin' me breath, + On came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death; + On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest, + And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, + and it wolloped me bang on the breast. + + Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys. Why am I sittin' 'ere + Gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer? + With a throat as dry as a—oh, thanky! I don't much mind if I do. + Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my particular brew. + + Yes, that was a terrible moment. It 'ammered me 'ard o'er the 'eart; + It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the gore to start; + And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife, + Me wretched past like a pitchur—the sins of a gambler's life. + + For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom; + I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb; + I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim; + I'd only—a deck of cards, boys, but . . . <i>IT SEEMED TO DO JUST THE SAME.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Only a Boche + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie; + For what's the use of risking one's skin for a <i>TYKE</i> that's going to die? + What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire, + When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, + and all messed up on the wire? + + However, I say, we brought him in. <i>DIABLE!</i> The mud was bad; + The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had! + And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan; + And how we were wet with blood and with sweat! + but we carried him in like our own. + + Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance, + And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, + and remarks, "He hasn't a chance." + And we squat and smoke at our game of bridge + on the glistening, straw-packed floor, + And above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore. + + For the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim, + And the mean light falls on the cold clay walls + and our faces bristly and grim; + And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play, + And you'd never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away. + As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath, + You'd never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death. + + Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; I rise and I stretch a bit; + The fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette's unlit, + So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there, + And his face is white in the shabby light, and I stand at his feet and stare. + Stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be, + The dying Boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me. + + It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that. + It's just as if I were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat, + Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue, + With one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through; + Lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down, + And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown. + + And confound him, too! He wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring, + And around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string, + A locket hangs with a woman's face, and I turn it about to see: + Just as I thought . . . on the other side the faces of children three; + Clustered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls, + With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls. + "Zut!" I say. "He has beaten me; for me, I have only two," + And I push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue. + + Oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of God, + Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod; + Oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn't that I mind, + It isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's the anguish he leaves behind. + For his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain, + And the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again. + + So here I am at my cards once more, but it's kind of spoiling my play, + Thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away. + War is war, and he's only a Boche, and we all of us take our chance; + But all the same I'll be mighty glad when I'm hearing the ambulance. + One foe the less, but all the same I'm heartily glad I'm not + The man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot. + + No trumps you make it, I think you said? You'll pardon me if I err; + For a moment I thought of other things . . . + <i>MON DIEU! QUELLE VACHE DE GUERRE.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Pilgrims + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For oh, when the war will be over + We'll go and we'll look for our dead; + We'll go when the bee's on the clover, + And the plume of the poppy is red: + We'll go when the year's at its gayest, + When meadows are laughing with flow'rs; + And there where the crosses are greyest, + We'll seek for the cross that is ours. + + For they cry to us: 'Friends, we are lonely, + A-weary the night and the day; + But come in the blossom-time only, + Come when our graves will be gay: + When daffodils all are a-blowing, + And larks are a-thrilling the skies, + Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing, + And the joy of the Spring in your eyes. + + 'But never, oh, never come sighing, + For ours was the Splendid Release; + And oh, but 'twas joy in the dying + To know we were winning you Peace! + So come when the valleys are sheening, + And fledged with the promise of grain; + And here where our graves will be greening, + Just smile and be happy again.' + + And so, when the war will be over, + We'll seek for the Wonderful One; + And maiden will look for her lover, + And mother will look for her son; + And there will be end to our grieving, + And gladness will gleam over loss, + As—glory beyond all believing! + We point . . . to a name on a cross. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + My Prisoner + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; + Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we; + Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was, + Fightin' fierce as fire because + It was 'im or me as must be downed; + 'E was twice as big as me; + I was 'arf the weight of 'e; + We was like a terryer and a 'ound. + + 'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke. + Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke. + Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf! + Why, it fairly made me laugh, + 'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound. + Couldn't fight for monkey nuts. + Soon I gets 'im in the guts, + There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground. + + In I goes to finish up the job. + Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob; + Speakin' English good as me: + "'Tain't no use to kill," says 'e; + "Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?" + "Why, I'd like to, sir," says I; + "But—yer knows the reason why: + If we pokes our noses out we're dead. + + "Sorry, sir. Then on the other 'and + (As a gent like you must understand), + If I 'olds you longer 'ere, + Wiv yer pals so werry near, + It's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin; + If I lets yer go away, + Why, you'll fight another day: + See the sitooation I am in. + + "Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do, + Bein' kind and seein' as it's you, + Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel + Of a 'alf a yard o' steel, + I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead; + Now, jist think yerself in luck. . . . + 'Ere, ol' man! You keep 'em stuck, + Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead." + + 'Ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile! + 'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while! + Then 'e says: "It seems a shyme, + Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme: + Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer gods. + Whereas, pardon me, I'm sure + You, my friend, are still obscure. . . ." + "In war," says I, "that makes no blurry odds." + + Then says 'e: "I've painted picters too. . . . + Oh, dear God! The work I planned to do, + And to think this is the end!" + "'Ere," says I, "my hartist friend, + Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs. + Picters, statoos, is that why + You should be let off to die? + That the best ye done? Just say yer prayers." + + Once again 'e seems ter think awhile. + Then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile: + "Why, no, sir, it's not the best; + There's a locket next me breast, + Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue. + That's the best I've done," says 'e. + "That's me darter, aged three. . . ." + "Blimy!" says I, "I've a nipper, too." + + Straight I chucks my rifle to one side; + Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride + Me own little Mary Jane. + Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine, + And we talks as friendly as can be; + Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way, + 'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day, + Wonders—<i>'OW WOULD 'E 'AVE TREATED ME?</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Tri-colour + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>POPPIES,</i> you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; + Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood. + It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat; + It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood; + It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries + With scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade. + See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies, + And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . Oh God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid! + + <i>CORNFLOWERS,</i> you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain; + Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes? + Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain, + All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies. + Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat. + See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white! + Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . . + Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, Thy night! + + <i>LILIES</i> (the light is waning), only lilies you say, + Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves. + No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day: + It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves. + Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown. + Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss. . . . + Darkness . . . but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . . + God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win—<i>MY CROSS.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A Pot of Tea + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam; + You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear; + You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam; + The very breath of it is ripe with cheer. + You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot; + You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot; + It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot: + God bless the man that first discovered Tea! + + Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day, + I think I've drunk enough to float a barge; + All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay, + To rum they serves you out before a charge. + In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham; + I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam; + But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam: + God bless the man that first invented Tea! + + I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel + Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong; + I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell + Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong. + Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too; + And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do, + To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew + (For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea). + To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew, + As we drink the giddy victory in Tea. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Revelation + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut; + Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut; + Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train: + Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?</i> + + We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen; + They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men. + We're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew; + But when we go back to our Sissy jobs,—oh, what are we going to do? + + For shoulders curved with the counter stoop will be carried erect and square; + And faces white from the office light will be bronzed by the open air; + And we'll walk with the stride of a new-born pride, + with a new-found joy in our eyes, + Scornful men who have diced with death under the naked skies. + + And when we get back to the dreary grind, and the bald-headed boss's call, + Don't you think that the dingy window-blind, and the dingier office wall, + Will suddenly melt to a vision of space, of violent, flame-scarred night? + Then . . . oh, the joy of the danger-thrill, and oh, the roar of the fight! + + Don't you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away, + And again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire's misty grey? + As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't you fancy we'll hear instead + The night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that's overhead? + + Don't you guess that the things we're seeing now + will haunt us through all the years; + Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears; + Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey + To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day? + + Oh, we're booked for the Great Adventure now, + we're pledged to the Real Romance; + We'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old France; + We'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the best that we have we'll give; + We'll hunger and thirst; we'll die . . . but first— + we'll live; by the gods, we'll live! + + We'll breathe free air and we'll bivouac under the starry sky; + We'll march with men and we'll fight with men, + and we'll see men laugh and die; + We'll know such joy as we never dreamed; we'll fathom the deeps of pain: + But the hardest bit of it all will be—when we come back home again. + + <i>For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, + and some of us teach in a school; + Some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool; + The merits of somebody's soap or jam some of us seek to explain, + But all of us wonder what we'll do when we have to go back again.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Grand-père + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + And so when he reached my bed + The General made a stand: + "My brave young fellow," he said, + "I would shake your hand." + + So I lifted my arm, the right, + With never a hand at all; + Only a stump, a sight + Fit to appal. + + "Well, well. Now that's too bad! + That's sorrowful luck," he said; + "But there! You give me, my lad, + The left instead." + + So from under the blanket's rim + I raised and showed him the other, + A snag as ugly and grim + As its ugly brother. + + He looked at each jagged wrist; + He looked, but he did not speak; + And then he bent down and kissed + Me on either cheek. + + You wonder now I don't mind + I hadn't a hand to offer. . . . + They tell me (you know I'm blind) + <i>'TWAS GRAND-PEÈRE JOFFRE.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Son + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky! + And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I. + For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live; + And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to give. + + Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim! + With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him. + For look! How the leaves are falling now, + and the winter won't be long. . . . + Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song! + + How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam, + And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend, + on the beautiful river of Dream. + Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay + Could I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey. + + For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me; + And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee; + A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!" + Ah me! If he called from the ends of the earth + I know that my heart would hear. + + . . . . . + + Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain: + how worthier could he die? + Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I. + For Peace must be bought with blood and tears, + and the boys of our hearts must pay; + And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day. + + And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head, + And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead. + And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still, + So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be Thy Will!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Black Dudeen + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Humping it here in the dug-out, + Sucking me black dudeen, + I'd like to say in a general way, + There's nothing like Nickyteen; + There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys, + Be it pipes or snipes or cigars; + So be sure that a bloke + Has plenty to smoke, + If you wants him to fight your wars.</i> + + When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug, + I begin to think of my baccy plug. + I whittle a fill in my horny palm, + And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram. + I trim the edges, I tamp it down, + I nurse a light with an anxious frown; + I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in, + And all my face is a blissful grin; + And up in a cloud the good smoke goes, + And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows; + In its throat it chuckles a cheery song, + For I likes it hot and I likes it strong. + Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow, + But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow. + + There was Micky and me on a night patrol, + Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole; + And sure I thought I was worse than dead + Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head. + Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot, + Hammer and tongs till the air was hot. + And mind you, water up to your knees. + And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze. + And if we ventured our noses out + A "typewriter" clattered its pills about. + The field of glory! Well, I don't think! + I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink. + + Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad, + He always was having ill-luck, poor lad. + Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through; + Death and me 'as a wrongday voo. + But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag?— + I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag." + And there he shivered and cussed his luck, + So I gave him me old black pipe to suck. + And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it + Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit; + Like an infant takes to his mother's breast, + Poor little Micky! he went to rest. + + But the dawn was near, though the night was black, + So I left him there and I started back. + And I laughed as the silly old bullets came, + For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name. + Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near, + And one little blighter just chipped me ear. + But there! I got to the trench all right, + When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright, + And a word that doesn't look well in type: + <i>I'D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE.</i> + + So I had to do it all over again, + Crawling out on that filthy plain. + Through shells and bombs and bullets and all— + Only this time—I do not crawl. + I run like a man wot's missing a train, + Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain. + I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun + Tickle my heels, but I run, I run. + + Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame, + (Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!) + I run like a man that's no ideer + Of hunting around for a sooveneer. + I run bang into a German chap, + And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map. + And just to show him that I'm his boss, + I gives him a kick on the parados. + And I marches him back with me all serene, + With, <i>TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN.</i> + + <i>Sitting here in the trenches + Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen, + For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, + But it smashes me old dudeen. + God blast that red-headed sniper! + I'll give him somethin' to snipe; + Before the war's through + Just see how I do + That blighter that smashed me pipe.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Little Piou-piou + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + * The French "Tommy". +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, + And some of us slinked in the slum; + But now we are here with a song and a cheer + To serve at the sign of the drum. + They put us in trousers of scarlet, + In big sloppy ulsters of blue; + In boots that are flat, a box of a hat, + And they call us the little piou-piou, + Piou-piou, + The laughing and quaffing piou-piou, + The swinging and singing piou-piou; + And so with a rattle we march to the battle, + The weary but cheery piou-piou. + + <i>Encore un petit verre de vin, + Pour nous mettre en route; + Encore un petit verre de vin + Pour nous mettre en train.</i> + + They drive us head-on for the slaughter; + We haven't got much of a chance; + The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad + To battle and die for La France. + For some must be killed, that is certain; + There's only one's duty to do; + So we leap to the fray in the glorious way + They expect of the little piou-piou. + En avant! + The way of the gallant piou-piou, + The dashing and smashing piou-piou; + The way grim and gory that leads us to glory + Is the way of the little piou-piou. + + <i>Allons, enfants de la Patrie, + Le jour de gloire est arrivé.</i> + + To-day you would scarce recognise us, + Such veterans war-wise are we; + So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, + So "crummy", yet gay as can be. + We've finished with trousers of scarlet, + They're giving us breeches of blue, + With a helmet instead of a cap on our head, + Yet still we're the little piou-piou. + Nous les aurons! + The jesting, unresting piou-piou; + The cheering, unfearing piou-piou; + The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil; + The dying, defying piou-piou. + + <i>À la bayonette! Jusqu'à la mort! + Sonnez la charge, clairons!</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Bill the Bomber + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist; + The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist; + And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame; + 'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came. + 'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink, + For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think. + So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream + Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream; + But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke: + "Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke. + + We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead; + But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead, + Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound, + And it's odd—we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground. + And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew, + How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through; + So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin, + And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in. + And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run, + A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one." + + Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm, + For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am. + I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because + I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was. + We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer; + Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near; + And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew, + And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two." + + I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see, + And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me. + And I'd lost me 'at and rifle—but I told you that before, + So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more. + But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet, + And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set, + And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, + And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead; + When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee, + And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three." + + So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that, + And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at; + And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said: + "If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead." + And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs—that was the 'ardest blow, + To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe. + And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad, + And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad. + And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again, + Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain. + + Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, + And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got, + I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out + Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out; + And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at; + And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat; + And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, + Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad. + For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere + This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear. + + Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain, + So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; + And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, + And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . . + And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; + And now they're all excited like, but—I am drawin' near; + And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . . + Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game. + And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', + And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame. + + Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, + And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole. + And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell, + And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell. + And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive; + We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five. + And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay, + For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away". +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Whistle of Sandy McGraw + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, + Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', + But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine + The wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. + Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?" + And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad; + Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun', + And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad. + Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert, + And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame; + And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert + O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. + For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt + You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw, + And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt, + For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw. + + . . . . . + + At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank + We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale, + Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank + And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail: + Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke; + Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout, + When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke + The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out. + 'The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the fray + We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw, + And oh we fair revelled in glory that day, + Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw. + + . . . . . + + At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht, + On the field o' the slain I wis crawlin' aboot; + And the rockets were burnin' red holes in the nicht; + And the guns they were veciously thunderin' oot; + When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh, + And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw: + "Whit ails ye, ma lad? Are ye woundit?" says I. + "I've lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy McGraw. + "'Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack, + It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawn + There isna much time so I'm jist crawlin' back. . . ." + "Ye're daft, man!" I telt him, but Sandy wis gone. + + Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot masel, + And the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' around, + And I seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell, + And Creation wis crackin' tae bits by the sound. + And I says in ma mind: "Gang ye back, ye auld fule!" + When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma'; + And there in a crater, collected and cool, + Wi' his wee penny whistle wis Sandy McGraw. + Ay, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be, + And listenin' hard wis a spectacled Boche; + Then Sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae me, + And he says: "Dinna blab on me, Sergeant McTosh. + The auld chap is deein'. He likes me tae play. + It's makin' him happy. Jist see his een shine!" + And thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the fray + Wee Sandy wis playin' 'The Watch on the Rhine'. + + . . . . . + + The last scene o' a'—'twas the day that we took + That bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell. + It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook, + And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell. + And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand, + And hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs, + When upward we shot at the word o' command, + And the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor lugs. + And onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer, + And a' wis destruction, confusion and din, + And we knew that the trench o' the Boches wis near, + And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in. + So we a' tumbled doon, and the Boches were there, + And they held up their hands, and they yelled: "Kamarad!" + And I merched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms in the air, + And my! I wis prood-like, and my! I wis glad. + And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . . + When sudden I sobered at somethin' I saw, + And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma men, + For there on a stretcher wis Sandy McGraw. + + Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please: + "Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he; + "But noo I can play in the street for bawbees, + Wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee." + And though I could see he wis rackit wi' pain, + He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play; + And quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain: + 'The floors o' the forest are a' wede away'. + Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grand + Hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid: + "I'll—no—play—nae—mair——" feebly doon frae his hand + Slipped the wee penny whistle and—<i>SANDY WIS DEID.</i> + + . . . . . + + And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads, + Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw; + But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads, + Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Stretcher-Bearer + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My stretcher is one scarlet stain, + And as I tries to scrape it clean, + I tell you wot—I'm sick with pain + For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; + Around me is the 'ellish night, + And as the war's red rim I trace, + I wonder if in 'Eaven's height, + Our God don't turn away 'Is Face. + + I don't care 'oose the Crime may be; + I 'olds no brief for kin or clan; + I 'ymns no 'ate: I only see + As man destroys his brother man; + I waves no flag: I only know, + As 'ere beside the dead I wait, + A million 'earts is weighed with woe, + A million 'omes is desolate. + + In drippin' darkness, far and near, + All night I've sought them woeful ones. + Dawn shudders up and still I 'ear + The crimson chorus of the guns. + Look! like a ball of blood the sun + 'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . . + "Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!" + <i>O PRINCE OF PEACE! 'OW LONG, 'OW LONG?</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Wounded + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, + With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, + I did my decent job and earned my pay; + Was averagely happy, I'll be bound. + Ay, in my little groove I was content, + Seeing my life run smoothly to the end, + With prosy days in stolid labour spent, + And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend. + In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam, + A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs; + When presto! like a bubble goes my dream: + I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds. + I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore: + I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store. + + Stranger than any book I've ever read. + Here on the reeking battlefield I lie, + Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead, + Like too, if no one takes me in, to die. + Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall; + Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit; + But calm, and feeling never pain at all, + And full of wonder at the turn of it. + For of the dead around me three are mine, + Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight; + So if I die I have no right to whine, + I feel I've done my little bit all right. + I don't know how—but there the beggars are, + As dead as herrings pickled in a jar. + + And here am I, worse wounded than I thought; + For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings; + You never heed; the air is metal-hot, + And all alive with little flicking wings. + <i>BUT ON YOU CHARGE.</i> You see the fellows fall; + Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad; + You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all; + You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad. + <i>BUT ON YOU CHARGE.</i> The heavens vomit death; + And vicious death is besoming the ground. + You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath, + And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound. + <i>BUT ON YOU CHARGE.</i> Oh, War's a rousing game! + Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower; + The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame, + And on your helmet stones and ashes shower. + <i>BUT ON YOU CHARGE.</i> It's odd! You have no fear. + Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path; + Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear; + The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath. + <i>BUT ON YOU CHARGE.</i> Barbed wire all trampled down. + The ground all gored and rent as by a blast; + Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown; + A ragged ditch—the Hun first line at last. + All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead, + <i>SO ON YOU CHARGE.</i> There's nothing else to do. + More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead; + (Your puttee strap's undone—that worries you). + You glare around. You think you're all alone. + But no; your chums come surging left and right. + The nearest chap flops down without a groan, + His face still snarling with the rage of fight. + Ha! here's the second trench—just like the first, + Only a little more so, more "laid out"; + More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst; + A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt. + Now for the third, and there your job is done, + <i>SO ON YOU CHARGE.</i> You never stop to think. + Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run; + You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink. + The acrid air is full of cracking whips. + You wonder how it is you're going still. + You foam with rage. Oh, God! to be at grips + With someone you can rush and crush and kill. + Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; + You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now. + See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, + And there's the trench—you'll get there anyhow. + Your puttee catches on a strand of wire, + And down you go; perhaps it saves your life, + For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, + Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife. + You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge + With all your comrades roaring at your heels. + <i>HAVE AT 'EM, LADS!</i> You stab, you jab, you lunge; + A blaze of glory, then the red world reels. + A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . . + That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it. . . . + + Well, that's the charge. And now I'm here alone. + I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun, + To shield me from the leaden bees that drone + (It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none). + The only thing I'm wondering is when + Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way? + It isn't much that's left of me, but then + Where life is, hope is, so at least they say. + Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad. + I tell you I won't envy any king. + I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad; + I've had my crowning hour. Oh, War's the thing! + It gives us common, working chaps our chance, + A taste of glory, chivalry, romance. + + Ay, War, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too. + It lets a man discover what he's worth. + It takes his measure, shows what he can do, + Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth. + It fans in him a flame that otherwise + Would flicker out, these drab, discordant days; + It teaches him in pain and sacrifice + Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise. + Yes, War is good. So here beside my slain, + A happy wreck I wait amid the din; + For even if I perish mine's the gain. . . . + Hi, there, you fellows! WON'T you take me in? + Give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . . + We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say! + Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin. . . . + Lead on! I'll live to fight another day. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Faith + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Since all that is was ever bound to be; + Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind; + And both the riddle and the answer find, + And both the carnage and the calm decree; + Since plain within the Book of Destiny + Is written all the journey of mankind + Inexorably to the end; since blind + And mortal puppets playing parts are we: + + Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill; + The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife; + Then let's bow down before the Unknown Will; + Fight on, believing all is well with life; + Seeing within the worst of War's red rage + The gleam, the glory of the Golden Age. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Coward + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day? + 'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say; + Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away, + If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr. + 'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons; + 'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns, + And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'Uns + Afore 'e went off to the war. + + Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is by-by clothes; + Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes; + 'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little nose + Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore. + And now all the papers 'is praises ring, + And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the King + And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing, + Where they're patchin' 'im up once more. + + And 'e says: "Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer Ann?" + And I says: "Well, I can't make it out, old man; + You'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began, + When you was a bit of a kid." + And 'e whispers: "'Ere, on the quiet, Liz, + They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz, + And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz, + But . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did. + + "Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says: 'Look 'ere! + They're far too quiet out there: it's queer. + They're up to somethin'—'oo'll volunteer + To crawl in the dark and see?' + Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go, + And up jumps a chap and 'e says: 'Right O!' + But I chips in straight, and I says 'Oh no! + 'E's a missis and kids—take me.' + + "And the next I knew I was sneakin' out, + And the oozy corpses was all about, + And I felt so scared I wanted to shout, + And me skin fair prickled wiv fear; + And I sez: 'You coward! You 'ad no right + To take on the job of a man this night,' + Yet still I kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!) + The trench of the 'Uns was near. + + "It was all so dark, it was all so still; + Yet somethin' pushed me against me will; + 'Ow I wanted to turn! Yet I crawled until + I was seein' a dim light shine. + Then thinks I: 'I'll just go a little bit, + And see wot the doose I can make of it,' + And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit: + 'Christmas!' sez I, 'a <i>MINE.'</i> + + "Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain: + I wanted to make for 'ome again, + But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain, + So I crawled to the trench instead; + Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un, + And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun, + And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one, + And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead. + + "Then all the 'Uns that was underground, + Comes up with a rush and on with a bound, + And I swings that giddy old Maxim round + And belts 'em solid and square. + You see I was off me chump wiv fear: + 'If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, 'it's dear.' + And the trench was narrow and they was near, + So I peppered the brutes for fair. + + "So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled wiv fright, + And the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight, + And we 'captured a section o' trench' that night + Which we didn't expect to get; + And they found me there with me Maxim gun, + And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one, + And I fainted away when the thing was done, + And I 'aven't got over it yet." + + So that's the 'istory Bill told me. + Of course it's all on the strict Q. T.; + It wouldn't do to get out, you see, + As 'e hacted against 'is will. + But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might, + And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight— + Say! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right? + Wot's the matter with Bill! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Missis Moriarty's Boy + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she: + "Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now— + it's the fortunate woman you are; + You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, + but me Patsy boy where is he? + Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr. + Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, + wid his hair all curly and bright, + And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away, + Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height: + Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day." + + And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door, + Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay; + And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more, + But she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away. + And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed, + Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat; + Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she was + wid her Patsy slaughtered and dead? + Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty? I'm not so sure about that. + + Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face; + Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, + and the eyes of her mother-mild; + Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case, + Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell + she'd be losin' her only child. + And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind, + And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three: + Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind— + Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me? +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + My Foe + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks:— +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>GURR!</i> You 'cochon'! Stand and fight! + Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! + Spawn of an accursed race, + Turn and meet me face to face! + Here amid the wreck and rout + Let us grip and have it out! + Here where ruins rock and reel + Let us settle, steel to steel! + Look! Our houses, how they spit + Sparks from brands your friends have lit. + See! Our gutters running red, + Bright with blood your friends have shed. + Hark! Amid your drunken brawl + How our maidens shriek and call. + Why have <i>YOU</i> come here alone, + To this hearth's blood-spattered stone? + Come to ravish, come to loot, + Come to play the ghoulish brute. + Ah, indeed! We well are met, + Bayonet to bayonet. + God! I never killed a man: + Now I'll do the best I can. + Rip you to the evil heart, + Laugh to see the life-blood start. + Bah! You swine! I hate you so. + Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . . + + There! I've done it. See! He lies + Death a-staring from his eyes; + Glazing eyeballs, panting breath, + How it's horrible, is Death! + Plucking at his bloody lips + With his trembling finger-tips; + Choking in a dreadful way + As if he would something say + In that uncouth tongue of his. . . . + Oh, how horrible Death is! + + How I wish that he would die! + So unnerved, unmanned am I. + See! His twitching face is white! + See! His bubbling blood is bright. + Why do I not shout with glee? + What strange spell is over me? + There he lies; the fight was fair; + Let me toss my cap in air. + Why am I so silent? Why + Do I pray for him to die? + Where is all my vengeful joy? + Ugh! <i>MY FOE IS BUT A BOY.</i> + + I'd a brother of his age + Perished in the war's red rage; + Perished in the Ypres hell: + Oh, I loved my brother well. + And though I be hard and grim, + How it makes me think of him! + He had just such flaxen hair + As the lad that's lying there. + Just such frank blue eyes were his. . . . + God! How horrible war is! + + I have reason to be gay: + There is one less foe to slay. + I have reason to be glad: + Yet—my foe is such a lad. + So I watch in dull amaze, + See his dying eyes a-glaze, + See his face grow glorified, + See his hands outstretched and wide + To that bit of ruined wall + Where the flames have ceased to crawl, + Where amid the crumbling bricks + Hangs <i>A BLACKENED CRUCIFIX.</i> + + Now, oh now I understand. + Quick I press it in his hand, + Close his feeble finger-tips, + Hold it to his faltering lips. + As I watch his welling blood + I would stem it if I could. + God of Pity, let him live! + God of Love, forgive, forgive. + + . . . . . + + His face looked strangely, as he died, + Like that of One they crucified. + And in the pocket of his coat + I found a letter; thus he wrote: + 'The things I've seen! Oh, mother dear, + I'm wondering can God be here? + To-night amid the drunken brawl + I saw a Cross hung on a wall; + I'll seek it now, and there alone + Perhaps I may atone, atone. . . .' + + Ah no! 'Tis I who must atone. + No other saw but God alone; + Yet how can I forget the sight + Of that face so woeful white! + Dead I kissed him as he lay, + Knelt by him and tried to pray; + Left him lying there at rest, + Crucifix upon his breast. + + Not for him the pity be. + Ye who pity, pity me, + Crawling now the ways I trod, + Blood-guilty in sight of God. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + My Job + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh; + At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to go and do it; + I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye, + And I 'opes the God of soldier men will see me safely through it. + Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never done before; + And till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin'; + The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any more: + At seven by the Captain's watch my little job is . . . <i>DYIN'.</i> + + I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin it now. + I ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "Dearest Mother, + I've been in many 'ot old 'do's'; I've scraped through safe some'ow, + But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' another. + A little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers. + They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it seems a trifle dicky. + If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears, + And so . . . I 'opes this finds you well.—Your werry lovin' Micky." + + I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there. + I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me. + I've seen so much of bloody death I don't seem for to care, + If I can only even up, how soon the blighters get me. + I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed; + I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin'; + I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to make instead . . . + It's seven sharp. Good-bye, old pals! . . . <i>A DECENT JOB IN DYIN'.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Song of the Pacifist + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead? + Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed? + By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted? + + If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe; + Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so: + By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow! + + If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright; + That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height; + That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right; + + If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear, + By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . . + Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer. + + Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land: + When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand; + And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand. + + Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release + The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace, + And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, + we clamour that War shall cease. + + Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain; + When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane: + Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain. + + When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be; + When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea + In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . <i>THAT WILL BE VICTORY.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Twins + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + There were two brothers, John and James, + And when the town went up in flames, + To save the house of James dashed John, + Then turned, and lo! his own was gone. + + And when the great World War began, + To volunteer John promptly ran; + And while he learned live bombs to lob, + James stayed at home and—sneaked his job. + + John came home with a missing limb; + That didn't seem to worry him; + But oh, it set his brain awhirl + To find that James had—sneaked his girl! + + Time passed. John tried his grief to drown; + To-day James owns one-half the town; + His army contracts riches yield; + And John? Well, <i>SEARCH THE POTTER'S FIELD.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Song of the Soldier-born + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; + Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; + Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant.</i> + + Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion; + A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration; + A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion. + + For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying: + The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying; + The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying. + + So let me go and leave your safety behind me; + Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me; + Go till the word is War—and then you will find me. + + Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me; + Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . . + And when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me. + + For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry; + With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry; + You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry. + + You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking; + You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking; + You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking. + + Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters, + And a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . . + There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters. + + There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for; + There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for; + There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for. + + Ah no! it's my dream that War will never be ended; + That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid; + That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended. + + That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story; + That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary, + I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory. + + <i>So give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting; + Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting; + Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting.</i> +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Afternoon Tea + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea; + Cows weren't allowed in the trenches—got out of the habit, y'see.) + As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten: + "Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em." + And he sprang to the head of the men. + Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, + and he fell on his face with a slam. . . . + Oh, he died like a true British soldier, + and the last word he uttered was "Damn!" + And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain, + And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain. + 'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea); + I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free. + Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws, + Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was. + So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own, + And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone; + With the bullets and shells ding-donging, + and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap; + And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . + (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap? + Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash; + We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash. + My fellows—Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell, + Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags,—nothing much left to tell: + A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live; + Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve. + The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show, + And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe. + So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again, + Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain. + Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank, + And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank." + He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes, + As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums. + So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats; + Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats. + 'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range, + With someone you <i>SAW</i> to go for—it made an agreeable change. + And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt, + And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt". + + Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran, + On to the second line trenches,—that's where the fun began. + For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about, + And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out. + Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?" + And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair; + And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot! + (I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?) + My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten; + So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men, + And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, + but we cornered the rotters all right; + I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight. + But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things: + The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things, + So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must. + We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet thrust; + And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now; + And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row; + And my chaps—well, I just couldn't hold 'em; + (It's strange how it is with gore; + In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.) + Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they <i>COULDN'T</i> be calmed, + So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-damned. + Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all; + The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal. + Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head, + And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red. + I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too, + Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do". + As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea, + I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me; + I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right, + And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight. + And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then: + They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men. + And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive— + So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five; + And four of 'em threw up their flippers, + but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game, + And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same. + A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell, + So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell. + And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that Hun; + He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done. + So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt, + And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt". + And now, by Jove! how I've bored you. You've just let me babble away; + Let's talk of the things that <i>MATTER</i>—your car or the newest play. . . . +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + The Mourners + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I look into the aching womb of night; + I look across the mist that masks the dead; + The moon is tired and gives but little light, + The stars have gone to bed. + + The earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain; + A lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree; + I do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain, + The dead I do not see. + + The slain I <i>WOULD</i> not see . . . and so I lift + My eyes from out the shambles where they lie; + When lo! a million woman-faces drift + Like pale leaves through the sky. + + The cheeks of some are channelled deep with tears; + But some are tearless, with wild eyes that stare + Into the shadow of the coming years + Of fathomless despair. + + And some are young, and some are very old; + And some are rich, some poor beyond belief; + Yet all are strangely like, set in the mould + Of everlasting grief. + + They fill the vast of Heaven, face on face; + And then I see one weeping with the rest, + Whose eyes beseech me for a moment's space. . . . + Oh eyes I love the best! + + Nay, I but dream. The sky is all forlorn, + And there's the plain of battle writhing red: + God pity them, the women-folk who mourn! + How happy are the dead! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + L'Envoi + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready, + My word-battalions marching verse by verse; + Here stanza-companies are none too steady; + There print-platoons are weak, but might be worse. + And as in marshalled order I review them, + My type-brigades, unfearful of the fray, + My eyes that seek their faults are seeing through them + Immortal visions of an epic day. + + It seems I'm in a giant bowling-alley; + The hidden heavies round me crash and thud; + A spire snaps like a pipe-stem in the valley; + The rising sun is like a ball of blood. + Along the road the "fantassins" are pouring, + And some are gay as fire, and some steel-stern. . . . + Then back again I see the red tide pouring, + Along the reeking road from Hebuterne. + + And once again I seek Hill Sixty-Seven, + The Hun lines grey and peaceful in my sight; + When suddenly the rosy air is riven— + A "coal-box" blots the "boyou" on my right. + Or else to evil Carnoy I am stealing, + Past sentinels who hail with bated breath; + Where not a cigarette spark's dim revealing + May hint our mission in that zone of death. + + I see across the shrapnel-seeded meadows + The jagged rubble-heap of La Boiselle; + Blood-guilty Fricourt brooding in the shadows, + And Thiepval's chateau empty as a shell. + Down Albert's riven streets the moon is leering; + The Hanging Virgin takes its bitter ray; + And all the road from Hamel I am hearing + The silver rage of bugles over Bray. + + Once more within the sky's deep sapphire hollow + I sight a swimming Taube, a fairy thing; + I watch the angry shell flame flash and follow + In feather puffs that flick a tilted wing; + And then it fades, with shrapnel mirror's flashing; + The flashes bloom to blossoms lily gold; + The batteries are rancorously crashing, + And life is just as full as it can hold. + + Oh spacious days of glory and of grieving! + Oh sounding hours of lustre and of loss! + Let us be glad we lived you, still believing + The God who gave the cannon gave the Cross. + Let us be sure amid these seething passions, + The lusts of blood and hate our souls abhor: + The Power that Order out of Chaos fashions + Smites fiercest in the wrath-red forge of War. . . . + Have faith! Fight on! Amid the battle-hell + Love triumphs, Freedom beacons, all is well. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + About the Author + </h2> + <p> + Robert William Service was born 16 January 1874 in Preston, England, but + also lived in Scotland before emigrating to Canada in 1894. Service went + to the Yukon Territory in 1904 as a bank clerk, and became famous for his + poems about this region, which are mostly in his first two books of + poetry. He wrote quite a bit of prose as well, and worked as a reporter + for some time, but those writings are not nearly as well known as his + poems. He travelled around the world quite a bit, and died 11 September + 1958 in France. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Service's Books of Poetry: + + The Spell of the Yukon (1907) a.k.a. Songs of a Sourdough + Ballads of a Cheechako (1909) + Rhymes of a Rolling Stone (1912) + Rhymes of a Red Cross Man (1916) + Ballads of a Bohemian (1921) + Bar-Room Ballads (1940) + The Complete Poems (1947?) [This is simply a compilation + of the six books.] +</pre> + <p> + [Note: A Sourdough is an old-timer, while a Cheechako is a newbie.] + </p> + <p> + A few other books by Robert W. Service: + </p> + <p> + The Trail of '98—A Northland Romance (1910) + </p> + <p> + Ploughman of the Moon (1945) | A two-volume + </p> + <p> + Harper of Heaven (1948) | autobiography. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, by Robert W. Service + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN *** + +***** This file should be named 315-h.htm or 315-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/315/ + +Produced by A. 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Service + +Posting Date: July 10, 2008 [EBook #315] +Release Date: August, 1995 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN *** + + + + +Produced by A. Light + + + + + +RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN + +by Robert W. Service + +[British-born Canadian Poet--1874-1958.] + + +Author of "The Spell of the Yukon", "Ballads of a Cheechako", +"Rhymes of a Rolling Stone", etc. + + +[This etext has been transcribed from a New York edition of 1916. +Some very minor corrections have been made.] + + + + | | + --+---------------------------+-- + | To the Memory of | + | My Brother, | + | LIEUTENANT ALBERT SERVICE | + | Canadian Infantry | + | Killed in Action, France | + | August, 1916. | + --+---------------------------+-- + | | + + + + + +Contents + + Foreword + The Call + The Fool + The Volunteer + The Convalescent + The Man from Athabaska + The Red Retreat + The Haggis of Private McPhee + The Lark + The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins + A Song of Winter Weather + Tipperary Days + Fleurette + Funk + Our Hero + My Mate + Milking Time + Young Fellow My Lad + A Song of the Sandbags + On the Wire + Bill's Grave + Jean Desprez + Going Home + Cocotte + My Bay'nit + Carry On! + Over the Parapet + The Ballad of Soulful Sam + Only a Boche + Pilgrims + My Prisoner + Tri-colour + A Pot of Tea + The Revelation + Grand-pere + Son + The Black Dudeen + The Little Piou-piou + Bill the Bomber + The Whistle of Sandy McGraw + The Stretcher-Bearer + Wounded + Faith + The Coward + Missis Moriarty's Boy + My Foe + My Job + The Song of the Pacifist + The Twins + The Song of the Soldier-born + Afternoon Tea + The Mourners + L'Envoi + + + + + +Foreword + + + + I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes + In weary, woeful, waiting times; + In doleful hours of battle-din, + Ere yet they brought the wounded in; + Through vigils of the fateful night, + In lousy barns by candle-light; + In dug-outs, sagging and aflood, + On stretchers stiff and bleared with blood; + By ragged grove, by ruined road, + By hearths accurst where Love abode; + By broken altars, blackened shrines + I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes. + + I've solaced me with scraps of song + The desolated ways along: + Through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown, + And meadows reaped by death alone; + By blazing cross and splintered spire, + By headless Virgin in the mire; + By gardens gashed amid their bloom, + By gutted grave, by shattered tomb; + Beside the dying and the dead, + Where rocket green and rocket red, + In trembling pools of poising light, + With flowers of flame festoon the night. + Ah me! by what dark ways of wrong + I've cheered my heart with scraps of song. + + So here's my sheaf of war-won verse, + And some is bad, and some is worse. + And if at times I curse a bit, + You needn't read that part of it; + For through it all like horror runs + The red resentment of the guns. + And you yourself would mutter when + You took the things that once were men, + And sped them through that zone of hate + To where the dripping surgeons wait; + And wonder too if in God's sight + War ever, ever can be right. + + Yet may it not be, crime and war + But effort misdirected are? + And if there's good in war and crime, + There may be in my bits of rhyme, + My songs from out the slaughter mill: + So take or leave them as you will. + + + + +The Call + + (France, August first, 1914) + + + + Far and near, high and clear, + Hark to the call of War! + Over the gorse and the golden dells, + Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells, + Praying and saying of wild farewells: + War! War! War! + + High and low, all must go: + Hark to the shout of War! + Leave to the women the harvest yield; + Gird ye, men, for the sinister field; + A sabre instead of a scythe to wield: + War! Red War! + + Rich and poor, lord and boor, + Hark to the blast of War! + Tinker and tailor and millionaire, + Actor in triumph and priest in prayer, + Comrades now in the hell out there, + Sweep to the fire of War! + + Prince and page, sot and sage, + Hark to the roar of War! + Poet, professor and circus clown, + Chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town, + Into the pot and be melted down: + Into the pot of War! + + Women all, hear the call, + The pitiless call of War! + Look your last on your dearest ones, + Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons: + Swift they go to the ravenous guns, + The gluttonous guns of War. + + Everywhere thrill the air + The maniac bells of War. + There will be little of sleeping to-night; + There will be wailing and weeping to-night; + Death's red sickle is reaping to-night: + War! War! War! + + + + +The Fool + + + + "But it isn't playing the game," he said, + And he slammed his books away; + "The Latin and Greek I've got in my head + Will do for a duller day." + "Rubbish!" I cried; "The bugle's call + Isn't for lads from school." + D'ye think he'd listen? Oh, not at all: + So I called him a fool, a fool. + + Now there's his dog by his empty bed, + And the flute he used to play, + And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he's dead, + Somewhere in France, they say: + Dick with his rapture of song and sun, + Dick of the yellow hair, + Dicky whose life had but begun, + Carrion-cold out there. + + Look at his prizes all in a row: + Surely a hint of fame. + Now he's finished with,--nothing to show: + Doesn't it seem a shame? + Look from the window! All you see + Was to be his one day: + Forest and furrow, lawn and lea, + And he goes and chucks it away. + + Chucks it away to die in the dark: + Somebody saw him fall, + Part of him mud, part of him blood, + The rest of him--not at all. + And yet I'll bet he was never afraid, + And he went as the best of 'em go, + For his hand was clenched on his broken blade, + And his face was turned to the foe. + + And I called him a fool . . . oh how blind was I! + And the cup of my grief's abrim. + Will Glory o' England ever die + So long as we've lads like him? + So long as we've fond and fearless fools, + Who, spurning fortune and fame, + Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools, + Just bent on playing the game. + + A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise. + His was the proudest part. + He died with the glory of faith in his eyes, + And the glory of love in his heart. + And though there's never a grave to tell, + Nor a cross to mark his fall, + Thank God! we know that he "batted well" + In the last great Game of all. + + + + +The Volunteer + + + + Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call. + I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks. + Go, let 'em plaster every blighted wall, + 'Ere's _ONE_ they don't stampede into the ranks. + Them politicians with their greasy ways; + Them empire-grabbers--fight for 'em? No fear! + I've seen this mess a-comin' from the days + Of Algyserious and Aggydear: + I've felt me passion rise and swell, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + + Sez I: My Country? Mine? I likes their cheek. + Me mud-bespattered by the cars they drive, + Wot makes my measly thirty bob a week, + And sweats red blood to keep meself alive! + Fight for the right to slave that they may spend, + Them in their mansions, me 'ere in my slum? + No, let 'em fight wot's something to defend: + But me, I've nothin'--let the Kaiser come. + And so I cusses 'ard and well, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + + Sez I: If they would do the decent thing, + And shield the missis and the little 'uns, + Why, even _I_ might shout "God save the King", + And face the chances of them 'ungry guns. + But we've got three, another on the way; + It's that wot makes me snarl and set me jor: + The wife and nippers, wot of 'em, I say, + If I gets knocked out in this blasted war? + Gets proper busted by a shell, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + + Ay, wot the 'ell's the use of all this talk? + To-day some boys in blue was passin' me, + And some of 'em they 'ad no legs to walk, + And some of 'em they 'ad no eyes to see. + And--well, I couldn't look 'em in the face, + And so I'm goin', goin' to declare + I'm under forty-one and take me place + To face the music with the bunch out there. + A fool, you say! Maybe you're right. + I'll 'ave no peace unless I fight. + I've ceased to think; I only know + I've gotta go, Bill, gotta go. + + + + +The Convalescent + + + + . . . So I walked among the willows very quietly all night; + There was no moon at all, at all; no timid star alight; + There was no light at all, at all; I wint from tree to tree, + And I called him as his mother called, but he nivver answered me. + + Oh I called him all the night-time, as I walked the wood alone; + And I listened and I listened, but I nivver heard a moan; + Then I found him at the dawnin', when the sorry sky was red: + I was lookin' for the livin', but I only found the dead. + + Sure I know that it was Shamus by the silver cross he wore; + But the bugles they were callin', and I heard the cannon roar. + Oh I had no time to tarry, so I said a little prayer, + And I clasped his hands together, and I left him lyin' there. + + Now the birds are singin', singin', and I'm home in Donegal, + And it's Springtime, and I'm thinkin' that I only dreamed it all; + I dreamed about that evil wood, all crowded with its dead, + Where I knelt beside me brother when the battle-dawn was red. + + Where I prayed beside me brother ere I wint to fight anew: + Such dreams as these are evil dreams; I can't believe it's true. + Where all is love and laughter, sure it's hard to think of loss . . . + But mother's sayin' nothin', and she clasps--_A SILVER CROSS_. + + + + +The Man from Athabaska + + + + Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming + Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree; + And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming + Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me; + 'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea. + + And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder, + For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar; + Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder, + And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War; + 'Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are. + + Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying, + And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do? + Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying, + As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe: + Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view. + + Says the factor: "Mike, you're crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty. + You're as grizzled as a badger, and you're sixty year or so." + "But I haven't missed a scrap," says I, "since I was one and twenty. + And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers--no!" + So I sold my furs and started . . . and that's eighteen months ago. + + For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter + In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away; + And the partner on my right hand was an 'apache' from Montmartre; + On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U. S. A. + (Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.) + + But I'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago, + And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and 'blagues' me all the day. + I'm their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago, + And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away. + Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say. + + And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming + In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea, + Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing; + And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be: + Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me! + + And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle, + Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore; + And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle, + And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more; + While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar. + + And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling, + And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track; + And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling, + And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac; + And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back. + + So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring, + And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe; + And I yarn of fur and feather when the 'marmites' are a-soaring, + And they listen to my stories, seven 'poilus' in a row, + Seven lean and lousy 'poilus' with their cigarettes aglow. + + And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike for Athabaska; + And those seven greasy 'poilus' they are crazy to go too. + And I'll give the wife the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I'll ask her + The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo, + And I'll get my traps in order, and I'll start to work anew. + + For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen a nation scattered, + And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore, + And a city all a-smoulder, and . . . as if it really mattered, + For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore; + And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly, + And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave it nevermore. + + + + +The Red Retreat + + + _Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers + (I've 'ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin' feet); + Tramp, tramp, the dim road--we didn't 'ave no pipers, + And bellies that was 'oller was the drums we 'ad to beat. + Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits o' kiddies cryin' there, + The fell birds a-flyin' there, the 'ouses all aflame; + Tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals I left a-lyin' there, + Red there, and dead there. . . . Oh blimy, it's a shame!_ + + A-singin' "'Oo's Yer Lady Friend?" we started out from 'Arver, + A-singin' till our froats was dry--we didn't care a 'ang; + The Frenchies 'ow they lined the way, and slung us their palaver, + And all we knowed to arnser was the one word "vang"; + They gave us booze and caporal, and cheered for us like crazy, + And all the pretty gels was out to kiss us as we passed; + And 'ow they all went dotty when we 'owled the Marcelaisey! + Oh, Gawd! Them was the 'appy days, the days too good to last. + + We started out for God Knows Where, we started out a-roarin'; + We 'ollered: "'Ere We Are Again", and 'struth! but we was dry. + The dust was gummin' up our ears, and 'ow the sweat was pourin'; + The road was long, the sun was like a brazier in the sky. + We wondered where the 'Uns was--we wasn't long a-wonderin', + For down a scruff of 'ill-side they rushes like a flood; + Then oh! 'twas music 'eavenly, our batteries a-thunderin', + And arms and legs went soarin' in the fountain of their blood. + + For on they came like bee-swarms, a-hochin' and a-singin'; + We pumped the bullets into 'em, we couldn't miss a shot. + But though we mowed 'em down like grass, like grass was they a-springin', + And all our 'ands was blistered, for our rifles was so 'ot. + We roared with battle-fury, and we lammed the stuffin' out of 'em, + And then we fixed our bay'nets and we spitted 'em like meat. + You should 'ave 'eard the beggars squeal; + you should 'ave seen the rout of 'em, + And 'ow we cussed and wondered when the word came: Retreat! + + Retreat! That was the 'ell of it. It fair upset our 'abits, + A-runnin' from them blighters over 'alf the roads of France; + A-scurryin' before 'em like a lot of blurry rabbits, + And knowin' we could smash 'em if we just 'ad 'alf a chance. + Retreat! That was the bitter bit, a-limpin' and a-blunderin'; + All day and night a-hoofin' it and sleepin' on our feet; + A-fightin' rear guard actions for a bit o' rest, and wonderin' + If sugar beets or mangels was the 'olesomest to eat. + + Ho yus, there isn't many left that started out so cheerily; + There was no bands a-playin' and we 'ad no autmobeels. + Our tummies they was 'oller, and our 'eads was 'angin' wearily, + And if we stopped to light a fag the 'Uns was on our 'eels. + That rotten road! I can't forget the kids and mothers flyin' there, + The bits of barns a-blazin' and the 'orrid sights I sor; + The stiffs that lined the wayside, me own pals a-lyin' there, + Their faces covered over wiv a little 'eap of stror. + + _Tramp, tramp, the red road, the wicked bullets 'ummin' + (I've panted out this ditty with me 'ot 'ard breath.) + Tramp, tramp, the dread road, the Boches all a-comin', + The lootin' and the shootin' and the shrieks o' death. + Tramp, tramp, the fell road, the mad 'orde pursuin' there, + And 'ow we 'urled it back again, them grim, grey waves; + Tramp, tramp, the 'ell road, the 'orror and the ruin there, + The graves of me mateys there, the grim, sour graves._ + + + + +The Haggis of Private McPhee + + + + "Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me? + It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee. + "And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun, + As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun. + "A haggis! A _HAGGIS!_" says Private McPhee; + "The brawest big haggis I ever did see. + And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns + Tae haggis and whuskey--the Birthday o' Burns. + We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest + O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best." + + "Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole; + "I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol." + Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun: + "I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done." + Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee: + "I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree." + But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair: + "Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare; + And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun', + We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon. + Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black, + O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back." + + My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land, + And the deid they were rottin' on every hand. + And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky, + And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by. + There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells, + And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells; + But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole + Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol. + For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem + Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them. + + Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer + Calamity's aften maist cruelly near. + And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine + The Boches below them were howkin' a mine. + And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae, + The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away. + Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom, + A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb. + + "Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun. + "Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done. + It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee; + Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee. + "Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun; + "And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run, + It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see: + I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me." + Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid: + "If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid. + And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content + If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent." + "That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind. + Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind; + And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot-- + It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got." + For a while they were silent; then up once again + Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain: + "And why should we miss it? Between you and me + We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see. + You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht, + And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht." + + Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee, + When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee. + Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun', + When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun. + "Keep clear o' them corpses--they're maybe no deid! + Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid. + Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup. + A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup. + Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine: + Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine." + + There wis death and destruction on every hand; + There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land. + And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare, + And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air. + Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun + When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'. + And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot, + And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot. + "On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal; + I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole." + + But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun, + Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'. + Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear: + "Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here. + It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air; + It's steamin' for us, and we're--jist--aboot--there." + Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap! + For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap." + And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain, + And onward he staggers in passion and pain. + And the flare and the glare and the fury increase, + Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease. + And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight, + And someone is shoutin' away on their right; + And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear + A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer; + And swift through the crash and the flash and the din, + The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in. + + "They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll + Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole. + When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair, + And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair. + And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot, + And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot, + When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell, + And it--_DRAPPED ON THE HAGGIS AND DINGED IT TAE HELL._" + + And oh but the lads were fair taken aback; + Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack, + And up from the trenches like lions they leapt, + And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept. + On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before! + On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar! + And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang, + And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang: + And there wisna a man but had death in his ee, + For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee. + + + + +The Lark + + + + From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, + The guns have brayed without abate; + And now the sick sun looks upon + The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate + As if it loathed to rise again. + How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark! + From yon down-trodden gold of grain, + The leaping rapture of a lark. + + A fusillade of melody, + That sprays us from yon trench of sky; + A new amazing enemy + We cannot silence though we try; + A battery on radiant wings, + That from yon gap of golden fleece + Hurls at us hopes of such strange things + As joy and home and love and peace. + + Pure heart of song! do you not know + That we are making earth a hell? + Or is it that you try to show + Life still is joy and all is well? + Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain + You beat into that bit of blue: + Lo! we who pant in war's red rain + Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too. + + + + +The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins + + + + Me and Ed and a stretcher + Out on the nootral ground. + (If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher + There's a 'undred smellin' around.) + Me and Eddie O'Brian, + Both of the R. A. M. C. + "It's a 'ell of a night + For a soul to take flight," + As Eddie remarks to me. + Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, + Thinkin' our job is done, + When sudden and clear, + Wot do we 'ear: + 'Owl of a wounded 'Un. + + "Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy; + "Got to take all we can. + 'E may be a Germ + Wiv the 'eart of a worm, + But, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?" + So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin' + ('E'd always a medical knack), + When that wounded 'Un + 'E rolls to 'is gun, + And 'e plugs me pal in the back. + + Now what would you do? I arst you. + There was me slaughtered mate. + There was that 'Un + (I'd collered 'is gun), + A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate. + Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper . . . + 'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, + But when I got through, + Between me and you, + It was 'orrid and jaggy and red. + + "'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy. + Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all." + It's slow and it's sure and it's steady + (Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small). + The rockets are shootin' and shinin', + It's rainin' a perishin' flood, + The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', + And I'm up to me stern in the mud. + There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; + It's black as a bucket of tar; + Oh, I'm doin' my bit, + But I'm 'avin' a fit, + And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar. + + "Stick on like a plaster, Eddy. + Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip." + Gord! But I'm crocky already; + My feet, 'ow they slither and slip! + There goes the biff of a bullet. + The Boches have got us for fair. + Another one--_WHUT!_ + The son of a slut! + 'E managed to miss by a 'air. + 'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? + Gave it a dooce of a wrench. + Is it Eddy or me + Wot's a-bleedin' so free? + Crust! but it's long to the trench. + I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, + And Ed ain't a flapper by far; + I'm blamed if I understand 'ow + We've managed to get where we are. + But 'ere's for a bit of a breather. + "Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'. + Old pal, it's all right; + It's a 'ell of a fight, + But are we down-'earted? No-o-o." + + Now war is a funny thing, ain't it? + It's the rummiest sort of a go. + For when it's most real, + It's then that you feel + You're a-watchin' a cinema show. + 'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant. + Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France, + And I'm 'ere in a pit + Where a coal-box 'as 'it, + And it's all like a giddy romance. + The ruddy quick-firers are spittin', + The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, + And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', + And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate. + Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin', + 'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, + And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin', + And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again. + You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': + 'Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?' + 'Stead of sheddin' yer blood + In the rain and the mud, + Which is some'ow the right thing to do; + Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, + Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, + For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty, + And you've been and you've slaughtered a man. + A feller wot punctured your partner; + Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, + And you still see 'is eyes + Starin' bang at the skies, + And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead. + But you wish you was back in your diggin's + Asleep on your mouldy old stror. + Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, + But you ain't just enjoyin' the war." + + "'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy. + It's us for the bomb-belt again. + Except for the shrap + Which 'as 'it me a tap, + I'm feelin' as right as the rain. + It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', + It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, + But don't be oneasy, my pippin, + I'm goin' to pilot you in. + It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'. + The bullets is buzzin' like bees. + Me shoulder's red-'ot, + And I'm bleedin' a lot, + And me legs is on'inged at the knees. + But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer. + Just stick it, old sport, play the game. + I make 'em out clearer and clearer, + Our trenches a-snappin' with flame. + Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer. + 'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try. + Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir! + I'll carry you in if I die. + By cracky! old feller, they've seen us. + They're sendin' out stretchers for two. + Let's give 'em the hoorah between us + ('Anged lucky we aren't booked through). + My flipper is mashed to a jelly. + A bullet 'as tickled your spleen. + We've shed lots of gore + And we're leakin' some more, + But--wot a hoccasion it's been! + Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party. + They're crawlin' out cautious and slow. + Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, + Shoulder to shoulder--so. + They mustn't think we was down-'earted. + Old pal, we was never down-'earted. + If they arsts us if we was down-'earted + We'll 'owl in their fyces: 'No-o-o!'" + + + + +A Song of Winter Weather + + + + It isn't the foe that we fear; + It isn't the bullets that whine; + It isn't the business career + Of a shell, or the bust of a mine; + It isn't the snipers who seek + To nip our young hopes in the bud: + No, it isn't the guns, + And it isn't the Huns-- + It's the MUD, + MUD, + MUD. + + It isn't the melee we mind. + That often is rather good fun. + It isn't the shrapnel we find + Obtrusive when rained by the ton; + It isn't the bounce of the bombs + That gives us a positive pain: + It's the strafing we get + When the weather is wet-- + It's the RAIN, + RAIN, + RAIN. + + It isn't because we lack grit + We shrink from the horrors of war. + We don't mind the battle a bit; + In fact that is what we are for; + It isn't the rum-jars and things + Make us wish we were back in the fold: + It's the fingers that freeze + In the boreal breeze-- + It's the COLD, + COLD, + COLD. + + Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold, + The cold, the mud, and the rain; + With weather at zero it's hard for a hero + From language that's rude to refrain. + With porridgy muck to the knees, + With sky that's a-pouring a flood, + Sure the worst of our foes + Are the pains and the woes + Of the RAIN, + the COLD, + and the MUD. + + + + +Tipperary Days + + + + Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them, + Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare; + Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them, + Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there. + Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them, + On the road, the white road, all the afternoon; + Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them, + Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune: + + _It's a long way to Tipperary, + It's a long way to go; + It's a long way to Tipperary, + And the sweetest girl I know. + Good-bye, Piccadilly, + Farewell, Lester Square: + It's a long, long way to Tipperary, + But my heart's right there._ + + "Come, Yvonne and Juliette! Come, Mimi, and cheer for them! + Throw them flowers and kisses as they pass you by. + Aren't they the lovely lads! Haven't you a tear for them + Going out so gallantly to dare and die? + What is it they're singing so? Some high hymn of Motherland? + Some immortal chanson of their Faith and King? + 'Marseillaise' or 'Brabanc,on', anthem of that other land, + Dears, let us remember it, that song they sing: + + _"C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', + C'est un chemin long, c'est vrai; + C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', + Et la belle fille qu'je connais. + Bonjour, Peekadeely! + Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire! + C'est un chemin long 'to Tepararee', + Mais mon coeur 'ees zaire'."_ + + The gallant old "Contemptibles"! There isn't much remains of them, + So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride; + For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them, + And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died. + And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them, + Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black; + But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them!-- + Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back: + + _It's a long way to Tipperary + (Which means "'ome" anywhere); + It's a long way to Tipperary + (And the things wot make you care). + Good-bye, Piccadilly + ('Ow I 'opes my folks is well); + It's a long, long way to Tipperary-- + ('R! Ain't War just 'ell?)_ + + + + +Fleurette + + (The Wounded Canadian Speaks) + + + + My leg? It's off at the knee. + Do I miss it? Well, some. You see + I've had it since I was born; + And lately a devilish corn. + (I rather chuckle with glee + To think how I've fooled that corn.) + + But I'll hobble around all right. + It isn't that, it's my face. + Oh I know I'm a hideous sight, + Hardly a thing in place; + Sort of gargoyle, you'd say. + Nurse won't give me a glass, + But I see the folks as they pass + Shudder and turn away; + Turn away in distress . . . + Mirror enough, I guess. + + I'm gay! You bet I _am_ gay; + But I wasn't a while ago. + If you'd seen me even to-day, + The darndest picture of woe, + With this Caliban mug of mine, + So ravaged and raw and red, + Turned to the wall--in fine, + Wishing that I was dead. . . . + What has happened since then, + Since I lay with my face to the wall, + The most despairing of men? + Listen! I'll tell you all. + + That 'poilu' across the way, + With the shrapnel wound in his head, + Has a sister: she came to-day + To sit awhile by his bed. + All morning I heard him fret: + "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?" + + Then sudden, a joyous cry; + The tripping of little feet; + The softest, tenderest sigh; + A voice so fresh and sweet; + Clear as a silver bell, + Fresh as the morning dews: + "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel! + Mon frere, comme je suis heureuse!" + + So over the blanket's rim + I raised my terrible face, + And I saw--how I envied him! + A girl of such delicate grace; + Sixteen, all laughter and love; + As gay as a linnet, and yet + As tenderly sweet as a dove; + Half woman, half child--Fleurette. + + Then I turned to the wall again. + (I was awfully blue, you see), + And I thought with a bitter pain: + "Such visions are not for me." + So there like a log I lay, + All hidden, I thought, from view, + When sudden I heard her say: + "Ah! Who is that 'malheureux'?" + Then briefly I heard him tell + (However he came to know) + How I'd smothered a bomb that fell + Into the trench, and so + None of my men were hit, + Though it busted me up a bit. + + Well, I didn't quiver an eye, + And he chattered and there she sat; + And I fancied I heard her sigh-- + But I wouldn't just swear to that. + And maybe she wasn't so bright, + Though she talked in a merry strain, + And I closed my eyes ever so tight, + Yet I saw her ever so plain: + Her dear little tilted nose, + Her delicate, dimpled chin, + Her mouth like a budding rose, + And the glistening pearls within; + Her eyes like the violet: + Such a rare little queen--Fleurette. + + And at last when she rose to go, + The light was a little dim, + And I ventured to peep, and so + I saw her, graceful and slim, + And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh + How I envied and envied him! + + So when she was gone I said + In rather a dreary voice + To him of the opposite bed: + "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! + But me, I'm a thing of dread. + For me nevermore the bliss, + The thrill of a woman's kiss." + + Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, + And a great light shone in her eyes. + And me! I could only stare, + I was taken so by surprise, + When gently she bent her head: + "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said. + + Then she kissed my burning lips + With her mouth like a scented flower, + And I thrilled to the finger-tips, + And I hadn't even the power + To say: "God bless you, dear!" + And I felt such a precious tear + Fall on my withered cheek, + And darn it! I couldn't speak. + + And so she went sadly away, + And I knew that my eyes were wet. + Ah, not to my dying day + Will I forget, forget! + Can you wonder now I am gay? + God bless her, that little Fleurette! + + + + +Funk + + + + When your marrer bone seems 'oller, + And you're glad you ain't no taller, + And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills; + When your skin creeps like a pullet's, + And you're duckin' all the bullets, + And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills; + When your legs seem made of jelly, + And you're squeamish in the belly, + And you want to turn about and do a bunk: + For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it! + Don't let your mateys know it-- + You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk. + + Of course there's no denyin' + That it ain't so easy tryin' + To grin and grip your rifle by the butt, + When the 'ole world rips asunder, + And you sees yer pal go under, + As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut; + I admit it's 'ard contrivin' + When you 'ears the shells arrivin', + To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk; + But, my lad, you've got to do it, + And your God will see you through it, + For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk. + + So stand up, son; look gritty, + And just 'um a lively ditty, + And only be afraid to be afraid; + Just 'old yer rifle steady, + And 'ave yer bay'nit ready, + For that's the way good soldier-men is made. + And if you 'as to die, + As it sometimes 'appens, why, + Far better die a 'ero than a skunk; + A-doin' of yer bit, + And so--to 'ell with it, + There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk. + + + + +Our Hero + + + + "Flowers, only flowers--bring me dainty posies, + Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said; + So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses, + Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed. + Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing; + Soft into his tired eyes came a little light; + Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing; + There amid the flowers waited he the night. + + "I would have you raise me; I can see the West then: + I would see the sun set once before I go." + So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then, + Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow. + So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling, + Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame, + Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling; + So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came. + + "Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing; + There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky. + How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging: + Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die. + I am horror-haunted from the hell they found me; + I am battle-broken, all I want is rest. + Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me, + And a kind lark singing in the golden West. + + "Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting, + Just the happy laughter of a little child." + So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting; + Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled. + "In the golden peace-time you will tell the story + How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours. . . . + God bless little children!" So he passed to glory, + So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs. + + + + +My Mate + + + + I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots, + And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im. + (Look out there, lad! That sniper--'e's a dysey when 'e shoots; + 'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.) + Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead, + To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud; + And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red, + Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot--but it's blood. + + And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals. + 'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me; + And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals, + And even there we 'ad no disagree. + For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best, + I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid; + I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest, + I even stood god-farther to the kid. + + So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?" + "Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im. + 'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go, + ('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim). + Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell, + But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread. + We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle, + And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead. + + Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took? + I've only got meself, 'e stands for three. + I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook; + 'E always _was_ a better man than me. + 'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark, + And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid; + And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark, + When . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid. + + 'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die. + 'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud. + Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky, + And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud. + And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead, + And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand: + The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and _ZIP!_ like that--'e's dead, + Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and. + + There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun, + But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate. + You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done + Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate. + It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim; + Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid, + Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im, + To sorter be a farther to 'is kid. + + + + +Milking Time + + + + There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; + There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; + There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling, + And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain. + For you see I am not really there at all, not at all; + For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall; + And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming + That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol. + + Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here; + And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear; + The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses, + And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear. + And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb, + And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime, + And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing, + And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time. + + Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown; + And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down; + And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow, + And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown. + And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue; + And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too; + And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry + Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you. + + So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me; + And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree; + And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling, + And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be. + And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed? + And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist; + And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying + That Yvonne is long delaying . . . _GOD! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED!_ + + A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh; + That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die; + That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches + Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry. + Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime; + And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime; + And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather + We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . . + (English voice, months later):-- + "_OW BILL! A ROTTIN' FRENCHY. WHEW! 'E AIN'T 'ARF PRIME._" + + + + +Young Fellow My Lad + + + + "Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad, + On this glittering morn of May?" + "I'm going to join the Colours, Dad; + They're looking for men, they say." + "But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad; + You aren't obliged to go." + "I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad, + And ever so strong, you know." + + . . . . . + + "So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad, + And you're looking so fit and bright." + "I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad, + But I feel that I'm doing right." + "God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad, + You're all of my life, you know." + "Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad, + And I'm awfully proud to go." + + . . . . . + + "Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad? + I watch for the post each day; + And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad, + And it's months since you went away. + And I've had the fire in the parlour lit, + And I'm keeping it burning bright + Till my boy comes home; and here I sit + Into the quiet night." + + . . . . . + + "What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad? + No letter again to-day. + Why did the postman look so sad, + And sigh as he turned away? + I hear them tell that we've gained new ground, + But a terrible price we've paid: + God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound; + But oh I'm afraid, afraid." + + . . . . . + + "They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad: + You'll never come back again: + _(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD, + AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!)_ + For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad, + And you proved in the cruel test + Of the screaming shell and the battle hell + That my boy was one of the best. + + "So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad, + In the gleam of the evening star, + In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child, + In all sweet things that are. + And you'll never die, my wonderful boy, + While life is noble and true; + For all our beauty and hope and joy + We will owe to our lads like you." + + + + +A Song of the Sandbags + + + + No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh + (The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss). + And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche, + I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us. + I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me; + And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight; + And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree, + We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right. + + A-standin' up to the sandbags + It's funny the thoughts wot come; + Starin' into the darkness, + 'Earin' the bullets 'um; + _(ZING! ZIP! PING! RIP! + 'ARK 'OW THE BULLETS 'UM!)_ + A-leanin' against the sandbags + Wiv me rifle under me ear, + Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go + Than I used to 'ave in a year. + + I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me + Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for? + 'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree, + If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war. + If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud; + If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell; + If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood: + By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell. + + Shiverin' up to the sandbags, + With a hicicle 'stead of a spine, + Don't it seem funny the things you think + 'Ere in the firin' line: + _(WHEE! WHUT! ZIZ! ZUT! + LORD! 'OW THE BULLETS WHINE!)_ + Hunkerin' down when a star-shell + Cracks in a sputter of light, + You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags + Most any old time o' night. + + They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade, + Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed; + But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made, + Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be damned! + There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight: + That's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name; + And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night. . . . + But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same. + + Starin' over the sandbags, + Sick of the 'ole damn thing; + Firin' to keep meself awake, + 'Earin' the bullets sing. + _(HISS! TWANG! TSING! PANG! + SAUCY THE BULLETS SING.)_ + Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags + Of a day when war will cease, + When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me + Will clink our mugs in fraternity, + And the Brotherhood of Labour will be + The Brotherhood of Peace. + + + + +On the Wire + + + + O God, take the sun from the sky! + It's burning me, scorching me up. + God, can't You hear my cry? + 'Water! A poor, little cup!' + It's laughing, the cursed sun! + See how it swells and swells + Fierce as a hundred hells! + God, will it never have done? + It's searing the flesh on my bones; + It's beating with hammers red + My eyeballs into my head; + It's parching my very moans. + See! It's the size of the sky, + And the sky is a torrent of fire, + Foaming on me as I lie + Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Of the thousands that wheeze and hum + Heedlessly over my head, + Why can't a bullet come, + Pierce to my brain instead, + Blacken forever my brain, + Finish forever my pain? + Here in the hellish glare + Why must I suffer so? + Is it God doesn't care? + Is it God doesn't know? + Oh, to be killed outright, + Clean in the clash of the fight! + That is a golden death, + That is a boon; but this . . . + Drawing an anguished breath + Under a hot abyss, + Under a stooping sky + Of seething, sulphurous fire, + Scorching me up as I lie + Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Hasten, O God, Thy night! + Hide from my eyes the sight + Of the body I stare and see + Shattered so hideously. + I can't believe that it's mine. + My body was white and sweet, + Flawless and fair and fine, + Shapely from head to feet; + Oh no, I can never be + The thing of horror I see + Under the rifle fire, + Trussed on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Of night and of death I dream; + Night that will bring me peace, + Coolness and starry gleam, + Stillness and death's release: + Ages and ages have passed,-- + Lo! it is night at last. + Night! but the guns roar out. + Night! but the hosts attack. + Red and yellow and black + Geysers of doom upspout. + Silver and green and red + Star-shells hover and spread. + Yonder off to the right + Fiercely kindles the fight; + Roaring near and more near, + Thundering now in my ear; + Close to me, close . . . Oh, hark! + Someone moans in the dark. + I hear, but I cannot see, + I hear as the rest retire, + Someone is caught like me, + Caught on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + Again the shuddering dawn, + Weird and wicked and wan; + Again, and I've not yet gone. + The man whom I heard is dead. + Now I can understand: + A bullet hole in his head, + A pistol gripped in his hand. + Well, he knew what to do,-- + Yes, and now I know too. . . . + + Hark the resentful guns! + Oh, how thankful am I + To think my beloved ones + Will never know how I die! + I've suffered more than my share; + I'm shattered beyond repair; + I've fought like a man the fight, + And now I demand the right + (God! how his fingers cling!) + To do without shame this thing. + Good! there's a bullet still; + Now I'm ready to fire; + Blame me, God, if You will, + Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + + + +Bill's Grave + + + + I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill; + I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim wouldn't understand; + 'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill, + To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and. + + For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o' the best; + We 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes; + Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure West, + So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums. + + And they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound, + And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer, + If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round + Like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that's the reason I'm 'ere. + + But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave Jim to know. + 'E'd call me a slobberin' Cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore; + I'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago; + But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war. + + It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth + (Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit); + I'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . Now Jim's o' the salt o' the earth; + But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit. + + I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn. + Won't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three. + Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty? _JIM!_ And as sure as I'm born + 'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me. + + Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me. I watches 'im for a while, + Then I says: "Wot 'o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?" + And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile: + "She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay." + + So 'e goes away in a 'urry, and I wishes 'im best o' luck, + And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim, + When I makes me way to the boneyard, + and . . . I stares like a man wot's stuck, + For wot do I see? _BILL'S GRAVE-MOUND STREWN WITH THE FLOWERS OF JIM._ + + Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad; + And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?" + Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew; but say! won't Bill be glad + When 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and sees + the blossoms of Jim and me? + + + + +Jean Desprez + + + + Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance, + Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France; + A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came, + Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame; + Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may: + Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez. + + With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land, + And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand; + Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss; + The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss. + And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay, + Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez. + + "Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said. + "Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead. + Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day, + For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay." + They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men, + And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten; + Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why, + Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry; + Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood. + A moment only. . . . _READY! FIRE!_ They weltered in their blood. + + But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries, + Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes; + A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh, + He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die." + He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . . + A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell. + + They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame. + With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came. + A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye; + He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie. + "Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried; + "Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified." + + With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there, + And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare; + "Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him, + And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim; + And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet, + The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette. + + But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by, + Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry: + "Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died. . . ." + It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside; + It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim + And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him. + + A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away. + The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay. + His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite: + "Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might. + Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare; + Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there, + And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand + The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand. + And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name, + Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame." + + They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand; + They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. + "Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die." + The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. + And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head: + "Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said. + "Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I; + And I will murmur: _VIVE LA FRANCE!_ and bless you ere I die." + + Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway; + Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez. + He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear; + And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear! + He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow; + O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now! + The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss! + The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this: + This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around; + The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground; + The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame; + That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game. + "Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give; + A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live." + + They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face; + They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; + The glory of a million men who for fair France have died, + The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. + Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . . + "Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat. + "Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said. + Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . _THE PRUSSIAN MAJOR DEAD!_ + + + + +Going Home + + + + I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty--ain't I glad to 'ave the chance! + I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France; + I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance, + For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'. + + I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay? + I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay; + A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way, + For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'. + + 'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front! + I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt; + But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt, + To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'. + + I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red; + I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead; + But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said, + A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin'. + + I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un; + I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun; + But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done, + And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'. + + Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine; + And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine; + But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine: + Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'. + + + + +Cocotte + + + + When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty, + And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home, + Heigh-ho! She's as safe in Paris city + As a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam; + And that was I; oh, it's seven years now + (Some water's run down the Seine since then), + And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now, + And I've almost taken the measure of men. + + Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only, + Artist and poet, and almost a boy. + And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely, + And him I adored with a wonderful joy. + If he'd come to me with his pockets empty, + How we'd have laughed in a garret gay! + But he was rich, and in radiant plenty + We lived in a villa at Viroflay. + + Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me; + Then came the call, and he went away; + All that he had in the world he left me, + With the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay. + Then came the news and the tragic story: + My hero, my splendid lover was dead, + Sword in hand on the field of glory, + And he died with my name on his lips, they said. + + So here am I in my widow's mourning, + The weeds I've really no right to wear; + And women fix me with eyes of scorning, + Call me "cocotte", but I do not care. + And men look at me with eyes that borrow + The brightness of love, but I turn away; + Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow, + In my little villa at Viroflay. + + And lo! I'm living alone with 'Pity', + And they say that pity from love's not far; + Let me tell you all: last week in the city + I took the metro at Saint Lazare; + And the carriage was crowded to overflowing, + And when there entered at Chateaudun + Two wounded 'poilus' with medals showing, + I eagerly gave my seat to one. + + You should have seen them: they'd slipped death's clutches, + But sadder a sight you will rarely find; + One had a leg off and walked on crutches, + The other, a bit of a boy, was blind. + And they both sat down, and the lad was trying + To grope his way as a blind man tries; + And half of the women around were crying, + And some of the men had tears in their eyes. + + How he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging + Just like a child to his crippled chum. + But I did not cry. Oh no; a singing + Came to my heart for a year so dumb, + Then I knew that at three-and-twenty + There is wonderful work to be done, + Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty, + Peace and light and love to be won. + + Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be given + To one who will live in the dark alway! + To love and to serve--'twould make life Heaven + Here in my villa at Viroflay. + So I left my 'poilus': and now you wonder + Why to-day I am so elate. . . . + Look! In the glory of sunshine yonder + They're bringing my blind boy in at the gate. + + + + +My Bay'nit + + + + When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nit + And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore; + But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it, + So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war. + For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours truly + Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime, + 'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly + Part of me outfit every time. + + Left, right, Hans and Fritz! + Goose step, keep up yer mits! + Oh my, Ain't it a shyme! + Part of me outfit every time. + + At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy; + I've used it to open a bully beef can; + For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy; + For any old thing but for stickin' a man. + 'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you + Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime," + And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you! + Part of me outfit every time. + + Lor, yus; _DON'T_ they look glad? + Right O! 'Owl Kamerad! + Oh my, always the syme! + Part of me outfit every time. + + I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit, + Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France; + I'm fairly down-'earted--'ow _CAN_ yer explain it? + I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance. + As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders, + Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb; + And I uses me bay'nit--to slit their suspenders-- + Part of me outfit every time. + + Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag! + 'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag! + Oh my, ain't it a gyme! + Part of me outfit every time. + + + + +Carry On! + + + + It's easy to fight when everything's right, + And you're mad with the thrill and the glory; + It's easy to cheer when victory's near, + And wallow in fields that are gory. + It's a different song when everything's wrong, + When you're feeling infernally mortal; + When it's ten against one, and hope there is none, + Buck up, little soldier, and chortle: + + Carry on! Carry on! + There isn't much punch in your blow. + You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind; + You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind. + Carry on! Carry on! + You haven't the ghost of a show. + It's looking like death, but while you've a breath, + Carry on, my son! Carry on! + + And so in the strife of the battle of life + It's easy to fight when you're winning; + It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave, + When the dawn of success is beginning. + But the man who can meet despair and defeat + With a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing; + The man who can fight to Heaven's own height + Is the man who can fight when he's losing. + + Carry on! Carry on! + Things never were looming so black. + But show that you haven't a cowardly streak, + And though you're unlucky you never are weak. + Carry on! Carry on! + Brace up for another attack. + It's looking like hell, but--you never can tell: + Carry on, old man! Carry on! + + There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt, + And some who in brutishness wallow; + There are others, I know, who in piety go + Because of a Heaven to follow. + But to labour with zest, and to give of your best, + For the sweetness and joy of the giving; + To help folks along with a hand and a song; + Why, there's the real sunshine of living. + + Carry on! Carry on! + Fight the good fight and true; + Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer; + There's big work to do, and that's why you are here. + Carry on! Carry on! + Let the world be the better for you; + And at last when you die, let this be your cry: + _CARRY ON, MY SOUL! CARRY ON!_ + + + + +Over the Parapet + + + + All day long when the shells sail over + I stand at the sandbags and take my chance; + But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover, + And over the parapet gleams Romance. + Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed it, writing + Dreary old records of money and mart, + Me with my head chuckful of fighting + And the blood of vikings to thrill my heart. + + But little I thought that my time was coming, + Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon; + And here I am with the bullets humming + As I crawl and I curse the light of the moon. + Out alone, for adventure thirsting, + Out in mysterious No Man's Land; + Prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting, + Flares on the horrors on every hand. + There are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle; + And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red; + There are emerald stars, and their tails they wriggle, + And ghastly they glare on the face of the dead. + But the worst of all are the stars of whiteness, + That spill in a pool of pearly flame, + Pretty as gems in their silver brightness, + And etching a man for a bullet's aim. + + Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger, + Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark, + In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger, + When the moon is decently hiding. Hark! + What was that? Was it just the shiver + Of an eerie wind or a clammy hand? + The rustle of grass, or the passing quiver + Of one of the ghosts of No Man's Land? + + It's only at night when the ghosts awaken, + And gibber and whisper horrible things; + For to every foot of this God-forsaken + Zone of jeopard some horror clings. + Ugh! What was that? It felt like a jelly, + That flattish mound in the noisome grass; + You three big rats running free of its belly, + Out of my way and let me pass! + + But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder; + The trench lights gleam and the rockets play. + That flood of magnificent orange yonder + Is a battery blazing miles away. + With a rush and a singing a great shell passes; + The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl, + And here I crouch in the dew-drenched grasses, + And look and listen and love it all. + + God! What a life! But I must make haste now, + Before the shadow of night be spent. + It's little the time there is to waste now, + If I'd do the job for which I was sent. + My bombs are right and my clippers ready, + And I wriggle out to the chosen place, + When I hear a rustle . . . Steady! . . . Steady! + Who am I staring slap in the face? + + There in the dark I can hear him breathing, + A foot away, and as still as death; + And my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething, + And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his breath. + Then: "Will you surrender?" I whisper hoarsely, + For it's death, swift death to utter a cry. + "English schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely. + "Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I. + + So we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestle + There in the gutter of No Man's Land; + And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle, + And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand. + And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him tighter: + "Now," I say, "I can kill you fine; + But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter! + Have you any children?" He answers: "Nein." + + _NINE!_ Well, I cannot kill such a father, + So I tie his hands and I leave him there. + Do I finish my little job? Well, rather; + And I get home safe with some light to spare. + Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty, + Doing the same old song and dance; + But oh! with the night--joy, glory, beauty: + Over the parapet--Life, Romance! + + + + +The Ballad of Soulful Sam + + + + You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line, + Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine; + Out there where the bombs are bustin', + and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam-- + Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell you of Soulful Sam. + + Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 'ad some mates as was wus; + He 'adn't C. B. on his programme, he never was known to cuss. + For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word; + But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn't he just a bird! + + He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present, + And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant, + I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I've been impressed + By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest. + + For I--and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word conveys! + 'Ave been--let me whisper it 'oarsely--a gambler 'alf of me days; + A gambler, you 'ear--a gambler. It makes me wishful to weep, + And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren!--I'd rather gamble than sleep. + + I've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine; + From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain. + Cards! They 'ave been me ruin. They've taken me pride and me pelf, + And when I'd no one to play with--why, I'd go and I'd play by meself. + + And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy deck, + And 'e'd say: "You're bound to Perdition," + And I'd answer: "Git off me neck!" + And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan, + Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man. + + But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness! The battle-front! + The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt! + Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm, + When I 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is Soulful Sam. + + Yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame, + 'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the same. + And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons attacked, + He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a tract. + + Then a star-shell flared, and I read it: Oh, Flee From the Wrath to Come! + Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you're 'earin' the bullets 'um. + And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits of lead + Comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner. . . . Dead? + + No, siree! not by a long sight! For it plugged 'im 'ard on the chest, + Just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is vest. + On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it caved + A 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys--but the life o' me pal was saved. + + And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was chokin' me breath, + On came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death; + On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest, + And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, + and it wolloped me bang on the breast. + + Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys. Why am I sittin' 'ere + Gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer? + With a throat as dry as a--oh, thanky! I don't much mind if I do. + Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my particular brew. + + Yes, that was a terrible moment. It 'ammered me 'ard o'er the 'eart; + It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the gore to start; + And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife, + Me wretched past like a pitchur--the sins of a gambler's life. + + For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom; + I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb; + I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim; + I'd only--a deck of cards, boys, but . . . _IT SEEMED TO DO JUST THE SAME._ + + + + +Only a Boche + + + + We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie; + For what's the use of risking one's skin for a _TYKE_ that's going to die? + What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire, + When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, + and all messed up on the wire? + + However, I say, we brought him in. _DIABLE!_ The mud was bad; + The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had! + And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan; + And how we were wet with blood and with sweat! + but we carried him in like our own. + + Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance, + And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, + and remarks, "He hasn't a chance." + And we squat and smoke at our game of bridge + on the glistening, straw-packed floor, + And above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore. + + For the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim, + And the mean light falls on the cold clay walls + and our faces bristly and grim; + And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play, + And you'd never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away. + As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath, + You'd never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death. + + Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; I rise and I stretch a bit; + The fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette's unlit, + So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there, + And his face is white in the shabby light, and I stand at his feet and stare. + Stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be, + The dying Boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me. + + It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that. + It's just as if I were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat, + Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue, + With one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through; + Lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down, + And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown. + + And confound him, too! He wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring, + And around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string, + A locket hangs with a woman's face, and I turn it about to see: + Just as I thought . . . on the other side the faces of children three; + Clustered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls, + With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls. + "Zut!" I say. "He has beaten me; for me, I have only two," + And I push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue. + + Oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of God, + Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod; + Oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn't that I mind, + It isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's the anguish he leaves behind. + For his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain, + And the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again. + + So here I am at my cards once more, but it's kind of spoiling my play, + Thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away. + War is war, and he's only a Boche, and we all of us take our chance; + But all the same I'll be mighty glad when I'm hearing the ambulance. + One foe the less, but all the same I'm heartily glad I'm not + The man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot. + + No trumps you make it, I think you said? You'll pardon me if I err; + For a moment I thought of other things . . . + _MON DIEU! QUELLE VACHE DE GUERRE._ + + + + +Pilgrims + + + + For oh, when the war will be over + We'll go and we'll look for our dead; + We'll go when the bee's on the clover, + And the plume of the poppy is red: + We'll go when the year's at its gayest, + When meadows are laughing with flow'rs; + And there where the crosses are greyest, + We'll seek for the cross that is ours. + + For they cry to us: 'Friends, we are lonely, + A-weary the night and the day; + But come in the blossom-time only, + Come when our graves will be gay: + When daffodils all are a-blowing, + And larks are a-thrilling the skies, + Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing, + And the joy of the Spring in your eyes. + + 'But never, oh, never come sighing, + For ours was the Splendid Release; + And oh, but 'twas joy in the dying + To know we were winning you Peace! + So come when the valleys are sheening, + And fledged with the promise of grain; + And here where our graves will be greening, + Just smile and be happy again.' + + And so, when the war will be over, + We'll seek for the Wonderful One; + And maiden will look for her lover, + And mother will look for her son; + And there will be end to our grieving, + And gladness will gleam over loss, + As--glory beyond all believing! + We point . . . to a name on a cross. + + + + +My Prisoner + + + + We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; + Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we; + Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was, + Fightin' fierce as fire because + It was 'im or me as must be downed; + 'E was twice as big as me; + I was 'arf the weight of 'e; + We was like a terryer and a 'ound. + + 'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke. + Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke. + Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf! + Why, it fairly made me laugh, + 'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound. + Couldn't fight for monkey nuts. + Soon I gets 'im in the guts, + There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground. + + In I goes to finish up the job. + Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob; + Speakin' English good as me: + "'Tain't no use to kill," says 'e; + "Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?" + "Why, I'd like to, sir," says I; + "But--yer knows the reason why: + If we pokes our noses out we're dead. + + "Sorry, sir. Then on the other 'and + (As a gent like you must understand), + If I 'olds you longer 'ere, + Wiv yer pals so werry near, + It's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin; + If I lets yer go away, + Why, you'll fight another day: + See the sitooation I am in. + + "Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do, + Bein' kind and seein' as it's you, + Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel + Of a 'alf a yard o' steel, + I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead; + Now, jist think yerself in luck. . . . + 'Ere, ol' man! You keep 'em stuck, + Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead." + + 'Ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile! + 'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while! + Then 'e says: "It seems a shyme, + Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme: + Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer gods. + Whereas, pardon me, I'm sure + You, my friend, are still obscure. . . ." + "In war," says I, "that makes no blurry odds." + + Then says 'e: "I've painted picters too. . . . + Oh, dear God! The work I planned to do, + And to think this is the end!" + "'Ere," says I, "my hartist friend, + Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs. + Picters, statoos, is that why + You should be let off to die? + That the best ye done? Just say yer prayers." + + Once again 'e seems ter think awhile. + Then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile: + "Why, no, sir, it's not the best; + There's a locket next me breast, + Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue. + That's the best I've done," says 'e. + "That's me darter, aged three. . . ." + "Blimy!" says I, "I've a nipper, too." + + Straight I chucks my rifle to one side; + Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride + Me own little Mary Jane. + Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine, + And we talks as friendly as can be; + Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way, + 'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day, + Wonders--_'OW WOULD 'E 'AVE TREATED ME?_ + + + + +Tri-colour + + + + _POPPIES,_ you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; + Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood. + It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat; + It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood; + It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries + With scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade. + See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies, + And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . Oh God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid! + + _CORNFLOWERS,_ you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain; + Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes? + Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain, + All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies. + Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat. + See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white! + Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . . + Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, Thy night! + + _LILIES_ (the light is waning), only lilies you say, + Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves. + No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day: + It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves. + Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown. + Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss. . . . + Darkness . . . but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . . + God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win--_MY CROSS._ + + + + +A Pot of Tea + + + + You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam; + You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear; + You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam; + The very breath of it is ripe with cheer. + You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot; + You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot; + It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot: + God bless the man that first discovered Tea! + + Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day, + I think I've drunk enough to float a barge; + All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay, + To rum they serves you out before a charge. + In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham; + I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam; + But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam: + God bless the man that first invented Tea! + + I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel + Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong; + I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell + Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong. + Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too; + And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do, + To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew + (For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea). + To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew, + As we drink the giddy victory in Tea. + + + + +The Revelation + + + + _The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut; + Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut; + Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train: + Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again?_ + + We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen; + They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men. + We're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew; + But when we go back to our Sissy jobs,--oh, what are we going to do? + + For shoulders curved with the counter stoop will be carried erect and square; + And faces white from the office light will be bronzed by the open air; + And we'll walk with the stride of a new-born pride, + with a new-found joy in our eyes, + Scornful men who have diced with death under the naked skies. + + And when we get back to the dreary grind, and the bald-headed boss's call, + Don't you think that the dingy window-blind, and the dingier office wall, + Will suddenly melt to a vision of space, of violent, flame-scarred night? + Then . . . oh, the joy of the danger-thrill, and oh, the roar of the fight! + + Don't you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away, + And again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire's misty grey? + As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't you fancy we'll hear instead + The night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that's overhead? + + Don't you guess that the things we're seeing now + will haunt us through all the years; + Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears; + Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey + To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day? + + Oh, we're booked for the Great Adventure now, + we're pledged to the Real Romance; + We'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old France; + We'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the best that we have we'll give; + We'll hunger and thirst; we'll die . . . but first-- + we'll live; by the gods, we'll live! + + We'll breathe free air and we'll bivouac under the starry sky; + We'll march with men and we'll fight with men, + and we'll see men laugh and die; + We'll know such joy as we never dreamed; we'll fathom the deeps of pain: + But the hardest bit of it all will be--when we come back home again. + + _For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, + and some of us teach in a school; + Some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool; + The merits of somebody's soap or jam some of us seek to explain, + But all of us wonder what we'll do when we have to go back again._ + + + + +Grand-pere + + + + And so when he reached my bed + The General made a stand: + "My brave young fellow," he said, + "I would shake your hand." + + So I lifted my arm, the right, + With never a hand at all; + Only a stump, a sight + Fit to appal. + + "Well, well. Now that's too bad! + That's sorrowful luck," he said; + "But there! You give me, my lad, + The left instead." + + So from under the blanket's rim + I raised and showed him the other, + A snag as ugly and grim + As its ugly brother. + + He looked at each jagged wrist; + He looked, but he did not speak; + And then he bent down and kissed + Me on either cheek. + + You wonder now I don't mind + I hadn't a hand to offer. . . . + They tell me (you know I'm blind) + _'TWAS GRAND-PEERE JOFFRE._ + + + + +Son + + + + He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky! + And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I. + For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live; + And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to give. + + Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim! + With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him. + For look! How the leaves are falling now, + and the winter won't be long. . . . + Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song! + + How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam, + And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend, + on the beautiful river of Dream. + Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay + Could I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey. + + For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me; + And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee; + A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!" + Ah me! If he called from the ends of the earth + I know that my heart would hear. + + . . . . . + + Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain: + how worthier could he die? + Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I. + For Peace must be bought with blood and tears, + and the boys of our hearts must pay; + And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day. + + And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head, + And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead. + And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still, + So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be Thy Will!" + + + + +The Black Dudeen + + + + _Humping it here in the dug-out, + Sucking me black dudeen, + I'd like to say in a general way, + There's nothing like Nickyteen; + There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys, + Be it pipes or snipes or cigars; + So be sure that a bloke + Has plenty to smoke, + If you wants him to fight your wars._ + + When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug, + I begin to think of my baccy plug. + I whittle a fill in my horny palm, + And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram. + I trim the edges, I tamp it down, + I nurse a light with an anxious frown; + I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in, + And all my face is a blissful grin; + And up in a cloud the good smoke goes, + And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows; + In its throat it chuckles a cheery song, + For I likes it hot and I likes it strong. + Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow, + But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow. + + There was Micky and me on a night patrol, + Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole; + And sure I thought I was worse than dead + Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head. + Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot, + Hammer and tongs till the air was hot. + And mind you, water up to your knees. + And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze. + And if we ventured our noses out + A "typewriter" clattered its pills about. + The field of glory! Well, I don't think! + I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink. + + Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad, + He always was having ill-luck, poor lad. + Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through; + Death and me 'as a wrongday voo. + But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag?-- + I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag." + And there he shivered and cussed his luck, + So I gave him me old black pipe to suck. + And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it + Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit; + Like an infant takes to his mother's breast, + Poor little Micky! he went to rest. + + But the dawn was near, though the night was black, + So I left him there and I started back. + And I laughed as the silly old bullets came, + For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name. + Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near, + And one little blighter just chipped me ear. + But there! I got to the trench all right, + When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright, + And a word that doesn't look well in type: + _I'D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE._ + + So I had to do it all over again, + Crawling out on that filthy plain. + Through shells and bombs and bullets and all-- + Only this time--I do not crawl. + I run like a man wot's missing a train, + Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain. + I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun + Tickle my heels, but I run, I run. + + Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame, + (Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!) + I run like a man that's no ideer + Of hunting around for a sooveneer. + I run bang into a German chap, + And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map. + And just to show him that I'm his boss, + I gives him a kick on the parados. + And I marches him back with me all serene, + With, _TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN._ + + _Sitting here in the trenches + Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen, + For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, + But it smashes me old dudeen. + God blast that red-headed sniper! + I'll give him somethin' to snipe; + Before the war's through + Just see how I do + That blighter that smashed me pipe._ + + + + +The Little Piou-piou + + * The French "Tommy". + + + + Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, + And some of us slinked in the slum; + But now we are here with a song and a cheer + To serve at the sign of the drum. + They put us in trousers of scarlet, + In big sloppy ulsters of blue; + In boots that are flat, a box of a hat, + And they call us the little piou-piou, + Piou-piou, + The laughing and quaffing piou-piou, + The swinging and singing piou-piou; + And so with a rattle we march to the battle, + The weary but cheery piou-piou. + + _Encore un petit verre de vin, + Pour nous mettre en route; + Encore un petit verre de vin + Pour nous mettre en train._ + + They drive us head-on for the slaughter; + We haven't got much of a chance; + The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad + To battle and die for La France. + For some must be killed, that is certain; + There's only one's duty to do; + So we leap to the fray in the glorious way + They expect of the little piou-piou. + En avant! + The way of the gallant piou-piou, + The dashing and smashing piou-piou; + The way grim and gory that leads us to glory + Is the way of the little piou-piou. + + _Allons, enfants de la Patrie, + Le jour de gloire est arrive._ + + To-day you would scarce recognise us, + Such veterans war-wise are we; + So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, + So "crummy", yet gay as can be. + We've finished with trousers of scarlet, + They're giving us breeches of blue, + With a helmet instead of a cap on our head, + Yet still we're the little piou-piou. + Nous les aurons! + The jesting, unresting piou-piou; + The cheering, unfearing piou-piou; + The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil; + The dying, defying piou-piou. + + _A la bayonette! Jusqu'a la mort! + Sonnez la charge, clairons!_ + + + + +Bill the Bomber + + + + The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist; + The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist; + And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame; + 'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came. + 'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink, + For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think. + So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream + Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream; + But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke: + "Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke. + + We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead; + But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead, + Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound, + And it's odd--we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground. + And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew, + How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through; + So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin, + And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in. + And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run, + A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one." + + Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm, + For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am. + I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because + I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was. + We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer; + Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near; + And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew, + And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two." + + I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see, + And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me. + And I'd lost me 'at and rifle--but I told you that before, + So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more. + But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet, + And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set, + And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, + And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead; + When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee, + And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three." + + So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that, + And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at; + And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said: + "If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead." + And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs--that was the 'ardest blow, + To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe. + And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad, + And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad. + And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again, + Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain. + + Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, + And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got, + I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out + Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out; + And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at; + And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat; + And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, + Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad. + For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere + This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear. + + Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain, + So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; + And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, + And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . . + And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; + And now they're all excited like, but--I am drawin' near; + And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . . + Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game. + And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', + And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame. + + Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, + And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole. + And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell, + And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell. + And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive; + We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five. + And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay, + For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away". + + + + +The Whistle of Sandy McGraw + + + + You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, + Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', + But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine + The wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. + Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?" + And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad; + Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun', + And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad. + Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert, + And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame; + And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert + O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. + For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt + You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw, + And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt, + For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw. + + . . . . . + + At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank + We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale, + Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank + And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail: + Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke; + Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout, + When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke + The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out. + 'The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the fray + We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw, + And oh we fair revelled in glory that day, + Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw. + + . . . . . + + At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht, + On the field o' the slain I wis crawlin' aboot; + And the rockets were burnin' red holes in the nicht; + And the guns they were veciously thunderin' oot; + When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh, + And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw: + "Whit ails ye, ma lad? Are ye woundit?" says I. + "I've lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy McGraw. + "'Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack, + It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawn + There isna much time so I'm jist crawlin' back. . . ." + "Ye're daft, man!" I telt him, but Sandy wis gone. + + Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot masel, + And the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' around, + And I seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell, + And Creation wis crackin' tae bits by the sound. + And I says in ma mind: "Gang ye back, ye auld fule!" + When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma'; + And there in a crater, collected and cool, + Wi' his wee penny whistle wis Sandy McGraw. + Ay, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be, + And listenin' hard wis a spectacled Boche; + Then Sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae me, + And he says: "Dinna blab on me, Sergeant McTosh. + The auld chap is deein'. He likes me tae play. + It's makin' him happy. Jist see his een shine!" + And thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the fray + Wee Sandy wis playin' 'The Watch on the Rhine'. + + . . . . . + + The last scene o' a'--'twas the day that we took + That bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell. + It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook, + And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell. + And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand, + And hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs, + When upward we shot at the word o' command, + And the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor lugs. + And onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer, + And a' wis destruction, confusion and din, + And we knew that the trench o' the Boches wis near, + And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in. + So we a' tumbled doon, and the Boches were there, + And they held up their hands, and they yelled: "Kamarad!" + And I merched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms in the air, + And my! I wis prood-like, and my! I wis glad. + And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . . + When sudden I sobered at somethin' I saw, + And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma men, + For there on a stretcher wis Sandy McGraw. + + Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please: + "Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he; + "But noo I can play in the street for bawbees, + Wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee." + And though I could see he wis rackit wi' pain, + He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play; + And quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain: + 'The floors o' the forest are a' wede away'. + Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grand + Hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid: + "I'll--no--play--nae--mair----" feebly doon frae his hand + Slipped the wee penny whistle and--_SANDY WIS DEID._ + + . . . . . + + And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads, + Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw; + But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads, + Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. + + + + +The Stretcher-Bearer + + + + My stretcher is one scarlet stain, + And as I tries to scrape it clean, + I tell you wot--I'm sick with pain + For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; + Around me is the 'ellish night, + And as the war's red rim I trace, + I wonder if in 'Eaven's height, + Our God don't turn away 'Is Face. + + I don't care 'oose the Crime may be; + I 'olds no brief for kin or clan; + I 'ymns no 'ate: I only see + As man destroys his brother man; + I waves no flag: I only know, + As 'ere beside the dead I wait, + A million 'earts is weighed with woe, + A million 'omes is desolate. + + In drippin' darkness, far and near, + All night I've sought them woeful ones. + Dawn shudders up and still I 'ear + The crimson chorus of the guns. + Look! like a ball of blood the sun + 'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . . + "Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!" + _O PRINCE OF PEACE! 'OW LONG, 'OW LONG?_ + + + + +Wounded + + + + Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, + With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, + I did my decent job and earned my pay; + Was averagely happy, I'll be bound. + Ay, in my little groove I was content, + Seeing my life run smoothly to the end, + With prosy days in stolid labour spent, + And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend. + In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam, + A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs; + When presto! like a bubble goes my dream: + I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds. + I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore: + I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store. + + Stranger than any book I've ever read. + Here on the reeking battlefield I lie, + Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead, + Like too, if no one takes me in, to die. + Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall; + Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit; + But calm, and feeling never pain at all, + And full of wonder at the turn of it. + For of the dead around me three are mine, + Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight; + So if I die I have no right to whine, + I feel I've done my little bit all right. + I don't know how--but there the beggars are, + As dead as herrings pickled in a jar. + + And here am I, worse wounded than I thought; + For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings; + You never heed; the air is metal-hot, + And all alive with little flicking wings. + _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ You see the fellows fall; + Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad; + You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all; + You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad. + _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ The heavens vomit death; + And vicious death is besoming the ground. + You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath, + And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound. + _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ Oh, War's a rousing game! + Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower; + The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame, + And on your helmet stones and ashes shower. + _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ It's odd! You have no fear. + Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path; + Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear; + The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath. + _BUT ON YOU CHARGE._ Barbed wire all trampled down. + The ground all gored and rent as by a blast; + Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown; + A ragged ditch--the Hun first line at last. + All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead, + _SO ON YOU CHARGE._ There's nothing else to do. + More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead; + (Your puttee strap's undone--that worries you). + You glare around. You think you're all alone. + But no; your chums come surging left and right. + The nearest chap flops down without a groan, + His face still snarling with the rage of fight. + Ha! here's the second trench--just like the first, + Only a little more so, more "laid out"; + More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst; + A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt. + Now for the third, and there your job is done, + _SO ON YOU CHARGE._ You never stop to think. + Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run; + You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink. + The acrid air is full of cracking whips. + You wonder how it is you're going still. + You foam with rage. Oh, God! to be at grips + With someone you can rush and crush and kill. + Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; + You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now. + See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, + And there's the trench--you'll get there anyhow. + Your puttee catches on a strand of wire, + And down you go; perhaps it saves your life, + For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, + Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife. + You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge + With all your comrades roaring at your heels. + _HAVE AT 'EM, LADS!_ You stab, you jab, you lunge; + A blaze of glory, then the red world reels. + A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . . + That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it. . . . + + Well, that's the charge. And now I'm here alone. + I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun, + To shield me from the leaden bees that drone + (It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none). + The only thing I'm wondering is when + Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way? + It isn't much that's left of me, but then + Where life is, hope is, so at least they say. + Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad. + I tell you I won't envy any king. + I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad; + I've had my crowning hour. Oh, War's the thing! + It gives us common, working chaps our chance, + A taste of glory, chivalry, romance. + + Ay, War, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too. + It lets a man discover what he's worth. + It takes his measure, shows what he can do, + Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth. + It fans in him a flame that otherwise + Would flicker out, these drab, discordant days; + It teaches him in pain and sacrifice + Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise. + Yes, War is good. So here beside my slain, + A happy wreck I wait amid the din; + For even if I perish mine's the gain. . . . + Hi, there, you fellows! WON'T you take me in? + Give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . . + We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say! + Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin. . . . + Lead on! I'll live to fight another day. + + + + +Faith + + + + Since all that is was ever bound to be; + Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind; + And both the riddle and the answer find, + And both the carnage and the calm decree; + Since plain within the Book of Destiny + Is written all the journey of mankind + Inexorably to the end; since blind + And mortal puppets playing parts are we: + + Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill; + The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife; + Then let's bow down before the Unknown Will; + Fight on, believing all is well with life; + Seeing within the worst of War's red rage + The gleam, the glory of the Golden Age. + + + + +The Coward + + + + 'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day? + 'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say; + Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away, + If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr. + 'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons; + 'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns, + And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'Uns + Afore 'e went off to the war. + + Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is by-by clothes; + Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes; + 'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little nose + Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore. + And now all the papers 'is praises ring, + And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the King + And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing, + Where they're patchin' 'im up once more. + + And 'e says: "Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer Ann?" + And I says: "Well, I can't make it out, old man; + You'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began, + When you was a bit of a kid." + And 'e whispers: "'Ere, on the quiet, Liz, + They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz, + And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz, + But . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did. + + "Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says: 'Look 'ere! + They're far too quiet out there: it's queer. + They're up to somethin'--'oo'll volunteer + To crawl in the dark and see?' + Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go, + And up jumps a chap and 'e says: 'Right O!' + But I chips in straight, and I says 'Oh no! + 'E's a missis and kids--take me.' + + "And the next I knew I was sneakin' out, + And the oozy corpses was all about, + And I felt so scared I wanted to shout, + And me skin fair prickled wiv fear; + And I sez: 'You coward! You 'ad no right + To take on the job of a man this night,' + Yet still I kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!) + The trench of the 'Uns was near. + + "It was all so dark, it was all so still; + Yet somethin' pushed me against me will; + 'Ow I wanted to turn! Yet I crawled until + I was seein' a dim light shine. + Then thinks I: 'I'll just go a little bit, + And see wot the doose I can make of it,' + And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit: + 'Christmas!' sez I, 'a _MINE.'_ + + "Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain: + I wanted to make for 'ome again, + But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain, + So I crawled to the trench instead; + Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un, + And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun, + And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one, + And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead. + + "Then all the 'Uns that was underground, + Comes up with a rush and on with a bound, + And I swings that giddy old Maxim round + And belts 'em solid and square. + You see I was off me chump wiv fear: + 'If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, 'it's dear.' + And the trench was narrow and they was near, + So I peppered the brutes for fair. + + "So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled wiv fright, + And the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight, + And we 'captured a section o' trench' that night + Which we didn't expect to get; + And they found me there with me Maxim gun, + And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one, + And I fainted away when the thing was done, + And I 'aven't got over it yet." + + So that's the 'istory Bill told me. + Of course it's all on the strict Q. T.; + It wouldn't do to get out, you see, + As 'e hacted against 'is will. + But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might, + And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight-- + Say! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right? + Wot's the matter with Bill! + + + + +Missis Moriarty's Boy + + + + Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she: + "Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now-- + it's the fortunate woman you are; + You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, + but me Patsy boy where is he? + Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr. + Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, + wid his hair all curly and bright, + And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away, + Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height: + Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day." + + And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door, + Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay; + And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more, + But she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away. + And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed, + Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat; + Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she was + wid her Patsy slaughtered and dead? + Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty? I'm not so sure about that. + + Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face; + Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, + and the eyes of her mother-mild; + Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case, + Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell + she'd be losin' her only child. + And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind, + And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three: + Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind-- + Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me? + + + + +My Foe + + A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks:-- + + + _GURR!_ You 'cochon'! Stand and fight! + Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! + Spawn of an accursed race, + Turn and meet me face to face! + Here amid the wreck and rout + Let us grip and have it out! + Here where ruins rock and reel + Let us settle, steel to steel! + Look! Our houses, how they spit + Sparks from brands your friends have lit. + See! Our gutters running red, + Bright with blood your friends have shed. + Hark! Amid your drunken brawl + How our maidens shriek and call. + Why have _YOU_ come here alone, + To this hearth's blood-spattered stone? + Come to ravish, come to loot, + Come to play the ghoulish brute. + Ah, indeed! We well are met, + Bayonet to bayonet. + God! I never killed a man: + Now I'll do the best I can. + Rip you to the evil heart, + Laugh to see the life-blood start. + Bah! You swine! I hate you so. + Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . . + + There! I've done it. See! He lies + Death a-staring from his eyes; + Glazing eyeballs, panting breath, + How it's horrible, is Death! + Plucking at his bloody lips + With his trembling finger-tips; + Choking in a dreadful way + As if he would something say + In that uncouth tongue of his. . . . + Oh, how horrible Death is! + + How I wish that he would die! + So unnerved, unmanned am I. + See! His twitching face is white! + See! His bubbling blood is bright. + Why do I not shout with glee? + What strange spell is over me? + There he lies; the fight was fair; + Let me toss my cap in air. + Why am I so silent? Why + Do I pray for him to die? + Where is all my vengeful joy? + Ugh! _MY FOE IS BUT A BOY._ + + I'd a brother of his age + Perished in the war's red rage; + Perished in the Ypres hell: + Oh, I loved my brother well. + And though I be hard and grim, + How it makes me think of him! + He had just such flaxen hair + As the lad that's lying there. + Just such frank blue eyes were his. . . . + God! How horrible war is! + + I have reason to be gay: + There is one less foe to slay. + I have reason to be glad: + Yet--my foe is such a lad. + So I watch in dull amaze, + See his dying eyes a-glaze, + See his face grow glorified, + See his hands outstretched and wide + To that bit of ruined wall + Where the flames have ceased to crawl, + Where amid the crumbling bricks + Hangs _A BLACKENED CRUCIFIX._ + + Now, oh now I understand. + Quick I press it in his hand, + Close his feeble finger-tips, + Hold it to his faltering lips. + As I watch his welling blood + I would stem it if I could. + God of Pity, let him live! + God of Love, forgive, forgive. + + . . . . . + + His face looked strangely, as he died, + Like that of One they crucified. + And in the pocket of his coat + I found a letter; thus he wrote: + 'The things I've seen! Oh, mother dear, + I'm wondering can God be here? + To-night amid the drunken brawl + I saw a Cross hung on a wall; + I'll seek it now, and there alone + Perhaps I may atone, atone. . . .' + + Ah no! 'Tis I who must atone. + No other saw but God alone; + Yet how can I forget the sight + Of that face so woeful white! + Dead I kissed him as he lay, + Knelt by him and tried to pray; + Left him lying there at rest, + Crucifix upon his breast. + + Not for him the pity be. + Ye who pity, pity me, + Crawling now the ways I trod, + Blood-guilty in sight of God. + + + + +My Job + + + + I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh; + At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to go and do it; + I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye, + And I 'opes the God of soldier men will see me safely through it. + Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never done before; + And till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin'; + The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any more: + At seven by the Captain's watch my little job is . . . _DYIN'._ + + I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin it now. + I ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "Dearest Mother, + I've been in many 'ot old 'do's'; I've scraped through safe some'ow, + But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' another. + A little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers. + They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it seems a trifle dicky. + If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears, + And so . . . I 'opes this finds you well.--Your werry lovin' Micky." + + I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there. + I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me. + I've seen so much of bloody death I don't seem for to care, + If I can only even up, how soon the blighters get me. + I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed; + I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin'; + I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to make instead . . . + It's seven sharp. Good-bye, old pals! . . . _A DECENT JOB IN DYIN'._ + + + + +The Song of the Pacifist + + + + What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead? + Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed? + By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted? + + If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe; + Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so: + By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow! + + If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright; + That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height; + That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right; + + If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear, + By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . . + Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer. + + Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land: + When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand; + And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand. + + Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release + The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace, + And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, + we clamour that War shall cease. + + Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain; + When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane: + Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain. + + When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be; + When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea + In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . _THAT WILL BE VICTORY._ + + + + +The Twins + + + + There were two brothers, John and James, + And when the town went up in flames, + To save the house of James dashed John, + Then turned, and lo! his own was gone. + + And when the great World War began, + To volunteer John promptly ran; + And while he learned live bombs to lob, + James stayed at home and--sneaked his job. + + John came home with a missing limb; + That didn't seem to worry him; + But oh, it set his brain awhirl + To find that James had--sneaked his girl! + + Time passed. John tried his grief to drown; + To-day James owns one-half the town; + His army contracts riches yield; + And John? Well, _SEARCH THE POTTER'S FIELD._ + + + + +The Song of the Soldier-born + + + + _Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; + Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; + Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant._ + + Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion; + A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration; + A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion. + + For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying: + The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying; + The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying. + + So let me go and leave your safety behind me; + Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me; + Go till the word is War--and then you will find me. + + Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me; + Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . . + And when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me. + + For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry; + With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry; + You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry. + + You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking; + You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking; + You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking. + + Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters, + And a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . . + There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters. + + There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for; + There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for; + There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for. + + Ah no! it's my dream that War will never be ended; + That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid; + That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended. + + That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story; + That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary, + I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory. + + _So give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting; + Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting; + Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting._ + + + + +Afternoon Tea + + + + As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea; + Cows weren't allowed in the trenches--got out of the habit, y'see.) + As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten: + "Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em." + And he sprang to the head of the men. + Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, + and he fell on his face with a slam. . . . + Oh, he died like a true British soldier, + and the last word he uttered was "Damn!" + And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain, + And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain. + 'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea); + I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free. + Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws, + Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was. + So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own, + And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone; + With the bullets and shells ding-donging, + and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap; + And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . + (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap? + Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash; + We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash. + My fellows--Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell, + Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags,--nothing much left to tell: + A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live; + Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve. + The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show, + And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe. + So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again, + Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain. + Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank, + And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank." + He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes, + As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums. + So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats; + Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats. + 'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range, + With someone you _SAW_ to go for--it made an agreeable change. + And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt, + And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt". + + Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran, + On to the second line trenches,--that's where the fun began. + For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about, + And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out. + Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?" + And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair; + And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot! + (I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?) + My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten; + So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men, + And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, + but we cornered the rotters all right; + I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight. + But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things: + The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things, + So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must. + We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet thrust; + And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now; + And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row; + And my chaps--well, I just couldn't hold 'em; + (It's strange how it is with gore; + In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.) + Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they _COULDN'T_ be calmed, + So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-damned. + Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all; + The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal. + Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head, + And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red. + I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too, + Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do". + As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea, + I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me; + I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right, + And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight. + And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then: + They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men. + And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive-- + So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five; + And four of 'em threw up their flippers, + but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game, + And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same. + A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell, + So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell. + And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that Hun; + He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done. + So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt, + And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt". + And now, by Jove! how I've bored you. You've just let me babble away; + Let's talk of the things that _MATTER_--your car or the newest play. . . . + + + + +The Mourners + + + + I look into the aching womb of night; + I look across the mist that masks the dead; + The moon is tired and gives but little light, + The stars have gone to bed. + + The earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain; + A lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree; + I do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain, + The dead I do not see. + + The slain I _WOULD_ not see . . . and so I lift + My eyes from out the shambles where they lie; + When lo! a million woman-faces drift + Like pale leaves through the sky. + + The cheeks of some are channelled deep with tears; + But some are tearless, with wild eyes that stare + Into the shadow of the coming years + Of fathomless despair. + + And some are young, and some are very old; + And some are rich, some poor beyond belief; + Yet all are strangely like, set in the mould + Of everlasting grief. + + They fill the vast of Heaven, face on face; + And then I see one weeping with the rest, + Whose eyes beseech me for a moment's space. . . . + Oh eyes I love the best! + + Nay, I but dream. The sky is all forlorn, + And there's the plain of battle writhing red: + God pity them, the women-folk who mourn! + How happy are the dead! + + + + +L'Envoi + + + + My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready, + My word-battalions marching verse by verse; + Here stanza-companies are none too steady; + There print-platoons are weak, but might be worse. + And as in marshalled order I review them, + My type-brigades, unfearful of the fray, + My eyes that seek their faults are seeing through them + Immortal visions of an epic day. + + It seems I'm in a giant bowling-alley; + The hidden heavies round me crash and thud; + A spire snaps like a pipe-stem in the valley; + The rising sun is like a ball of blood. + Along the road the "fantassins" are pouring, + And some are gay as fire, and some steel-stern. . . . + Then back again I see the red tide pouring, + Along the reeking road from Hebuterne. + + And once again I seek Hill Sixty-Seven, + The Hun lines grey and peaceful in my sight; + When suddenly the rosy air is riven-- + A "coal-box" blots the "boyou" on my right. + Or else to evil Carnoy I am stealing, + Past sentinels who hail with bated breath; + Where not a cigarette spark's dim revealing + May hint our mission in that zone of death. + + I see across the shrapnel-seeded meadows + The jagged rubble-heap of La Boiselle; + Blood-guilty Fricourt brooding in the shadows, + And Thiepval's chateau empty as a shell. + Down Albert's riven streets the moon is leering; + The Hanging Virgin takes its bitter ray; + And all the road from Hamel I am hearing + The silver rage of bugles over Bray. + + Once more within the sky's deep sapphire hollow + I sight a swimming Taube, a fairy thing; + I watch the angry shell flame flash and follow + In feather puffs that flick a tilted wing; + And then it fades, with shrapnel mirror's flashing; + The flashes bloom to blossoms lily gold; + The batteries are rancorously crashing, + And life is just as full as it can hold. + + Oh spacious days of glory and of grieving! + Oh sounding hours of lustre and of loss! + Let us be glad we lived you, still believing + The God who gave the cannon gave the Cross. + Let us be sure amid these seething passions, + The lusts of blood and hate our souls abhor: + The Power that Order out of Chaos fashions + Smites fiercest in the wrath-red forge of War. . . . + Have faith! Fight on! Amid the battle-hell + Love triumphs, Freedom beacons, all is well. + + + + + +About the Author + + + +Robert William Service was born 16 January 1874 in Preston, England, but +also lived in Scotland before emigrating to Canada in 1894. Service went +to the Yukon Territory in 1904 as a bank clerk, and became famous for +his poems about this region, which are mostly in his first two books of +poetry. He wrote quite a bit of prose as well, and worked as a reporter +for some time, but those writings are not nearly as well known as his +poems. He travelled around the world quite a bit, and died 11 September +1958 in France. + + +Service's Books of Poetry: + + The Spell of the Yukon (1907) a.k.a. Songs of a Sourdough + Ballads of a Cheechako (1909) + Rhymes of a Rolling Stone (1912) + Rhymes of a Red Cross Man (1916) + Ballads of a Bohemian (1921) + Bar-Room Ballads (1940) + The Complete Poems (1947?) [This is simply a compilation + of the six books.] + +[Note: A Sourdough is an old-timer, while a Cheechako is a newbie.] + + +A few other books by Robert W. Service: + +The Trail of '98--A Northland Romance (1910) + +Ploughman of the Moon (1945) | A two-volume + +Harper of Heaven (1948) | autobiography. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Rhymes of a Red Cross Man, by Robert W. Service + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES OF A RED CROSS MAN *** + +***** This file should be named 315.txt or 315.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/315/ + +Produced by A. Light + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Association / Illinois + Benedictine College" within the 60 days following each + date you prepare (or were legally required to prepare) + your annual (or equivalent periodic) tax return. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +The Project gratefully accepts contributions in money, time, +scanning machines, OCR software, public domain etexts, royalty +free copyright licenses, and every other sort of contribution +you can think of. Money should be paid to "Project Gutenberg +Association / Illinois Benedictine College". + +This "Small Print!" by Charles B. Kramer, Attorney +Internet (72600.2026@compuserve.com); TEL: (212-254-5093) +*END*THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + + +Rhymes of a Red Cross Man + +by Robert W. Service [British-born Canadian Poet -- 1874-1958.] + + + + + + +[Note on text: Italicized stanzas are indented 5 spaces. +Italicized words and phrases are capitalized. +Lines longer than 77 characters are broken according to metre, +and the continuation is indented two spaces from the previous line. +Stanzas that are italicized AND indented are indented 10 spaces. +Due to numerous French words and phrases in this particular text, +and the importance of accents to pronunciation, accents are marked, +using these characters (/\,^) AFTER each letter they accompany. +In two cases (me^le/e & cha^teau) the words have worked their way +into the English language, and the accents are omitted.] + +[This etext has been transcribed from a New York edition of 1916. +Some very minor corrections have been made.] + + + + + + +Rhymes of a Red Cross Man +by Robert W. Service + +Author of "The Spell of the Yukon", "Ballads of a Cheechako", +"Rhymes of a Rolling Stone", etc. + + + + + + + | | +--+---------------------------+-- + | To the Memory of | + | My Brother, | + | LIEUTENANT ALBERT SERVICE | + | Canadian Infantry | + | Killed in Action, France | + | August, 1916. | +--+---------------------------+-- + | | + + + + + + +Contents + + + +Foreword +The Call +The Fool +The Volunteer +The Convalescent +The Man from Athabaska +The Red Retreat +The Haggis of Private McPhee +The Lark +The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins +A Song of Winter Weather +Tipperary Days +Fleurette +Funk +Our Hero +My Mate +Milking Time +Young Fellow My Lad +A Song of the Sandbags +On the Wire +Bill's Grave +Jean Desprez +Going Home +Cocotte +My Bay'nit +Carry On! +Over the Parapet +The Ballad of Soulful Sam +Only a Boche +Pilgrims +My Prisoner +Tri-colour +A Pot of Tea +The Revelation +Grand-pe\re +Son +The Black Dudeen +The Little Piou-piou +Bill the Bomber +The Whistle of Sandy McGraw +The Stretcher-Bearer +Wounded +Faith +The Coward +Missis Moriarty's Boy +My Foe +My Job +The Song of the Pacifist +The Twins +The Song of the Soldier-born +Afternoon Tea +The Mourners +L'Envoi + + + + + + +Foreword + + + + I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes + In weary, woeful, waiting times; + In doleful hours of battle-din, + Ere yet they brought the wounded in; + Through vigils of the fateful night, + In lousy barns by candle-light; + In dug-outs, sagging and aflood, + On stretchers stiff and bleared with blood; + By ragged grove, by ruined road, + By hearths accurst where Love abode; + By broken altars, blackened shrines + I've tinkered at my bits of rhymes. + + I've solaced me with scraps of song + The desolated ways along: + Through sickly fields all shrapnel-sown, + And meadows reaped by death alone; + By blazing cross and splintered spire, + By headless Virgin in the mire; + By gardens gashed amid their bloom, + By gutted grave, by shattered tomb; + Beside the dying and the dead, + Where rocket green and rocket red, + In trembling pools of poising light, + With flowers of flame festoon the night. + Ah me! by what dark ways of wrong + I've cheered my heart with scraps of song. + + So here's my sheaf of war-won verse, + And some is bad, and some is worse. + And if at times I curse a bit, + You needn't read that part of it; + For through it all like horror runs + The red resentment of the guns. + And you yourself would mutter when + You took the things that once were men, + And sped them through that zone of hate + To where the dripping surgeons wait; + And wonder too if in God's sight + War ever, ever can be right. + + Yet may it not be, crime and war + But effort misdirected are? + And if there's good in war and crime, + There may be in my bits of rhyme, + My songs from out the slaughter mill: + So take or leave them as you will. + + + + +The Call + +(France, August first, 1914) + + + + Far and near, high and clear, + Hark to the call of War! +Over the gorse and the golden dells, +Ringing and swinging of clamorous bells, +Praying and saying of wild farewells: + War! War! War! + + High and low, all must go: + Hark to the shout of War! +Leave to the women the harvest yield; +Gird ye, men, for the sinister field; +A sabre instead of a scythe to wield: + War! Red War! + + Rich and poor, lord and boor, + Hark to the blast of War! +Tinker and tailor and millionaire, +Actor in triumph and priest in prayer, +Comrades now in the hell out there, + Sweep to the fire of War! + + Prince and page, sot and sage, + Hark to the roar of War! +Poet, professor and circus clown, +Chimney-sweeper and fop o' the town, +Into the pot and be melted down: + Into the pot of War! + + Women all, hear the call, + The pitiless call of War! +Look your last on your dearest ones, +Brothers and husbands, fathers, sons: +Swift they go to the ravenous guns, + The gluttonous guns of War. + + Everywhere thrill the air + The maniac bells of War. +There will be little of sleeping to-night; +There will be wailing and weeping to-night; +Death's red sickle is reaping to-night: + War! War! War! + + + + +The Fool + + + +"But it isn't playing the game," he said, +And he slammed his books away; +"The Latin and Greek I've got in my head +Will do for a duller day." +"Rubbish!" I cried; "The bugle's call +Isn't for lads from school." +D'ye think he'd listen? Oh, not at all: +So I called him a fool, a fool. + +Now there's his dog by his empty bed, +And the flute he used to play, +And his favourite bat . . . but Dick he's dead, +Somewhere in France, they say: +Dick with his rapture of song and sun, +Dick of the yellow hair, +Dicky whose life had but begun, +Carrion-cold out there. + +Look at his prizes all in a row: +Surely a hint of fame. +Now he's finished with, -- nothing to show: +Doesn't it seem a shame? +Look from the window! All you see +Was to be his one day: +Forest and furrow, lawn and lea, +And he goes and chucks it away. + +Chucks it away to die in the dark: +Somebody saw him fall, +Part of him mud, part of him blood, +The rest of him -- not at all. +And yet I'll bet he was never afraid, +And he went as the best of 'em go, +For his hand was clenched on his broken blade, +And his face was turned to the foe. + +And I called him a fool . . . oh how blind was I! +And the cup of my grief's abrim. +Will Glory o' England ever die +So long as we've lads like him? +So long as we've fond and fearless fools, +Who, spurning fortune and fame, +Turn out with the rallying cry of their schools, +Just bent on playing the game. + +A fool! Ah no! He was more than wise. +His was the proudest part. +He died with the glory of faith in his eyes, +And the glory of love in his heart. +And though there's never a grave to tell, +Nor a cross to mark his fall, +Thank God! we know that he "batted well" +In the last great Game of all. + + + + +The Volunteer + + + +Sez I: My Country calls? Well, let it call. +I grins perlitely and declines wiv thanks. +Go, let 'em plaster every blighted wall, +'Ere's ONE they don't stampede into the ranks. +Them politicians with their greasy ways; +Them empire-grabbers -- fight for 'em? No fear! +I've seen this mess a-comin' from the days +Of Algyserious and Aggydear: + I've felt me passion rise and swell, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + +Sez I: My Country? Mine? I likes their cheek. +Me mud-bespattered by the cars they drive, +Wot makes my measly thirty bob a week, +And sweats red blood to keep meself alive! +Fight for the right to slave that they may spend, +Them in their mansions, me 'ere in my slum? +No, let 'em fight wot's something to defend: +But me, I've nothin' -- let the Kaiser come. + And so I cusses 'ard and well, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + +Sez I: If they would do the decent thing, +And shield the missis and the little 'uns, +Why, even _I_ might shout "God save the King", +And face the chances of them 'ungry guns. +But we've got three, another on the way; +It's that wot makes me snarl and set me jor: +The wife and nippers, wot of 'em, I say, +If I gets knocked out in this blasted war? + Gets proper busted by a shell, + But . . . wot the 'ell, Bill? Wot the 'ell? + +Ay, wot the 'ell's the use of all this talk? +To-day some boys in blue was passin' me, +And some of 'em they 'ad no legs to walk, +And some of 'em they 'ad no eyes to see. +And -- well, I couldn't look 'em in the face, +And so I'm goin', goin' to declare +I'm under forty-one and take me place +To face the music with the bunch out there. + A fool, you say! Maybe you're right. + I'll 'ave no peace unless I fight. + I've ceased to think; I only know + I've gotta go, Bill, gotta go. + + + + +The Convalescent + + + +. . . So I walked among the willows very quietly all night; +There was no moon at all, at all; no timid star alight; +There was no light at all, at all; I wint from tree to tree, +And I called him as his mother called, but he nivver answered me. + +Oh I called him all the night-time, as I walked the wood alone; +And I listened and I listened, but I nivver heard a moan; +Then I found him at the dawnin', when the sorry sky was red: +I was lookin' for the livin', but I only found the dead. + +Sure I know that it was Shamus by the silver cross he wore; +But the bugles they were callin', and I heard the cannon roar. +Oh I had no time to tarry, so I said a little prayer, +And I clasped his hands together, and I left him lyin' there. + +Now the birds are singin', singin', and I'm home in Donegal, +And it's Springtime, and I'm thinkin' that I only dreamed it all; +I dreamed about that evil wood, all crowded with its dead, +Where I knelt beside me brother when the battle-dawn was red. + +Where I prayed beside me brother ere I wint to fight anew: +Such dreams as these are evil dreams; I can't believe it's true. +Where all is love and laughter, sure it's hard to think of loss . . . +But mother's sayin' nothin', and she clasps -- A SILVER CROSS. + + + + +The Man from Athabaska + + + +Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas nothing but the thrumming +Of a wood-pecker a-rapping on the hollow of a tree; +And she thought that I was fooling when I said it was the drumming +Of the mustering of legions, and 'twas calling unto me; +'Twas calling me to pull my freight and hop across the sea. + +And a-mending of my fish-nets sure I started up in wonder, +For I heard a savage roaring and 'twas coming from afar; +Oh the wife she tried to tell me that 'twas only summer thunder, +And she laughed a bit sarcastic when I told her it was War; +'Twas the chariots of battle where the mighty armies are. + +Then down the lake came Half-breed Tom with russet sail a-flying, +And the word he said was "War" again, so what was I to do? +Oh the dogs they took to howling, and the missis took to crying, +As I flung my silver foxes in the little birch canoe: +Yes, the old girl stood a-blubbing till an island hid the view. + +Says the factor: "Mike, you're crazy! They have soldier men a-plenty. +You're as grizzled as a badger, and you're sixty year or so." +"But I haven't missed a scrap," says I, "since I was one and twenty. +And shall I miss the biggest? You can bet your whiskers -- no!" +So I sold my furs and started . . . and that's eighteen months ago. + +For I joined the Foreign Legion, and they put me for a starter +In the trenches of the Argonne with the Boche a step away; +And the partner on my right hand was an `apache' from Montmartre; +On my left there was a millionaire from Pittsburg, U. S. A. +(Poor fellow! They collected him in bits the other day.) + +But I'm sprier than a chipmunk, save a touch of the lumbago, +And they calls me Old Methoosalah, and `blagues' me all the day. +I'm their exhibition sniper, and they work me like a Dago, +And laugh to see me plug a Boche a half a mile away. +Oh I hold the highest record in the regiment, they say. + +And at night they gather round me, and I tell them of my roaming +In the Country of the Crepuscule beside the Frozen Sea, +Where the musk-ox runs unchallenged, and the cariboo goes homing; +And they sit like little children, just as quiet as can be: +Men of every crime and colour, how they harken unto me! + +And I tell them of the Furland, of the tumpline and the paddle, +Of secret rivers loitering, that no one will explore; +And I tell them of the ranges, of the pack-strap and the saddle, +And they fill their pipes in silence, and their eyes beseech for more; +While above the star-shells fizzle and the high explosives roar. + +And I tell of lakes fish-haunted, where the big bull moose are calling, +And forests still as sepulchres with never trail or track; +And valleys packed with purple gloom, and mountain peaks appalling, +And I tell them of my cabin on the shore at Fond du Lac; +And I find myself a-thinking: Sure I wish that I was back. + +So I brag of bear and beaver while the batteries are roaring, +And the fellows on the firing steps are blazing at the foe; +And I yarn of fur and feather when the `marmites' are a-soaring, +And they listen to my stories, seven `poilus' in a row, +Seven lean and lousy `poilus' with their cigarettes aglow. + +And I tell them when it's over how I'll hike for Athabaska; +And those seven greasy `poilus' they are crazy to go too. +And I'll give the wife the "pickle-tub" I promised, and I'll ask her +The price of mink and marten, and the run of cariboo, +And I'll get my traps in order, and I'll start to work anew. + +For I've had my fill of fighting, and I've seen a nation scattered, +And an army swung to slaughter, and a river red with gore, +And a city all a-smoulder, and . . . as if it really mattered, +For the lake is yonder dreaming, and my cabin's on the shore; +And the dogs are leaping madly, and the wife is singing gladly, +And I'll rest in Athabaska, and I'll leave it nevermore. + + + + +The Red Retreat + + + + Tramp, tramp, the grim road, the road from Mons to Wipers + (I've 'ammered out this ditty with me bruised and bleedin' feet); + Tramp, tramp, the dim road -- we didn't 'ave no pipers, + And bellies that was 'oller was the drums we 'ad to beat. + Tramp, tramp, the bad road, the bits o' kiddies cryin' there, + The fell birds a-flyin' there, the 'ouses all aflame; + Tramp, tramp, the sad road, the pals I left a-lyin' there, + Red there, and dead there. . . . Oh blimy, it's a shame! + +A-singin' "'Oo's Yer Lady Friend?" we started out from 'Arver, +A-singin' till our froats was dry -- we didn't care a 'ang; +The Frenchies 'ow they lined the way, and slung us their palaver, +And all we knowed to arnser was the one word "vang"; +They gave us booze and caporal, and cheered for us like crazy, +And all the pretty gels was out to kiss us as we passed; +And 'ow they all went dotty when we 'owled the Marcelaisey! +Oh, Gawd! Them was the 'appy days, the days too good to last. + +We started out for God Knows Where, we started out a-roarin'; +We 'ollered: "'Ere We Are Again", and 'struth! but we was dry. +The dust was gummin' up our ears, and 'ow the sweat was pourin'; +The road was long, the sun was like a brazier in the sky. +We wondered where the 'Uns was -- we wasn't long a-wonderin', +For down a scruff of 'ill-side they rushes like a flood; +Then oh! 'twas music 'eavenly, our batteries a-thunderin', +And arms and legs went soarin' in the fountain of their blood. + +For on they came like bee-swarms, a-hochin' and a-singin'; +We pumped the bullets into 'em, we couldn't miss a shot. +But though we mowed 'em down like grass, like grass was they a-springin', +And all our 'ands was blistered, for our rifles was so 'ot. +We roared with battle-fury, and we lammed the stuffin' out of 'em, +And then we fixed our bay'nets and we spitted 'em like meat. +You should 'ave 'eard the beggars squeal; + you should 'ave seen the rout of 'em, +And 'ow we cussed and wondered when the word came: Retreat! + +Retreat! That was the 'ell of it. It fair upset our 'abits, +A-runnin' from them blighters over 'alf the roads of France; +A-scurryin' before 'em like a lot of blurry rabbits, +And knowin' we could smash 'em if we just 'ad 'alf a chance. +Retreat! That was the bitter bit, a-limpin' and a-blunderin'; +All day and night a-hoofin' it and sleepin' on our feet; +A-fightin' rear guard actions for a bit o' rest, and wonderin' +If sugar beets or mangels was the 'olesomest to eat. + +Ho yus, there isn't many left that started out so cheerily; +There was no bands a-playin' and we 'ad no autmobeels. +Our tummies they was 'oller, and our 'eads was 'angin' wearily, +And if we stopped to light a fag the 'Uns was on our 'eels. +That rotten road! I can't forget the kids and mothers flyin' there, +The bits of barns a-blazin' and the 'orrid sights I sor; +The stiffs that lined the wayside, me own pals a-lyin' there, +Their faces covered over wiv a little 'eap of stror. + + Tramp, tramp, the red road, the wicked bullets 'ummin' + (I've panted out this ditty with me 'ot 'ard breath.) + Tramp, tramp, the dread road, the Boches all a-comin', + The lootin' and the shootin' and the shrieks o' death. + Tramp, tramp, the fell road, the mad 'orde pursuin' there, + And 'ow we 'urled it back again, them grim, grey waves; + Tramp, tramp, the 'ell road, the 'orror and the ruin there, + The graves of me mateys there, the grim, sour graves. + + + + +The Haggis of Private McPhee + + + +"Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me? +It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee. +"And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun, +As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun. +"A haggis! A HAGGIS!" says Private McPhee; +"The brawest big haggis I ever did see. +And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns +Tae haggis and whuskey -- the Birthday o' Burns. +We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest +O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best." + +"Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole; +"I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol." +Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun: +"I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done." +Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee: +"I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree." +But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair: +"Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare; +And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun', +We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon. +Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black, +O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back." + +My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land, +And the deid they were rottin' on every hand. +And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky, +And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by. +There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells, +And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells; +But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole +Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol. +For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem +Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them. + +Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer +Calamity's aften maist cruelly near. +And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine +The Boches below them were howkin' a mine. +And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae, +The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away. +Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom, +A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb. + +"Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun. +"Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done. +It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee; +Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee. +"Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun; +"And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run, +It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see: +I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me." +Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid: +"If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid. +And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content +If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent." +"That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind. +Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind; +And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot -- +It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got." +For a while they were silent; then up once again +Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain: +"And why should we miss it? Between you and me +We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see. +You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht, +And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht." + +Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee, +When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee. +Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun', +When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun. +"Keep clear o' them corpses -- they're maybe no deid! +Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid. +Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup. +A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup. +Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine: +Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine." + +There wis death and destruction on every hand; +There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land. +And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare, +And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air. +Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun +When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'. +And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot, +And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot. +"On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal; +I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole." + +But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun, +Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'. +Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear: +"Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here. +It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air; +It's steamin' for us, and we're -- jist -- aboot -- there." +Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap! +For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap." +And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain, +And onward he staggers in passion and pain. +And the flare and the glare and the fury increase, +Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease. +And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight, +And someone is shoutin' away on their right; +And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear +A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer; +And swift through the crash and the flash and the din, +The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in. + +"They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll +Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole. +When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair, +And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair. +And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot, +And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot, +When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell, +And it -- DRAPPED ON THE HAGGIS AND DINGED IT TAE HELL." + +And oh but the lads were fair taken aback; +Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack, +And up from the trenches like lions they leapt, +And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept. +On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before! +On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar! +And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang, +And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang: +And there wisna a man but had death in his ee, +For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee. + + + + +The Lark + + + +From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, +The guns have brayed without abate; +And now the sick sun looks upon +The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate +As if it loathed to rise again. +How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark! +From yon down-trodden gold of grain, +The leaping rapture of a lark. + +A fusillade of melody, +That sprays us from yon trench of sky; +A new amazing enemy +We cannot silence though we try; +A battery on radiant wings, +That from yon gap of golden fleece +Hurls at us hopes of such strange things +As joy and home and love and peace. + +Pure heart of song! do you not know +That we are making earth a hell? +Or is it that you try to show +Life still is joy and all is well? +Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain +You beat into that bit of blue: +Lo! we who pant in war's red rain +Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too. + + + + +The Odyssey of 'Erbert 'Iggins + + + +Me and Ed and a stretcher +Out on the nootral ground. +(If there's one dead corpse, I'll betcher +There's a 'undred smellin' around.) +Me and Eddie O'Brian, +Both of the R. A. M. C. +"It's a 'ell of a night +For a soul to take flight," +As Eddie remarks to me. +Me and Ed crawlin' 'omeward, +Thinkin' our job is done, +When sudden and clear, +Wot do we 'ear: +'Owl of a wounded 'Un. + +"Got to take 'im," snaps Eddy; +"Got to take all we can. +'E may be a Germ +Wiv the 'eart of a worm, +But, blarst 'im! ain't 'e a man?" +So 'e sloshes out fixin' a dressin' +('E'd always a medical knack), +When that wounded 'Un +'E rolls to 'is gun, +And 'e plugs me pal in the back. + +Now what would you do? I arst you. +There was me slaughtered mate. +There was that 'Un +(I'd collered 'is gun), +A-snarlin' 'is 'ymn of 'ate. +Wot did I do? 'Ere, whisper . . . +'E'd a shiny bald top to 'is 'ead, +But when I got through, +Between me and you, +It was 'orrid and jaggy and red. + +"'Ang on like a limpet, Eddy. +Thank Gord! you ain't dead after all." +It's slow and it's sure and it's steady +(Which is 'ard, for 'e's big and I'm small). +The rockets are shootin' and shinin', +It's rainin' a perishin' flood, +The bullets are buzzin' and whinin', +And I'm up to me stern in the mud. +There's all kinds of 'owlin' and 'ootin'; +It's black as a bucket of tar; +Oh, I'm doin' my bit, +But I'm 'avin' a fit, +And I wish I was 'ome wiv Mar. + +"Stick on like a plaster, Eddy. +Old sport, you're a-slackin' your grip." +Gord! But I'm crocky already; +My feet, 'ow they slither and slip! +There goes the biff of a bullet. +The Boches have got us for fair. +Another one -- WHUT! +The son of a slut! +'E managed to miss by a 'air. +'Ow! Wot was it jabbed at me shoulder? +Gave it a dooce of a wrench. +Is it Eddy or me +Wot's a-bleedin' so free? +Crust! but it's long to the trench. +I ain't just as strong as a Sandow, +And Ed ain't a flapper by far; +I'm blamed if I understand 'ow +We've managed to get where we are. +But 'ere's for a bit of a breather. +"Steady there, Ed, 'arf a mo'. +Old pal, it's all right; +It's a 'ell of a fight, +But are we down-'earted? No-o-o." + +Now war is a funny thing, ain't it? +It's the rummiest sort of a go. +For when it's most real, +It's then that you feel +You're a-watchin' a cinema show. +'Ere's me wot's a barber's assistant. +Hey, presto! It's somewheres in France, +And I'm 'ere in a pit +Where a coal-box 'as 'it, +And it's all like a giddy romance. +The ruddy quick-firers are spittin', +The 'eavies are bellowin' 'ate, +And 'ere I am cashooly sittin', +And 'oldin' the 'ead of me mate. +Them gharstly green star-shells is beamin', +'Ot shrapnel is poppin' like rain, +And I'm sayin': "Bert 'Iggins, you're dreamin', +And you'll wake up in 'Ampstead again. +You'll wake up and 'ear yourself sayin': +`Would you like, sir, to 'ave a shampoo?' +'Stead of sheddin' yer blood +In the rain and the mud, +Which is some'ow the right thing to do; +Which is some'ow yer 'oary-eyed dooty, +Wot you're doin' the best wot you can, +For 'Ampstead and 'ome and beauty, +And you've been and you've slaughtered a man. +A feller wot punctured your partner; +Oh, you 'ammered 'im 'ard on the 'ead, +And you still see 'is eyes +Starin' bang at the skies, +And you ain't even sorry 'e's dead. +But you wish you was back in your diggin's +Asleep on your mouldy old stror. +Oh, you're doin' yer bit, 'Erbert 'Iggins, +But you ain't just enjoyin' the war." + +"'Ang on like a hoctopus, Eddy. +It's us for the bomb-belt again. +Except for the shrap +Which 'as 'it me a tap, +I'm feelin' as right as the rain. +It's my silly old feet wot are slippin', +It's as dark as a 'ogs'ead o' sin, +But don't be oneasy, my pippin, +I'm goin' to pilot you in. +It's my silly old 'ead wot is reelin'. +The bullets is buzzin' like bees. +Me shoulder's red-'ot, +And I'm bleedin' a lot, +And me legs is on'inged at the knees. +But we're staggerin' nearer and nearer. +Just stick it, old sport, play the game. +I make 'em out clearer and clearer, +Our trenches a-snappin' with flame. +Oh, we're stumblin' closer and closer. +'Ang on there, lad! Just one more try. +Did you say: Put you down? Damn it, no, sir! +I'll carry you in if I die. +By cracky! old feller, they've seen us. +They're sendin' out stretchers for two. +Let's give 'em the hoorah between us +('Anged lucky we aren't booked through). +My flipper is mashed to a jelly. +A bullet 'as tickled your spleen. +We've shed lots of gore +And we're leakin' some more, +But -- wot a hoccasion it's been! +Ho! 'Ere comes the rescuin' party. +They're crawlin' out cautious and slow. +Come! Buck up and greet 'em, my 'earty, +Shoulder to shoulder -- so. +They mustn't think we was down-'earted. +Old pal, we was never down-'earted. +If they arsts us if we was down-'earted +We'll 'owl in their fyces: `No-o-o!'" + + + + +A Song of Winter Weather + + + +It isn't the foe that we fear; +It isn't the bullets that whine; +It isn't the business career +Of a shell, or the bust of a mine; +It isn't the snipers who seek +To nip our young hopes in the bud: +No, it isn't the guns, +And it isn't the Huns -- +It's the MUD, + MUD, + MUD. + +It isn't the melee we mind. +That often is rather good fun. +It isn't the shrapnel we find +Obtrusive when rained by the ton; +It isn't the bounce of the bombs +That gives us a positive pain: +It's the strafing we get +When the weather is wet -- +It's the RAIN, + RAIN, + RAIN. + +It isn't because we lack grit +We shrink from the horrors of war. +We don't mind the battle a bit; +In fact that is what we are for; +It isn't the rum-jars and things +Make us wish we were back in the fold: +It's the fingers that freeze +In the boreal breeze -- +It's the COLD, + COLD, + COLD. + +Oh, the rain, the mud, and the cold, +The cold, the mud, and the rain; +With weather at zero it's hard for a hero +From language that's rude to refrain. +With porridgy muck to the knees, +With sky that's a-pouring a flood, +Sure the worst of our foes +Are the pains and the woes +Of the RAIN, + the COLD, + and the MUD. + + + + +Tipperary Days + + + +Oh, weren't they the fine boys! You never saw the beat of them, +Singing all together with their throats bronze-bare; +Fighting-fit and mirth-mad, music in the feet of them, +Swinging on to glory and the wrath out there. +Laughing by and chaffing by, frolic in the smiles of them, +On the road, the white road, all the afternoon; +Strangers in a strange land, miles and miles and miles of them, +Battle-bound and heart-high, and singing this tune: + + It's a long way to Tipperary, + It's a long way to go; + It's a long way to Tipperary, + And the sweetest girl I know. + Good-bye, Piccadilly, + Farewell, Lester Square: + It's a long, long way to Tipperary, + But my heart's right there. + +"Come, Yvonne and Juliette! Come, Mimi, and cheer for them! +Throw them flowers and kisses as they pass you by. +Aren't they the lovely lads! Haven't you a tear for them +Going out so gallantly to dare and die? +What is it they're singing so? Some high hymn of Motherland? +Some immortal chanson of their Faith and King? +`Marseillaise' or `Brabanc,on', anthem of that other land, +Dears, let us remember it, that song they sing: + + "C'est un chemin long `to Tepararee', + C'est un chemin long, c'est vrai; + C'est un chemin long `to Tepararee', + Et la belle fille qu'je connais. + Bonjour, Peekadeely! + Au revoir, Lestaire Squaire! + C'est un chemin long `to Tepararee', + Mais mon coeur `ees zaire'." + +The gallant old "Contemptibles"! There isn't much remains of them, +So full of fun and fitness, and a-singing in their pride; +For some are cold as clabber and the corby picks the brains of them, +And some are back in Blighty, and a-wishing they had died. +And yet it seems but yesterday, that great, glad sight of them, +Swinging on to battle as the sky grew black and black; +But oh their glee and glory, and the great, grim fight of them! -- +Just whistle Tipperary and it all comes back: + + It's a long way to Tipperary + (Which means "'ome" anywhere); + It's a long way to Tipperary + (And the things wot make you care). + Good-bye, Piccadilly + ('Ow I 'opes my folks is well); + It's a long, long way to Tipperary -- + ('R! Ain't War just 'ell?) + + + + +Fleurette + +(The Wounded Canadian Speaks) + + + +My leg? It's off at the knee. +Do I miss it? Well, some. You see +I've had it since I was born; +And lately a devilish corn. +(I rather chuckle with glee +To think how I've fooled that corn.) + +But I'll hobble around all right. +It isn't that, it's my face. +Oh I know I'm a hideous sight, +Hardly a thing in place; +Sort of gargoyle, you'd say. +Nurse won't give me a glass, +But I see the folks as they pass +Shudder and turn away; +Turn away in distress . . . +Mirror enough, I guess. + +I'm gay! You bet I AM gay; +But I wasn't a while ago. +If you'd seen me even to-day, +The darndest picture of woe, +With this Caliban mug of mine, +So ravaged and raw and red, +Turned to the wall -- in fine, +Wishing that I was dead. . . . +What has happened since then, +Since I lay with my face to the wall, +The most despairing of men? +Listen! I'll tell you all. + +That `poilu' across the way, +With the shrapnel wound in his head, +Has a sister: she came to-day +To sit awhile by his bed. +All morning I heard him fret: +"Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?" + +Then sudden, a joyous cry; +The tripping of little feet; +The softest, tenderest sigh; +A voice so fresh and sweet; +Clear as a silver bell, +Fresh as the morning dews: +"C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel! +Mon fre^re, comme je suis heureuse!" + +So over the blanket's rim +I raised my terrible face, +And I saw -- how I envied him! +A girl of such delicate grace; +Sixteen, all laughter and love; +As gay as a linnet, and yet +As tenderly sweet as a dove; +Half woman, half child -- Fleurette. + +Then I turned to the wall again. +(I was awfully blue, you see), +And I thought with a bitter pain: +"Such visions are not for me." +So there like a log I lay, +All hidden, I thought, from view, +When sudden I heard her say: +"Ah! Who is that `malheureux'?" +Then briefly I heard him tell +(However he came to know) +How I'd smothered a bomb that fell +Into the trench, and so +None of my men were hit, +Though it busted me up a bit. + +Well, I didn't quiver an eye, +And he chattered and there she sat; +And I fancied I heard her sigh -- +But I wouldn't just swear to that. +And maybe she wasn't so bright, +Though she talked in a merry strain, +And I closed my eyes ever so tight, +Yet I saw her ever so plain: +Her dear little tilted nose, +Her delicate, dimpled chin, +Her mouth like a budding rose, +And the glistening pearls within; +Her eyes like the violet: +Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette. + +And at last when she rose to go, +The light was a little dim, +And I ventured to peep, and so +I saw her, graceful and slim, +And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh +How I envied and envied him! + +So when she was gone I said +In rather a dreary voice +To him of the opposite bed: +"Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! +But me, I'm a thing of dread. +For me nevermore the bliss, +The thrill of a woman's kiss." + +Then I stopped, for lo! she was there, +And a great light shone in her eyes. +And me! I could only stare, +I was taken so by surprise, +When gently she bent her head: +"May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said. + +Then she kissed my burning lips +With her mouth like a scented flower, +And I thrilled to the finger-tips, +And I hadn't even the power +To say: "God bless you, dear!" +And I felt such a precious tear +Fall on my withered cheek, +And darn it! I couldn't speak. + +And so she went sadly away, +And I knew that my eyes were wet. +Ah, not to my dying day +Will I forget, forget! +Can you wonder now I am gay? +God bless her, that little Fleurette! + + + + +Funk + + + +When your marrer bone seems 'oller, +And you're glad you ain't no taller, +And you're all a-shakin' like you 'ad the chills; +When your skin creeps like a pullet's, +And you're duckin' all the bullets, +And you're green as gorgonzola round the gills; +When your legs seem made of jelly, +And you're squeamish in the belly, +And you want to turn about and do a bunk: +For Gawd's sake, kid, don't show it! +Don't let your mateys know it -- +You're just sufferin' from funk, funk, funk. + +Of course there's no denyin' +That it ain't so easy tryin' +To grin and grip your rifle by the butt, +When the 'ole world rips asunder, +And you sees yer pal go under, +As a bunch of shrapnel sprays 'im on the nut; +I admit it's 'ard contrivin' +When you 'ears the shells arrivin', +To discover you're a bloomin' bit o' spunk; +But, my lad, you've got to do it, +And your God will see you through it, +For wot 'E 'ates is funk, funk, funk. + +So stand up, son; look gritty, +And just 'um a lively ditty, +And only be afraid to be afraid; +Just 'old yer rifle steady, +And 'ave yer bay'nit ready, +For that's the way good soldier-men is made. +And if you 'as to die, +As it sometimes 'appens, why, +Far better die a 'ero than a skunk; +A-doin' of yer bit, +And so -- to 'ell with it, +There ain't no bloomin' funk, funk, funk. + + + + +Our Hero + + + +"Flowers, only flowers -- bring me dainty posies, +Blossoms for forgetfulness," that was all he said; +So we sacked our gardens, violets and roses, +Lilies white and bluebells laid we on his bed. +Soft his pale hands touched them, tenderly caressing; +Soft into his tired eyes came a little light; +Such a wistful love-look, gentle as a blessing; +There amid the flowers waited he the night. + +"I would have you raise me; I can see the West then: +I would see the sun set once before I go." +So he lay a-gazing, seemed to be at rest then, +Quiet as a spirit in the golden glow. +So he lay a-watching rosy castles crumbling, +Moats of blinding amber, bastions of flame, +Rugged rifts of opal, crimson turrets tumbling; +So he lay a-dreaming till the shadows came. + +"Open wide the window; there's a lark a-singing; +There's a glad lark singing in the evening sky. +How it's wild with rapture, radiantly winging: +Oh it's good to hear that when one has to die. +I am horror-haunted from the hell they found me; +I am battle-broken, all I want is rest. +Ah! It's good to die so, blossoms all around me, +And a kind lark singing in the golden West. + +"Flowers, song and sunshine, just one thing is wanting, +Just the happy laughter of a little child." +So we brought our dearest, Doris all-enchanting; +Tenderly he kissed her; radiant he smiled. +"In the golden peace-time you will tell the story +How for you and yours, sweet, bitter deaths were ours. . . . +God bless little children!" So he passed to glory, +So we left him sleeping, still amid the flow'rs. + + + + +My Mate + + + +I've been sittin' starin', starin' at 'is muddy pair of boots, +And tryin' to convince meself it's 'im. +(Look out there, lad! That sniper -- 'e's a dysey when 'e shoots; +'E'll be layin' of you out the same as Jim.) +Jim as lies there in the dug-out wiv 'is blanket round 'is 'ead, +To keep 'is brains from mixin' wiv the mud; +And 'is face as white as putty, and 'is overcoat all red, +Like 'e's spilt a bloomin' paint-pot -- but it's blood. + +And I'm tryin' to remember of a time we wasn't pals. +'Ow often we've played 'ookey, 'im and me; +And sometimes it was music-'alls, and sometimes it was gals, +And even there we 'ad no disagree. +For when 'e copped Mariar Jones, the one I liked the best, +I shook 'is 'and and loaned 'im 'arf a quid; +I saw 'im through the parson's job, I 'elped 'im make 'is nest, +I even stood god-farther to the kid. + +So when the war broke out, sez 'e: "Well, wot abaht it, Joe?" +"Well, wot abaht it, lad?" sez I to 'im. +'Is missis made a awful fuss, but 'e was mad to go, +('E always was 'igh-sperrited was Jim). +Well, none of it's been 'eaven, and the most of it's been 'ell, +But we've shared our baccy, and we've 'alved our bread. +We'd all the luck at Wipers, and we shaved through Noove Chapelle, +And . . . that snipin' barstard gits 'im on the 'ead. + +Now wot I wants to know is, why it wasn't me was took? +I've only got meself, 'e stands for three. +I'm plainer than a louse, while 'e was 'andsome as a dook; +'E always WAS a better man than me. +'E was goin' 'ome next Toosday; 'e was 'appy as a lark, +And 'e'd just received a letter from 'is kid; +And 'e struck a match to show me, as we stood there in the dark, +When . . . that bleedin' bullet got 'im on the lid. + +'E was killed so awful sudden that 'e 'adn't time to die. +'E sorto jumped, and came down wiv a thud. +Them corpsy-lookin' star-shells kept a-streamin' in the sky, +And there 'e lay like nothin' in the mud. +And there 'e lay so quiet wiv no mansard to 'is 'ead, +And I'm sick, and blamed if I can understand: +The pots of 'alf and 'alf we've 'ad, and ZIP! like that -- 'e's dead, +Wiv the letter of 'is nipper in 'is 'and. + +There's some as fights for freedom and there's some as fights for fun, +But me, my lad, I fights for bleedin' 'ate. +You can blame the war and blast it, but I 'opes it won't be done +Till I gets the bloomin' blood-price for me mate. +It'll take a bit o' bayonet to level up for Jim; +Then if I'm spared I think I'll 'ave a bid, +Wiv 'er that was Mariar Jones to take the place of 'im, +To sorter be a farther to 'is kid. + + + + +Milking Time + + + +There's a drip of honeysuckle in the deep green lane; +There's old Martin jogging homeward on his worn old wain; +There are cherry petals falling, and a cuckoo calling, calling, +And a score of larks (God bless 'em) . . . but it's all pain, pain. +For you see I am not really there at all, not at all; +For you see I'm in the trenches where the crump-crumps fall; +And the bits o' shells are screaming and it's only blessed dreaming +That in fancy I am seeming back in old Saint Pol. + +Oh I've thought of it so often since I've come down here; +And I never dreamt that any place could be so dear; +The silvered whinstone houses, and the rosy men in blouses, +And the kindly, white-capped women with their eyes spring-clear. +And mother's sitting knitting where her roses climb, +And the angelus is calling with a soft, soft chime, +And the sea-wind comes caressing, and the light's a golden blessing, +And Yvonne, Yvonne is guessing that it's milking time. + +Oh it's Sunday, for she's wearing of her broidered gown; +And she draws the pasture pickets and the cows come down; +And their feet are powdered yellow, and their voices honey-mellow, +And they bring a scent of clover, and their eyes are brown. +And Yvonne is dreaming after, but her eyes are blue; +And her lips are made for laughter, and her white teeth too; +And her mouth is like a cherry, and a dimple mocking merry +Is lurking in the very cheek she turns to you. + +So I walk beside her kindly, and she laughs at me; +And I heap her arms with lilac from the lilac tree; +And a golden light is welling, and a golden peace is dwelling, +And a thousand birds are telling how it's good to be. +And what are pouting lips for if they can't be kissed? +And I've filled her arms with blossom so she can't resist; +And the cows are sadly straying, and her mother must be saying +That Yvonne is long delaying . . . GOD! HOW CLOSE THAT MISSED! + +A nice polite reminder that the Boche are nigh; +That we're here to fight like devils, and if need-be die; +That from kissing pretty wenches to the frantic firing-benches +Of the battered, tattered trenches is a far, far cry. +Yet still I'm sitting dreaming in the glare and grime; +And once again I'm hearing of them church-bells chime; +And how I wonder whether in the golden summer weather +We will fetch the cows together when it's milking time. . . . + (English voice, months later): -- +"OW BILL! A ROTTIN' FRENCHY. WHEW! 'E AIN'T 'ARF PRIME." + + + + +Young Fellow My Lad + + + +"Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad, +On this glittering morn of May?" +"I'm going to join the Colours, Dad; +They're looking for men, they say." +"But you're only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad; +You aren't obliged to go." +"I'm seventeen and a quarter, Dad, +And ever so strong, you know." + + . . . . . + +"So you're off to France, Young Fellow My Lad, +And you're looking so fit and bright." +"I'm terribly sorry to leave you, Dad, +But I feel that I'm doing right." +"God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad, +You're all of my life, you know." +"Don't worry. I'll soon be back, dear Dad, +And I'm awfully proud to go." + + . . . . . + +"Why don't you write, Young Fellow My Lad? +I watch for the post each day; +And I miss you so, and I'm awfully sad, +And it's months since you went away. +And I've had the fire in the parlour lit, +And I'm keeping it burning bright +Till my boy comes home; and here I sit +Into the quiet night." + + . . . . . + +"What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad? +No letter again to-day. +Why did the postman look so sad, +And sigh as he turned away? +I hear them tell that we've gained new ground, +But a terrible price we've paid: +God grant, my boy, that you're safe and sound; +But oh I'm afraid, afraid." + + . . . . . + +"They've told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad: +You'll never come back again: +(OH GOD! THE DREAMS AND THE DREAMS I'VE HAD, +AND THE HOPES I'VE NURSED IN VAIN!) +For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad, +And you proved in the cruel test +Of the screaming shell and the battle hell +That my boy was one of the best. + +"So you'll live, you'll live, Young Fellow My Lad, +In the gleam of the evening star, +In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child, +In all sweet things that are. +And you'll never die, my wonderful boy, +While life is noble and true; +For all our beauty and hope and joy +We will owe to our lads like you." + + + + +A Song of the Sandbags + + + +No, Bill, I'm not a-spooning out no patriotic tosh +(The cove be'ind the sandbags ain't a death-or-glory cuss). +And though I strafes 'em good and 'ard I doesn't 'ate the Boche, +I guess they're mostly decent, just the same as most of us. +I guess they loves their 'omes and kids as much as you or me; +And just the same as you or me they'd rather shake than fight; +And if we'd 'appened to be born at Berlin-on-the-Spree, +We'd be out there with 'Ans and Fritz, dead sure that we was right. + + A-standin' up to the sandbags + It's funny the thoughts wot come; + Starin' into the darkness, + 'Earin' the bullets 'um; + (ZING! ZIP! PING! RIP! + 'ARK 'OW THE BULLETS 'UM!) + A-leanin' against the sandbags + Wiv me rifle under me ear, + Oh, I've 'ad more thoughts on a sentry-go + Than I used to 'ave in a year. + +I wonder, Bill, if 'Ans and Fritz is wonderin' like me +Wot's at the bottom of it all? Wot all the slaughter's for? +'E thinks 'e's right (of course 'e ain't) but this we both agree, +If them as made it 'ad to fight, there wouldn't be no war. +If them as lies in feather beds while we kips in the mud; +If them as makes their fortoons while we fights for 'em like 'ell; +If them as slings their pot of ink just 'ad to sling their blood: +By Crust! I'm thinkin' there 'ud be another tale to tell. + + Shiverin' up to the sandbags, + With a hicicle 'stead of a spine, + Don't it seem funny the things you think + 'Ere in the firin' line: + (WHEE! WHUT! ZIZ! ZUT! + LORD! 'OW THE BULLETS WHINE!) + Hunkerin' down when a star-shell + Cracks in a sputter of light, + You can jaw to yer soul by the sandbags + Most any old time o' night. + +They talks o' England's glory and a-'oldin' of our trade, +Of Empire and 'igh destiny until we're fair flim-flammed; +But if it's for the likes o' that that bloody war is made, +Then wot I say is: Empire and 'igh destiny be damned! +There's only one good cause, Bill, for poor blokes like us to fight: +That's self-defence, for 'earth and 'ome, and them that bears our name; +And that's wot I'm a-doin' by the sandbags 'ere to-night. . . . +But Fritz out there will tell you 'e's a-doin' of the same. + + Starin' over the sandbags, + Sick of the 'ole damn thing; + Firin' to keep meself awake, + 'Earin' the bullets sing. + (HISS! TWANG! TSING! PANG! + SAUCY THE BULLETS SING.) + Dreamin' 'ere by the sandbags + Of a day when war will cease, + When 'Ans and Fritz and Bill and me + Will clink our mugs in fraternity, + And the Brotherhood of Labour will be + The Brotherhood of Peace. + + + + +On the Wire + + + +O God, take the sun from the sky! +It's burning me, scorching me up. +God, can't You hear my cry? +`Water! A poor, little cup!' +It's laughing, the cursed sun! +See how it swells and swells +Fierce as a hundred hells! +God, will it never have done? +It's searing the flesh on my bones; +It's beating with hammers red +My eyeballs into my head; +It's parching my very moans. +See! It's the size of the sky, +And the sky is a torrent of fire, +Foaming on me as I lie +Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + +Of the thousands that wheeze and hum +Heedlessly over my head, +Why can't a bullet come, +Pierce to my brain instead, +Blacken forever my brain, +Finish forever my pain? +Here in the hellish glare +Why must I suffer so? +Is it God doesn't care? +Is it God doesn't know? +Oh, to be killed outright, +Clean in the clash of the fight! +That is a golden death, +That is a boon; but this . . . +Drawing an anguished breath +Under a hot abyss, +Under a stooping sky +Of seething, sulphurous fire, +Scorching me up as I lie +Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + +Hasten, O God, Thy night! +Hide from my eyes the sight +Of the body I stare and see +Shattered so hideously. +I can't believe that it's mine. +My body was white and sweet, +Flawless and fair and fine, +Shapely from head to feet; +Oh no, I can never be +The thing of horror I see +Under the rifle fire, +Trussed on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + +Of night and of death I dream; +Night that will bring me peace, +Coolness and starry gleam, +Stillness and death's release: +Ages and ages have passed, -- +Lo! it is night at last. +Night! but the guns roar out. +Night! but the hosts attack. +Red and yellow and black +Geysers of doom upspout. +Silver and green and red +Star-shells hover and spread. +Yonder off to the right +Fiercely kindles the fight; +Roaring near and more near, +Thundering now in my ear; +Close to me, close . . . Oh, hark! +Someone moans in the dark. +I hear, but I cannot see, +I hear as the rest retire, +Someone is caught like me, +Caught on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + +Again the shuddering dawn, +Weird and wicked and wan; +Again, and I've not yet gone. +The man whom I heard is dead. +Now I can understand: +A bullet hole in his head, +A pistol gripped in his hand. +Well, he knew what to do, -- +Yes, and now I know too. . . . + +Hark the resentful guns! +Oh, how thankful am I +To think my beloved ones +Will never know how I die! +I've suffered more than my share; +I'm shattered beyond repair; +I've fought like a man the fight, +And now I demand the right +(God! how his fingers cling!) +To do without shame this thing. +Good! there's a bullet still; +Now I'm ready to fire; +Blame me, God, if You will, +Here on the wire . . . the wire. . . . + + + + +Bill's Grave + + + +I'm gatherin' flowers by the wayside to lay on the grave of Bill; +I've sneaked away from the billet, 'cause Jim wouldn't understand; +'E'd call me a silly fat'ead, and larf till it made 'im ill, +To see me 'ere in the cornfield, wiv a big bookay in me 'and. + +For Jim and me we are rough uns, but Bill was one o' the best; +We 'listed and learned together to larf at the wust wot comes; +Then Bill copped a packet proper, and took 'is departure West, +So sudden 'e 'adn't a minit to say good-bye to 'is chums. + +And they took me to where 'e was planted, a sort of a measly mound, +And, thinks I, 'ow Bill would be tickled, bein' so soft and queer, +If I gathered a bunch o' them wild-flowers, and sort of arranged them round +Like a kind of a bloody headpiece . . . and that's the reason I'm 'ere. + +But not for the love of glory I wouldn't 'ave Jim to know. +'E'd call me a slobberin' Cissy, and larf till 'is sides was sore; +I'd 'ave larfed at meself too, it isn't so long ago; +But some'ow it changes a feller, 'avin' a taste o' war. + +It 'elps a man to be 'elpful, to know wot 'is pals is worth +(Them golden poppies is blazin' like lamps some fairy 'as lit); +I'm fond o' them big white dysies. . . . Now Jim's o' the salt o' the earth; +But 'e 'as got a tongue wot's a terror, and 'e ain't sentimental a bit. + +I likes them blue chaps wot's 'idin' so shylike among the corn. +Won't Bill be glad! We was allus thicker 'n thieves, us three. +Why! 'Oo's that singin' so 'earty? JIM! And as sure as I'm born +'E's there in the giddy cornfields, a-gatherin' flowers like me. + +Quick! Drop me posy be'ind me. I watches 'im for a while, +Then I says: "Wot 'o, there, Chummy! Wot price the little bookay?" +And 'e starts like a bloke wot's guilty, and 'e says with a sheepish smile: +"She's a bit of orl right, the widder wot keeps the estaminay." + +So 'e goes away in a 'urry, and I wishes 'im best o' luck, +And I picks up me bunch o' wild-flowers, and the light's gettin' sorto dim, +When I makes me way to the boneyard, + and . . . I stares like a man wot's stuck, +For wot do I see? BILL'S GRAVE-MOUND STREWN WITH THE FLOWERS OF JIM. + +Of course I won't never tell 'im, bein' a tactical lad; +And Jim parley-voos to the widder: "Trez beans, lamoor; compree?" +Oh, 'e'd die of shame if 'e knew I knew; but say! won't Bill be glad +When 'e stares through the bleedin' clods and sees + the blossoms of Jim and me? + + + + +Jean Desprez + + + +Oh ye whose hearts are resonant, and ring to War's romance, +Hear ye the story of a boy, a peasant boy of France; +A lad uncouth and warped with toil, yet who, when trial came, +Could feel within his soul upleap and soar the sacred flame; +Could stand upright, and scorn and smite, as only heroes may: +Oh, harken! Let me try to tell the tale of Jean Desprez. + +With fire and sword the Teuton horde was ravaging the land, +And there was darkness and despair, grim death on every hand; +Red fields of slaughter sloping down to ruin's black abyss; +The wolves of war ran evil-fanged, and little did they miss. +And on they came with fear and flame, to burn and loot and slay, +Until they reached the red-roofed croft, the home of Jean Desprez. + +"Rout out the village, one and all!" the Uhlan Captain said. +"Behold! Some hand has fired a shot. My trumpeter is dead. +Now shall they Prussian vengeance know; now shall they rue the day, +For by this sacred German slain, ten of these dogs shall pay." +They drove the cowering peasants forth, women and babes and men, +And from the last, with many a jeer, the Captain chose he ten; +Ten simple peasants, bowed with toil; they stood, they knew not why, +Against the grey wall of the church, hearing their children cry; +Hearing their wives and mothers wail, with faces dazed they stood. +A moment only. . . . READY! FIRE! They weltered in their blood. + +But there was one who gazed unseen, who heard the frenzied cries, +Who saw these men in sabots fall before their children's eyes; +A Zouave wounded in a ditch, and knowing death was nigh, +He laughed with joy: "Ah! here is where I settle ere I die." +He clutched his rifle once again, and long he aimed and well. . . . +A shot! Beside his victims ten the Uhlan Captain fell. + +They dragged the wounded Zouave out; their rage was like a flame. +With bayonets they pinned him down, until their Major came. +A blonde, full-blooded man he was, and arrogant of eye; +He stared to see with shattered skull his favourite Captain lie. +"Nay, do not finish him so quick, this foreign swine," he cried; +"Go nail him to the big church door: he shall be crucified." + +With bayonets through hands and feet they nailed the Zouave there, +And there was anguish in his eyes, and horror in his stare; +"Water! A single drop!" he moaned; but how they jeered at him, +And mocked him with an empty cup, and saw his sight grow dim; +And as in agony of death with blood his lips were wet, +The Prussian Major gaily laughed, and lit a cigarette. + +But mid the white-faced villagers who cowered in horror by, +Was one who saw the woeful sight, who heard the woeful cry: +"Water! One little drop, I beg! For love of Christ who died. . . ." +It was the little Jean Desprez who turned and stole aside; +It was the little bare-foot boy who came with cup abrim +And walked up to the dying man, and gave the drink to him. + +A roar of rage! They seize the boy; they tear him fast away. +The Prussian Major swings around; no longer is he gay. +His teeth are wolfishly agleam; his face all dark with spite: +"Go, shoot the brat," he snarls, "that dare defy our Prussian might. +Yet stay! I have another thought. I'll kindly be, and spare; +Quick! give the lad a rifle charged, and set him squarely there, +And bid him shoot, and shoot to kill. Haste! Make him understand +The dying dog he fain would save shall perish by his hand. +And all his kindred they shall see, and all shall curse his name, +Who bought his life at such a cost, the price of death and shame." + +They brought the boy, wild-eyed with fear; they made him understand; +They stood him by the dying man, a rifle in his hand. +"Make haste!" said they; "the time is short, and you must kill or die." +The Major puffed his cigarette, amusement in his eye. +And then the dying Zouave heard, and raised his weary head: +"Shoot, son, 'twill be the best for both; shoot swift and straight," he said. +"Fire first and last, and do not flinch; for lost to hope am I; +And I will murmur: VIVE LA FRANCE! and bless you ere I die." + +Half-blind with blows the boy stood there; he seemed to swoon and sway; +Then in that moment woke the soul of little Jean Desprez. +He saw the woods go sheening down; the larks were singing clear; +And oh! the scents and sounds of spring, how sweet they were! how dear! +He felt the scent of new-mown hay, a soft breeze fanned his brow; +O God! the paths of peace and toil! How precious were they now! +The summer days and summer ways, how bright with hope and bliss! +The autumn such a dream of gold . . . and all must end in this: +This shining rifle in his hand, that shambles all around; +The Zouave there with dying glare; the blood upon the ground; +The brutal faces round him ringed, the evil eyes aflame; +That Prussian bully standing by, as if he watched a game. +"Make haste and shoot," the Major sneered; "a minute more I give; +A minute more to kill your friend, if you yourself would live." + +They only saw a bare-foot boy, with blanched and twitching face; +They did not see within his eyes the glory of his race; +The glory of a million men who for fair France have died, +The splendour of self-sacrifice that will not be denied. +Yet . . . he was but a peasant lad, and oh! but life was sweet. . . . +"Your minute's nearly gone, my lad," he heard a voice repeat. +"Shoot! Shoot!" the dying Zouave moaned; "Shoot! Shoot!" the soldiers said. +Then Jean Desprez reached out and shot . . . THE PRUSSIAN MAJOR DEAD! + + + + +Going Home + + + +I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty -- ain't I glad to 'ave the chance! +I'm loaded up wiv fightin', and I've 'ad my fill o' France; +I'm feelin' so excited-like, I want to sing and dance, + For I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'. + +I'm goin' 'ome to Blighty: can you wonder as I'm gay? +I've got a wound I wouldn't sell for 'alf a year o' pay; +A harm that's mashed to jelly in the nicest sort o' way, + For it takes me 'ome to Blighty in the mawnin'. + +'Ow everlastin' keen I was on gettin' to the front! +I'd ginger for a dozen, and I 'elped to bear the brunt; +But Cheese and Crust! I'm crazy, now I've done me little stunt, + To sniff the air of Blighty in the mawnin'. + +I've looked upon the wine that's white, and on the wine that's red; +I've looked on cider flowin', till it fairly turned me 'ead; +But oh, the finest scoff will be, when all is done and said, + A pint o' Bass in Blighty in the mawnin'. + +I'm goin' back to Blighty, which I left to strafe the 'Un; +I've fought in bloody battles, and I've 'ad a 'eap of fun; +But now me flipper's busted, and I think me dooty's done, + And I'll kiss me gel in Blighty in the mawnin'. + +Oh, there be furrin' lands to see, and some of 'em be fine; +And there be furrin' gels to kiss, and scented furrin' wine; +But there's no land like England, and no other gel like mine: + Thank Gawd for dear old Blighty in the mawnin'. + + + + +Cocotte + + + +When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty, +And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home, +Heigh-ho! She's as safe in Paris city +As a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam; +And that was I; oh, it's seven years now +(Some water's run down the Seine since then), +And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now, +And I've almost taken the measure of men. + +Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only, +Artist and poet, and almost a boy. +And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely, +And him I adored with a wonderful joy. +If he'd come to me with his pockets empty, +How we'd have laughed in a garret gay! +But he was rich, and in radiant plenty +We lived in a villa at Viroflay. + +Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me; +Then came the call, and he went away; +All that he had in the world he left me, +With the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay. +Then came the news and the tragic story: +My hero, my splendid lover was dead, +Sword in hand on the field of glory, +And he died with my name on his lips, they said. + +So here am I in my widow's mourning, +The weeds I've really no right to wear; +And women fix me with eyes of scorning, +Call me "cocotte", but I do not care. +And men look at me with eyes that borrow +The brightness of love, but I turn away; +Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow, +In my little villa at Viroflay. + +And lo! I'm living alone with `Pity', +And they say that pity from love's not far; +Let me tell you all: last week in the city +I took the metro at Saint Lazare; +And the carriage was crowded to overflowing, +And when there entered at Chateaudun +Two wounded `poilus' with medals showing, +I eagerly gave my seat to one. + +You should have seen them: they'd slipped death's clutches, +But sadder a sight you will rarely find; +One had a leg off and walked on crutches, +The other, a bit of a boy, was blind. +And they both sat down, and the lad was trying +To grope his way as a blind man tries; +And half of the women around were crying, +And some of the men had tears in their eyes. + +How he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging +Just like a child to his crippled chum. +But I did not cry. Oh no; a singing +Came to my heart for a year so dumb, +Then I knew that at three-and-twenty +There is wonderful work to be done, +Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty, +Peace and light and love to be won. + +Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be given +To one who will live in the dark alway! +To love and to serve -- 'twould make life Heaven +Here in my villa at Viroflay. +So I left my `poilus': and now you wonder +Why to-day I am so elate. . . . +Look! In the glory of sunshine yonder +They're bringing my blind boy in at the gate. + + + + +My Bay'nit + + + +When first I left Blighty they gave me a bay'nit +And told me it 'ad to be smothered wiv gore; +But blimey! I 'aven't been able to stain it, +So far as I've gone wiv the vintage of war. +For ain't it a fraud! when a Boche and yours truly +Gits into a mix in the grit and the grime, +'E jerks up 'is 'ands wiv a yell and 'e's duly + Part of me outfit every time. + + Left, right, Hans and Fritz! + Goose step, keep up yer mits! + Oh my, Ain't it a shyme! + Part of me outfit every time. + +At toasting a biscuit me bay'nit's a dandy; +I've used it to open a bully beef can; +For pokin' the fire it comes in werry 'andy; +For any old thing but for stickin' a man. +'Ow often I've said: "'Ere, I'm goin' to press you +Into a 'Un till you're seasoned for prime," +And fiercely I rushes to do it, but bless you! + Part of me outfit every time. + + Lor, yus; DON'T they look glad? + Right O! 'Owl Kamerad! + Oh my, always the syme! + Part of me outfit every time. + +I'm 'untin' for someone to christen me bay'nit, +Some nice juicy Chewton wot's fightin' in France; +I'm fairly down-'earted -- 'ow CAN yer explain it? +I keeps gettin' prisoners every chance. +As soon as they sees me they ups and surrenders, +Extended like monkeys wot's tryin' to climb; +And I uses me bay'nit -- to slit their suspenders -- + Part of me outfit every time. + + Four 'Uns; lor, wot a bag! + 'Ere, Fritz, sample a fag! + Oh my, ain't it a gyme! + Part of me outfit every time. + + + + +Carry On! + + + +It's easy to fight when everything's right, +And you're mad with the thrill and the glory; +It's easy to cheer when victory's near, +And wallow in fields that are gory. +It's a different song when everything's wrong, +When you're feeling infernally mortal; +When it's ten against one, and hope there is none, +Buck up, little soldier, and chortle: + + Carry on! Carry on! + There isn't much punch in your blow. +You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind; +You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind. + Carry on! Carry on! + You haven't the ghost of a show. +It's looking like death, but while you've a breath, + Carry on, my son! Carry on! + +And so in the strife of the battle of life +It's easy to fight when you're winning; +It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave, +When the dawn of success is beginning. +But the man who can meet despair and defeat +With a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing; +The man who can fight to Heaven's own height +Is the man who can fight when he's losing. + + Carry on! Carry on! + Things never were looming so black. +But show that you haven't a cowardly streak, +And though you're unlucky you never are weak. + Carry on! Carry on! + Brace up for another attack. +It's looking like hell, but -- you never can tell: + Carry on, old man! Carry on! + +There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt, +And some who in brutishness wallow; +There are others, I know, who in piety go +Because of a Heaven to follow. +But to labour with zest, and to give of your best, +For the sweetness and joy of the giving; +To help folks along with a hand and a song; +Why, there's the real sunshine of living. + + Carry on! Carry on! + Fight the good fight and true; +Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer; +There's big work to do, and that's why you are here. + Carry on! Carry on! + Let the world be the better for you; +And at last when you die, let this be your cry: + CARRY ON, MY SOUL! CARRY ON! + + + + +Over the Parapet + + + +All day long when the shells sail over +I stand at the sandbags and take my chance; +But at night, at night I'm a reckless rover, +And over the parapet gleams Romance. +Romance! Romance! How I've dreamed it, writing +Dreary old records of money and mart, +Me with my head chuckful of fighting +And the blood of vikings to thrill my heart. + +But little I thought that my time was coming, +Sudden and splendid, supreme and soon; +And here I am with the bullets humming +As I crawl and I curse the light of the moon. +Out alone, for adventure thirsting, +Out in mysterious No Man's Land; +Prone with the dead when a star-shell, bursting, +Flares on the horrors on every hand. +There are ruby stars and they drip and wiggle; +And the grasses gleam in a light blood-red; +There are emerald stars, and their tails they wriggle, +And ghastly they glare on the face of the dead. +But the worst of all are the stars of whiteness, +That spill in a pool of pearly flame, +Pretty as gems in their silver brightness, +And etching a man for a bullet's aim. + +Yet oh, it's great to be here with danger, +Here in the weird, death-pregnant dark, +In the devil's pasture a stealthy ranger, +When the moon is decently hiding. Hark! +What was that? Was it just the shiver +Of an eerie wind or a clammy hand? +The rustle of grass, or the passing quiver +Of one of the ghosts of No Man's Land? + +It's only at night when the ghosts awaken, +And gibber and whisper horrible things; +For to every foot of this God-forsaken +Zone of jeopard some horror clings. +Ugh! What was that? It felt like a jelly, +That flattish mound in the noisome grass; +You three big rats running free of its belly, +Out of my way and let me pass! + +But if there's horror, there's beauty, wonder; +The trench lights gleam and the rockets play. +That flood of magnificent orange yonder +Is a battery blazing miles away. +With a rush and a singing a great shell passes; +The rifles resentfully bicker and brawl, +And here I crouch in the dew-drenched grasses, +And look and listen and love it all. + +God! What a life! But I must make haste now, +Before the shadow of night be spent. +It's little the time there is to waste now, +If I'd do the job for which I was sent. +My bombs are right and my clippers ready, +And I wriggle out to the chosen place, +When I hear a rustle . . . Steady! . . . Steady! +Who am I staring slap in the face? + +There in the dark I can hear him breathing, +A foot away, and as still as death; +And my heart beats hard, and my brain is seething, +And I know he's a Hun by the smell of his breath. +Then: "Will you surrender?" I whisper hoarsely, +For it's death, swift death to utter a cry. +"English schwein-hund!" he murmurs coarsely. +"Then we'll fight it out in the dark," say I. + +So we grip and we slip and we trip and wrestle +There in the gutter of No Man's Land; +And I feel my nails in his wind-pipe nestle, +And he tries to gouge, but I bite his hand. +And he tries to squeal, but I squeeze him tighter: +"Now," I say, "I can kill you fine; +But tell me first, you Teutonic blighter! +Have you any children?" He answers: "Nein." + +NINE! Well, I cannot kill such a father, +So I tie his hands and I leave him there. +Do I finish my little job? Well, rather; +And I get home safe with some light to spare. +Heigh-ho! by day it's just prosy duty, +Doing the same old song and dance; +But oh! with the night -- joy, glory, beauty: +Over the parapet -- Life, Romance! + + + + +The Ballad of Soulful Sam + + + +You want me to tell you a story, a yarn of the firin' line, +Of our thin red kharki 'eroes, out there where the bullets whine; +Out there where the bombs are bustin', + and the cannons like 'ell-doors slam -- +Just order another drink, boys, and I'll tell you of Soulful Sam. + +Oh, Sam, he was never 'ilarious, though I've 'ad some mates as was wus; +He 'adn't C. B. on his programme, he never was known to cuss. +For a card or a skirt or a beer-mug he 'adn't a friendly word; +But when it came down to Scriptures, say! Wasn't he just a bird! + +He always 'ad tracts in his pocket, the which he would haste to present, +And though the fellers would use them in ways that they never was meant, +I used to read 'em religious, and frequent I've been impressed +By some of them bundles of 'oly dope he carried around in his vest. + +For I -- and oh, 'ow I shudder at the 'orror the word conveys! +'Ave been -- let me whisper it 'oarsely -- a gambler 'alf of me days; +A gambler, you 'ear -- a gambler. It makes me wishful to weep, +And yet 'ow it's true, my brethren! -- I'd rather gamble than sleep. + +I've gambled the 'ole world over, from Monte Carlo to Maine; +From Dawson City to Dover, from San Francisco to Spain. +Cards! They 'ave been me ruin. They've taken me pride and me pelf, +And when I'd no one to play with -- why, I'd go and I'd play by meself. + +And Sam 'e would sit and watch me, as I shuffled a greasy deck, +And 'e'd say: "You're bound to Perdition," + And I'd answer: "Git off me neck!" +And that's 'ow we came to get friendly, though built on a different plan, +Me wot's a desprite gambler, 'im sich a good young man. + +But on to me tale. Just imagine . . . Darkness! The battle-front! +The furious 'Uns attackin'! Us ones a-bearin' the brunt! +Me crouchin' be'ind a sandbag, tryin' 'ard to keep calm, +When I 'ears someone singin' a 'ymn toon; be'old! it is Soulful Sam. + +Yes; right in the crash of the combat, in the fury of flash and flame, +'E was shootin' and singin' serenely as if 'e enjoyed the same. +And there in the 'eat of the battle, as the 'ordes of demons attacked, +He dipped down into 'is tunic, and 'e 'anded me out a tract. + +Then a star-shell flared, and I read it: Oh, Flee From the Wrath to Come! +Nice cheerful subject, I tell yer, when you're 'earin' the bullets 'um. +And before I 'ad time to thank 'im, just one of them bits of lead +Comes slingin' along in a 'urry, and it 'its my partner. . . . Dead? + +No, siree! not by a long sight! For it plugged 'im 'ard on the chest, +Just where 'e'd tracts for a army corps stowed away in 'is vest. +On its mission of death that bullet 'ustled along, and it caved +A 'ole in them tracts to 'is 'ide, boys -- but the life o' me pal was saved. + +And there as 'e showed me in triumph, and 'orror was chokin' me breath, +On came another bullet on its 'orrible mission of death; +On through the night it cavorted, seekin' its 'aven of rest, +And it zipped through a crack in the sandbags, + and it wolloped me bang on the breast. + +Was I killed, do you ask? Oh no, boys. Why am I sittin' 'ere +Gazin' with mournful vision at a mug long empty of beer? +With a throat as dry as a -- oh, thanky! I don't much mind if I do. +Beer with a dash of 'ollands, that's my particular brew. + +Yes, that was a terrible moment. It 'ammered me 'ard o'er the 'eart; +It bowled me down like a nine-pin, and I looked for the gore to start; +And I saw in the flash of a moment, in that thunder of hate and strife, +Me wretched past like a pitchur -- the sins of a gambler's life. + +For I 'ad no tracts to save me, to thwart that mad missile's doom; +I 'ad no pious pamphlets to 'elp me to cheat the tomb; +I 'ad no 'oly leaflets to baffle a bullet's aim; +I'd only -- a deck of cards, boys, but . . . IT SEEMED TO DO JUST THE SAME. + + + + +Only a Boche + + + +We brought him in from between the lines: we'd better have let him lie; +For what's the use of risking one's skin for a TYKE that's going to die? +What's the use of tearing him loose under a gruelling fire, +When he's shot in the head, and worse than dead, + and all messed up on the wire? + +However, I say, we brought him in. DIABLE! The mud was bad; +The trench was crooked and greasy and high, and oh, what a time we had! +And often we slipped, and often we tripped, but never he made a moan; +And how we were wet with blood and with sweat! + but we carried him in like our own. + +Now there he lies in the dug-out dim, awaiting the ambulance, +And the doctor shrugs his shoulders at him, + and remarks, "He hasn't a chance." +And we squat and smoke at our game of bridge + on the glistening, straw-packed floor, +And above our oaths we can hear his breath deep-drawn in a kind of snore. + +For the dressing station is long and low, and the candles gutter dim, +And the mean light falls on the cold clay walls + and our faces bristly and grim; +And we flap our cards on the lousy straw, and we laugh and jibe as we play, +And you'd never know that the cursed foe was less than a mile away. +As we con our cards in the rancid gloom, oppressed by that snoring breath, +You'd never dream that our broad roof-beam was swept by the broom of death. + +Heigh-ho! My turn for the dummy hand; I rise and I stretch a bit; +The fetid air is making me yawn, and my cigarette's unlit, +So I go to the nearest candle flame, and the man we brought is there, +And his face is white in the shabby light, and I stand at his feet and stare. +Stand for a while, and quietly stare: for strange though it seems to be, +The dying Boche on the stretcher there has a queer resemblance to me. + +It gives one a kind of a turn, you know, to come on a thing like that. +It's just as if I were lying there, with a turban of blood for a hat, +Lying there in a coat grey-green instead of a coat grey-blue, +With one of my eyes all shot away, and my brain half tumbling through; +Lying there with a chest that heaves like a bellows up and down, +And a cheek as white as snow on a grave, and lips that are coffee brown. + +And confound him, too! He wears, like me, on his finger a wedding ring, +And around his neck, as around my own, by a greasy bit of string, +A locket hangs with a woman's face, and I turn it about to see: +Just as I thought . . . on the other side the faces of children three; +Clustered together cherub-like, three little laughing girls, +With the usual tiny rosebud mouths and the usual silken curls. +"Zut!" I say. "He has beaten me; for me, I have only two," +And I push the locket beneath his shirt, feeling a little blue. + +Oh, it isn't cheerful to see a man, the marvellous work of God, +Crushed in the mutilation mill, crushed to a smeary clod; +Oh, it isn't cheerful to hear him moan; but it isn't that I mind, +It isn't the anguish that goes with him, it's the anguish he leaves behind. +For his going opens a tragic door that gives on a world of pain, +And the death he dies, those who live and love, will die again and again. + +So here I am at my cards once more, but it's kind of spoiling my play, +Thinking of those three brats of his so many a mile away. +War is war, and he's only a Boche, and we all of us take our chance; +But all the same I'll be mighty glad when I'm hearing the ambulance. +One foe the less, but all the same I'm heartily glad I'm not +The man who gave him his broken head, the sniper who fired the shot. + +No trumps you make it, I think you said? You'll pardon me if I err; +For a moment I thought of other things . . . + MON DIEU! QUELLE VACHE DE GUERRE. + + + + +Pilgrims + + + +For oh, when the war will be over +We'll go and we'll look for our dead; +We'll go when the bee's on the clover, +And the plume of the poppy is red: +We'll go when the year's at its gayest, +When meadows are laughing with flow'rs; +And there where the crosses are greyest, +We'll seek for the cross that is ours. + +For they cry to us: `Friends, we are lonely, +A-weary the night and the day; +But come in the blossom-time only, +Come when our graves will be gay: +When daffodils all are a-blowing, +And larks are a-thrilling the skies, +Oh, come with the hearts of you glowing, +And the joy of the Spring in your eyes. + +`But never, oh, never come sighing, +For ours was the Splendid Release; +And oh, but 'twas joy in the dying +To know we were winning you Peace! +So come when the valleys are sheening, +And fledged with the promise of grain; +And here where our graves will be greening, +Just smile and be happy again.' + +And so, when the war will be over, +We'll seek for the Wonderful One; +And maiden will look for her lover, +And mother will look for her son; +And there will be end to our grieving, +And gladness will gleam over loss, +As -- glory beyond all believing! +We point . . . to a name on a cross. + + + + +My Prisoner + + + +We was in a crump-'ole, 'im and me; +Fightin' wiv our bayonets was we; +Fightin' 'ard as 'ell we was, +Fightin' fierce as fire because +It was 'im or me as must be downed; +'E was twice as big as me; +I was 'arf the weight of 'e; +We was like a terryer and a 'ound. + +'Struth! But 'e was sich a 'andsome bloke. +Me, I'm 'andsome as a chunk o' coke. +Did I give it 'im? Not 'arf! +Why, it fairly made me laugh, +'Cos 'is bloomin' bellows wasn't sound. +Couldn't fight for monkey nuts. +Soon I gets 'im in the guts, +There 'e lies a-floppin' on the ground. + +In I goes to finish up the job. +Quick 'e throws 'is 'ands above 'is nob; +Speakin' English good as me: +"'Tain't no use to kill," says 'e; +"Can't yer tyke me prisoner instead?" +"Why, I'd like to, sir," says I; +"But -- yer knows the reason why: +If we pokes our noses out we're dead. + +"Sorry, sir. Then on the other 'and +(As a gent like you must understand), +If I 'olds you longer 'ere, +Wiv yer pals so werry near, +It's me 'oo'll 'ave a free trip to Berlin; +If I lets yer go away, +Why, you'll fight another day: +See the sitooation I am in. + +"Anyway I'll tell you wot I'll do, +Bein' kind and seein' as it's you, +Knowin' 'ow it's cold, the feel +Of a 'alf a yard o' steel, +I'll let yer 'ave a rifle ball instead; +Now, jist think yerself in luck. . . . +'Ere, ol' man! You keep 'em stuck, +Them saucy dooks o' yours, above yer 'ead." + +'Ow 'is mits shot up it made me smile! +'Ow 'e seemed to ponder for a while! +Then 'e says: "It seems a shyme, +Me, a man wot's known ter Fyme: +Give me blocks of stone, I'll give yer gods. +Whereas, pardon me, I'm sure +You, my friend, are still obscure. . . ." +"In war," says I, "that makes no blurry odds." + +Then says 'e: "I've painted picters too. . . . +Oh, dear God! The work I planned to do, +And to think this is the end!" +"'Ere," says I, "my hartist friend, +Don't you give yerself no friskin' airs. +Picters, statoos, is that why +You should be let off to die? +That the best ye done? Just say yer prayers." + +Once again 'e seems ter think awhile. +Then 'e smiles a werry 'aughty smile: +"Why, no, sir, it's not the best; +There's a locket next me breast, +Picter of a gel 'oo's eyes are blue. +That's the best I've done," says 'e. +"That's me darter, aged three. . . ." +"Blimy!" says I, "I've a nipper, too." + +Straight I chucks my rifle to one side; +Shows 'im wiv a lovin' farther's pride +Me own little Mary Jane. +Proud 'e shows me 'is Elaine, +And we talks as friendly as can be; +Then I 'elps 'im on 'is way, +'Opes 'e's sife at 'ome to-day, +Wonders -- 'OW WOULD 'E 'AVE TREATED ME? + + + + +Tri-colour + + + +POPPIES, you try to tell me, glowing there in the wheat; +Poppies! Ah no! You mock me: It's blood, I tell you, it's blood. +It's gleaming wet in the grasses; it's glist'ning warm in the wheat; +It dabbles the ferns and the clover; it brims in an angry flood; +It leaps to the startled heavens; it smothers the sun; it cries +With scarlet voices of triumph from blossom and bough and blade. +See the bright horror of it! It's roaring out of the skies, +And the whole red world is a-welter. . . . Oh God! I'm afraid! I'm afraid! + +CORNFLOWERS, you say, just cornflowers, gemming the golden grain; +Ah no! You can't deceive me. Can't I believe my eyes? +Look! It's the dead, my comrades, stark on the dreadful plain, +All in their dark-blue blouses, staring up at the skies. +Comrades of canteen laughter, dumb in the yellow wheat. +See how they sprawl and huddle! See how their brows are white! +Goaded on to the shambles, there in death and defeat. . . . +Father of Pity, hide them! Hasten, O God, Thy night! + +LILIES (the light is waning), only lilies you say, +Nestling and softly shining there where the spear-grass waves. +No, my friend, I know better; brighter I see than day: +It's the poor little wooden crosses over their quiet graves. +Oh, how they're gleaming, gleaming! See! Each cross has a crown. +Yes, it's true I am dying; little will be the loss. . . . +Darkness . . . but look! In Heaven a light, and it's shining down. . . . +God's accolade! Lift me up, friends. I'm going to win -- MY CROSS. + + + + +A Pot of Tea + + + +You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam; +You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear; +You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam; +The very breath of it is ripe with cheer. +You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot; +You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot; +It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot: + God bless the man that first discovered Tea! + +Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day, +I think I've drunk enough to float a barge; +All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay, +To rum they serves you out before a charge. +In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham; +I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam; +But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam: + God bless the man that first invented Tea! + +I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel +Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong; +I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell +Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong. +Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too; +And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do, +To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew + (For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea). +To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew, + As we drink the giddy victory in Tea. + + + + +The Revelation + + + + The same old sprint in the morning, boys, to the same old din and smut; + Chained all day to the same old desk, down in the same old rut; + Posting the same old greasy books, catching the same old train: + Oh, how will I manage to stick it all, if I ever get back again? + +We've bidden good-bye to life in a cage, we're finished with pushing a pen; +They're pumping us full of bellicose rage, they're showing us how to be men. +We're only beginning to find ourselves; we're wonders of brawn and thew; +But when we go back to our Sissy jobs, -- oh, what are we going to do? + +For shoulders curved with the counter stoop will be carried erect and square; +And faces white from the office light will be bronzed by the open air; +And we'll walk with the stride of a new-born pride, + with a new-found joy in our eyes, +Scornful men who have diced with death under the naked skies. + +And when we get back to the dreary grind, and the bald-headed boss's call, +Don't you think that the dingy window-blind, and the dingier office wall, +Will suddenly melt to a vision of space, of violent, flame-scarred night? +Then . . . oh, the joy of the danger-thrill, and oh, the roar of the fight! + +Don't you think as we peddle a card of pins the counter will fade away, +And again we'll be seeing the sand-bag rims, and the barb-wire's misty grey? +As a flat voice asks for a pound of tea, don't you fancy we'll hear instead +The night-wind moan and the soothing drone of the packet that's overhead? + +Don't you guess that the things we're seeing now + will haunt us through all the years; +Heaven and hell rolled into one, glory and blood and tears; +Life's pattern picked with a scarlet thread, where once we wove with a grey +To remind us all how we played our part in the shock of an epic day? + +Oh, we're booked for the Great Adventure now, + we're pledged to the Real Romance; +We'll find ourselves or we'll lose ourselves somewhere in giddy old France; +We'll know the zest of the fighter's life; the best that we have we'll give; +We'll hunger and thirst; we'll die . . . but first -- + we'll live; by the gods, we'll live! + +We'll breathe free air and we'll bivouac under the starry sky; +We'll march with men and we'll fight with men, + and we'll see men laugh and die; +We'll know such joy as we never dreamed; we'll fathom the deeps of pain: +But the hardest bit of it all will be -- when we come back home again. + + For some of us smirk in a chiffon shop, + and some of us teach in a school; + Some of us help with the seat of our pants to polish an office stool; + The merits of somebody's soap or jam some of us seek to explain, + But all of us wonder what we'll do when we have to go back again. + + + + +Grand-pe\re + + + +And so when he reached my bed +The General made a stand: +"My brave young fellow," he said, + "I would shake your hand." + +So I lifted my arm, the right, +With never a hand at all; +Only a stump, a sight + Fit to appal. + +"Well, well. Now that's too bad! +That's sorrowful luck," he said; +"But there! You give me, my lad, + The left instead." + +So from under the blanket's rim +I raised and showed him the other, +A snag as ugly and grim + As its ugly brother. + +He looked at each jagged wrist; +He looked, but he did not speak; +And then he bent down and kissed + Me on either cheek. + +You wonder now I don't mind +I hadn't a hand to offer. . . . +They tell me (you know I'm blind) + 'TWAS GRAND-PE\RE JOFFRE. + + + + +Son + + + +He hurried away, young heart of joy, under our Devon sky! +And I watched him go, my beautiful boy, and a weary woman was I. +For my hair is grey, and his was gold; he'd the best of his life to live; +And I'd loved him so, and I'm old, I'm old; and he's all I had to give. + +Ah yes, he was proud and swift and gay, but oh how my eyes were dim! +With the sun in his heart he went away, but he took the sun with him. +For look! How the leaves are falling now, + and the winter won't be long. . . . +Oh boy, my boy with the sunny brow, and the lips of love and of song! + +How we used to sit at the day's sweet end, we two by the firelight's gleam, +And we'd drift to the Valley of Let's Pretend, + on the beautiful river of Dream. +Oh dear little heart! All wealth untold would I gladly, gladly pay +Could I just for a moment closely hold that golden head to my grey. + +For I gaze in the fire, and I'm seeing there a child, and he waves to me; +And I run and I hold him up in the air, and he laughs and shouts with glee; +A little bundle of love and mirth, crying: "Come, Mumsie dear!" +Ah me! If he called from the ends of the earth + I know that my heart would hear. + + . . . . . + +Yet the thought comes thrilling through all my pain: + how worthier could he die? +Yea, a loss like that is a glorious gain, and pitiful proud am I. +For Peace must be bought with blood and tears, + and the boys of our hearts must pay; +And so in our joy of the after-years, let us bless them every day. + +And though I know there's a hasty grave with a poor little cross at its head, +And the gold of his youth he so gladly gave, yet to me he'll never be dead. +And the sun in my Devon lane will be gay, and my boy will be with me still, +So I'm finding the heart to smile and say: "Oh God, if it be Thy Will!" + + + + +The Black Dudeen + + + + Humping it here in the dug-out, + Sucking me black dudeen, + I'd like to say in a general way, + There's nothing like Nickyteen; + There's nothing like Nickyteen, me boys, + Be it pipes or snipes or cigars; + So be sure that a bloke + Has plenty to smoke, + If you wants him to fight your wars. + +When I've eat my fill and my belt is snug, +I begin to think of my baccy plug. +I whittle a fill in my horny palm, +And the bowl of me old clay pipe I cram. +I trim the edges, I tamp it down, +I nurse a light with an anxious frown; +I begin to draw, and my cheeks tuck in, +And all my face is a blissful grin; +And up in a cloud the good smoke goes, +And the good pipe glimmers and fades and glows; +In its throat it chuckles a cheery song, +For I likes it hot and I likes it strong. +Oh, it's good is grub when you're feeling hollow, +But the best of a meal's the smoke to follow. + +There was Micky and me on a night patrol, +Having to hide in a fizz-bang hole; +And sure I thought I was worse than dead +Wi' them crump-crumps hustlin' over me head. +Sure I thought 'twas the dirty spot, +Hammer and tongs till the air was hot. +And mind you, water up to your knees. +And cold! A monkey of brass would freeze. +And if we ventured our noses out +A "typewriter" clattered its pills about. +The field of glory! Well, I don't think! +I'd sooner be safe and snug in clink. + +Then Micky, he goes and he cops one bad, +He always was having ill-luck, poor lad. +Says he: "Old chummy, I'm booked right through; +Death and me 'as a wrongday voo. +But . . . 'aven't you got a pinch of shag? -- +I'd sell me perishin' soul for a fag." +And there he shivered and cussed his luck, +So I gave him me old black pipe to suck. +And he heaves a sigh, and he takes to it +Like a babby takes to his mammy's tit; +Like an infant takes to his mother's breast, +Poor little Micky! he went to rest. + +But the dawn was near, though the night was black, +So I left him there and I started back. +And I laughed as the silly old bullets came, +For the bullet ain't made wot's got me name. +Yet some of 'em buzzed onhealthily near, +And one little blighter just chipped me ear. +But there! I got to the trench all right, +When sudden I jumped wi' a start o' fright, +And a word that doesn't look well in type: +I'D CLEAN FORGOTTEN ME OLD CLAY PIPE. + +So I had to do it all over again, +Crawling out on that filthy plain. +Through shells and bombs and bullets and all -- +Only this time -- I do not crawl. +I run like a man wot's missing a train, +Or a tom-cat caught in a plump of rain. +I hear the spit of a quick-fire gun +Tickle my heels, but I run, I run. + +Through crash and crackle, and flicker and flame, +(Oh, the packet ain't issued wot's got me name!) +I run like a man that's no ideer +Of hunting around for a sooveneer. +I run bang into a German chap, +And he stares like an owl, so I bash his map. +And just to show him that I'm his boss, +I gives him a kick on the parados. +And I marches him back with me all serene, +With, TUCKED IN ME GUB, ME OLD DUDEEN. + + Sitting here in the trenches + Me heart's a-splittin' with spleen, + For a parcel o' lead comes missing me head, + But it smashes me old dudeen. + God blast that red-headed sniper! + I'll give him somethin' to snipe; + Before the war's through + Just see how I do + That blighter that smashed me pipe. + + + + +The Little Piou-piou + +* The French "Tommy". + + + +Oh, some of us lolled in the chateau, +And some of us slinked in the slum; +But now we are here with a song and a cheer +To serve at the sign of the drum. +They put us in trousers of scarlet, +In big sloppy ulsters of blue; +In boots that are flat, a box of a hat, +And they call us the little piou-piou, + Piou-piou, +The laughing and quaffing piou-piou, +The swinging and singing piou-piou; +And so with a rattle we march to the battle, +The weary but cheery piou-piou. + + Encore un petit verre de vin, + Pour nous mettre en route; + Encore un petit verre de vin + Pour nous mettre en train. + +They drive us head-on for the slaughter; +We haven't got much of a chance; +The issue looks bad, but we're awfully glad +To battle and die for La France. +For some must be killed, that is certain; +There's only one's duty to do; +So we leap to the fray in the glorious way +They expect of the little piou-piou. + En avant! +The way of the gallant piou-piou, +The dashing and smashing piou-piou; +The way grim and gory that leads us to glory +Is the way of the little piou-piou. + + Allons, enfants de la Patrie, + Le jour de gloire est arrive/. + +To-day you would scarce recognise us, +Such veterans war-wise are we; +So grimy and hard, so calloused and scarred, +So "crummy", yet gay as can be. +We've finished with trousers of scarlet, +They're giving us breeches of blue, +With a helmet instead of a cap on our head, +Yet still we're the little piou-piou. + Nous les aurons! +The jesting, unresting piou-piou; +The cheering, unfearing piou-piou; +The keep-your-head-level and fight-like-the-devil; +The dying, defying piou-piou. + + A\ la bayonette! Jusqu'a\ la mort! + Sonnez la charge, clairons! + + + + +Bill the Bomber + + + +The poppies gleamed like bloody pools through cotton-woolly mist; +The Captain kept a-lookin' at the watch upon his wrist; +And there we smoked and squatted, as we watched the shrapnel flame; +'Twas wonnerful, I'm tellin' you, how fast them bullets came. +'Twas weary work the waiting, though; I tried to sleep a wink, +For waitin' means a-thinkin', and it doesn't do to think. +So I closed my eyes a little, and I had a niceish dream +Of a-standin' by a dresser with a dish of Devon cream; +But I hadn't time to sample it, for suddenlike I woke: +"Come on, me lads!" the Captain says, 'n I climbed out through the smoke. + +We spread out in the open: it was like a bath of lead; +But the boys they cheered and hollered fit to raise the bloody dead, +Till a beastly bullet copped 'em, then they lay without a sound, +And it's odd -- we didn't seem to heed them corpses on the ground. +And I kept on thinkin', thinkin', as the bullets faster flew, +How they picks the werry best men, and they lets the rotters through; +So indiscriminatin' like, they spares a man of sin, +And a rare lad wot's a husband and a father gets done in. +And while havin' these reflections and advancin' on the run, +A bullet biffs me shoulder, and says I: "That's number one." + +Well, it downed me for a jiffy, but I didn't lose me calm, +For I knew that I was needed: I'm a bomber, so I am. +I 'ad lost me cap and rifle, but I "carried on" because +I 'ad me bombs and knew that they was needed, so they was. +We didn't 'ave no singin' now, nor many men to cheer; +Maybe the shrapnel drowned 'em, crashin' out so werry near; +And the Maxims got us sideways, and the bullets faster flew, +And I copped one on me flipper, and says I: "That's number two." + +I was pleased it was the left one, for I 'ad me bombs, ye see, +And 'twas 'ard if they'd be wasted like, and all along o' me. +And I'd lost me 'at and rifle -- but I told you that before, +So I packed me mit inside me coat and "carried on" once more. +But the rumpus it was wicked, and the men were scarcer yet, +And I felt me ginger goin', but me jaws I kindo set, +And we passed the Boche first trenches, which was 'eapin' 'igh with dead, +And we started for their second, which was fifty feet ahead; +When something like a 'ammer smashed me savage on the knee, +And down I came all muck and blood: Says I: "That's number three." + +So there I lay all 'elpless like, and bloody sick at that, +And worryin' like anythink, because I'd lost me 'at; +And thinkin' of me missis, and the partin' words she said: +"If you gets killed, write quick, ol' man, and tell me as you're dead." +And lookin' at me bunch o' bombs -- that was the 'ardest blow, +To think I'd never 'ave the chance to 'url them at the foe. +And there was all our boys in front, a-fightin' there like mad, +And me as could 'ave 'elped 'em wiv the lovely bombs I 'ad. +And so I cussed and cussed, and then I struggled back again, +Into that bit of battered trench, packed solid with its slain. + +Now as I lay a-lyin' there and blastin' of me lot, +And wishin' I could just dispose of all them bombs I'd got, +I sees within the doorway of a shy, retirin' dug-out +Six Boches all a-grinnin', and their Captain stuck 'is mug out; +And they 'ad a nice machine gun, and I twigged what they was at; +And they fixed it on a tripod, and I watched 'em like a cat; +And they got it in position, and they seemed so werry glad, +Like they'd got us in a death-trap, which, condemn their souls! they 'ad. +For there our boys was fightin' fifty yards in front, and 'ere +This lousy bunch of Boches they 'ad got us in the rear. + +Oh it set me blood a-boilin' and I quite forgot me pain, +So I started crawlin', crawlin' over all them mounds of slain; +And them barstards was so busy-like they 'ad no eyes for me, +And me bleedin' leg was draggin', but me right arm it was free. . . . +And now they 'ave it all in shape, and swingin' sweet and clear; +And now they're all excited like, but -- I am drawin' near; +And now they 'ave it loaded up, and now they're takin' aim. . . . +Rat-tat-tat-tat! Oh here, says I, is where I join the game. +And my right arm it goes swingin', and a bomb it goes a-slingin', +And that "typewriter" goes wingin' in a thunderbolt of flame. + +Then these Boches, wot was left of 'em, they tumbled down their 'ole, +And up I climbed a mound of dead, and down on them I stole. +And oh that blessed moment when I heard their frightened yell, +And I laughed down in that dug-out, ere I bombed their souls to hell. +And now I'm in the hospital, surprised that I'm alive; +We started out a thousand men, we came back thirty-five. +And I'm minus of a trotter, but I'm most amazin' gay, +For me bombs they wasn't wasted, though, you might say, "thrown away". + + + + +The Whistle of Sandy McGraw + + + +You may talk o' your lutes and your dulcimers fine, +Your harps and your tabors and cymbals and a', +But here in the trenches jist gie me for mine +The wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. +Oh, it's: "Sandy, ma lad, will you lilt us a tune?" +And Sandy is willin' and trillin' like mad; +Sae silvery sweet that we a' throng aroun', +And some o' it's gay, but the maist o' it's sad. +Jist the wee simple airs that sink intae your hert, +And grup ye wi' love and wi' longin' for hame; +And ye glour like an owl till you're feelin' the stert +O' a tear, and you blink wi' a feelin' o' shame. +For his song's o' the heather, and here in the dirt +You listen and dream o' a land that's sae braw, +And he mak's you forget a' the harm and the hurt, +For he pipes like a laverock, does Sandy McGraw. + + . . . . . + +At Eepers I mind me when rank upon rank +We rose from the trenches and swept like the gale, +Till the rapid-fire guns got us fell on the flank +And the murderin' bullets came swishin' like hail: +Till a' that were left o' us faltered and broke; +Till it seemed for a moment a panicky rout, +When shrill through the fume and the flash and the smoke +The wee valiant voice o' a whistle piped out. +`The Campbells are Comin'': Then into the fray +We bounded wi' bayonets reekin' and raw, +And oh we fair revelled in glory that day, +Jist thanks to the whistle o' Sandy McGraw. + + . . . . . + +At Loose, it wis after a sconnersome fecht, +On the field o' the slain I wis crawlin' aboot; +And the rockets were burnin' red holes in the nicht; +And the guns they were veciously thunderin' oot; +When sudden I heard a bit sound like a sigh, +And there in a crump-hole a kiltie I saw: +"Whit ails ye, ma lad? Are ye woundit?" says I. +"I've lost ma wee whustle," says Sandy McGraw. +"'Twas oot by yon bing where we pressed the attack, +It drapped frae ma pooch, and between noo and dawn +There isna much time so I'm jist crawlin' back. . . ." +"Ye're daft, man!" I telt him, but Sandy wis gone. + +Weel, I waited a wee, then I crawled oot masel, +And the big stuff wis gorin' and roarin' around, +And I seemed tae be under the oxter o' hell, +And Creation wis crackin' tae bits by the sound. +And I says in ma mind: "Gang ye back, ye auld fule!" +When I thrilled tae a note that wis saucy and sma'; +And there in a crater, collected and cool, +Wi' his wee penny whistle wis Sandy McGraw. +Ay, there he wis playin' as gleg as could be, +And listenin' hard wis a spectacled Boche; +Then Sandy turned roon' and he noddit tae me, +And he says: "Dinna blab on me, Sergeant McTosh. +The auld chap is deein'. He likes me tae play. +It's makin' him happy. Jist see his een shine!" +And thrillin' and sweet in the hert o' the fray +Wee Sandy wis playin' `The Watch on the Rhine'. + + . . . . . + +The last scene o' a' -- 'twas the day that we took +That bit o' black ruin they ca' Labbiesell. +It seemed the hale hillside jist shivered and shook, +And the red skies were roarin' and spewin' oot shell. +And the Sergeants were cursin' tae keep us in hand, +And hard on the leash we were strainin' like dugs, +When upward we shot at the word o' command, +And the bullets were dingin' their songs in oor lugs. +And onward we swept wi' a yell and a cheer, +And a' wis destruction, confusion and din, +And we knew that the trench o' the Boches wis near, +And it seemed jist the safest bit hole tae be in. +So we a' tumbled doon, and the Boches were there, +And they held up their hands, and they yelled: "Kamarad!" +And I merched aff wi' ten, wi' their palms in the air, +And my! I wis prood-like, and my! I wis glad. +And I thocht: if ma lassie could see me jist then. . . . +When sudden I sobered at somethin' I saw, +And I stopped and I stared, and I halted ma men, +For there on a stretcher wis Sandy McGraw. + +Weel, he looks in ma face, jist as game as ye please: +"Ye ken hoo I hate tae be workin'," says he; +"But noo I can play in the street for bawbees, +Wi' baith o' ma legs taken aff at the knee." +And though I could see he wis rackit wi' pain, +He reached for his whistle and stertit tae play; +And quaverin' sweet wis the pensive refrain: +`The floors o' the forest are a' wede away'. +Then sudden he stoppit: "Man, wis it no grand +Hoo we took a' them trenches?" . . . He shakit his heid: +"I'll -- no -- play -- nae -- mair ----" feebly doon frae his hand +Slipped the wee penny whistle and -- SANDY WIS DEID. + + . . . . . + +And so you may talk o' your Steinways and Strads, +Your wonderful organs and brasses sae braw; +But oot in the trenches jist gie me, ma lads, +Yon wee penny whistle o' Sandy McGraw. + + + + +The Stretcher-Bearer + + + +My stretcher is one scarlet stain, +And as I tries to scrape it clean, +I tell you wot -- I'm sick with pain +For all I've 'eard, for all I've seen; +Around me is the 'ellish night, +And as the war's red rim I trace, +I wonder if in 'Eaven's height, +Our God don't turn away 'Is Face. + + I don't care 'oose the Crime may be; + I 'olds no brief for kin or clan; + I 'ymns no 'ate: I only see + As man destroys his brother man; + I waves no flag: I only know, + As 'ere beside the dead I wait, + A million 'earts is weighed with woe, + A million 'omes is desolate. + +In drippin' darkness, far and near, +All night I've sought them woeful ones. +Dawn shudders up and still I 'ear +The crimson chorus of the guns. +Look! like a ball of blood the sun +'Angs o'er the scene of wrath and wrong. . . . +"Quick! Stretcher-bearers on the run!" +O PRINCE OF PEACE! 'OW LONG, 'OW LONG? + + + + +Wounded + + + +Is it not strange? A year ago to-day, +With scarce a thought beyond the hum-drum round, +I did my decent job and earned my pay; +Was averagely happy, I'll be bound. +Ay, in my little groove I was content, +Seeing my life run smoothly to the end, +With prosy days in stolid labour spent, +And jolly nights, a pipe, a glass, a friend. +In God's good time a hearth fire's cosy gleam, +A wife and kids, and all a fellow needs; +When presto! like a bubble goes my dream: +I leap upon the Stage of Splendid Deeds. +I yell with rage; I wallow deep in gore: +I, that was clerk in a drysalter's store. + +Stranger than any book I've ever read. +Here on the reeking battlefield I lie, +Under the stars, propped up with smeary dead, +Like too, if no one takes me in, to die. +Hit on the arms, legs, liver, lungs and gall; +Damn glad there's nothing more of me to hit; +But calm, and feeling never pain at all, +And full of wonder at the turn of it. +For of the dead around me three are mine, +Three foemen vanquished in the whirl of fight; +So if I die I have no right to whine, +I feel I've done my little bit all right. +I don't know how -- but there the beggars are, +As dead as herrings pickled in a jar. + +And here am I, worse wounded than I thought; +For in the fight a bullet bee-like stings; +You never heed; the air is metal-hot, +And all alive with little flicking wings. +BUT ON YOU CHARGE. You see the fellows fall; +Your pal was by your side, fair fighting-mad; +You turn to him, and lo! no pal at all; +You wonder vaguely if he's copped it bad. +BUT ON YOU CHARGE. The heavens vomit death; +And vicious death is besoming the ground. +You're blind with sweat; you're dazed, and out of breath, +And though you yell, you cannot hear a sound. +BUT ON YOU CHARGE. Oh, War's a rousing game! +Around you smoky clouds like ogres tower; +The earth is rowelled deep with spurs of flame, +And on your helmet stones and ashes shower. +BUT ON YOU CHARGE. It's odd! You have no fear. +Machine-gun bullets whip and lash your path; +Red, yellow, black the smoky giants rear; +The shrapnel rips, the heavens roar in wrath. +BUT ON YOU CHARGE. Barbed wire all trampled down. +The ground all gored and rent as by a blast; +Grim heaps of grey where once were heaps of brown; +A ragged ditch -- the Hun first line at last. +All smashed to hell. Their second right ahead, +SO ON YOU CHARGE. There's nothing else to do. +More reeking holes, blood, barbed wire, gruesome dead; +(Your puttee strap's undone -- that worries you). +You glare around. You think you're all alone. +But no; your chums come surging left and right. +The nearest chap flops down without a groan, +His face still snarling with the rage of fight. +Ha! here's the second trench -- just like the first, +Only a little more so, more "laid out"; +More pounded, flame-corroded, death-accurst; +A pretty piece of work, beyond a doubt. +Now for the third, and there your job is done, +SO ON YOU CHARGE. You never stop to think. +Your cursed puttee's trailing as you run; +You feel you'd sell your soul to have a drink. +The acrid air is full of cracking whips. +You wonder how it is you're going still. +You foam with rage. Oh, God! to be at grips +With someone you can rush and crush and kill. +Your sleeve is dripping blood; you're seeing red; +You're battle-mad; your turn is coming now. +See! there's the jagged barbed wire straight ahead, +And there's the trench -- you'll get there anyhow. +Your puttee catches on a strand of wire, +And down you go; perhaps it saves your life, +For over sandbag rims you see 'em fire, +Crop-headed chaps, their eyes ablaze with strife. +You crawl, you cower; then once again you plunge +With all your comrades roaring at your heels. +HAVE AT 'EM, LADS! You stab, you jab, you lunge; +A blaze of glory, then the red world reels. +A crash of triumph, then . . . you're faint a bit . . . +That cursed puttee! Now to fasten it. . . . + +Well, that's the charge. And now I'm here alone. +I've built a little wall of Hun on Hun, +To shield me from the leaden bees that drone +(It saves me worry, and it hurts 'em none). +The only thing I'm wondering is when +Some stretcher-men will stroll along my way? +It isn't much that's left of me, but then +Where life is, hope is, so at least they say. +Well, if I'm spared I'll be the happy lad. +I tell you I won't envy any king. +I've stood the racket, and I'm proud and glad; +I've had my crowning hour. Oh, War's the thing! +It gives us common, working chaps our chance, +A taste of glory, chivalry, romance. + +Ay, War, they say, is hell; it's heaven, too. +It lets a man discover what he's worth. +It takes his measure, shows what he can do, +Gives him a joy like nothing else on earth. +It fans in him a flame that otherwise +Would flicker out, these drab, discordant days; +It teaches him in pain and sacrifice +Faith, fortitude, grim courage past all praise. +Yes, War is good. So here beside my slain, +A happy wreck I wait amid the din; +For even if I perish mine's the gain. . . . +Hi, there, you fellows! WON'T you take me in? +Give me a fag to smoke upon the way. . . . +We've taken La Boiselle! The hell, you say! +Well, that would make a corpse sit up and grin. . . . +Lead on! I'll live to fight another day. + + + + +Faith + + + +Since all that is was ever bound to be; +Since grim, eternal laws our Being bind; +And both the riddle and the answer find, +And both the carnage and the calm decree; +Since plain within the Book of Destiny +Is written all the journey of mankind +Inexorably to the end; since blind +And mortal puppets playing parts are we: + +Then let's have faith; good cometh out of ill; +The power that shaped the strife shall end the strife; +Then let's bow down before the Unknown Will; +Fight on, believing all is well with life; +Seeing within the worst of War's red rage +The gleam, the glory of the Golden Age. + + + + +The Coward + + + +'Ave you seen Bill's mug in the Noos to-day? +'E's gyned the Victoriar Cross, they say; +Little Bill wot would grizzle and run away, + If you 'it 'im a swipe on the jawr. +'E's slaughtered the Kaiser's men in tons; +'E's captured one of their quick-fire guns, +And 'e 'adn't no practice in killin' 'Uns + Afore 'e went off to the war. + + Little Bill wot I nussed in 'is by-by clothes; + Little Bill wot told me 'is childish woes; + 'Ow often I've tidied 'is pore little nose + Wiv the 'em of me pinnyfore. + And now all the papers 'is praises ring, + And 'e's been and 'e's shaken the 'and of the King + And I sawr 'im to-day in the ward, pore thing, + Where they're patchin' 'im up once more. + +And 'e says: "Wot d'ye think of it, Lizer Ann?" +And I says: "Well, I can't make it out, old man; +You'd 'ook it as soon as a scrap began, + When you was a bit of a kid." +And 'e whispers: "'Ere, on the quiet, Liz, +They're makin' too much of the 'ole damn biz, +And the papers is printin' me ugly phiz, + But . . . I'm 'anged if I know wot I did. + +"Oh, the Captain comes and 'e says: `Look 'ere! +They're far too quiet out there: it's queer. +They're up to somethin' -- 'oo'll volunteer + To crawl in the dark and see?' +Then I felt me 'eart like a 'ammer go, +And up jumps a chap and 'e says: `Right O!' +But I chips in straight, and I says `Oh no! + 'E's a missis and kids -- take me.' + + "And the next I knew I was sneakin' out, + And the oozy corpses was all about, + And I felt so scared I wanted to shout, + And me skin fair prickled wiv fear; + And I sez: `You coward! You 'ad no right + To take on the job of a man this night,' + Yet still I kept creepin' till ('orrid sight!) + The trench of the 'Uns was near. + +"It was all so dark, it was all so still; +Yet somethin' pushed me against me will; +'Ow I wanted to turn! Yet I crawled until + I was seein' a dim light shine. +Then thinks I: `I'll just go a little bit, +And see wot the doose I can make of it,' +And it seemed to come from the mouth of a pit: + `Christmas!' sez I, `a MINE.' + +"Then 'ere's the part wot I can't explain: +I wanted to make for 'ome again, +But somethin' was blazin' inside me brain, + So I crawled to the trench instead; +Then I saw the bullet 'ead of a 'Un, +And 'e stood by a rapid-firer gun, +And I lifted a rock and I 'it 'im one, + And 'e dropped like a chunk o' lead. + + "Then all the 'Uns that was underground, + Comes up with a rush and on with a bound, + And I swings that giddy old Maxim round + And belts 'em solid and square. + You see I was off me chump wiv fear: + `If I'm sellin' me life,' sez I, `it's dear.' + And the trench was narrow and they was near, + So I peppered the brutes for fair. + +"So I 'eld 'em back and I yelled wiv fright, +And the boys attacked and we 'ad a fight, +And we `captured a section o' trench' that night + Which we didn't expect to get; +And they found me there with me Maxim gun, +And I'd laid out a score if I'd laid out one, +And I fainted away when the thing was done, + And I 'aven't got over it yet." + +So that's the 'istory Bill told me. +Of course it's all on the strict Q. T.; +It wouldn't do to get out, you see, + As 'e hacted against 'is will. +But 'e's convalescin' wiv all 'is might, +And 'e 'opes to be fit for another fight -- +Say! Ain't 'e a bit of the real all right? + Wot's the matter with Bill! + + + + +Missis Moriarty's Boy + + + +Missis Moriarty called last week, and says she to me, says she: +"Sure the heart of me's broken entirely now -- + it's the fortunate woman you are; +You've still got your Dinnis to cheer up your home, + but me Patsy boy where is he? +Lyin' alone, cold as a stone, kilt in the weariful wahr. +Oh, I'm seein' him now as I looked on him last, + wid his hair all curly and bright, +And the wonderful, tenderful heart he had, and his eyes as he wint away, +Shinin' and lookin' down on me from the pride of his proper height: +Sure I'll remember me boy like that if I live to me dyin' day." + +And just as she spoke them very same words me Dinnis came in at the door, +Came in from McGonigle's ould shebeen, came in from drinkin' his pay; +And Missis Moriarty looked at him, and she didn't say anny more, +But she wrapped her head in her ould black shawl, and she quietly wint away. +And what was I thinkin', I ask ye now, as I put me Dinnis to bed, +Wid him ravin' and cursin' one half of the night, as cold by his side I sat; +Was I thinkin' the poor ould woman she was + wid her Patsy slaughtered and dead? +Was I weepin' for Missis Moriarty? I'm not so sure about that. + +Missis Moriarty goes about wid a shinin' look on her face; +Wid her grey hair under her ould black shawl, + and the eyes of her mother-mild; +Some say she's a little bit off her head; but annyway it's the case, +Her timper's so swate that you nivver would tell + she'd be losin' her only child. +And I think, as I wait up ivery night for me Dinnis to come home blind, +And I'm hearin' his stumblin' foot on the stair along about half-past three: +Sure there's many a way of breakin' a heart, and I haven't made up me mind -- +Would I be Missis Moriarty, or Missis Moriarty me? + + + + +My Foe + + A Belgian Priest-Soldier Speaks: -- + + + +GURR! You `cochon'! Stand and fight! +Show your mettle! Snarl and bite! +Spawn of an accursed race, +Turn and meet me face to face! +Here amid the wreck and rout +Let us grip and have it out! +Here where ruins rock and reel +Let us settle, steel to steel! +Look! Our houses, how they spit +Sparks from brands your friends have lit. +See! Our gutters running red, +Bright with blood your friends have shed. +Hark! Amid your drunken brawl +How our maidens shriek and call. +Why have YOU come here alone, +To this hearth's blood-spattered stone? +Come to ravish, come to loot, +Come to play the ghoulish brute. +Ah, indeed! We well are met, +Bayonet to bayonet. +God! I never killed a man: +Now I'll do the best I can. +Rip you to the evil heart, +Laugh to see the life-blood start. +Bah! You swine! I hate you so. +Show you mercy? No! . . . and no! . . . + +There! I've done it. See! He lies +Death a-staring from his eyes; +Glazing eyeballs, panting breath, +How it's horrible, is Death! +Plucking at his bloody lips +With his trembling finger-tips; +Choking in a dreadful way +As if he would something say +In that uncouth tongue of his. . . . +Oh, how horrible Death is! + +How I wish that he would die! +So unnerved, unmanned am I. +See! His twitching face is white! +See! His bubbling blood is bright. +Why do I not shout with glee? +What strange spell is over me? +There he lies; the fight was fair; +Let me toss my cap in air. +Why am I so silent? Why +Do I pray for him to die? +Where is all my vengeful joy? +Ugh! MY FOE IS BUT A BOY. + +I'd a brother of his age +Perished in the war's red rage; +Perished in the Ypres hell: +Oh, I loved my brother well. +And though I be hard and grim, +How it makes me think of him! +He had just such flaxen hair +As the lad that's lying there. +Just such frank blue eyes were his. . . . +God! How horrible war is! + +I have reason to be gay: +There is one less foe to slay. +I have reason to be glad: +Yet -- my foe is such a lad. +So I watch in dull amaze, +See his dying eyes a-glaze, +See his face grow glorified, +See his hands outstretched and wide +To that bit of ruined wall +Where the flames have ceased to crawl, +Where amid the crumbling bricks +Hangs A BLACKENED CRUCIFIX. + +Now, oh now I understand. +Quick I press it in his hand, +Close his feeble finger-tips, +Hold it to his faltering lips. +As I watch his welling blood +I would stem it if I could. +God of Pity, let him live! +God of Love, forgive, forgive. + + . . . . . + +His face looked strangely, as he died, +Like that of One they crucified. +And in the pocket of his coat +I found a letter; thus he wrote: +`The things I've seen! Oh, mother dear, +I'm wondering can God be here? +To-night amid the drunken brawl +I saw a Cross hung on a wall; +I'll seek it now, and there alone +Perhaps I may atone, atone. . . .' + +Ah no! 'Tis I who must atone. +No other saw but God alone; +Yet how can I forget the sight +Of that face so woeful white! +Dead I kissed him as he lay, +Knelt by him and tried to pray; +Left him lying there at rest, +Crucifix upon his breast. + +Not for him the pity be. +Ye who pity, pity me, +Crawling now the ways I trod, +Blood-guilty in sight of God. + + + + +My Job + + + +I've got a little job on 'and, the time is drawin' nigh; +At seven by the Captain's watch I'm due to go and do it; +I wants to 'ave it nice and neat, and pleasin' to the eye, +And I 'opes the God of soldier men will see me safely through it. +Because, you see, it's somethin' I 'ave never done before; +And till you 'as experience noo stunts is always tryin'; +The chances is I'll never 'ave to do it any more: +At seven by the Captain's watch my little job is . . . DYIN'. + +I've got a little note to write; I'd best begin it now. +I ain't much good at writin' notes, but here goes: "Dearest Mother, +I've been in many 'ot old `do's'; I've scraped through safe some'ow, +But now I'm on the very point of tacklin' another. +A little job of hand-grenades; they called for volunteers. +They picked me out; I'm proud of it; it seems a trifle dicky. +If anythin' should 'appen, well, there ain't no call for tears, +And so . . . I 'opes this finds you well. -- Your werry lovin' Micky." + +I've got a little score to settle wiv them swine out there. +I've 'ad so many of me pals done in it's quite upset me. +I've seen so much of bloody death I don't seem for to care, +If I can only even up, how soon the blighters get me. +I'm sorry for them perishers that corpses in a bed; +I only 'opes mine's short and sweet, no linger-longer-lyin'; +I've made a mess of life, but now I'll try to make instead . . . +It's seven sharp. Good-bye, old pals! . . . A DECENT JOB IN DYIN'. + + + + +The Song of the Pacifist + + + +What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead? +Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed? +By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted? + +If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe; +Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so: +By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow! + +If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright; +That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height; +That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right; + +If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear, +By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . . +Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer. + +Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land: +When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand; +And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand. + +Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release +The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace, +And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, + we clamour that War shall cease. + +Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain; +When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane: +Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain. + +When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be; +When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea +In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . THAT WILL BE VICTORY. + + + + +The Twins + + + +There were two brothers, John and James, +And when the town went up in flames, +To save the house of James dashed John, +Then turned, and lo! his own was gone. + +And when the great World War began, +To volunteer John promptly ran; +And while he learned live bombs to lob, +James stayed at home and -- sneaked his job. + +John came home with a missing limb; +That didn't seem to worry him; +But oh, it set his brain awhirl +To find that James had -- sneaked his girl! + +Time passed. John tried his grief to drown; +To-day James owns one-half the town; +His army contracts riches yield; +And John? Well, SEARCH THE POTTER'S FIELD. + + + + +The Song of the Soldier-born + + + + Give me the scorn of the stars and a peak defiant; + Wail of the pines and a wind with the shout of a giant; + Night and a trail unknown and a heart reliant. + +Give me to live and love in the old, bold fashion; +A soldier's billet at night and a soldier's ration; +A heart that leaps to the fight with a soldier's passion. + +For I hold as a simple faith there's no denying: +The trade of a soldier's the only trade worth plying; +The death of a soldier's the only death worth dying. + +So let me go and leave your safety behind me; +Go to the spaces of hazard where nothing shall bind me; +Go till the word is War -- and then you will find me. + +Then you will call me and claim me because you will need me; +Cheer me and gird me and into the battle-wrath speed me. . . . +And when it's over, spurn me and no longer heed me. + +For guile and a purse gold-greased are the arms you carry; +With deeds of paper you fight and with pens you parry; +You call on the hounds of the law your foes to harry. + +You with your "Art for its own sake", posing and prinking; +You with your "Live and be merry", eating and drinking; +You with your "Peace at all hazard", from bright blood shrinking. + +Fools! I will tell you now: though the red rain patters, +And a million of men go down, it's little it matters. . . . +There's the Flag upflung to the stars, though it streams in tatters. + +There's a glory gold never can buy to yearn and to cry for; +There's a hope that's as old as the sky to suffer and sigh for; +There's a faith that out-dazzles the sun to martyr and die for. + +Ah no! it's my dream that War will never be ended; +That men will perish like men, and valour be splendid; +That the Flag by the sword will be served, and honour defended. + +That the tale of my fights will never be ancient story; +That though my eye may be dim and my beard be hoary, +I'll die as a soldier dies on the Field of Glory. + + So give me a strong right arm for a wrong's swift righting; + Stave of a song on my lips as my sword is smiting; + Death in my boots may-be, but fighting, fighting. + + + + +Afternoon Tea + + + +As I was saying . . . (No, thank you; I never take cream with my tea; +Cows weren't allowed in the trenches -- got out of the habit, y'see.) +As I was saying, our Colonel leaped up like a youngster of ten: +"Come on, lads!" he shouts, "and we'll show 'em." + And he sprang to the head of the men. +Then some bally thing seemed to trip him, + and he fell on his face with a slam. . . . +Oh, he died like a true British soldier, + and the last word he uttered was "Damn!" +And hang it! I loved the old fellow, and something just burst in my brain, +And I cared no more for the bullets than I would for a shower of rain. +'Twas an awf'ly funny sensation (I say, this is jolly nice tea); +I felt as if something had broken; by gad! I was suddenly free. +Free for a glorified moment, beyond regulations and laws, +Free just to wallow in slaughter, as the chap of the Stone Age was. +So on I went joyously nursing a Berserker rage of my own, +And though all my chaps were behind me, feeling most frightf'ly alone; +With the bullets and shells ding-donging, + and the "krock" and the swish of the shrap; +And I found myself humming "Ben Bolt" . . . + (Will you pass me the sugar, old chap? +Two lumps, please). . . . What was I saying? Oh yes, the jolly old dash; +We simply ripped through the barrage, and on with a roar and a crash. +My fellows -- Old Nick couldn't stop 'em. On, on they went with a yell, +Till they tripped on the Boches' sand-bags, -- nothing much left to tell: +A trench so tattered and battered that even a rat couldn't live; +Some corpses tangled and mangled, wire you could pass through a sieve. +The jolly old guns had bilked us, cheated us out of our show, +And my fellows were simply yearning for a red mix-up with the foe. +So I shouted to them to follow, and on we went roaring again, +Battle-tuned and exultant, on in the leaden rain. +Then all at once a machine gun barks from a bit of a bank, +And our Major roars in a fury: "We've got to take it on flank." +He was running like fire to lead us, when down like a stone he comes, +As full of "typewriter" bullets as a pudding is full of plums. +So I took his job and we got 'em. . . . By gad! we got 'em like rats; +Down in a deep shell-crater we fought like Kilkenny cats. +'Twas pleasant just for a moment to be sheltered and out of range, +With someone you SAW to go for -- it made an agreeable change. +And the Boches that missed my bullets, my chaps gave a bayonet jolt, +And all the time, I remember, I whistled and hummed "Ben Bolt". + +Well, that little job was over, so hell for leather we ran, +On to the second line trenches, -- that's where the fun began. +For though we had strafed 'em like fury, there still were some Boches about, +And my fellows, teeth set and eyes glaring, like terriers routed 'em out. +Then I stumbled on one of their dug-outs, and I shouted: "Is anyone there?" +And a voice, "Yes, one; but I'm wounded," came faint up the narrow stair; +And my man was descending before me, when sudden a cry! a shot! +(I say, this cake is delicious. You make it yourself, do you not?) +My man? Oh, they killed the poor devil; for if there was one there was ten; +So after I'd bombed 'em sufficient I went down at the head of my men, +And four tried to sneak from a bunk-hole, + but we cornered the rotters all right; +I'd rather not go into details, 'twas messy that bit of the fight. +But all of it's beastly messy; let's talk of pleasanter things: +The skirts that the girls are wearing, ridiculous fluffy things, +So short that they show. . . . Oh, hang it! Well, if I must, I must. +We cleaned out the second trench line, bomb and bayonet thrust; +And on we went to the third one, quite calloused to crumping by now; +And some of our fellows who'd passed us were making a deuce of a row; +And my chaps -- well, I just couldn't hold 'em; + (It's strange how it is with gore; +In some ways it's just like whiskey: if you taste it you must have more.) +Their eyes were like beacons of battle; by gad, sir! they COULDN'T be calmed, +So I headed 'em bang for the bomb-belt, racing like billy-be-damned. +Oh, it didn't take long to arrive there, those who arrived at all; +The machine guns were certainly chronic, the shindy enough to appal. +Oh yes, I omitted to tell you, I'd wounds on the chest and the head, +And my shirt was torn to a gun-rag, and my face blood-gummy and red. +I'm thinking I looked like a madman; I fancy I felt one too, +Half naked and swinging a rifle. . . . God! what a glorious "do". +As I sit here in old Piccadilly, sipping my afternoon tea, +I see a blind, bullet-chipped devil, and it's hard to believe that it's me; +I see a wild, war-damaged demon, smashing out left and right, +And humming "Ben Bolt" rather loudly, and hugely enjoying the fight. +And as for my men, may God bless 'em! I've loved 'em ever since then: +They fought like the shining angels; they're the pick o' the land, my men. +And the trench was a reeking shambles, not a Boche to be seen alive -- +So I thought; but on rounding a traverse I came on a covey of five; +And four of 'em threw up their flippers, + but the fifth chap, a sergeant, was game, +And though I'd a bomb and revolver he came at me just the same. +A sporty thing that, I tell you; I just couldn't blow him to hell, +So I swung to the point of his jaw-bone, and down like a ninepin he fell. +And then when I'd brought him to reason, he wasn't half bad, that Hun; +He bandaged my head and my short-rib as well as the Doc could have done. +So back I went with my Boches, as gay as a two-year-old colt, +And it suddenly struck me as rummy, I still was a-humming "Ben Bolt". +And now, by Jove! how I've bored you. You've just let me babble away; +Let's talk of the things that MATTER -- your car or the newest play. . . . + + + + +The Mourners + + + +I look into the aching womb of night; +I look across the mist that masks the dead; +The moon is tired and gives but little light, + The stars have gone to bed. + +The earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain; +A lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree; +I do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain, + The dead I do not see. + +The slain I WOULD not see . . . and so I lift +My eyes from out the shambles where they lie; +When lo! a million woman-faces drift + Like pale leaves through the sky. + +The cheeks of some are channelled deep with tears; +But some are tearless, with wild eyes that stare +Into the shadow of the coming years + Of fathomless despair. + +And some are young, and some are very old; +And some are rich, some poor beyond belief; +Yet all are strangely like, set in the mould + Of everlasting grief. + +They fill the vast of Heaven, face on face; +And then I see one weeping with the rest, +Whose eyes beseech me for a moment's space. . . . + Oh eyes I love the best! + +Nay, I but dream. The sky is all forlorn, +And there's the plain of battle writhing red: +God pity them, the women-folk who mourn! + How happy are the dead! + + + + +L'Envoi + + + + My job is done; my rhymes are ranked and ready, + My word-battalions marching verse by verse; + Here stanza-companies are none too steady; + There print-platoons are weak, but might be worse. + And as in marshalled order I review them, + My type-brigades, unfearful of the fray, + My eyes that seek their faults are seeing through them + Immortal visions of an epic day. + + It seems I'm in a giant bowling-alley; + The hidden heavies round me crash and thud; + A spire snaps like a pipe-stem in the valley; + The rising sun is like a ball of blood. + Along the road the "fantassins" are pouring, + And some are gay as fire, and some steel-stern. . . . + Then back again I see the red tide pouring, + Along the reeking road from Hebuterne. + + And once again I seek Hill Sixty-Seven, + The Hun lines grey and peaceful in my sight; + When suddenly the rosy air is riven -- + A "coal-box" blots the "boyou" on my right. + Or else to evil Carnoy I am stealing, + Past sentinels who hail with bated breath; + Where not a cigarette spark's dim revealing + May hint our mission in that zone of death. + + I see across the shrapnel-seeded meadows + The jagged rubble-heap of La Boiselle; + Blood-guilty Fricourt brooding in the shadows, + And Thiepval's chateau empty as a shell. + Down Albert's riven streets the moon is leering; + The Hanging Virgin takes its bitter ray; + And all the road from Hamel I am hearing + The silver rage of bugles over Bray. + + Once more within the sky's deep sapphire hollow + I sight a swimming Taube, a fairy thing; + I watch the angry shell flame flash and follow + In feather puffs that flick a tilted wing; + And then it fades, with shrapnel mirror's flashing; + The flashes bloom to blossoms lily gold; + The batteries are rancorously crashing, + And life is just as full as it can hold. + + Oh spacious days of glory and of grieving! + Oh sounding hours of lustre and of loss! + Let us be glad we lived you, still believing + The God who gave the cannon gave the Cross. + Let us be sure amid these seething passions, + The lusts of blood and hate our souls abhor: + The Power that Order out of Chaos fashions + Smites fiercest in the wrath-red forge of War. . . . + Have faith! Fight on! Amid the battle-hell + Love triumphs, Freedom beacons, all is well. + + + + +[End of Rhymes of a Red Cross Man.] + + + + + + +About the Author + + + +Robert William Service was born 16 January 1874 in Preston, England, +but also lived in Scotland before emigrating to Canada in 1894. +Service went to the Yukon Territory in 1904 as a bank clerk, +and became famous for his poems about this region, which are mostly +in his first two books of poetry. He wrote quite a bit of prose as well, +and worked as a reporter for some time, but those writings are not nearly +as well known as his poems. He travelled around the world quite a bit, +and died 11 September 1958 in France. + + +Service's Books of Poetry: + +The Spell of the Yukon (1907) a.k.a. Songs of a Sourdough +Ballads of a Cheechako (1909) +Rhymes of a Rolling Stone (1912) +Rhymes of a Red Cross Man (1916) +Ballads of a Bohemian (1921) +Bar-Room Ballads (1940) +The Complete Poems (1947?) [This is simply a compilation of the six books.] + +[Note: A Sourdough is an old-timer, while a Cheechako is a newbie.] + + +A few other books by Robert W. Service: + +The Trail of '98 -- A Northland Romance (1910) + +Ploughman of the Moon (1945) | A two-volume +Harper of Heaven (1948) | autobiography. + + + + + + +End of this Project Gutenberg Etext of Rhymes of a Red Cross Man +by Robert W. Service [Fourth in our Service Series] + + + diff --git a/old/redcr10.zip b/old/redcr10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5287b6d --- /dev/null +++ b/old/redcr10.zip |